The Shed enjoyed Jojo Moyes lamenting the death of Jackie Collins as meaning one fewer of the last of the “great broads”.
She wrote:
The world of entertainment was once rich with broads – those smart-mouthed, high-gloss women who eye the world with an amused smile and take no crap from anyone. Collins was a broad until she died. She was funny, sexy and glamorous.
When Cilla Black died recently I felt the same sense of despond; you didn’t have to love primetime television to admire the fact that here was a woman who didn’t have to sport a plunging decolletage, or feign a girlish admiration of some older male presenter. She didn’t care if she was liked – she just demanded respect. And this is the fundamental characteristic of the broad – she might crack a dirty joke, tell a story against herself, acknowledge the game with a sly wink. But it’s her game.
There are so few broads left – Madonna and Lady Gaga, perhaps (though the message gets a bit confused under all the underwear and raw bacon). So many high-profile women display that undercurrent of self-loathing that seems to come as standard.
Sometimes I wish for more like Jackie: a role model with a steady gaze who barks a laugh at the vicissitudes of life, simply pours a stiff drink and reapplies her lipgloss.
A broad understands that life is basically ridiculous. And the only human response to it is to put on a pair of heels, do your hair, and meet it with a smart comment. As she put it:
“Barbara Cartland said, ‘Oh, Miss Collins, your books are filthy and disgusting and you are responsible for all the perverts in England.’ I paused for a few moments and said, ‘Thank you.’”
Read it in full at

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