– By Iris Clot and Janice Lathe. Flora Cramp is away.

On reflection and based on some comments (which we’ve responded to) I’ve updated entries #10 and #4. TWISN went a touch rogue this week… I do so love poking things with the Class Stick but Flora usually reigns me in… hope you enjoy the couple of extras lovelies. Iris xx 

Fresh from our weekly exertions, we present, dear reader, The Week in Sexist News. Like a shit roman candle or a disappointing shag, light the blue touchpaper and watch it make an exciting-sounding noise before going ‘phut’.

 

10) Mum’s are such bitches

Gosh. A bunch of mums have been fat-shaming at the school gates… Blimey, there really is no precedent for that sort of behaviour is there? I can’t think of a single instance in the media where people are victimised because of their size, or relentlessly coerced into hating their bodies as they are or encouraged to change their size and shape. It’s almost as if these attitudes just pop into women’s heads unbidden. Because obviously women are awful bullies independent of any other kind of mass-circulated hate-propaganda. You’d never catch those sweet, sweet lovelies at The Sun judging women on their appearance…

 

9) Express stuns world with shit, cowardly journalism (part 542)

They love a death, the media. And while it might have been better if, say, Ben Fogle has had his head chewed off by a lion or Sarah Lancashire had her legs devoured by a flesh eating virus, the Express have decided to use Cilla Black’s death to make anyone who lost a baby feel really, really shit.

Those lovely, lovely people have decided that she never really got over the loss of her child and move swiftly on to allow the suggestion that her death – decades later – was some form of public enactment of agony to linger in what passes for its reader’s brain.

Why not, we wonder, encourage readers to donate to a premature baby charity? No. Too much effort. Turn the page instead, and have a good, sweaty look at Myleene Klass’s knockers.

 

8) Because men never need wiping down

 

Ladies, this is a MUST READ. A ‘must read’ for ladies. In the Femail section. Because ladies do all the washing. Which is nice. Reading this actually made me glad that there are now wipe clean clothes. Mainly because it means should I ever decide to disembowel a Daily Mail journalist I don’t need to worry about spoiling my favourite dungarees with a smear of entrail.

 

7) What a difference a Dins makes

Dave Dinsmore is at home in his seventies, mock-Tudor house, with its tasteful lions at the gate and faux-Regency mailbox on its own plinth. He’s drunk his banana Nesquik, thoughtfully nibbled his rusk, while crumbs fell on his budding paunch, and is about to polish his collection of horse brasses when he notices that Millie Mackinstosh has got one of her nips out in a selfie.

“Hold page 15,” he says, squeaking excitedly into his Mr Playtime Fun-Fone. “I know how we can get tits into the paper and call it news.”

 

6) Scaling the heights of Fail

Hello? Is that the Daily Express? Ah, yes. Could you kindly fuck off this, and EVERY, day?

 

5) Braga’s boobs could make a man sob spaff

Bear in mind that this is from the Crass Tit Peddlars’ Journal, aka the Daily Star. One can be forgiven, on merely reading the headline and knowing the calibre of the source, for suspecting that the images would make Peter Stringfellow’s eyes weep jizz, such is the FILTH quotient.

Now, perhaps we have become so desensitised over the last 10 months of imbibing the malodorous news droppings plopped out by Fleet Street’s finest, that we no longer recoil at the sight of camel toe showcasing mesh underthings, all manner of tit vantage points and Carol Kirkwood’s nipple shape. So we’re loathe to agree that this ‘raunchy shoot’ really constitutes filthy – unless, of course, we’ve missed the point entirely and they’re merely commenting on the fact that she has got sand in her crack.

 

4) Abdomen Watch

Imagine that every time you pick up an object and carry it somewhere there is a Sun journalist interpreting it’s significance to a health or fertility related swelling. Bey carried a laptop in front of her general womb/fanny area and now everyone thinks she’s up the duff again. I wore a backpack the other day, if I were famous, a wild rumour about a developing hunchback might ensue. In the winter I tend to wear scarves, that could prompt Goitre Gate. It must get tiresome, like being on Springwatch, except, instead of bothering a vole or stoat family, Bill Oddie is camped at your crotch and whispering things about nests and gestation periods.

 

3) Women allowed to appear on television

As we missed the memo that the Taliban had taken over national television, we were understandably baffled by this piece which saw to comment on the fact some women presented a television programme. One of them was Carol Kirkwood, who someone at the Express badly wants to interfere with, being described as ‘fabulous,’ a ‘sight to behold’ and, in a très retro way, as ‘a stunner.’

Next week, we look at all the TV programmes presented by men, and Jill off over whether Robert Peston dresses to the left or right.

 

2) Porn free, as free as Mail blows…

Bloody, bloody women. If you don’t keep your eye on them, they’re off up the school, measuring boys’ members, shaving their pubes and grinding around in bed with a mirror, doing Unspeakable Things to themselves. Or that’s how the Mail are trying to stimulate the collective clits of Middle England into a big self righteous, frothy wank over Goedele Liekens.

Liekens says that YOUR SACRED CHILDREN need to learn about sexual pleasure in school as well as how not to get chlamydia, and that boys learning about sex from porn is, y’know, bad. Which is why she’s doing a Channel 4 documentary about it and why the Mail are weakly trying to spin sexual pleasure as a threat to God, King and Empire.

Props to Mail reader Gungarius, who describes this as ‘filth.’ And whose wife thinks ‘orgasm’ is an own-brand answer to Head & Shoulders.

 

1) Put out or fear the Wrath of Onan

Apparently, ladies, “male sexual desire in the 21st Century continues to greatly outstrip non-commercial female supply.” At least it is according to ‘expert’ Catherine Hakim in the Telegraph. That is Dr Catherine Hakim sociologist, who is actually an expert in hair flicking and eyelash fluttering.

In case you weren’t aware, hetero lady-readers, you are a supplier of shags. Yes, you with a fag in that hot pink velour dressing gown. In fact, you’re like a human ice-cream van (specialising in cornets and apathetic hand jobs) or, for those who are less spontaneous, an Avon lady of carnal delights (cheap, saggy hosiery and a quick furtle round the back of Kwik Save). So, what to do when demand ‘outstrips non-commercial supply?’ Well, you ‘outsource.’ But to what, or whom, depends on one’s budget.

For instance, if as a couple you’re pretty flush, there’s Joanna Lumley in Shirley Valentine. If you have budgetary restraints, then try finding a mate who’s a bit of a nympho and will put out for a gin, a pint of snakebite and a bag of pork scratchings. Or for a real DIY solution, simply drill a hole (diameter needs to be bespoke) in a bit of two by four and sand it down. Responsibility discharged. Job done.

…

And there it is. For people that needed to know someone at the Express wishes to place his button mushroom of a penis in poor Carol Kirkwood, or how we should legalise prostitution because your boyfriend is walking around with nuts like two tins of Carnation Cream, it’s a blessing. For the rest of us, the greatest insult since Denis Thatcher felt amorous and the result was Mark.

We repair to a low-rent bar that smells of Flash with an underscore of vomit and something that may be effluent, where will drink until we can’t feel our knees. We suggest you do the same. Until next week, darlings…