2018 – The Year of Women? (it’s OK we’ve only been waiting for millennia)

If all facets of the media are to be believed, 2018 is set to be the Year of Women. The ‘we’re not poking up with this crap any longer’ movement has been turbo charged by the crowning of Donald Trump, who is unquestionably the greatest thing that has ever happened to feminism. Now an array of toad-like males in positions of power are being exposed for everything from rape to donning a white bathrobe and asking for a massage. The only people who are surprised by the ubiquity of any of this are most men.

For some, the whole sorry mess presents a different kind of tragedy for gender relations. Who doesn’t love watching poor, beleaguered Dave from Basildon bemoan the fact that a bloke can’t pay a woman a compliment anymore without someone calling the police?  I mean it’s ridiculous. What’s the world coming to?  If things continue like this it might significantly alter the dynamics between men and women forever and the current status quo is so convenient.

But Dave, we shout.  You can pay us as many compliments as you like!  Yes you can!  Pile them on.  Lay’em on with a trowel.  The only teeny weeny difference is in return WE OWE YOU ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.  We might say thank you if we’re feeling polite, but we don’t have to be grateful, flatter your ego, agree to spend time with you or perform any favour on the sexual spectrum.  Is that OK, hon?

For those of us who grew up in the 70s and 80s, we find ourselves on fairly familiar turf.  The recent sabre rattling is like Jim Davidson’s nodded off in front of Grandstand for a few decades and is gobbing off because it’s 6 o’clock and his tea should be on the table.  When I was growing up we were surrounded by this kind of mentality and there was nothing subtle about it.  It was blatant on the television, in the newspapers, walking down the street and in every other place, that you were up for grabs.

Becoming a beautiful young woman and coming of age should be a free-flowing, pleasurable experience, right?  Wrong. What it is instead is a deeply uncomfortable and rather brutal awakening where you realise the attention you’re going to get is rarely the type you dreamt about.  It’s nearly always the unwanted variety, emanating from a reptilian older man who thinks that he’s entitled and you’re responsible.  And the biggest kicker in this whole grubby scenario is that everyone around you is reinforcing the idea you have to put up and shut up.

Abandoning the put up and shut up mentality, not just on the subject of unwanted sexual attention, but on everything from equal pay to who’s doing the hoovering, is going to take some gumption. After all, standing up and being counted is terribly unfeminine. Someone might accuse you of being a bloody difficult woman or unlovable or a shrew.

In my opinion, New Year’s Resolutions are for people who are amateurs at life.  However, here are a few aspirations for the female cause in 2018:

  • Mansplaining gets an on the spot mandatory fine. Repeat offenders are sent to the Mary Beard Correctional Centre because you don’t know everything and we are tired of being patronised.
  • Harvey Weinstein is crowbarred out of his sex addict spa (he just wants to wear a bath robe) and forced to work as a runner on an all-female movie franchise that has three sequels. He’ll probably have to do it in a gimp suit because that’s only fair.
  • So-called Liberal men who say things like ‘Hilary Clinton was a bit past it’ do an entire summer on the strip at Magaluf with Dave from Basildon and all his mates. They might own a bread maker, but this is really their tribe.
  • Women everywhere stop signing the invisible contract that says they’ll do an unfair share of the domestic labour and always put themselves and their needs last when no one else in the family has to. You know this is unacceptable horseshit, so why are you still doing it?

Sisters (and brothers), it’s time to start roaring.

Wake Me Up (when it’s all over)

Image from www.bluetramontana.com

Image from www.bluetramontana.com

This current 80s revival puts me in mind of Limahl.  It’s like a never ending bloody story.  I appreciate I was just a scrawny kid with a Lady Di haircut at the time, but I don’t recall being aware I was living through a stellar period for music and fashion.  For the under 25s it seems, this decade is now the epitome of cool.  Pourquoi, people?  These were the years that brought us ra-ra skirts and puffballs, fluorescent jelly shoes and detachable shoulder pads that fell out of jumpers like errant sanitary towels.  This was the decade when entire pop careers were forged around a can of Elnett and Sonny Crockett wannabes ruched up their sleeves and drove off to the strains Jan Hammer, the wind rippling through their mullets.  In short, we all looked like jerks.  What’s to celebrate?

When I was a teenager, we were mad for anything to do with the 60s.  But that was OK, because the 60s really were cool.  Weight it up for yourselves.  John Lennon.  Paul Young.  Terence Stamp and Julie Christie.  Ronald and Nancy Regan.  Mods.  Yuppies.  Flowers in your hair at Woodstock Festival.  Dandruff in your hair at Greenham Common.  I rest my case.  The only run for its money is Adam Ant as Prince Charming versus Elvis in that 1968 black leather comeback outfit.  To be fair, it’s a close call.

But it’s the nostalgia for the ethos of the 80s that’s the most repulsive.  Greed, excess and the repression of the individual.  Sounding familiar?  No one who lived through the sharp end of this would feel there was any reason to glorify it.  Ask the people who had the heart ripped out of their communities and they’ll tell you Thatcher wasn’t Boadicea; she was a one-woman revolution with a lethal line in hand bags and a legacy that sticks around like a Stock, Aitken and Waterman medley.

On the subject of 80s icons, what a disappointment Sunday’s Donald Trump interview turned out to be.  Once I’d got over the hair, I fell asleep on the sofa and didn’t wake up until the credits were rolling.  Seriously, what is with that barnet?  It looked like a cross between a Phil Oakley flick and a discus cleaving to his forehead.  Emily Maitlis lacked the irreverence to interview someone as ridiculous as The Donald.  We needed Louis Theroux, we needed Ruby Wax; no scrap that, where the hell was Joan Rivers? 

Donald Trump might be a multi billionaire with twenty one luxury hotels on the island of Manhattan, but he still flies around the world on a private jet with FART written across it.  It seems that money can’t buy you everything after all.  It will, however, get you a drink.  Mine’s a Malibu and coke, babe, but only if you serve it with a pink umbrella and a retro twist.