A New Entry in Time for Christmas
Such is my faith in my feminist sisters (or the level of evil corruption the feminist borg has achieved through its iron-fisted grasp on my mind), that I haven’t even been able to read this piece in the Telegraph in full. The website claims that my limit for articles has been reached, though, were I of suspicious mind, I would observe that increasing numbers of women work in web management these days, and have powerful and covert ways of controlling what the ordinary (wo)man in the street can see.
Anyway, it’s Martin Daubney, ex-editor of Loaded and professional wassock, claiming that feminism should really be updated to make it more palatable to, y’know, men. Cos that poor woman Caroline Criado-Perez must be exhausted with keeping up the ‘gender war’. It’s like expecting the dear little thing to hold open doors for herself! Now, if she’d only plump for ‘real equality,’ like you get when you slip on a pair of suspenders and pout for the camera …
f A new entry, today, into the illustrious Museum of Mansplaining Art (for whose genesis and exhibitions, see below). It’s this lovely piece from the Guardian by one Antony Loewenstein, in which he havers over telling feminists how to do feminism then concludes he’d better deliver some ‘tough love,’ even if it means risking a bit of a response. A brave man, our Antony. Now, I could write a ‘how not to write about feminism if you’re a man 101’, but here’s one simple tip: if you have to start by saying “I’ve hesitated to write about gender, worried that I’ll be slammed for daring to speak out,” then … don’t speak out. Look at the men who do speak out about gender equality issues. Look at, for example, Jem Bloomfield’s blog. Or listen to those men in the public eye who manage to concentrate on what they know, and not what they think is wrong with feminism. Keir Starmer, for example. He may not have managed a perfect track record, but he knows his shit about rape prosecution, and he sticks to talking about that. So, he doesn’t come across as a patronizing twit. I was even pretty impressed by William Hague recently, and god knows I am as far from right-wing as you’re allowed to be when your father-in-law was a member of the Russian communist party. What you don’t do, is to write an article that is ostensibly about feminism, but is really bigging up what a wonderful person you are. Look at how Antony sees himself: “worried that I’ll be slammed” … “afraid” … “hesitant” …”shy[ing] away” …”worried [I’ll] be attacked” …”too cautious for too long”. This, I’m sorry to say, is the description of a victim of violence – and, to be clear, physical violence. Oh, I know it’s all just metaphorical. It’s not that Antony is literally taking on the voice of a survivor of violence … but it’s uncomfortably close. Now look at how he pats himself on the back: where women are “aggrieved” and their feminism is “white noise,” Antony sees things straight. In his new role as feminist hero, he’s going to provide the real “hard work”. Lucky us, ladies. Previously seen at the Museum of Mansplaining Art:
I’m a simple type, and simple things make me happy. Like the beauty of the sunset, the dew on the roses and the smiles of happy undergraduates. However, it has come to my attention that I may have neglected a source of art, sadly undervalued in these feminist times. Allow me, therefore, to introduce to you The Museum of Mansplaining Art. In my mind, it shall be located in the Gherkin in London, and presided over by the (fictional) mansplainer Mervyn, from Barbara Trapido’s wonderful book Noah’s Ark, a man “to whom the very Post Office Tower sung triumphant hymns of phallic domination”. I had one submission from earlier this year, the delightful and perfectly-formed comment of one Bob Evans, who produced a perfect surrealist ‘critique’ of the (now happily approved) project to get mothers’ names on marriage certificates. His vivid image of a giant government conspiracy, busily denying that its own documents were and had always been fair and equal, will surely go down in history. Today is a happy day. We have another submission. This time, from a renowned feminist commentator, whose fame has escaped me only because of my own failures. In response to feminist commentators (and, y’know, women) Sarah Ditum and Caroline Criado Perez, this giant of the intellect noted his awe-inspiring credentials: “Actually I took about 30 hours of women’s studies courses as it was one of my disciplines.” That’s them told. I know we all have stories of mansplaining that are egregious in many ways. But some (honestly, this time) strike me as so beautiful, so perfectly and richly illustrative of the underlying thought-process, that they truly do amuse me. I hope they do you. I plan to collect my favourites on this page, as a little Museum, bravely standing out against the tide of female-dominated art and rhetoric that sweeps across our shores. New Exhibit No. 1 On the train back from Edinburgh to London King’s Cross, I overheard the following: Man: I’m just going to put the armrest up. I’m typing and it keeps getting in my way. I’ve got something I need to finish before 5 and [self-important waffle I tuned out]. So can I move this so I stop hitting into you? Woman: Well, you can move the armrest, but what you’re hitting is my arm, and it’s already on my side of the seat anyway. Man: I do have a deadline! <headdesk>