Well, yesterday’s blog post was out of date by lunch time, when Mrs. Loathesome stepped down from the Tory leadership race, saying that she had decided that Theresa May would be the best person to steer our country through these turbulent times. I would like to think it’s because my blog is at the heart of public opinion and feeds directly to Tory HQ, where they are making graphs about how influential I am as fast as they can fashion foxes heads on sticks, but it seems unlikely. A shame, but there you go.
It is far more likely that Andrea had demonstrated amply over the last three days what a total liability she was going to be and had been visited by Graber who is head of the skool, captane of everything, especially foopball and winer of the mrs joyful prize for rafia work, and been told in no uncertain terms she needed to go back in the jug agane.
I was tempted to test out my newfound political skills, by simply posting today’s blog as a list of people I’d like to see step down from public office, and then sit waiting breathlessly on the banks of the Twitter waiting for my targets to topple like nine pins throughout the day. Then I realised that the country would be half empty by tea time and it would butter no parsnips, so I won’t.
Instead I shall turn my attention to the women question, by repeatedly banging my head against a brick wall and shouting ‘argh, argh, argh,’ until I feel better.
For there is, you see, a possibility that our political landscape will soon be littered with powerful women, controlling the parties and shaping the country. Mostly into a small, clay ashtray in which will sit the smoking remains of what was once the United Kingdom. But you know, the women will get to do this, finally. Possibly.
I am very torn about this. It seems somehow ironic and sad that the women are only really rising to prominence when the men can no longer hide how much of a fucking mess they have made of everything. It’s like they’ve made them sit behind the playground fence until every single piece of equipment is broken, walked off in a big, hairy, testosterone filled gang, and casually tossed over their shoulders: ‘You fix that, yeah? Nice one, babe. Thanks.’
It is a bit of a poisoned chalice, frankly. Whoever is in charge over the next little while (I wanted to put a more coherent time limit on this, but frankly, I dare not), is not going to come out of this well, unless there is some kind of papally approved miracle about to descend on the country.
My fear is that the fact that this shitty situation they have stepped into was largely not of their own making will be forgotten and if a woman is still in charge when the next lot of elections/sackings/beheadings rolls around, they will be scapegoated and blame will be apportioned because she is a woman, and not because she’s been left up to her neck in shit.
My fear is that the men will tidy themselves up, wait in the wings for her to mend as much of what is broken as she can, and then push her back behind the railings and take over pretty much where they left off.
I hope I’m wrong.
I realise by the way, that the issue is not this simplistic, and that some women have been as culpable in fucking things up as the men here. I am looking at you, Mrs. Loathesome and Mrs. Gove. I also realise that Theresa May is not Mrs. Lovely, and I am opposed to almost everything she stands for, so I am not rooting for her politically at all. I just wish that the woman thing wasn’t an issue. But it is.
Because naturally the media are already focussed on the burning issues of the day, such as what shoes Theresa May is going to wear, how her failure to reproduce will potentially blight the country and whether she meant to emulate Thatcher hair or if it’s just a happy coincidence. They will also, naturally, continue to focus on how much cleavage she is showing, the shortness of her skirts and how ‘well preserved’ she is or isn’t.
I do not need to say that nobody writes column inches about which side George Osborne dresses on and whether his budgie smugglers can cope with the strain, or whether Cameron’s relaxed attitude to tie wearing affects his foreign policy, or whether Gove’s unfeasibly large testicles are anything to do with the fact that thousands of prison warders are currently on strike. Nobody has blamed or will blame Stephen Crabb’s parlous facial hair for his punitive ideas about disability benefit cuts.
Because they’re men, and they’re allowed to be powerful because they are, rather than what they do or don’t look like and the fact that they have breasts, and vaginas.
And yet they can still operate heavy machinery, much to everyone’s surprise.
Men don’t get this crap, except, interestingly enough, Jeremy Corbyn, who is criticised for everything from his failure to prune the rose bush outside his house to his crumpled suits, and who is treated much more like a woman by the media than his political peers.
To be fair, I am sometimes as guilty of this kind of thinking as the next person. I sat watching Angela Eagle’s ‘launch’ yesterday, thinking dark thoughts about whoever had chosen her campaign marketing banners and wondering if she was going to offer me a free, introductory sign up to Slimming World and a chance to drop two dress sizes by Christmas, instead of a chance to shake off the shackles of Tory oppression.
I say launch. I really mean potter about on the banks looking confused and wondering what’s going on while failing to grab the attention of anyone in the room. If only she would sink without trace, but no. Sadly she is bobbing up again like an angry, pink, cork in this morning’s news.
Having said that. I do not dislike her because she is a woman. I dislike her because she is a woman who voted to bomb Syria, to pay for Trident and in favour of university fees amongst many other things I can’t forgive her for. Her execrable taste in campaign banners and the fact that they matched her execrable taste in jackets is neither here nor there in the grand scheme of things.
If her policies were half decent and I believed that she had any coherent plan for leadership other than ‘I don’t like Jeremy Corbyn,’ or she had any plan to beat the Tories other than her unshakeable belief that she can beat the Tories ‘Because they’re Tory’, I wouldn’t care if she campaigned stark bollock naked with a hat made out of dancing weasels.
But yet again, let us never miss an opportunity to compound the mess we’re in by getting exercised about the shape of genitals rather than the shape of the country. The whole thing reminds me of the graphic someone sent me the other day about gendered toys. I shall reproduce it here, but replace the word ‘toy’ with something more to the point.
‘Do you operate this country with your genitals?
If the answer is yes, this country is not for children.
If the answer is no, this country is for either boys or girls.’