Merry December dearest pals, The Week in Sexist News is back!

Well, sort of. While we’ve been working on our EXCITING NEW PROJECT (which we will unveil with a flourish in the New Year), so we’ve been taking a break from sexist newsing…but…we haven’t really. You see, we’re such massive weirdos, we continued to write little sexist news bits for our own amusement and they piled up, like half empty bottles of cherry brandy in the cupboard under the sink. The following is made up of sexist news bits we wrote during the past month, so it’s technically not this week’s news stories…but we know you don’t care, you brilliant tipsy lushes! Pour a gin and read on…

Like talking to a haggis, but weirder


Jeez, women are such freaks. We’re shrill, we have to shave constantly lest we become wookies and we are obsessed with shoes.

And when we aren’t being generically weird, some even mutate and lay tiny humans like terrifying, shrieking, featherless birds, they then dress these small vomiting younglings in cute outfits in one of two colours, the selection of which is dependent on their front parts.

But just in case these general oddnesses don’t make you bork up your pain au raisin, The Sun encourages us to meet Valentina, a woman who hangs out with her baby’s placenta for fun. That’s women guys. If only there were somewhere one could just look at unchallenging, placenta-free pictures of women chilling out in their in their knickers.


Hot or not?

I’m so looking forward to the follow-up article in tomorrow’s Daily Mail: ‘How do your best friend and wife rate your looks? Are you a 0 out of 10? Brave men invite the women in their lives to pass judgement.’ Yes, I’m really looking forward to it.

Oh…what’s that? That article is never going to happen, ever, ever, ever, in a willion years? Really? How odd…

Wet, look


An American business, that presumably flogs a substandard product, has resorted to making faux lesbian bondage adverts, so the Daily Star is happy.

The company, whose name is so inane I’ve forgotten it again, sell bottled water, in the style of Harrogate Spring. Of course, Harrogate does actually have a spring, so their water sells itself really, and they don’t have to fall back on poor man’s American Apparel style minge shots.

The Star is so crazy about this water, it keeps reporting on their marketing ploys. I can’t think why?

Here are some of their previous adverts:



Well, that’s sexy innit? I just love it when a stranger pours a bottle of Volvic in my pants, so I can enjoy that fresh piss feeling. Just the mere thought of it is getting me going.

I’m rubbing my face against the tap as we speak.


Cut Flack some Slack


Here’s another excellent piece of investigative journalism, courtesy of ‘thinking person’s tabloid,’ the Daily Mirror.

The crux of the story is that Caroline Flack, an ancient, lascivious crone, once knocked about with curly mopped pop nob, Harry Styles – a mere slip of a boy, who happened to be 65 years younger than her.

This was about twelve years ago, but the Mirror are still positively reeling about it, because it’s just unheard of for a person to be significantly older than their paramour, particularly in showbiz circles, where decrepit old blokes never, ever swank about town with teenage models.

Anyway, to help us to judge her, they created a delightful montage of Flack surrounded by her boy toys. The article goes on to state that, of the three blokes pictured, she was only romantically involved with one of them – she stood next to Niall whatshisface at a party and the creepy one with the fringe told the press he fancied her, and she never spoke to him again.

But, hey, no smoke without fire, eh? What’s that, there’s no smoke? And no fire? OK, just wait here, while I find a box of matches.


 Beware of the hag

3rd novvvvvv

Halloween is long gone, but BEWARE, dear readers, the TERROR of the menopausal woman.

The Daily Mail reports that ladies across Britain are trashing staplers, shouting at men, failing to appreciate perfectly good handbags and kicking bins. The country is in CHAOS.

For instance, Julie, 55, from London, became so angry she knocked a stack of CDs over, in a fit of Izzy Pop-esque INSANITY. ‘My immediate thought’ said Julie ‘was “that feels better” swiftly followed by, “that’s not entirely normal, Julie.”’
Similarly, Kathryn, 52, from East Sussex was driven to fury during her big change of life: ‘Everything my husband did started to irritate me. I hated the domestic side of life and felt like a doormat.’ Luckily, Kathryn was ‘cured’ of not wanting to clean the toilet thanks to a hefty HRT prescription. Phew!
Unfortunately, Jill, 56, from Newcastle’s ‘transition’ had far more serious implications. Not only did she question her husband’s financial decisions, but she accidentally allowed a carton of soya milk to leak inside her handbag. ‘I completely lost it in the middle of a busy street’ recalled Jill, 56,  ‘I crouched on the pavement, frantically unpacking the contents of the bag and swearing. Then I gathered up the whole lot – make-up bag, diary, phone – and shoved it all in a bin, cursing and kicking it before storming off.’

Good Lord, medicate her quickly.
That’s not entirely normal, Jill.


Flack’s back

3rd nov2

How is it possible, Daily Mail, for a woman to parade her own legs?

Speaking from my own experience, my legs usually parade me about, because my legs are attached to my feet, and my feet take steps, which often results in my body moving in a particular direction. I usually refer to this parading as ‘walking,’ and I can recommend it highly as a mode of propelling oneself from the settee to the biscuit tin, and back again. Or, in this case, as a way of traveling to the bin, where I will deposit this article beneath a sea of putrid cat litter.

Woman remains busy

3rd nov3

Thrilled to have excavated some photos of Rita Ora reclining on a shag pile in a pair plastic pants, the Daily Star were understandably keen to print them.

Unfortunately, no one in the office could think of a single story to accompany these latex rug chronicles – an incredible feat, considering said office is filled with people who pen stories in exchange for Richard Desmond’s warm, damp banknotes. The end result? An article about Rita Ora being busy – not suddenly busy for an exciting reason –  just as busy as she normally is on any given weekday.

I’m all for a tenuous link, but this is all wrong. After all, the last thing a busy woman needs is PVC knickers.


Woman is tit and buttock courier


Are you a boobs or bum kinda guy?

What’s that, sorry? You’re a WOMAN?

But women don’t buy newspapers! Women can’t read!

Now go and put the kettle on darlin’, the Daily Star has work to do – this 300 word article about a complete stranger’s anus ain’t gonna write itself, is it?


The Daily Mail gets Shit Faced


Step away from the wine, you tanked up harridans; it’s making your face look like a baboon’s arse and the Daily Mail are sick of it. And while you’re at it, bin that sandwich, chuck that Kitkat in a skip and bury all your cheese in the back yard, lest you should look like this:


Yes, Halloween has passed us by, yet the haggard mug of Dairy Face lives on. Helpfully, the Mail have provided an illustration of a ‘normal’ face, for us bloated imbeciles to use as a mode of comparison against our own wizened chops.

Luckily, men are made of steel and don’t have skin, so they don’t need to worry about Dairy Face. That’s why this article appears in the Femail section.

Now for the love of GOD, put down that effing loaf and go to a Zumba class or something, you potato-faced crones.


How much is your meat wallet costing you?


Oooh, this is topical, innit, what with the tampox tax and all that. Yeah, the Daily Star knows all about wimmin’s issues, hence this photograph of a model delicately obscuring her most precious lady treasure with beautifully arranged hands. Richard Desmond is aware that this is how all women stand when calculating muff costs, contemplating a smear or worrying about whether ‘down there’ is normal. Look – here’s proof:





Yes, women everywhere are adding up minge fractions whilst completely in the niff and, as the Express are keen to remind us, winter is on its way, and it’s going to be the coldest since 1723.

To save hypothermia, the Star have done the maths on our behalf, and have worked out that the average British woman spends £922 a year on her vagina. That’s £76.83 a month; more than council tax and the telly licence combined. I could buy a top of the range shed with that money. That’s it, I’m sending my vagina back – it was a rubbish place to store this Dremel, and it cost me a fortune.

Are you drunk on imbecilic idiocy and incredulity? Thought so. What a pile of absolute nob fungus (we laugh at these phrases, but imagine an actual pile of that…). Aaaaaaanyway. As the week draws to a close we can almost taste the 2-for-1 pina coladas awaiting us. We shall continue to haphazardly Sexist News for your and our own amusement, it might not be all that regular this side of Christmas, but when we’re done sorting our EXCITING NEW PROJECT, you won’t be sorry.

Adieu darlings, Iris and Flora xx

Also one last thing. This is the time of year full of twinkly music, dubious knitwear and painful festive socialising. Predictably, there are a good few local ‘safety’ campaigns warning women this party season, of the dangers of imbibing alcohol, being by oneself and possessing a vagina out of doors. Even though the campaigns that address would-be rapists are reported to be more successful… So while rape apology is so sodding rife and victim blaming epic, we need Rape Crisis firing on all cylinders. If you can donate a little, or share this link, that’d be marvellous: