Do you have that Friday feeling yet? That foresight which, though accurate, you will ignore. The I’m going to be hungover tomorrow and my plans to mow the lawn/do my tax return/make something spectacular from that hardback celeb cookery book will be completely shagged the second I uncork that bottle of Pinot Noir? Yeah. Before that fateful moment, while all your best intentions are still gleaming, here’s some Sexist News to really add to the optimism. (*pop* glug glug).
You there. Yes, you, you blotchy, orange disaster area. There’s no excuse going out with LAUGHABLE fake tan because the Daily Mail has found some more kitchen cupboard solutions. No matter that they’re generally caustic, abrasive, demeaning and seem designed to feel like a highly suspect practical joke as you scrub yourself with pharmaceutical bleach and cough up blood for the remainder of your sad, streaky life. As long as your corpse is a nice, even colour and smooth to the touch, (the Mail will send round one of their staff perverts to check), then the cause of True Womanhood will have been served . In short, Paul Dacre, merrily gather up the contents of your medicine cabinet/larder and off you fuck. Your advice is neither sought nor welcome. Now scrub THAT out.
9) News Zero, like Coke Zero but even less appealing
Ladies and gents, we have reached news zero. This is a story that feigns storiness. It wears its artifice on its sleeve like a badly collaged postmodern joke. A woman wore shoes and had a face at a thing. What the thing was and who she is, we have no idea, but it’s the face that matters here as she wasn’t smiling. Yes, a woman’s failure to smile is now a news story, a sad bubble of wind farted by the great news arse deep down in the depths of cultural HELL.
Next week, a woman has a nose, the week after that, a woman has eyes and the week after that we visit the Daily Mail with a team of expertly trained mime artists who will shut them all in an invisible glass box. We’re assuming they have all jettisoned any claim on reality and will be quite happy to be pretend-incarcerated by men in stripey shirts and terrifying face paint.
Yep, once more the Daily Express are rubbing their thighs in the general direction of Britain’s favourite ‘busty,’ golden-maned, meteorological enchantress. Trying valiantly to encourage one and all to clammily shuffle one off the wrist over the ever cheerful Carol.
This week, the dullards at The Express, are all excited that she’s standing in front of a green screen with some foxgloves (which my mother never fails to mention are poisonous to weasels, or something, or can cure angina, or something) and it meant they could use the word ‘foxy,’ bless their hearts. Suppose it gives them a focus beyond ‘isn’t she all squidgy in the boob area’ and mentally doing a two-handed honking gesture.
7) There’s no lady-word for Doctor!
In the Eenin Stannar* I picked up on’t Tube yesterday, Sylvester McCoy looked at me impishly from the page. In case you are young, and/or give few to no shits about Doctor Who, McCoy was an Eighties Doctor Who with a shit hat and comedy stylings, who was thought to have vanished forever until someone asked him this pointless question. Having the light shone on him once more meant dear old Sylvester puffed up and answered as if it were of global importance.
Apparently Doctor Who being a woman would ‘destroy the dynamic between the Time Lord and his assistant.’ Yes it would somewhat, you’d have to change the word ‘his’ to ‘her.’ Yeah what a calamity. Shut the fucking front door.
Interestingly, we’re supposed to suspend our disbelief that this chap can time travel, battle weird monsters and have high tea with a lesbian lizard (lezard) in Victorian London etc., and yet dear old Sylvester – who you may or may not recall was relentlessly chased by a giant Bertie Bassett – thinks the idea that a smoking hot younger man having some sauce-drenched chemistry with an arch older woman is just not feasible. But it’s OK guys, he’s a feminist, he gets the struggle, he’s cool.
6) What a shit celebration
A woman I’ve never heard of has written a book, so the Daily Star have published a photo of her covering her fanny with said book, and have written an entire article about her doing it.
I’ve heard that’s what Jane Austen did – the second she finished Northanger Abbey, she shoved the manuscript in her minge – an act that the editors of Bath’s most prestigious periodicals found most agreeable and diverting.
This book launch is the stuff of my deepest nightmares – me, naked, flanked by fully clothed assistants holding books with my face on the cover in front of my tits. And no wine anywhere.
5) Arse sunshine
Oh dear. I’ve been on rush hour tube trains, so I understand why all the civilians in this picture look so pissed off. You’re shoved onto a boiling oven on wheels, and then a load of nobheads with no trousers get on and start pretending to have a party. What a laugh. Wish I’d been there.
Imaginatively, The Sun described this pantomime as ‘pert ladies…injecting an unexpected ray of sunshine to the Sao Paulo rush hour.’ Look at all those people on the escalator being injected with arse sunshine! Their faces say ‘kill me now, just make this end,’ but they’re loving it really!
The article concludes abruptly, with the brilliant, closing line: ‘Former runner-up Andressa Urach appears to have made a full recovery after a botched bum operation left her fearing for her life.’ I flipping love a happy ending.
4) Inane tripe of the week award
Femail’s latest lady-friendly news offering is this side of tripe: a three year old somewhere in Britain looks like Harper Beckham. Apparently, this kid looks so much like Harper Beckham that she sometimes thinks she is Harper Beckham.
I already hate myself for knowing what Harper Beckham means – I can’t deal with knowing what her lookalike looks like, so I can’t read the article. I’m off to cry by the bins.
3) Flaunt points
On Wednesday, Jennifer Lopez lost 124 points for going outdoors looking like a scruffbag, but gained 74 bonus points for having legs. This takes her current Daily Mail Body Nazi points balance to 764, which is equal to £3.82, redeemable at Superdrug, where she could buy some lipstick and sort her fucking face out.
2) Monstrous knockers
Well Daily Star, this is original.
To be honest, I found the Wonderbra era challenging, so the one-eyed-volcano-dwelling-giant theme will be difficult to pull off, particularly since all my clothes are from Marks and Spencer’s. I might just sit this one out and wait for Gorgonboob.
1) Pot, this is the kettle, you’re black…
I’ll be frank, the thought of someone riding this male mannequin with fervent abandon does put me off my cornflakes The Sun, but who am I, out of prudery and uptight squeamishness, to deny such pleasure to any woman with the cash and inclination? Especially if her ‘singleton’ standards ‘are uncompromisingly high.’ We’re assuming, since this is equality-loving Sun, that uncompromisingly high standards means expecting relatively proficient oral sex bi-weekly and an agreed rota for worming the cat. Women eh, we want the moon on a fucking stick.
This ‘story’ does make one wonder, as a subsection of blokes have been avidly humping/fondling plastic woman replicas for yonks, (even Barbie exists because of a German ‘girlie doll’ called Lilli, that chaps buying their snuff could purchase and carry around) so what’s the big deal with women also getting outré, synthetic kicks of their own? Also, until very recently this very ‘news’paper would publish a wankspiration picture for chaps up and down the land, and at least if you shag a synthetic doll it won’t turn to pulp like a rogered newspaper is wont to do.
But to answer their original question, as far as the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen… I’ve seen worse, please inspect exhibit A…
Ah. What an aftertaste. Like that of an off yoghurt that you knew was probably going to be past its best, but thought you’d give a punt anyway. Yum. Until next week newsfans. XXXX
P.S. We couldn’t leave you with a picture of Saville, so here’s a dog on a scooter.