Wheyhey! You know how, on a Saturday night, most people go clubbing, meet for dinner, nip to the cinema or sink a few pints? Not me. Fuck no. That’s because I spent Saturday night defending Wimbledon tennis champ Marion Bartoli against the bilge-brained, crayon-chewers of Twitter and their comments, which were so staggeringly sexist that I suspect they may have all been cabin-fevered monks on a wanking moratorium. And somehow – somehow – it all ended when one of these ball-fumblers, one @delinquentrich told me that when he has sex he prefers to not have consent.
Nope, I’m not shitting you. Christ knows, I wish I was. That’s because Saturday night was about as surreal as waking up in a Dali painting with fishcakes instead of tits. In fact nothing would make me grasp at my arse in excitement more than telling you that on Saturday Bartoli never was privy to a barrage of sexist hate on Twitter because she wasn’t blonde/ slim/ leggy enough to win Wimbles. Or that the flap-lipped, bollock-tugger John Inverdale never did raise the subject of Bartoli’s looks during live tennis coverage to the nation. Oh, or that @everydaysexism, @thejeremyvine and @jamescorden, amongst others, had to name and shame the men who kindly offered to hit Bartoli because she’s not rapable enough. Really, it’s been both an education and a chance to smash my head against my keyboard in bulge-eyed fury.
By the time I read the comments circulated by The Everyday Sexism Project I could barely breathe. In fact, Conjugal Kraken found me standing in a corner trying to cool my forehead on the one shady wall of the cave. That’s when I decided to tweet every fleck of shit on the ESP list to challenge what they thought was a productive use of the English language by threatening Bartoli. And fuck me, was that an education too.
To sum up, 95 per cent of these foot-sucking invertebrates went deathly quiet. One or two locked down their accounts and one actually apologised which makes me wonder why, in the bow-legged stumble of fuck, he attacked Bartoli in the first place. One attempted to needle me but less with his threats and more with his inability to use capitals letters or a full stop. And then that left me with @delinquentrich.
Ah, Rich. He didn’t half pick on the wrong kraken, bless him. He thought that by tweeting me with such delectables as, “i got your back jack.bitches be crazy.cath my cock is tiny.my brain smaller.fuck off back to the w.i.” that he was engaging in intelligent debate about why he originally tweeted, “Rumour has it that Bartoli is staying on at Wimbledon after the final to chase all the rats and mice out with her scary face. #munter”.
And lo! A monster was born because our conversation ended when he tweeted, about sex with women, “i prefer not to have consent. If im honest”. At first I thought he meant consent to use punctuation and the chance to type with more than one unwashed finger. Then I realised he was telling me – publicly, on the gobbiest, nippiest, chopsiest social networking site – that he prefers rape to normal sex.
What in the unplugged blowhole of Moby Dick was that all about? It was like watching Peter Sutcliffe popping online to brag about his love of hammers. Now this all happened at 10.40pm so perhaps @delinquentrich was so far past his bedtime that he was delirious. Or perhaps his assertion that consent is as important to him as decent grammar was misguided bravado. Or perhaps he’s just a rapist who was telling the truth.
We may never know because he’s locked his account. Never mind. The police are going to open it, at least they are now that I have reported his sinister final message. And what makes me roll about on my back with chuffedness is that when I called 101 the response was so helpful, encouraging and supportive that I wondered if I’d called The Samaritans by mistake. In fact I was told that calling was the right thing to do. Let’s just say that for all of Rich’s threats it’s not me who is looking over my shoulder. It’s him.
So I’d like to offer this up as a warning to anyone else who wants to take on The Kraken with their sexist cock-dribble. Try it if you like but I promise you that I’ll smear your threats with Nutella, sandwich them together and feast on them until I shit them out. I’ll challenge your every breath until you’ve crawled back into the dog basket against which you desperately rub your knackers. And it’ll be me you have to go through to get to my daughter. See, Bartoli isn’t the only woman who can serve it to you after all.