I tried to insure my booty

Because you know I'm all about that bass.

Untitled design (57)

Celebrities will insure any old body part of theirs. They're loonies.

This woman, Holly Madison, insured her breasts for $1 million.

Mariah Carey is alleged to have insured her legs for $1 billion.

And Jennifer Lopez - J Lo to you and me - insured her bum for $300 million.

So I decided to go down the J Lo route. The J Lo slide. The Lotorway. I wanted to see if I could get my arse insured.

So I rang up a few companies.

I pretended to be a professional dancer who had recently had cosmetic surgery on his arse. Well, you only live once.

Here's how I started a typical conversation, and how the people on the other end reacted:
"It's fairly niche; it's inquiring into the possibility of insuring a specific body part."
"A body part?"
"...Rrrrrright, OK. Could you be a little bit more...you say insuring a body part..."

Or the exchanges went something like this:

"So if I, much like Jennifer Lopez to be honest, wanted to insure - in this case it's my bum...do you know if there are any particular companies you'd recommend?"
"Bear with me one second."
"Hi, yeah, I've checked around - we don't do anything like that. Even our competitors don't do things like that. It's a completely different sort of insurance."


It was proving remarkably difficult to insure me little bottom. For about an hour I baffled most of the insurance companies in the UK with my bum queries:
"Hello; I was wondering if I could speak to someone about an insurance query, by any chance?"
"What sort of insurance?"
"It's body part insurance. I've recently had some surgery and, as a performer, I'd like to investigate the possibility of insuring a body part."
"Unfortunately we don't do that. What you'd probably need is probably specialist insurers. We could cover all of you..."
"But not just my bum?"
"No. Even if J Lo called up we wouldn't be able to do it."

BUPA weren't much bloody help, I'm not gonna lie:
"Insure your bum? We don't do insurance in that way, unfortunately."
"Oh right. Because obviously as a performer it's particularly valuable; it would ruin my career if something happened to it."
"We don't...BUPA don't offer that, no."
"Do you know anyone who might?"
"I don't, to be honest with you. I've never been asked this; I really don't know. I'd look on the internet if I was you."
"All right."
"Well, good luck with it."

One call was particularly fruitful. I made up an extraordinary amount of bollocks:
"What body part is it, firstly?"
"It's my behind, which I've recently had cosmetic surgery on. This means it's particularly valuable and so, as a professional dancer, I'm reliant on it to make a living."
"How much would you be looking to insure it for?"
"Oh I'm not sure; I was wondering if there was anything you could advise in that respect."
"Are we talking in the hundreds of thousands?"
"Probably not that much but I'm new to this."
"So something like 50,000 or something?"
"Yeah, maybe something like that."
"And this would be pounds?"
"What kind of dancing do you do?"
"It's sort of in nightclubs and things like that; so I do a number of cabaret events and some backing dancing as well. It's quite a variety of stuff. So obviously for that reason I decided to have the surgery. It was to have more of a unique selling point."
"Is it like an implant or something?"
"Yeah; just to enlarge it, yeah, so that it's particularly visible and particularly obvious."
"Mm. OK. This is enough to go on for now. I'll make some inquiries and I'll be in touch."

Bow down before me.

Then I struck solid gold. One of the insurers, Darren, listened to my string of lies and then offered up this beautiful sentence:

"I put work together before for one of the Pussycat Dolls' legs. So it is something we can get involved in. What kind of entertainment do you do?"

I told him it was dancing and he believed me. He explained how the Pussycat Dolls policy worked - if they were to break their legs or ankles, they could be compensated for their loss of earnings. He was my guy.

He sent me a form, which asked me for my name, age, occupation, etc. I replied with the following email:

To which he said...

This was my final email to Darren:

Yes. Yes, I chickened out in the end. The adrenaline was too intense, the pressure too great. I was the first to blink.

The point is: I almost insured my arse for £50,000. I don't care what you say; that's a hell of an achievement for a wet Thursday afternoon.