Little thought, lazy content and a missed target


My new earrings


Journalism – death by a thousand blogs

I’ve noticed some annoying trends on the type of websites keen young interns post articles on in a bid to land a ‘proper’ job in journalism.

One of these is “Thought Catalog” whose content, whilst trivial, links to invidious right-wing conservatism, the special kind portrayed in Fox News.

This sort of thing isn’t my usual reading material, I’ve gone way beyond “20 things not to say on a first date”, although it strikes me that an awful lot of these sites love, just love, “lists”.

Lists, lists and more lists

“Lists” are a lazy thing to write and brain pap to read. They tend to confirm the reader’s limited view of the world and the ‘writer” doesn’t do much “writing”. Unsurprising, then, that they are churned out like grisly bargain sausages, no meat and all gizzard; which brings me to the reason why I discovered “Thought Catalog”.

A young misogynist writes

One of my Twitter contacts posted : “13 Things a Woman Can Do To Be More Attractive to a Man” – renaming it “13 Ways To Attract A Misogynist” – which got my attention. So I read it. The link is here:

Now that you’re back and, perhaps like me, are reeling a bit then trying to convince yourself it’s a clever piece of satire, I’m sorry to tell you that it’s not.

If you haven’t already, take a peek at the comments, you’ll find they are even worse. Yes, there are people who think like that roaming the earth in 2014 AD.

If we look at this from the point of view that it is developed under the shadow of an unholy conservative agenda, not only is it more sinister, but it also starts to make sense.

Who is John Smith?

I’ve tried to discover more about the “author” (I’m using that term as if it takes an “author” to write the safety warning on a bottle of toilet cleaner) and, it appears, that “John Smith” is a, not very original, pseudonym.

I can imagine a pen portrait if him very easily, though, as his type abound on the interweb posing as “journalists” as does his equally talent-free female counterpart.

He’s in his twenties. His mother works. She may even have a career. This has blighted little Johnnie, in so far that he fears that female attention is somewhat diffident, distracted and scarce. Life has since confirmed this.

Feminism has ruined a young boy’s life

Johnnie sees “Feminism” as this big bogey woman who has blighted his life.

“Feminism” allowed the girls at school to study with and outperform the boys.

Feminism created female confidence and independence which enabled the girls to be more selective about the men they dated.

It also allowed men to be their friends, on an equal basis. The girl’s could hold their own, so to speak.

Feminism educated these girls about their bodies and enabled them to express their sexuality, even allowing care-free or ‘predatory’ behaviour.

This all proved too much for little “Johnnie” and his ilk. They were the “beta boys” left behind. The wallflower wilting at the prom.

Subsequently, he has never forgiven womankind. Nor have men like him (see comments).

Johnnie is naive enough to think that all this female behaviour,that reinforces his deep-seated inadequacy, is a recent phenomenon.

He thinks it’s all down to that awful, unattractive, feminism.

Johnnie had a dream

He’s swallowed the myth that, in the cozy past, we were all like Doris Day, adding our “Womanly Touch” to our pastel coloured kitchens, whiling away the hours until the big, strong, hubby calls “Hello honey, I’m ho-ome”!

We’d fix him a drink, kneel to take off his shoes, hand him his slippers and a pipe and listen with admiration as he recounted the trials, tribulations and small victories of his bread-winning day.

Is it cruel to tell him this has never been true?

Johnnie’s dream is shattered

Johnnie, bless him, has NO idea what is in a woman’s mind.

That said, many men have been fearful of that since the Dawn of Mankind.

Every Judeo/Christian/Islamic religion has been very afraid of women, one would think that the entire litany has been designed to deal with that fear.

At least the old religions had Kali and the Triple Goddess to afford some sort of acknowledgement of female power. Even this has been perverted over the course of time.

So, it’s not “feminism” that is little Johnnie’s problem, it’s fear of women.

Johnnie wrote to the world about it

Fear is written all through his fantastical “13 Points” – let’s take them in turn:

1. Stay In Shape

Viewing a woman as an “object” is one pathetic way of trying to diminish her power.

If men can control her body, they feel a little less fear. If that body can be made less womanly, slimmer, hairless and more pre-pubescent, again, it’s less scary.

I love the pseudo commanding tone he uses, as if speaking for all men, it’s very “little Napoleon” and exposes his anxiety about female sexuality beautifully.

2. Lay Off The Body Modification

The last thing young Johnnie wants is a woman in charge of her body. A woman with the confidence to express herself in any way she chooses. A woman who has rejected the fearful male stereotype of controllable, acceptable, femininity and who has the temerity to make her own choices. See (1) it’s the same issue.

3. Make Your Own Money

He contradicts himself deliciously here. He fears his inadequacy to “keep a woman” (because he can’t achieve that he-man ideal for himself) and is very conflicted about her earning MORE (despite the gender pay gap, many of us do, these days) it’s OK as long as…wait for it…she “refrains from throwing it in his face like some form of one-upmanship”;or should that be one-upwomanship?

His Freudian slips are showing.

4. Be Feminine

“Men want to date WOMEN, not men with vaginas” Note he doesn’t explain what ‘femininity’ is, he doesn’t know, too scary. But he’s inadvertently let slip a phobia about transexuality. A common issue with those uneasy with their own sexuality. Bet he’s freaked by LGBT in general.

Also, is one to assume his “masculinity” has credence – one doubts the efficacy of such, given what’s gone so far?

5. Be submissive

“This kind of overlaps with being feminine” Ah – a clue!  We’re back to the fantasy Doris Day scene again. Shall we tell him, girls, that women are never ever “submissive” unless we choose to be and, what’s more, the entire point of the myth of femininity is that woman has, for millennia, controlled men by doing little girlish favours in order to obtain what SHE wants? “Oops, silly me, I’ve accidentally got pregnant/spent all your money/lost your car etc.”

6. Sex Life

He’s given up on the idea of the perpetual virgin, or so he says; but note the glaring admission that women are not to be sexually experienced, just a “little” experienced, in a monogamous relationship, but heaven forbid anything more adventurous. He uses the very quaint term “the town bicycle”!

It’s that fear again. The fear of being subsumed by a sexually voracious, ever-hungry vagina. Poor, sheltered, small town boy. Such sexual insecurity, bless his little cotton socks!

7. Be Intelligent

You must be able to “flex your mental muscles”, apparently. The thing is, any woman who hasn’t had a full frontal lobotomy wouldn’t WANT to have anything to do with him. Ah well, back to the fantasy…

8. Be Child-Free

The fear of fecundity! It has been said that the insecure man fears the power of a woman to give birth (or not) because it is something they have such little control over. Guys like this must be freaking out about donor sperm. Even Cleopatra put a pebble up her noo-noo to avoid a bun in the oven.

The other classic phobia is “cuckolding” which he inadvertently admits by saying it’s such a turn off to deal with another man’s child.

Cuckolding is as old as human/animal kind. When we lived in tribes, it didn’t matter too much, the point was to reproduce as often as possible. The “Alpha Male” may have fought for “first dibs” but, the presence of other spermatozoa  increased the chance of pregnancy and ensured continual gene pool improvements.

He’s scared of a lot of things, little Johnnie.

9. Be willing to cook at least three times a week

Again, our little friend has had to scale back his fantasy, just a little. Maybe it’s because his working “Mom” used to leave the pot-roast for him to heat up after school; or maybe she didn’t cook at all?

Poor little man craves the comfort of a surrogate mother SO MUCH, being “fed” by a woman must be a painful longing for him. Weaned too early, perhaps?

10. Put down your phone

Heaven forbid that you might have interests and other people apart from “Your MAN”! Remember the earlier scenario, when Doris patiently listens to hubby’s boring ramblings about his day, with what appears to be rapt attention? Johnnie is crying out for some of that.

Some poor girl must have made the mistake of dating him once, perhaps out of pity, perhaps unknowingly, but whatever the reason, she must have felt her brain shrivelling up with boredom as Johnnie droned on and who can blame her – she texted her mates to arrange her escape. Many of us have been in that unfortunate position.

Johnnie, if a girl is glued to her phone, she is NOT interested in you. Have we cleared that up? Good. Let’s move on…

11. Ease Up on the MakeUp

Johnnie has been looking at the women’s magazines on-line again! He’s seen “The celebrities that are unrecognisable without their make-up” articles!

He’s scared again. Scared that he’ll meet a woman who, when she gets home, takes off her hair, eyelashes, teeth, chicken fillets and cache sex and REMINDS HIM OF HIS MOTHER! Or father..whatever.

12. Stop Cussing!

Not long now, readers, I’m getting bored with Johnnie, too.

Here Johnnie shows his bible-belt upbringing. “Mama said ladies don’t cuss”

Fuck me. The bible is bereft of juicy Anglo-Saxon, but I reckon it got lost in translation around the time of King James, another milksop, so afraid of women that he toasted thousands as ‘witches’.

I like to think of Revelations as a big “Fuck you, you’re fucked”  – but, of course, I’d never call anyone a cunt in polite company. Well, not unless my ire was raised. I expect I’d call Johnnie a cunting wanker, though.

13. Stop Hoarding Guy Friends

Oh dear. Here’s that insecurity again. Johnnie is very worried that if he ever gets a girlfriend she’ll be shagging other men behind his back. You’re right, Johnnie, she will.

Finally, you’ve got to love the boy’s attempt at a pre-emptive strike at the criticism he knows is coming his way (because it has always, always, been so).

Bet he didn’t expect this though?

There endeth the lesson.







An open letter on Men’s Rights


Circulated at Arizona University by Men's Rights Activists

Circulated at Arizona University by Men’s Rights Activists

Dear Men’s Rights chaps,

I’m writing this open letter to you because it’s clear than no-one has explained to you the benefits of a benign Matriarchy.

I’ll try to set out the key points so that you can come to your senses and see for yourselves how much your life could be improved.

You might get laid, for starters. With your newly defined status as sex objects, even if you are ‘plain’ by most standards, there will be a woman or women that wouldn’t mind “giving you one”; particularly if you take the care to pretty yourself up and wear clothing we find ‘provocative’.

You’d find a whole new range of careers, too. You could be the assistant to a glamorous business woman, a nanny to some challenging children, a nurse or primary school teacher – all delightful ways to put you in touch with your nurturing side. You won’t be paid or valued much, but think of the personal satisfaction!

If you are deemed conventionally attractive, you might find a role as a call boy, a model, an erotic dancer or a porn star – you WILL be well paid and have lots of opportunity for sex – wouldn’t that be nice?

If a wealthy woman takes a fancy to you, well, you’ll have a fantastic lifestyle. Imagine shopping with your friends all day and enjoying exotic holidays, while your looks last, of course. I’m afraid there won’t be any alimony, because we will have abolished that, but you’ll have some fabulous memories to think back on; once you are traded in for a younger model.

As for being ‘butch’, of course this will be encouraged. We still need you to do the sweaty, grunty stuff your genetics designed you for.

If, on the other hand, you are ‘good with computers’ as so many of you activists seem to be, there will be jobs for you, as well. You can take care of all the admin, while the women are out doing the important stuff.

We’re not sure that you are responsible enough to have a vote, because, after all, you made a mess of the world while you had the power; but don’t worry your pretty little heads about that.

You can learn to cook, clean and look after the kids and running of the household in addition to your full time job, it’s challenging, but you can have it all! Aren’t you lucky!

There will be education,of a kind, open to you, mainly focussing on your support skills, manual trades and homemaker training – you’ll be in the company of your fellow men, so you can indulge that tribal instinct of yours with breaks to run about and get sweaty with a ball.

You’ll have to make the most of it, though, because in twenty years or so, we’ll be making you redundant. Once we’ve milked the brightest, fittest, attractive and most compliant of you of your sperm reserves, you will, in fact, be obsolete and because so many of us will abort boy babies, your numbers will diminish, but no matter, enjoy it while you can!

You will, of course, be expected to live up to impossible ideas of physical beauty, but think of it as a hobby, that will last you all your life and utilise those hunting instincts of yours to find the best plastic surgeons and clothes designers to make you attractive to women. It’ll keep you pretty busy!

So, all in all, what’s not to like? So stop tweeting nonsense, or creating silly little websites and come to momma. You know you’ll love it, you dirty little bitches.

Yours patronisingly,


Madame Wilde

Ladies Underwear


I was talking with my best friend about underwear at the weekend. Specifically, when the man in your life buys it for you.

I’m always genuinely grateful when a boyfriend buys me a gift. I would never be one of those women that sneers, belittles the gift giver and then asks for the receipt in order to get a refund. That’s just unforgivable. I know how damn difficult it is buying anything for women.

In the case of an underwear gift, I will gamely wear it for you. Even if it’s several sizes too small, because, from my experience it always is.

What could be causing this global phenomenon? my friend and I pondered, over a cheeky Sancerre, as us women do; why is it that every boyfriend in the history of boyfriends always does this?

I’ve experienced bras that I have squished myself into and wore all evening, for Him.

Even though my boobs looked and felt like two drunken wood pigeons on a very precarious telegraph wire.

Even though I’ve been prone to sudden jerking movements as the wire from the undersized cups has jabbed me in the armpit.

Even though the elastic at the back has risen up in a boomerang shape, about to give way, flinging the contents of the bra into the face of anyone unfortunate enough to be opposite me. (That happened once in the face of the Mayor of Monaco – but I’ll save that true(!) story for another time).

Trust me, I’m still really grateful that he went to the trouble to buy me something, I really am.

The other problematic gift is “Teddies”.

Why they are called “Teddies”, is something lost in antiquity, I may write to QI, but I suspect that nice Mr.Fry wouldn’t be in the least bit interested in the origins of ladies undergarments…..but I digress….

The mechanically minded amongst you, will know that a “Teddy” is a garment, mainly composed of lace and silk (sometimes nylon, if you’re particularly unlucky) that covers the female body from breasts to nether regions and, for easy access, has some sort of fastening in the crotch region.

The fastenings are devised by a very wicked underwear elf that enjoys the thought of women having ‘challenges’ when going to the loo.

They are sometimes tiny little buttons, extra fiddly, as they are not visible; sadistic metal hooks and eyes and, perhaps worst of all, a form of Velcro. A teeny, tiny, spiv’s moustache sized, strip of Velcro.

When said Teddy is a little on the small side, a woman must stretch the garment to meet under her crotch, trying not to enmesh any delicate lady bits in the fastenings, then hold the fabric taught enough in order to get some purchase in doing it up.

Attempting that in a lavatory cubicle after a few drinks, is, shall we say, a unique experience.

At any point, during the wearing of this garment, the fastening may give way. Actually, WILL give way.

The effect of this can be explained as a hydraulic cable suddenly snapping from a crane or, in less extreme cases, a tightly wound roller blind being let go and flying up a window at some speed.

We’ll disguise the fact that this has happened, because we love you men dearly and we’ll sneak off to the Ladies, still smiling, while we try to rescue the situation and check if an emergency gynecologist appointment is needed, to repair collateral damage.

You will never know.

I am still hot with shame regarding such an instance, that happened to me when I was still young enough to be given ‘the bumps’ on my birthday. With advancing years, it’s just too much for people to bother, thankfully.

I was wearing a tight Lycra dress and a Teddy, which was a birthday gift from my current boyfriend and it gave way on bump number ten.

As you will no doubt know, there is little chance of escape, when several drunk people have you spread eagled in the air and are flinging you around with gusto.

If anyone at the ‘business end’ gripping my ankles would chance to look down, they would have seen that the Teddy was now half way up my back and ….. you can imagine the rest, but please don’t. Spare my blushes.

That’s how dangerous gifts of underwear can be.

We eventually worked out WHY undergarment gifts are always too small.

It’s not a case of flattering body dysmorphia on behalf of our men.

We know that you go into an underwear boutique, find the sales assistant you find most attractive and say:

“She’s about the same size as you.”

But your secret is safe with us. And we’re ever so grateful. Really we are. X

The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre

13807Valentine’s Day always brings its own stresses. Commercialised to the extent that even the most ludicrous products have Valentine’s branding. Psychologies Magazine for the woman in your life, anyone? It is a day fraught with dangers for relationships, especially budding ones. Here’s a true salutary tale:

In my twenties, I had the bright idea of sending a Valentine’s message to my new boyfriend via the messages page of a national newspaper. These always make good reading, even for those not involved, with, what one assumes are middle-aged executives sending soppy messages to their loved ones, along the lines of “Snugglebums loves Kittykins” or the more risqué “Let’s play hide the sausage tonight”. So I made up some stupid sexual innuendo, that I thought my boyfriend would find amusing and put it in the paper.

The newspaper concerned sends out a little card to your victim, telling them to look out for a special message in the Valentine’s edition. I gave them my boyfriend’s office address so that I knew he’d get to see the paper during the day.

V day came and there was nothing for me in the post. Slightly miffed, I assumed something might arrive at work or in the second post (it was a long time ago); so I went to work expecting a card or some flowers from him at some point during the day.

At lunchtime, I rang my boyfriend, thinking that he might have seen the paper and that we could have a good laugh about the message. He didn’t mention it.

When I went home, there was no card, or delivery note for flowers, so I was a little disappointed as I got ready for dinner with my boyfriend that evening.

During dinner, at some over-priced restaurant crowded with uncomfortable couples going through the ritual of eating the Valentine’s set menu, featuring a variety of heart-shaped garnishes on mediocre food and quaffing cheap pink Champagne, I couldn’t help but do a little digging about the newspaper message, without admitting that I was responsible for it.

I started talking in general about Valentine’s messages. He seemed uninterested. I then gave some funny examples from another paper, hoping that this was enough of a hint to get him to talk. Still nothing.

I was puzzled now and even more so when I saw a postcard sticking out of the inside pocket of his jacket, which he left over the chair when he went to the loo. So he HAD got the card to tell him to look in the paper. Why hadn’t he said anything?

At the end of dinner, I asked him if he’d read any of the papers during the day. “Yes.” he said, I’ve read “X and Y”, “x” being the paper with the message. “Why?” “Oh nothing.”

We went Dutch on the horrible meal.

My brain was doing drunken somersaults. He had the card – check. He’d seen the paper – check. He hadn’t mentioned anything or even questioned me about it = HE THINKS IT’S FROM SOMEONE ELSE!!!!! This is a good example of how the drunken female brain works and, as I found out later, I WAS RIGHT.

They say “Hell hath no fury like a woman spurned” but I’d refine that for this situation to read:

“Hell hath no fury like a woman who has made an effort for Valentine’s day and it hath not been returneth” and when you add “It-eth suspicious-eth perhaps there is another woman lurking who says sexy things to him” – Hell’s fury is as a damp sparkler to worldwide nuclear meltdown.

So, I let him have it.

Two barrels of female fury, fuelled by cheap Champagne and indigestion. When I had finished with him, he had that dazed, shocked look that people have when they have witnessed a particularly grisly accident.

I then flounced off. Flouncing is a very satisfying activity that I rarely get to take part in these days. I’m too grown up and not as small and limber as I was. I was great at flouncing off in those days . I could walk really fast in very high heels, while maintaining a “Don’t even THINK of coming anywhere near me or you will DIE a horrible death” aura.

So I flounced home. No card. No flowers. More ire stoked the fire. This became an insult upon an insult. The boyfriend became “the bastard” in seconds. Girlfriends were called. His name was dragged through the mud. Everyone agreed that they’d “never liked him anyway” and “he’s not good enough for you” and after more wine, more tears and a few fags, I gave the idea of him up.

The neighbours delivered an enormous bouquet of flowers and a card that they had taken in for me the next morning.

Boyfriend rang up and admitted he thought the message was from his ex-girlfriend and, rather than seeing it as a joke, took the message seriously and was going to have it out with her for stalking him.

We made up. It lasted a little while longer, but not much. The ex girlfriend was an ongoing nuisance.

So be warned on Valentine’s Day – make sure you are not misunderstood. And if someone doesn’t thank you for the flowers you’ve sent, check that they’ve arrived. Better still, deliver your messages of love direct!

Parasite Wives – a species to be reckoned with


I ventured into Surrey recently. A quick skip over the Hampshire border and there I was, in the stockbroker belt, with the rolling verdant hills, expensive golf clubs and houses with silly names.

Venture off the Hogg’s Back near Guildford and you’ll find a species that will hopefully become extinct in a generation or two, the parasite wife. (You may also encounter some daylight doggers, such as the almost naked man wearing only a yellow construction helmet, socks and work boots as reported in a local paper, but that’s another story).

In search of a Buck

Like the women in Jane Austen novels, she will have spent her early years tracking down and securing a husband, (usually meeting him in the workplace, where she can guage his promotion potential and eventual net worth) then marriage, popping out at least two children and then refusing to work another day in her life.

They can be found in pockets all over the country, in the gentrified suburbs of cities and commuter towns, within reach of their beleaguered husband’s workplaces and their children’s public schools.

She’s not the 1950’s housewife type. She isn’t keeping the home fires burning, or even taking care of the children, she hires help for that. Instead she devotes her time to keeping her husband continually tethered to his job in order to provide for her ‘needs’.

Poodle Parlours, Primping and Public Schools

Her days are spent in futile and earnest consumption. She can be found in market towns around the country having chunky highlights striped into her continually cut hair, or having her face stripped of skin and paralysed with Botox at any number of poodle parlour like beauty salons.

When she’s not hanging out at the country club or spa, she can be found in cafes nuzzling a skimmed milk latte, with at least one other similar companion.

Another familiar hunting ground is the department or lifestyle store, ideally one that sells reconditioned old furniture in a peculiar shade of venereal green from the outer reaches of a Farrow and Ball paint chart.

These stores specialise in expensive fripperies like hand painted signs with the legends “Please remove your Jimmy Choo’s” or tea trays imprinted with “Fifty Shades of Earl Grey” and love hearts in all shapes and sizes, in gingham, in faux twig, in fairy lights. I can’t help thinking these are symbolic of the love lacking in her marriage of convenience.

Heart shaped objects reflecting love long gone

I watched some of them today, in such a lifestyle store, claiming to be an antiques centre, offering faux and reproduction everything, from fake galvanised buckets with chi chi French labels, fake wine crates, neatly (and badly) distressed cabinets and feathered lampshades amongst other tat.

They invariably wear Gilets at this time of year. That useless garment that is both impractical and unflattering and should be used only when riding a horse or mucking out a stable. These are teamed with pastel coloured knitwear, elaborate frayed scarves, the ubiquitous Ugg boots and Boden corduroy skirts or eye wateringly expensive jeans, topped off with a handbag costing several thousand pounds and shaped like an old pillowcase with straps.

Sometimes they have their emasculated man in tow. There is something so castrating in forcing a reluctant male, chained onto the hamster wheel of commerce, ‘to keep up appearances’ to examine union jack scatter cushions, I can hardly bear to watch.

Go forth and multiply – the maintenance money

The younger and more militant of the females may even have a toddler or two with her, which is entirely unwise in an old barn with rickety stairs, stuffed to the rafters with breakables, but are left to run riot as a gesture of defiance. “I like Citronella to be able to express her bubbly personality”

These children are never admonished when they scream, break things or career into other shoppers. I must admit, I have perfected the knack of “accidentally” delivering a swift kick to the ankles of said brats as I pass, which heightens the volume of the screaming, but is otherwise undetectable and immensely satisfying.

I tried smiling at a PW as an experiment and got the frozen glare back. This was as expected, because unless you are familiar from the PTA or other sanctioned group, you are Other, a lone wolverine out there on the prairie, that is likely to make a move on her man or territory.

It doesn’t help if you are dressed differently for then you are automatically spotted as a wrong ‘un and frostily given a sweeping look that is both judging and dismissive. You, as a woman, have not succeeded in finding an appropriate host of your own and she’ll be damned if you’re coming anywhere near hers.

Welcome to the Cunt Cafe

Their conversation revolves around a maximum of five topics, purchases/expenditure, the genius and precociousness of their offspring, the short-comings of husbands, gossip about celebrities and other women in their circle and their own hobby business ambitions (cup cakes, ‘art’ or handmade greeting cards).

As I watch them from a safe distance in the café, aptly named ‘Figs’ (Figue is Italian slang for female genatalia, so I have rechristened the establishment the cunt cafe), I wonder how I would have survived in such a culture and know that I couldn’t have, not without an expensive drug/alcohol/toy boy habit. Possibly all three.

They are both shallow and vicious at once. They talk about their husbands disparagingly or not at all, they use sex as a bargaining tool, children as collateral against an inevitable divorce settlement. Meanwhile, they fill their homes with identical, tasteless products and tether their husbands like bulls in a field, a ring through his nose, a vampire on his back, the instruments to geld him in the potting shed.

Il Castrati

It goes part way to explaining why their husbands are often so ghastly to work with. They have metaphorically had their bollocks locked in such a tight vice, no wonder they get so competitive, obsessed with petty power, impotent bullying and body language that consists of frantic steepling, crotch adjusting, or the old hands behind the head gesture of superiority.

This tribe is to blame for many of this country’s ills. It is they who vote Conservative or Lib Dem. It is they that have systematically ruined villages by buying up all available property or colonised the vile new 6 bed ‘executive homes’, taking over a beauty spot near you as we speak. They are responsible for the ‘shop of nonsense’ popping up in every commuter village. Hubby probably works in The City too, so we know what he and his chums are responsible for.

A Betrayal to their Sex

The PW sets back feminism by several decades. They play at work, they play at opening their own cupcake/Pilates/bunting making businesses. They sink their teeth into men and bleed them for all of the years their offspring attend public school.

It is a tragic existence, counting down the years to the husband’s inevitable infidelity and The Divorce. The betrayal of the male is not through some biological imperative to spread his seed, but rather a Custer like Last Stand when the realisation of his victimhood becomes apparent. Like an ageing popstar he might run off with the office vamp, the sprightly Eastern European nanny, or worse, one of the other, younger, PW’s.

By trading Wife #1 for a younger model he believes, for a moment, he has re-established his crippled man-hood, only to discover he has just traded it for a younger, cleverer, more bloody minded parasite that will outlive him and retain the sorry 50% of his assets left after divorcing Wife#1.

Man up Men of Britain!

Man up, middle class men of Britain, take a look at how far into the Venus Fly-trap you are slipping. And as for the Parasite Wives, I say get a life and an income of your own. Shame on you all and your vile offspring being coached to do exactly the same. Your spawn contain the seeds of destruction for this generation and the next. A parasitical virus of greedy entitlement and a life of no purpose. And you care not a jot for anyone else. That’s the worst of it all.

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