We All Know What You Are

I’m loathe to write a blog about Ched Evans, given the fact that everyone else has written about him, and also because it’s about the most straightforward thing you could ever write about. It transcends an opinion piece, because an opinion piece suggests several truths and in this case there is only one:

 

A man had sex with a woman who was too drunk to definitively consent. Sex without consent is rape. The end.

 

There is nothing remotely interesting about this case. We’ve seen women defend their spousal rapists before. We’ve seen family members defend their rapist relatives before. I mean – to a very slight extent – there is something very unusual that it is not the crime they’re disputing, but whether or not what occurred actually constitutes a crime. They have been told, in a criminal court case, at subsequent appeal hearings, and by everyone with even the slightest sense of humanity and intellectual comprehension that rape does not fall within a narrow set of behaviours, but is an umbrella term for sex without consent. That should make it easier for people, and yet it doesn’t.

 

The Justice for Ched Evans campaign have systematically embarrassed themselves for over three years and much more significantly, have hounded the rape victim to an extent where she has been given a new identity after being labelled a slag and worse by fellow footballers, and others.

 

Recently released, there is some debate about whether or not Ched Evans should be allowed to play football again, and the answer is: he absolutely shouldn’t. Many job vacancies aren’t open to criminals – even as minimum wage employees – this is an additional price convicted criminals often pay for crime, and personally I’m not sure this is fair, but it is a resounding truth. The idea, however,  that someone earning many times over the minimum wage in a highly competitive industry and being held up as an example for young people should continue gainful employment in the same industry after being convicted of rape, is abhorrent and offensive.

 

The fact is though, he will continue to play football. We hear about the humanity in second chances. We only really hear about the beauty of second chances when it comes to crimes like rape and domestic violence and a plethora of misogynistic crimes, and the reason we hear about the power of the second chance is because those calling for it are usually indulging their own latent misogyny.

 

We do not – for example – hear about giving second chances to convicted terrorists and bank robbers. We also, as a society, tend to overlook the systemic issues affecting drug addicts and the reasons they burglarise us. No, the alarming charitable consideration afforded to people like Ched Evans is because misogynists want to indulge other misogynists.

 

I will not spend any time while I’m writing this focussing on the victim. Much has been made of comments she made after she was raped, but these are irrelevant. Equally, so is her intoxication. I have been very, very drunk in my lifetime, and the chances are, so have you. I do not deserve to be raped. If what we are asking of women is to never be vulnerable to potential rapists, it would rule out almost every conceivable activity on the planet. Women have been raped at work, at school, as children, by teachers, by doctors, by nurses, by spending short amounts of time with celebrities… why do we still consider it reasonable to critique the behaviours of rape victims, as opposed to the rapist every single fucking time?

 

What knickers did she have on? How drunk was she? How many boyfriends has she had?

 

Michael Buerk this week said that Ched Evans’ rape victim, “deserved no credit due to her being drunk.” And Judy Finnegan (I just feel like smacking my fucking head on a wall repeatedly when it’s a woman) said on Loose Women this week that the rape was, “Unpleasant…” but then added that the victim had “…had too much to drink.”

 

Why is the girl the issue? Why has the victim in this case – and many other rape cases – been centralised? What behaviours could we be looking at? What do we all agree as a society are the sort of behaviours and sexual history that constitute reason for someone being able to have sex with you without your express consent?

 

There’s a prevailing sense that some rapes are more rapey than others, when they aren’t. There’s also an idea – usually proposed by men, and even sung about by Robin Thicke – that sexual consent isn’t always explicit and overt and that there is ambiguity in sexual consent.

 

There isn’t.

 

There never is.

 

If there’s any ambiguity, ask. If there’s still ambiguity, don’t.

 

There was also some talk by Judy Finnegan about violence and brutality.

 

Rape is always a violent act, because it’s a violation. It’s a violation if you fucked the person half an hour earlier when they consented and now they don’t. It’s a violation if you’re married, or in a relationship. It’s a violation if you’re on a date, if the girl is absolutely hammered, or if you’re high. Sex without consent is about power, control and violating someone. Rape is used in war and in prisons as a mode of brutalisation. So regardless of whether or not someone is known to you, has chased you down an alley, or got into bed with you after you came home drunk with their mate… if you are incapable of, or have not given your consent, you’ve been raped and therefore brutalised.

 

But as I say, I didn’t want to blog about Evans. I didn’t want to write about Ched Evans mostly because he’s a thick, rapist. He’s from a family of thick, rapist-apologist bores and they’ve all already had too much of our attention. We’ve indulged them into thinking there is any debate whatsoever about whether or not Ched is a rapist. There isn’t, because he is.

 

The Justice for Ched campaign – never a more profoundly ridiculous title was given to a group of such inbred, woman-haters since the Tea Party Movement in North America – don’t dispute the act. Their problem is that they don’t know what rape is.

 

Ched Evans’ mother this week had the audacity to claim Ched had been a victim of online feminists, of which I am one. I find it hard to afford her any compassion, because more crucially I’m a mother. I love my son unconditionally, and would continue to love him if he’d raped someone. But I would live the rest of my life in absolute torment to have raised a creature who thought so little of a woman that he would think it legitimate to not garner consent to have sex with her, rape her and let me spend over three years making a mockery out of other women and myself by trying to defend him.

 

The thing is, Ched could spend the next ten years playing magnificent football. He could win World Cups (unlikely – Welsh) and live in extravagant mansions with a steady stream of pretty women after he inevitably bins off this one who’s made a holy show of herself for three years (although he’s probably going to have to marry her first), and he could get hundreds of awards and accolades. But ultimately, it’s not online feminists who convicted Ched Evans, it’s the British Justice System. The British Justice System who only ever manage to jail around 3% of actual rapists, so it’s fairly fucking conclusive.

 

No, if I were Mrs Evans I’d ask why I failed in my duty to raise a son who didn’t rape women. Perhaps if she were the sort of woman who had a clearer understanding of what rape constitutes, she’d have been able to impart this on her thick rapist son, and maybe… just maybe… none of us would have had to endure this ridiculous, non-existent debate.


Ode to Idris

I would watch my parents fuck. I would watch them as they work their way through the Karma fucking Sutra. I would watch them work through the Karma Sutra, as both sets of grandparents – some of whom are dead – lay around watching, or handing out towels.

I’d have a non-essential organ removed with minimal anaesthesia, and then eat a slice of it cooked on mouldy toast.

I’d watch a pissed-up Katie Hopkins heavy-pet Jeremy Clarkson stopping briefly to agree on the worrying scourge of Benefit Scroungers, while an enthused Anthea Turner narrated.

I’d nurse Eamonn Holmes through a particularly nasty bout of gastric flu, whilst he continuously referred to celebrity golf tournaments he’d attended as the guest of Sir Alex Ferguson.

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I’d watch a George Osborne/ John Terry role play sex tape. Osborne playing Lord of the Manor and Terry his bit-of-rough gardener, with nothing in common except their unyielding sexual desire, and thinly veiled racism. The money-shot would involve John Terry covered in male ejaculate, sobbing with deep post-sexual joy, resting his head on an equally joyous George, and wearing his full football kit underneath his gardening gear.

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I would let my mum see my entire search engine history -unabridged – and talk her through it.

I’d watch Keith Lemon programmes on continuous loop for 48 hours.

I’d listen to Ellie Goulding breathlessly butchering the entire Toots and the Maytals back catalogue in an intimate venue – without booze – as Dermot O’Leary hosted the event and described each performance as a modern day classic, and called everyone buddy.

And I’d get up every morning at 6am, for a year, for a televised Bikram Yoga session with Samantha Cameron and Tim Lovejoy…

… For approximately 24 minutes under here.

 


With or Without You? Without Then, Please…

U2 have sold more records than Prince.

 

If there’s a more damning and depressing indictment of humanity, I don’t think I want to know it.

 

In a forty year career U2 have had three good songs, five more passable songs and a dearth of noise, punctuated by lyrics that are neither poignant, nor inventive. But it’s not for this reason that I harbour all this rage.

 

Hundreds of successful, completely talentless bands like Coldplay and Muse sell music to hundreds of thousands of cretinous bores, and it’s no skin off my nose.

 

Society has to pay a price for the sheer majesty of, say, Tracks of My Tears; and that price is Ellie Goulding.

 

It’s a tough pill to swallow, but there we have it.

 

There’s a general consensus that music is a subjective art form and one man’s Richard is another man’s Judy, and to a certain extent – fair enough.

 

Is it a sudden unpleasant jolt, when you’re standing in a supermarket queue and James Blunt’s Beautiful comes on? Well, yeah a bit. And is it even more depressing when the fit fella handling his mangoes on the opposite checkout starts humming along? Definitely.

 

“What’s your wedding song?” you ask a colleague you’ve always had a laugh with at coffee break.

 

“Will Young, Evergreen” they beam.

 

‘Oh, just let me drown. Let me die right where I’m stood at the sheer fucking pointlessness of other fucking people and their shitty fucking opinions and their fucking doomed marriages if the best borrowed musical embodiment of their love is Will fucking Young taking this night (just this night?) and making it fucking Evergreen (what?!)’ you think.

 

“Aww, lovely,” you mumble, because, as I previously outlined we all like different music. And all the terrible shite is the price you pay for your own personal (in my case, correct) musical tastes.

 

That being said, U2 aren’t playing ball. They’re not content with me spying one of their albums on a fella’s iPod and never phoning him again, or tutting when one of their tunes comes on in the background of a café scene in Corrie.

 

Like a desperate ex or James Corden, they’re everywhere. Trying to escape them is as futile as Wayne Rooney’s hair transplant.

 

If it’s not smug-stern faced Bono meeting the pope in giant sunglasses on the channel 4 news, it’s this new iTunes advert for their new album entitled Songs of Innocence. Apple tried to give the shitty album away for free, and of course most people with adequate hearing were outraged…

How are four 60 year old men allowed to shoehorn themselves into leather kecks, do that fist pump, rocking around the microphone and making it lean to one side, wearing shades whilst doing that guitar solo intense stare thing in a great big fucking beanie hat without someone, somewhere having the balls to say,

 

“Here, lads. It’s time to pack this shit in. Cut your hair. This power-rock, faux-yank, having-a-shit vocals, crop top, silly headwear, winkle picker, stonewash shite your peddling has had its day. You appeal only to Top Gear fans who work in IT, and the only reason you’re successful is because these people have access to bank accounts and no girlfriends.” ?

 

It’s not that they’re old, though. Old is often better. It’s that they’re oppressively shit and they’re intruding on my time.

 

The ego on Bono is well documented, but can you imagine the four of them together? One of them insists on being called The Edge, for Christ’s sake. Making that video consisted of Bono only being shot from a certain angle and runners being obliged to ask “Mr Edge” if he wanted a drink. You know it, I know it.

 

Remember when Bono covered his own song One with Mary J. Blige who out sang him so magnificently that he had to shout over her? Apparently when they reissued Feed the World (awful song) he wouldn’t let someone else sing his line because they sounded better. I bet there’s a giant picture of Bono on Bono’s bedroom ceiling.

 

We’re always hearing about the strops on Mariah Carey and Diana Ross, but these four twats surpass it. You only need hear them speak in interviews. They do that Irish-with-an-American twang thing and change pretty to “priddy” – “We wanted to do an album that was priddy different to our other stuff” Well, you haven’t, you boring old cunt. You’ve done another terrible album for the same terrible people to buy.

 

The white male ego knows no bounds. They’ve earned their corn. They could easily afford to retire to Malibu, slip the girdles off, donate the Stetsons , beanies and gigantic shades to charity, start eating wheat again and live off the royalties. But they won’t. They’ll continue making shit music and what’s worse is that they’ll continue intruding on my time, like travelling salesmen and my mother.

 


Rebels Without a Chin

Every so often my heart is too fragile to stand up to the heroic and –at times- creatively magnificent emotional blackmail of my mother. In a fleeting moment of vulnerability (you have to stay on your toes with my mam in much the same way you’d keep your hand on your wallet in the presence of the Artful Dodger, otherwise before you know it you’re agreeing to go and see Michael Bubble in concert, or donating a fucking kidney) my defences were down and she’d convinced me to accompany her to see a film.

 

Then of course, I find out it’s starring Colin Firth and Nicole Kidman. As if my mother and all the world’s Casting Directors had colluded to most robustly offend me.

 

If there is a less entertaining spectacle than a pouting Nicole Kidman, faking an English accent and trying to make us believe she’s an abused Middle-England housewife, I’ve yet to witness it. And Colin Firth can go fuck himself as well. How was anyone moved by a film about an actual king with a speech impediment? I’ve felt more emotionally attached to STDs. This middle-class reputation he has of being a sex symbol because of that shite Mr Darcy, wearing-jodhpurs-in-the-lake, balls? If you, or anyone you care about is wanking over a posh, curly-haired, middle-aged fella with tits, striding out of a pond attempting to look haughty… well good for you, man. I need something a bit more substantial.

saddarcy

Anyway, so I’m at the cinema with She Who Must Be Obeyed and three litres of Ben and Jerry’s to fill the emotional gap that will be left after her relentless, insidious criticisms and then it occurs… Not the film, which – as it happens – wasn’t quite as shit as the sum of it’s terrible cast members, but THIS

 

So, what they’ve done here is make a film called The Riot Club which has been adapted from a novel called Posh, which is essentially a fictional account of The Oxford University “Bullingdon Club.”

 

The Bullingdon Club, for those of you unfamiliar, is an exclusive club for some Oxford University students, comprised mostly of all the snivelling little bastard offspring of the very richest who will one day try and tell us all that Benefit Scroungers are satanic, whilst they privately snort ketomine from squirrel’s arseholes etc.

 

bulling

That picture of Boris Johnson, David Cameron and George Osborne where they’re (allegedly) about 19 and stood on some steps somewhere, not dressed that dissimilarly to the aforementioned Colin Firth as Mr Darcy and trying – just as unsuccessfully – to look haughty? That’s the club.

 

Which is why the trailer for this film might confuse you.

 

I appreciate that Hollywood/ Pinewood have to use some artistic licence, but let’s not get fucking daft. These chiselled actor toffs are a totally different breed to the Bullingdon toffs and it’s ethically insane to assert differently.

 

Charlize Theron won an Oscar for essentially putting on three stone and not wearing make-up to play serial killer Aileen Wuornos. Why are these Tory cunts getting the soft-focus of drama school dreamboats with defined abdomens and actual jaw lines?

 

Fair enough, trying to find ten posh young men who, even cumulatively, could not establish enough chin for one would be a tricky task, but surely there are chinless actors that need work?

 

Even if we weren’t morally aggrieved – and I’ll reiterate, we definitely are – by the artistic interpretation of a group of men as Hugo Boss underwear models, when in real life they’re more aesthetically attuned to an Addam’s Family Reunion – who in the name of all that is sacred gives a solitary fuck about the social life of a handful of socialite gobshites?

 

First, someone’s written a fictitious book giving an approximation of what these hairy ballsacks did at eighteen and not only is it published, but enough people have read the fucker to warrant making a film?

 

But wait, I hear you cry, it turns out – and you’ll never believe this – that the obnoxious little turds didn’t appreciate their financial privilege and went around shitting on poor people, by smashing up hotel rooms and restaurants, without care or regard for their fellow man. No, seriously.

 

In this trailer they make these acts of torment seem like heroic, rebellious acts of unbridled hedonism, but the truth is – and we all know it – that the closest a Tory will ever come to an act of bravery is allowing their mistress to suck them off in the same postcode as their sound biting spouse.

 

In this trailer there’s murder and intrigue and the sexy suggestion that anything can happen when in the presence of these James Dean-esque rogues.

 

Spoiler alert: the worst that’s ever happened is Boris Johnson types have had to pay for smashing the windows of establishments that didn’t want them there, while a putrid, sweaty-joweled George Osborne shits into his dormitory sink and promises never to drink again.

 

It’s not a film’s worth. It’s not even an interesting anecdote.

 

I’m holding out for the Leon Brittan missing paedophile dossier film.

 


Funny, how?

It feels like every couple of years, I’ll accidentally encounter a radio phone-in or daytime television debate about whether or not women can be funny. And let’s have it right the statistics don’t look good. The truth is that there aren’t very many successful female comics, and those that exist are either wildly self-deprecating, or hated. Often, both.

 

 

“Ooo, look at me, I’m dead old/ thick/ fat” she says, and the rest of the world either laugh along, or pour scorn on their over reliance on self-hate.

 

Yes, yes there are notable exceptions and – in the US especially – women comics are afforded occasional notable success, but this usually dissipates and is still infused with the idea that they’re working on a “token” ticket. So, is the truth that women aren’t funny?

 

Well, no. Of course, not.

 

Women are very funny. And if the political faux pas of people like Roseanne Barr and Joan Rivers are something you can’t get past; Victoria Wood, Mae West, Lucille Ball and a host of comic female actors could probably sway you.

 

However; in order to make people laugh, an audience has to entrust you with a certain degree of power. You as the comic are the architect of an audience’s response (that they believe is instinctive, but is in actual fact much more about conditioning) and audiences don’t trust women. I don’t just mean male audiences either, although to a certain degree we’re all a male audience.

 

There is an extra dimension to this, too. This idea that a woman cannot fall within the narrow parameters of sexual attractiveness, and be funny, at the same time.

 

We have to put women into various social categories, because the sexually desirable must not be allowed to be more than fuckable, and the less sexually desirable (measured against narrow aesthetic parameters that very few women can attain for very long) must make up for it. If a woman is more than just attractive or funny, then they are too powerful.

 

We can afford the Sarah Millicans, Jo Brands, and Miranda Harts of this world their own television shows and National Treasure titles, as long as they are constantly reminded of how intrinsically unfuckable they are and as long as they don’t get ideas above their station, or hope to make narcissistic, pathos-laden comedic “art” like Bill Hicks, Stewart Lee, or Daniel Kitson.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing Kitson & co. live and to bathe in their comedic majesty, but do I think women aren’t capable of reaching existential conclusions about humanity, enriched with humour and passion? Women eject humans out of their genitals, lads. You don’t know the meaning of nihilism and existential angst.

 

But I digress.

 

The point is that women can either be worth shagging, or funny. Sometimes neither, never both. Either we accept that this is because less attractive women (by ridiculous Western, socially imposed standards) are born funny, and those who adhere to those very narrow aesthetic standards lack wit (but somehow manage to acquire it as they age and begin to edge outside of those aesthetic parameters), or we agree this is about power and not about how funny women are, but how funny we (as an audience/ society) allow them to be.

 

With that in mind, I think about beautiful men.

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Being honest, I needn’t have that in mind, because I’m always thinking about beautiful men.

 

I think about dicks and thighs and wrists and faces and stomachs and I think about all of these things with an intense sexual desire.

 

And here’s something else: so do most other heterosexual women.

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I say this because, along with the compartmentalizing of women, and this unspoken societal understanding that women are either fit or funny, there is this prevailing sense that all women want is someone who will make them laugh or take care of them, or any list of other attributes that aren’t about physical attraction.

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The idea that men – in direct contrast to the fit or funny women model previously outlined – could be purely lusted over for nothing more than their physical attributes is something we don’t entertain.

 

Do we recognize beautiful men, like Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp? Yes, we do.

 

But we allow them the freedom to also be actors, to wear shit clothes, to have tabloid pictures taken of them with guts hanging out over bath towels. We allow them to grow ridiculous facial hair, get old or fuck women decades younger than them without so much as a raised eyebrow. Because – and I reiterate this – there’s this sense that women are much more worthy in their desires.

 

I’m not. I’m not worthy at all.

 

I’ll pretend to laugh at your jokes to fuck you, and if you’re extraordinarily attractive I’ll fuck you, even if you bore me.

 

Something that all men should know is that they’re probably never going to be as beautiful as Elvis Presley or Marlon Brando and that everyone you’ve ever fucked is likely to wish you looked better, at some point. Unless of course you do look like Elvis Presley, or Marlon Brando, in which case – call me.

 

Know that women aren’t less shallow and that sex isn’t less important to us than you. Also know that women do not have a more generous understanding of physical attractiveness.

 

Marlon Brando was a beautiful man, made fitter by a ridiculous talent. A talent he was allowed to explore, because he wasn’t reduced to his frankly perfect physicality. Similarly, Elvis Presley had the sort of face that Michelangelo himself could not have sculpted, but he was also allowed to sing and be a bit of a knob.

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But the most interesting thing about these stunningly handsome men, and similarly spectacularly attractive men like James Dean, Mohammed Ali, Paul Newman – is that their physical beauty is not the legacy they have left or will leave the world. Conversely, Lana Turner, Marilyn Monroe, Lauren Bacall… it’s all about how fit they were and which men they fucked.

 

Nowhere is there a better example of how insidious and all-consuming patriarchal objectification is than those very examples. You don’t even need to see coked-up, close-ups of unhappy-looking women in hardcore porn flicks, to see how little society values us.

 

So here’s what the truth is; women can be both, neither or a combination of socially attractive and funny. Some of the funniest people you know are probably women. The reason we don’t allow funny women to be successful is because we (I’m still using the royal we here) don’t trust women with too much power. But, much like women not being funny is a mythical social construct to subjugate and disempower women, also know that women really don’t have a greater capacity to overlook the physical imperfections of men. Contrary to the socially constructed myth (which affords men the freedom to not be constrained by the same aesthetic pressures they impress on women) that we’re working on a higher spiritual plane to men; in actual fact, we lust over the veiny dick of the object of our desire, in much the same way as you think about our cunts.

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Chin up, knobhead. I’ve got some Spanx you can borrow…

NAKED MEN ON THE ROAD TO ATHENS


No-one likes a Rick Tease

We all know lots of people who hate reality television, because they feel it affords them – by the very rejection of it – a certain intellectual gravitas…

 

“Ugh, how can you watch this shit?” they sneer, as you chuck the remote control at their condescending fucking faces.

 

The answer is of course, you watch it because, whilst you appreciate this is a staged and often scripted reality, edited and -in many cases – directed toward a conclusion that ultimately reinforces patriarchal, capitalist hegemony, you really want to see the fragility of humanity reflected back at you so you feel less repulsed by yourself and, ultimately, less alone.

 

Plus you really like watching people twat each other.

 

But while the Anti-Reality TV crowd – much like the Anti-McDonalds crowd – are miserable, obsessive, neo-liberal twats, there’s no denying they do have a bit of a point.

 

X Factor’s become unwatchable.

 

There’s nothing I love more than watching a Fish Factory worker from Dudley have their dreams dashed after a four-minute sob story about how their dead granddad wanted them to make it past boot camp more than he wanted to recover from a terminal illness, but all the fun has been taken out of dream-bashing by having to watch Cheryl Cole try to squeeze a tear out after a particularly sketchy version of “Get Here if You Can.”

 

Last week reached new levels of bore after Simon Cowell (replete with three-day-old-bloated-corpse face) kept making hilarious gags about how a woman was the “twin” of Cheryl Cole, because she’d worn a Cole-esque outfit and was singing Cole’s hit singles (I’m using the word “hit” here very loosely). And Cole had a sort of “I’ll allow Simon to take the piss here, because I’m clearly spectacularly attractive and an all-round superior human to this woman…” expression as we mocked said elder woman who couldn’t sing, but otherwise didn’t really resemble Cole. But let’s not forget we’re only a decade on since Cole was doing Community Service for drunkenly assaulting a nightclub toilet assistant, so let’s not start queuing for our Damehood just yet, cocker.

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And there is something very odd about a load of poor people watching a load of poor people being ridiculed by several decidedly unworthy rich people.

 

Jeremy Kyle, for instance. That’s a rum state of affairs, isn’t it?

 

He hates every woman that he encounters, unless he finds them attractive and when he does his surmising of the domestic dispute is that the fella involved “Cannot believe his luck, landing someone like her…”

 

He stands, surrounded by eighteen stone bodyguards, screaming, “I’m not scared of you, mate!!”as spittle flies out of his angry body, shrouded in an ill-fitting Burton suit.

 

“Get a jobbbb!” screams professional oppressor Kyle, as he’s handed those “all-important DNA test results.” A sentiment that is resolutely echoed by the rest of us as we observe the jumped-up little shit in action.

Jeremy Kyle looking aggressive

This bear-baiting thing has been raised before, I’m adding nothing new. But it’s not the actual bear-baiting that most repulses me. I can read between the lines. I know my own political position. I know that I’ve never hated a single Jeremy Kyle guest with the same ardent fervor that I despise Kyle himself, and nor will I.

 

But, what has really prompted my break up with reality television, more than even X Factor and the insufferable Kyle (I can’t watch Kyle) was the recent series of Celebrity Big Brother.

 

Actually, not the whole series, because I just dipped in and out.

 

But there’s a certain scene that plays out on nearly every reality television show that involves romance and relationships. And that is the concept of the Reality TV Pricktease.

 

The Reality TV Pricktease – much like her better-known cousin, Common or Garden Pricktease – doesn’t actually exist, of course.

 

The idea that attractive young women (they tend to be young and attractive) spend their days constructing a situation in which they want a man to feel he is definitely going to have penetrative intercourse with them, in order to willfully and deliberately refrain from said intercourse in a bid to… what? …Humiliate? …Subjugate? …Irritate said man? is as mythical as it is ridiculous.

 

The reason it serves us in wider society is because we all want to fuck the person we want to fuck, and society is weighted in favour of men. We live in a world in which men are more willing to say, “This woman doesn’t want to fuck me because SHE has a problem” (in this case a frankly laughable strategy to want him to fuck her, so she can cruelly refute his advances), than, “This woman doesn’t want to fuck me because I might not be particularly fuckable to her.”

 

Variations of this “Pricktease” problem occur on every Reality TV show (Geordie Shore, TOWIE, Big Brother, Real Housewives of Barrow-in- Furness etc) in nearly every possible permeation at some point, but this recent Big Brother thing just tipped the scales for me.

 

In this series, it was about some mid-twenties girl from TOWIE who had snogged some mid-twenties lad from Geordie Shore who apparently “really liked her.”

 

This resulted in loads of conversations, some of which were initiated by older FEMALE members of the house saying, “It could look a bit like you were leading him on…”

 

Leading him on for WHAT?!

 

What the girl involved tried to assert, but was slightly too thick to do properly, was that she fancied him at one point so she had a flirt, but then she stopped fancying him.

 

AND THAT’S THE FUCKING NATURE OF SEXUAL AGENCY.

 

On a more serious point, this is what people miss about some instances of rape (cue outraged responses that i likened Celebrity Big Brother to rape and that I want to chop dicks off and ‘why do these feminists want equal wages but they still want flowers?’ shite.)

 

We should be teaching women that if you fancy someone and then stop fancying them – for WHATEVER FUCKING REASON WHATSOEVER – that’s perfectly legitimate.

 

Further, flirt with who the fuck you want to for as long as you want to, and your future intentions – romantic or sexual – are completely legitimate and entirely up to you and flirting is not a precursor to ANYTHING.

 

I was genuinely watching women over 30 tell a woman under 30 on British Television in 2014 that she “wasn’t being fair” on some absolute half-wit, because “he really liked her.”

 

I heard the words, “Poor Ricky…” (Ricky is the half-wit’s name).

 

Poor Ricky got to have a snog with someone he really fancied, but she doesn’t want to snog him again.

 

Let’s do a charity gig.

 

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The implication being that it’s unfair to kiss someone if they fancy you, unless the kissing is a precursor to intercourse or a relationship, or unless the kiss signified a mutual attraction.

 

2014.

 

I don’t know the reasons why one woman would even come to the conclusion that another woman is a Pricktease, because a Pricktease is a less convincing concept than The Loch Ness Monster.

 

What could one possibly gain from being a Pricktease? Perhaps we’re buying into this idea that because society has commodified women and reduces them to their aesthetic sexual worth that when women flirt with a man they may gain certain financial or emotional privileges from said man. But what this does is suggest that the man in the situation has either a) gained pleasure from the flirtation – in which case, everyone’s a winner, or he has b) assumed the flirtation releases the woman from her own sexual agency, which is pretty sinister.

 

So why, instead of sitting him down and saying, “She’s using you mate…” or sitting her down and saying, “Stop flirting with half-wit because he fancies you and you’re leading him on”, weren’t the conversations with him saying, “Wayhey you fancied her and she snogged you, you gormless dickhead! Don’t think she wants to shag you though, so stop moping and acting like she is obliged to because it’s 2014, she can do what the fuck she wants with her face and body, and let’s face it mate, you’re fairly unfuckable’?

 

I’m going to teach my male progeny that if a girl straddles your dick and then decides she wants to get off, be pleased about the dick straddle and look forward to an era where a woman’s fanny is her own.

 

And while I do appreciate Reality TV is a staged and often scripted reality, edited and -in many cases – directed toward a conclusion that ultimately reinforces patriarchal, capitalist hegemony and I really want to see the fragility of humanity reflected back at me so I feel less repulsed by myself and, ultimately, less alone; it actually made me feel more repulsed with myself for watching, and I felt infinitely more alone.

 

 


No Gray Area

In a bid to strengthen relations with beIN Sports (formerly Al Jazeera Sports) who currently employ Andy Gray, BT Sport have made the decision to hire him to co-commentate on the FA Cup fourth-round tie today between Stevenage and Everton -on a guest basis- with the possibility of further appearances.

This marks Andy Grays’ return to British television commentary after a three year hiatus, during which time he has been a regular on TalkSport radio and taken part in multiple corporate events, alongside fellow sexist Richard Keys, in a show entitled – and I’m not joking – Smash It!; words used as part of a misogynist aside that Keys made, whilst working for Sky Sports, which was recorded and is available to view online.

Gray also made two misogynist remarks to female colleagues, both of which are indisputable and viewable. One in which he refers to female lino Sian Massey, in which he said – amongst other things – that women didn’t know the offside rule. And another occasion in which he essentially asked female colleague Charlotte Jackson to retrieve a microphone from his crotch.

There are two myths people perpetuate whilst defending Gray.

The first is that his commentary is unparalleled. Gray stood out, only because the boys-brigade pool of pundits and commentators is so catastrophically weak. No-one is forcing BT Sport to employ the pleasant but insufferably dull Michael Owen, for example.

Gary Neville is easily the greatest football pundit on TV today, and his is a relatively new tenure. Just shop around is the answer. Stop favouring the Alans and returning to the same dullards time and again. Switch it up. There are black people and women who are witty and insightful and know about football too. Make it competitive, like in any other industry. For how many years have I got to try and avoid Alan Shearer and his big, red, sweaty head on Match of the Day? Chiles has had a go and he’s awful. BT Sport were so afraid to risk-take when compiling their new sporting line up, they plundered shit football broadcasting from twenty years ago and re-hired the Home Counties, pseudo-lad Tim Lovejoy, who was as shit then as he is now.

There are miles better pundits than Gray is the point, even if we were willing to overlook the sexist abuse of colleagues. Which we’re not.

The second myth is that Sky had a vendetta against Keys and Gray and they were set up. They may have acquired enemies at Sky who wanted them sacked for multiple alleged reasons. They may have also secretly filmed. I’ll level with you, I’m sceptical about that. However, as even a fairly competent six year old can attest; one cannot be secretly filmed being a misogynist arsehole if one is not a misogynist arsehole.

The papers are reporting Grays return to television but failing to consider the implications this has on BT Sport female employees who are being compromised and asked (either implicitly or explicitly) to work alongside someone with a history of abuse of female colleagues. Further, female football fans are being dismissed and undermined. The two individuals concerned: Sian Massey and Charlotte Jackson are learning that sexist abuse in the workplace is acceptable. And I am rapidly learning that BT are unwilling to engage with me on this issue on any of their social network platforms.

There are bigger issues for women, when we look at rape and domestic violence statistics. There are bigger issues for football, when we look at Qatar. Nonetheless, like Atkinson, those being proven to be publicly abusive in football deserve to permanently lose the right to broadcast.

Gray is tangibly unremorseful too.

BT have a moral obligation to protect women in football and their customers and have shown wilful disregard to both.

Unforgivable.

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