When Though Cowards Flinch asked me to write something for International Women’s Day, I was flummoxed by the request. What’s to write about? Everything seems to have reached a fine old equilibrium. Plenty of babes in government, the ruling class stuffed to the brim with bosses of the female persuasion …
That nice Tessa Jowell could even afford to give her old man the heave-ho when he was caught embarrassing her with his alleged acceptance of largesse off Silvio Berlusconi, instead of hanging on timidly as the little woman was wont to do in days of old (not that embarrassment ever inhibited Tony and Cherie from snuffling in that particular hospitality trough). No, these women can snaffle their own Hérmes Birkins, thank you very much. And cheers for the goody-bag.
In the absence of anyone of high enough calibre on the domestic front, Katie Price and her high calibre domestic frontage is proving an outstanding role model for women.
As feminist icon she’s the only contender. While WAGs and slebs are publicly humiliated by their chaps’ shagathons and beatings, Katie demands a man who worships the ground ’pon which she walks. And, thanks to breast implant reduction, she now has less need to worry about said upholstery exploding under low pressure at high altitude when she flies. How liberating is that? Plus she’s authored more books than she’s read. Suck on that, literary losers (I address myself there.)
And, glory be, in this age of the Credit Crunch we now have equal pay … what with male friends getting their wages lowered to the level of women. Don’t tell me we haven’t made progress.
Incidence of rape is down, according to UK prosecution figures. I may very well be able to walk out naked on a Saturday night safe in the knowledge that chivalry is flourishing. And the only violation will be of the parking laws when I hurtle onto the kerb across two residents’ parking bays because we ladies can’t drive, innit? No more the irrational fear of the rogue minicab driver, or groundless suspicion of the leering lothario at the bar and his secret stash of Rohypnol.
Don’t forget: if you do find yourself sexually assaulted on a date and you lack witnesses, polaroids or video demonstrating you yelled “No!” in a manner that did not mean, “Yes, I’m up for it, big boy”, then you probably brought it on yourself. And so say an increasing number of women. Right on sistaz!
Good to see that women still luxuriate in the patronage of boyfriends and partners able to dole out privileges on the basis of comfort and dubious merit. Note Kate Moss and her scraggy range of schmatte tossed together at the behest of her Top Shop “mentor”, the tax-avoiding Monaco-residing Philip Green, in return for much moolah paid into the Moss coffers and which is said to have hastened the departure of the woman who’d dragged the clothing emporium out of the doldrums, Jane Shepherdson.
This levelling of the playing field has been so successful in bringing the gurls in from oblivion or penury that it’s even been adopted by the left. Ah yes, I well remember being told by one bit of socialist totty, “I’m doing your job now”, once I’d worked unpaid around the clock for la causa and something was up for grabs. She never did do the serious work but she enjoyed the fruits of my labour, proving that women can do whatever a man can do … and do it better. Cheers, comrade.
Elsewhere, lionesses of feminism decry sexist behaviour unless it’s their blokes who’re doing the exploiting. (Where’re my wages, Lindz?)
Nothing like support from fellow women in the movement. And, indeed, that was nuthin’ like it.
No, my respect goes to the women in real danger across the world, living under oppression every day and fighting to resist it. All power to you in your struggle, sisters, on International Women’s Day.
First published at Though Cowards Flinch
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