MORNING. Well, we missed an important Tights-iversary. Last week we had been doing TWISN for a WHOLE YEAR. A whole blinkin’ year. Forty-five posts about the dickishness of our ‘free’ press. There have been more celeb-lady-part flauntings in the last year than we’ve had hot dinners, and regardless of what the Daily Mail would prefer re. women eating, we eat dinners. Reports of arse facials, fanny meringues and tit choreography were abundant in 2014-15.
That said, we now know that there is no bottom of the barrel where tabloid editors are concerned. Just when you think they’ve subjected the ‘fairer sex’ to the most ludicrously demeaning exposure, they somehow manage to innovate. It would be commendable if they were innovating for, say, a cure for fatuousness. Sadly, they seem only to innovate in favour of being tumescent nobbers.
Rubbish editorial ettiquete aside, we’ve chatted to lots of you lovely readers on Twitter and Facebook, even met a few IRL and become rather good friends. We’re spoiled rotten as we get so much positive feedback for doing this, and you also keep us honest by letting us know when we’ve gone too far off piste or been unkind. Flora is such a sweetheart, she’s even been concerned before now that she was a bit mean about Sarah Vine. Iris, not so much.
Anyway, we know this is what you’re really after:
10) Self-deprecation Chic
Gosh darn. You mean much maligned and routinely opposed feminist projects haven’t solved all of our problems yet? Blimey. Maybe it’s bollocks, shall we pack up our yurts?
Women who have waves of hot, wet feminism crashing about them shouldn’t be stressed. Women can do, sorry, I mean HAVE, IT ALL these days. A woman can have a career AND a family who sit on their arses while she cooks the dinner and washes up, like the Asda Christmas mum, without disparaging comment. OR women can have a career and SELFISHLY have no children, without disparaging comment. Or be sponging layabouts with no career and a smattering of children, without disparaging comment. PLUS we can also have ALL the lovely fleshy pictures of women with airbrushed tits and arses shoved in our faces everyday by the likes of The Express, among others. I’m basically farting ironic glitter at the joy of being female in our society.
Does anyone have any Valium knocking about?
9) A wild night on the tiles
Curly mopped pop nob Harry Styles has been knocking about with model Georgia Fowler, so The Sun have helpfully printed a photo of her looking pissed off in weird underwear. Apparently, the pair are enjoying a romantic entanglement, evidenced by a photo of them playing Scrabble in dressing gowns. No wonder she looks ready to firebomb a shed.
Ahh, youth is wasted on the young.
I’m a freelancer The Express, I’ve barely moved from this chair in 3 weeks to do anything more energetic than make some tea and forage for custard creams. Consequently, if I don’t even exercise my lardy bums, legs or tums, I’m hardly going to be up for training my twat for the four minute mile, am I?
7) 100% authentic lesbian sex problems
Ah, Dear Deidre. Every day, she has to put aside 45 seconds to dream up a quick fix for pretend readers’ imagined sex problems. Yes, these entirely fabricated scenarios are all pretty sexy in nature, and require accompanying photos of women in tiny pants ‘romping’ all over the shop. Yesterday’s fake problem involved a woman drunkenly copping off with her mate in a tent, which was illustrated with this highly believable image of two models in lacy white underwear pulling Next catalogue faces and nearly touching each other’s arses.
This leads me to believe that no one at The Sun HQ has ever had sex in a tent. Where are the cans of strongbow, little piles of sick, wet sleeping bags, Pot Noodles and nobheads with guitars?
6) Cheer up love, it might never happen
Femail this week reported that – according to a quiz invented by some bored Australians – 33% of women are miserable anxious bastards. The Daily Mail, however, failed to question whether said anxious misery was a product of filling in this fucking quiz.
5) Zombie Invasion
Oh, Lord no. Not the naked faced celebs!!! What if they all start running amok with their disgusting bare lady-faces? What if ‘normal’ non-sleb women start thinking it’s ok? What if… women have slightly more time in the mornings? What if women merely washed and dressed themselves before going Out Of Doors (aka ‘stepping out’ or ‘showcasing?’) All HELL would break loose, that’s what. There would be a rip in the space time continuum, toxic fire would rain from the skies, we would all drown in lakes of boiling piss. AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH. That’s the consequential upshot of Kylie and Nige eschewing the Clinique counter, right? The Sun aren’t so fuck-witted they’d print this as news without the catastrophic ramifications… Are they?
4) Hardcore Pawn
Here’s another treat for us all, courtesy of smirking porn gerbil, Richard Desmond. Following the Daily Star’s slew of ‘fun’ articles about brothels, here’s an exposé about sex workers getting paid £300 quid an hour to play chess.
Am I missing something here? Are ‘chess’ and ‘scrabble’ code words for doing something unseemly with a rolling pin and a Jack Russell on Hampstead Heath? Is Scrabbling the new dogging? I’m so confused. I’d better write to Dear Deidre and have it all explained pictorially, via some women in nice Debenhams pants nearly touching each other’s tits on a Matalan bedspread.
3) Sizzling over spilt milk
Do you watch Strictly Come Dancing? Yes? Well, the judgy bloke who pretends to be nasty is pissed off with the dancer Ola Jordan, for peddling a calendar filled with photos of her bending over trying to pick things up. Silly Ola, always dropping things! Anyway, the faux nasty judgy bloke says the calendar is inappropriate, considering the show’s family audience. Well, Ola’s husband – who is made of plastic – is angry, and everybody’s pissed off.
Upon reading this, I presumed the calendar must be a bit, y’know, sexy but, when I saw this photo in the Daily Mirror, I realised what the nasty judge was getting at: it’s not suitable family viewing AT ALL.
Firstly, look at what she’s wearing! She’s shamelessly flouting food hygiene regulations; where is her apron and hair net? And she’s spilling that milk all over the place, the big oaf – she’s even sitting in it! The amount of times I’ve told my nieces not to drink milk straight from the carton; what a terrible example to set to young children. And Ms Half-A-Job Jordan hasn’t even emptied the dishwasher! Yes, I’m on Craig Screvel Norwood’s side on this one. Clean up your act Ola!
2) Harness the power of catsick
Please excuse me while I….
huuuuuuurrrrrrrrrgggghghghgggggggg hhaaaaarrrrrrruuuuuuuuuuggghghhghgggg flaaaaaaaaaaagguuuuuuuuuurrrrrppphhhhhhhh hak hak hak hak huuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.
Sorry about that, I can’t discuss this absolute pile of vomit from The Express any further or I’ll bring up another hairball.
1) It’s a Mystery
If I was being stalked relentlessly by cash-humping perverts with telephoto lenses making a fast buck off women’s bodies without their permission, I might be prompted to wrap my doughy figure in lycra, pump some serious iron and take them all DOWN.
Oh dear, sweet wankers at The Mail, women didn’t suddenly want six-packs, oh, except now maybe they do, because you’re a malignant bunch of manipulative bumholes, making much of your loot from women finding themselves inadequate and grotesque. So hats off for that Paul Dacre, let’s hope you don’t get the syphilis you deserve, eh?
So that’s yer lot for this week. Idiotic and grotesque enough? Thought so. We’re actually hanging out in real life today, so know that we will be drinking gin in honour of exasperated but determined feminism in the face of all this cack. We will also have a jar in honour of you all for reading and cheering us up no end each week; this last year has actually been a bit tough for the Tights team, and your responses have been tonic indeed (Schweppes not Effico). Chin chin ducks!