Latest news with #Wonderbra
Sydney Morning Herald
9 hours ago
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
I'm no he-man, but I'm more useful than those muscly posers any day
I haven't entered a gym since the last millennium, when an instructor took my shilling and promised to turn me into a he-man. At least, I thought he said 'he-man'. He might have said 'human'. Anyway, I got no closer to becoming a he-man than I did to becoming emperor of China. This failure has rankled. And I blame him. Lately, gyms have emigrated from shopping centres and high streets to light industrial zones alongside car wreckers, chemical storage facilities and bikie HQs. You see muscled fellows wearing wisp singlets plodding along the backstreets like the strongest, simplest superhero in any franchise – the Hulk, the Thing – the type of erratic champion needing close and constant instruction from the mastermind of the gang lest he accidentally break North America. A whiff of the underworld accompanies bodybuilding for me. Is it the thuggishness muscle implies? The fact it can be turned so readily to standover work? Or the fact bikies and crime bosses have recently got so massive? Watching a cop trying to cuff a Coffin Cheater these days is like watching a toddler attempt a Rubik's Cube. Maybe muscle gym membership should come with an ankle tracker. One of those devices parolees wear so they can't slip down to the pub on Tuesday arvo, slurp daytime beers and slide back into the life. You want the Gold Class membership that comes with caramel flavoured 'protein shakes'? OK, put this anklet on and surrender your passport. On the street I smile at bodybuilders for the same reason I smile at pastors, nuns, Hare Krishnas and Goths – just to be nice, to affirm they have a right to belief, or cosplay, or some mix of the two. It seems mean not to, like shouting 'rhubarb' in a theatre. The most frightening car crash I was ever in involved a driver from a family of famous hotheads. It was early morning, and I was a sleep-addled passenger when this fool, hollering along with one of Joe Strummer's insurrectionist ditties, went off the road and down an embankment, rolling his Renault a couple of times. I was thrashed by a maelstrom of his bric-a-brac: mixtapes, Coke cans, cigarette lighters, footy boots, an oboe, a ping pong paddle… When the death throes of the T14 finally silenced, the driver was lying on top of me in a blizzard of Wonderbra flyers he'd been paid to box-drop but hadn't. 'These bras seem reasonably priced,' I said. 'Now get off me.' We climbed up and opened the driver's door like submariners emerging from the deep, from a mission, from a war … into a day of peace, a day we didn't deserve. Loading And this is where my prejudice against muscle hounds really took flight. We had crashed outside a gym, an outer-suburban tilt-slab bunker veneered with dark glass. On hearing the roar of the crash a dozen or so simulacrum Schwarzeneggers strode outside and began circumnavigating the wreck asking fatheaded questions and pocketing Wonderbra flyers. They were a welcome sight to us. These lads, these eager behemoths, would soon right our car. Except … they were not eager at all. It turns out extreme muscle is purely aesthetic, a type of beauty pageant, not to be mistaken as useful, not a tool that might be employed in any nine-to-five capacity. These Hercules types (as often stuck to mirrors as blowies to flypaper) are objets d'art, not beasts of burden. None will dig a hole for fear of the bulging disc and the proletarian ignominy involved. None will cart a hay bale unless applauded. None will climb a ladder, being so dangerously top-heavy.
The Age
9 hours ago
- Entertainment
- The Age
I'm no he-man, but I'm more useful than those muscly posers any day
I haven't entered a gym since the last millennium, when an instructor took my shilling and promised to turn me into a he-man. At least, I thought he said 'he-man'. He might have said 'human'. Anyway, I got no closer to becoming a he-man than I did to becoming emperor of China. This failure has rankled. And I blame him. Lately, gyms have emigrated from shopping centres and high streets to light industrial zones alongside car wreckers, chemical storage facilities and bikie HQs. You see muscled fellows wearing wisp singlets plodding along the backstreets like the strongest, simplest superhero in any franchise – the Hulk, the Thing – the type of erratic champion needing close and constant instruction from the mastermind of the gang lest he accidentally break North America. A whiff of the underworld accompanies bodybuilding for me. Is it the thuggishness muscle implies? The fact it can be turned so readily to standover work? Or the fact bikies and crime bosses have recently got so massive? Watching a cop trying to cuff a Coffin Cheater these days is like watching a toddler attempt a Rubik's Cube. Maybe muscle gym membership should come with an ankle tracker. One of those devices parolees wear so they can't slip down to the pub on Tuesday arvo, slurp daytime beers and slide back into the life. You want the Gold Class membership that comes with caramel flavoured 'protein shakes'? OK, put this anklet on and surrender your passport. On the street I smile at bodybuilders for the same reason I smile at pastors, nuns, Hare Krishnas and Goths – just to be nice, to affirm they have a right to belief, or cosplay, or some mix of the two. It seems mean not to, like shouting 'rhubarb' in a theatre. The most frightening car crash I was ever in involved a driver from a family of famous hotheads. It was early morning, and I was a sleep-addled passenger when this fool, hollering along with one of Joe Strummer's insurrectionist ditties, went off the road and down an embankment, rolling his Renault a couple of times. I was thrashed by a maelstrom of his bric-a-brac: mixtapes, Coke cans, cigarette lighters, footy boots, an oboe, a ping pong paddle… When the death throes of the T14 finally silenced, the driver was lying on top of me in a blizzard of Wonderbra flyers he'd been paid to box-drop but hadn't. 'These bras seem reasonably priced,' I said. 'Now get off me.' We climbed up and opened the driver's door like submariners emerging from the deep, from a mission, from a war … into a day of peace, a day we didn't deserve. Loading And this is where my prejudice against muscle hounds really took flight. We had crashed outside a gym, an outer-suburban tilt-slab bunker veneered with dark glass. On hearing the roar of the crash a dozen or so simulacrum Schwarzeneggers strode outside and began circumnavigating the wreck asking fatheaded questions and pocketing Wonderbra flyers. They were a welcome sight to us. These lads, these eager behemoths, would soon right our car. Except … they were not eager at all. It turns out extreme muscle is purely aesthetic, a type of beauty pageant, not to be mistaken as useful, not a tool that might be employed in any nine-to-five capacity. These Hercules types (as often stuck to mirrors as blowies to flypaper) are objets d'art, not beasts of burden. None will dig a hole for fear of the bulging disc and the proletarian ignominy involved. None will cart a hay bale unless applauded. None will climb a ladder, being so dangerously top-heavy.
Daily Mirror
20-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Daily Mirror
Iconic 90s Wonderbra model shows off sensational looks 25 years on
Czech catwalk queen Eva Herzigova continues to be in high demand as a supermodel but she is much more selective nowadays, prioritising her ethical fashion stance and her family Timeless supermodel Eva Herzigova barely looks a day older than her Wonderbra hey day more than two decades on. Now 51, the Czech catwalk queen famously fronted the iconic "Hello Boys" campaign, which saw the star featured on billboards across the country. Her traffic-stopping advertisement was so eye catching it was rumoured to have caused accidents due to drivers being distracted and propelled her to international fame more than 25 years ago. Eva hasn't changed much - last year, she donned a lacy black push-up bra once more last year for the Victoria's Secret fashion show, adding a thong and a sheer coverup to dazzling effect. The star was just 16 years old when she won a modelling competition in Prague and headed to fashion capital Paris. Three years later, she played Marilyn Monroe in an advertisement for the jeans brand Guess and when she was 21, she starred in the Wonderbra campaign. The iconic ad saw the model look down at her Wonderbra-enhanced breasts, accompanied by the message "Hello Boys". Some critics thought the campaign was incredibly sexist but fans loved it and it was an advertising triumph - according to a study by the University of Michigan Business School, Wonderbra managed to sell one push-up bra every 15 seconds in the United States between 1994 and 1995. The campaign propelled Eva into the same supermodel bracket as the likes of Naomi Campbell, Kate Moss and Christy Turlington and she went onto accomplish pretty much everything in fashion. The Czech became a Victoria's Secret angel and graced the cover of countless magazines including Sports Illustrated and Playboy. Eva also starred in a Duran Duran music video for Girl Panic!, which was censored by MTV for being too provocative. The model continues to front magazine covers like W and model for brands including Givenchy, with photos on her Instagram showcasing her ageless looks. She also shares the odd snap off-duty, including snaps in the desert of a trip she branded "magical" and a candid shot of her sticking her tongue out being a "silly birthday girl". Nowadays, Eva is married to Italian businessman Gregorio Marsiaj, with three children. The family live in Turin, Italy and Eva has become a campaigner for slow, ethical fashion. She told El Pais magazine last year: "I don't know why brands don't slow down and go back to doing two collections a year like they used to. Now, they all do a pre-collection, a cruise collection, a capsule collection... That involves moving large production teams and generates an enormous amount of waste." The supermodel is also much more selective about modelling work she takes on nowadays. "I say no to a lot of jobs because I don't see a purpose to them," she said. "I have a life, a husband and three kids and I don't want to waste my time."
