Kraken-lovers, it may have come to your attention that the annual celebration of cheap chocolate is almost upon us. That’s why you won’t be hearing from me for another fortnight. No, not because I’ll be belly-up on the sofa with Creme Egg smeared over my face and certainly not because I’ll be church-bound, but because I shall spend the next two weeks corralling Kraken Junior while trying very hard to not teach her the meanings of ‘arse-bucket’, ‘knob-waddle’ or ‘medium of minge’.
So in the meantime feel free to rove around the site (the parenting pages will give you some idea of how desperate I’ll be when I return) and fill your boots on rages for every occasion, religious, chocolately or otherwise. Oh, and don’t forget to have a happy Easter. Fuck knows, for those of you who like my writing, you deserve one.
As you can imagine, kraken-lovers, it takes a lot to creep me out, not just because I am an underwater creature of wrath and the scourge of mouth-breathers the world over but because in my spare time I like to dissect the small dead animals that the cat has delivered. No, really. I do. I can show you pictures of my scalpel bowel deep in a shrew if you like. However, one thing that creeps me out so much that I have a weekly slot booked at the Esso car wash is a mere phrase, just two short words, words that, every time I hear them, make me want to piss petrol over my brain before setting fire to it. Want to know what those words are? Really? Ready? Ok then, here you go: making love.
For the love of fuck, even reading back those words makes me heave over my own frontage. You see to me the phrase – deep breath – ‘making love’ is the greasiest, leeriest, sickliest, sleaziest, hand-up-your-skirtiest phrase in the English language has ever sicked up, which is quite an accomplishment considering that the same language has birthed such ugly terms as ‘chillax’ and ‘starring Michael MacIntyre’. When a phrase makes actual sweaty, sticky, gormless sex sound like a tea party at the Ritz, you just know it’s a steaming crock of wrong. Problem is, the term ‘making love’ is so ubiquitous in cultural life that dodging it is like avoiding the process of peristalsis. Books, songs, art and films all attempt to, I dunno, glamorise the act of shagging by calling it making love even though it is such a dated term that it automatically makes me think of 70s love gods draped in polyester, medallions and roadkill-like chest hair.
Whoa! What is it we have here then? You see, it might not have escaped your notice, kraken-lovers, that amongst all of the social idiocies that I write about sexism and the need for feminism is right up there with how often David Cameron has boffed one off over one of Boris Johnson’s digestives in an Etonian dormitory. Since Kraken Junior tore her way through my nuptial nook I’ve realised just how grim life is out there for a young girl. I’ve also realised that there are a lot of lobe-shattering opinions about how we deal with it and none has made me choke on my own tongue more than those of Body Gossip’s Natasha Devon, a campaigner who thinks that women should dumb down (her words) their fight for equality. Her latest explanation of her theory was gifted to the world via the cracking Feminist Times. You can read it here and, in an effort to claw back your dignity once you have, this is my response:
“We (feminists) failed to come up with a cohesive agenda we could all agree on. Hence the weighty issue of domestic violence somehow ranking lower in the public sphere than whether or not a woman chooses to wax her pubic hair as a valid feminist debate.”
Go on, girls, read that again. That’s right, it’s saying that we women allegedly care more about our collective conjugal thatch than we do about whether we get beaten to death by a partner simply because we just can’t stop bickering. Well, thanks Natasha, not just for the victim blaming but for writing the influence of men out of the domestic, social and sexual violence equation altogether. It’s the equivalent of saying that if only the badgers had only stopped to think about what diseases they chose to pick up the flea-bitten moss-snufflers wouldn’t have to be culled. If domestic violence is really ranked lower than… Jesus, I don’t seriously need to explain this stuff, do I?
Look, even though I am The Kraken I spend a lot of time looking beyond my barnacled tentacles in an effort to understand the human condition. I know, I know, you’re welcome. And yes, in my rum-softened states I understand that not everyone can be as frenetically determined, stubborn and tunnel-visioned as I and that everyone makes mistakes or is forced to occasionally change their mind. However, today I reveal a U-turn of such proportions that it’s the intellectual equivalent of swallowing my own tongue. Prepare yourself for the 24 hour period in which Cosmopolitan magazine launched a website called Hearst Empowering Women and then published, on its own website, “The 10 Best Boobs of April”.
Go on, read that again because it defies logic to the point of inverting the laws of physics. You see, on April 3 Hearst Magazines UK launched the Hearst Empowering Women site, a cyber nook designed to celebrate the aspirations and achievements of British women. Apparently capturing the spirit of feminism the site will host all sorts of advice to women on the issues that affect them, including providing mentoring for women and girls. So far, so plugged into the Zeitgeist. The problem is that a day later, on April 4, Cosmopolitan, the mag that is supporting this site along with Red, Elle, Good Housekeeping and Harper’s Bazaar, decided to run The 10 Best Boobs of April. That’s right, in what was a heavily disguised attempt to empower women Cosmo decided to reduce us to the size of our funbags by running pics of the chests of Alessandra Ambrosio, Rita Ora, Kristen Bell and Lily Allen amongst others. It was the publishing equivalent of the Yorkshire Ripper leading a feminist rally.
Kraken-lovers, yesterday I did something so embogglingly deranged that it was the equivalent of feeding my ovaries to a crow. I - deep breath – looked at an article on the Daily Mail website. Now, I didn’t mean to because as a rule I am angry rather than irrational, bigoted, panicked, women-hating and in mortal fear of people with skin darker than milk, but the link was offered to me and I clicked on it. And you won’t be surprised to learn that by the time I’d finished reading the headline I was wearing my spleen on the outside of my body, much like a dripping belt buckle. And here’s why: according to the Daily Mail, “Half of women ADMIT to going bare-faced on holiday”.
For the love of fuck! Look, I know that the Daily Mail is the journalistic equivalent of one of those curly dog turds that’s turned crumbly and white, but what, exactly, is with the use of the word “admit”? You see, the alleged paper’s article is based on some survey or other, a detail that interests me almost as much as how often Nick Clegg shags. But the problem is not with the survey, it’s with the words the Daily Mail uses to report on it. It says, with my capitals, “48 per cent of over 18s ADMITTED to opting for the natural look when on a sunshine break”, “62 per cent of women CONFESSED to not styling their hair while on holiday” and “24 per cent SHUNNED hair products”. That’s right, because not bothering with eyeliner should result in the sort of semantics reserved for tax-dodging MPs and paedophiles.