All the President's Women

I don’t know, with the level of snowflakery around today I hardly dare leave the house at times. I can’t turn on the television because I know ‘they’ are monitoring my every move. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they have installed eye-tracking technology into the screen so they can check out where my gaze falls. The other day I saw a brief excerpt from an old Kenny Everett show. I had to quickly switch sides when Hot Gossip came on, but that was even worse because I found myself on something called Celebrity Shove-it-up-yer-Bum Island or some such.

Off went the telly, quick-sharp. Then I had to lie down in a darkened, lavender-scented room for a while, although I expect even that retreat to solitary will be somehow brought up at my trial as evidence of deviant male activity. It could be suggested that trying not to think about short hemlines and matching knickers with high heels is almost as bad – if not worse – than actually forcing myself upon some hapless waitress. Okay, my bad, I confess; I once ogled a girl in a bikini on a beach who wandered into my field of view. It was only fleeting but, yes, I understand how this is practically rape nowadays.

Far from wondering whether you might be causing offence it looks like the direction of travel is towards having to report daily to demonstrate how you have not caused offence... which I find a tad offensive – or I would if I was really bothered about such things. I’ve thought about it and I genuinely don’t care; take me as you find me. But I am fascinated by this joyless road towards conformity and dull, dull uniformity of speech and thought. Fuck ‘em though; I will continue to speak my mind and if you’re offended the door is over there.

High jinks masquerading as sensation seems to be the news of the week as the President’s Club fundraiser continues to spread alarums and rebuttals. The Great Ormond Street Hospital and others are talking about returning donations made, which they now believe are tainted by association with, what by some accounts are satanic rituals up to and including virgin sacrifice. A number of goats were interviewed after the event, but none of them wanted to press charges, afraid their kids may be affected.

People have resigned from the organisation, which has raised millions for good causes. Members of Parliament present at the dinner have presented themselves to the Star Chamber to be stripped of all privilege and paraded in the press. Reputations have been ruined and the behaviour of all men everywhere is now under scrutiny; unless, of course you happen to belong to a ‘community’ protected from prosecution by the catch-all excuse of cultural sensitivity.

Next year's approved look...

Make up your own mind about it. In this morally relative world  it is variously a sordid and sinister tale of astonishing depravity, a rare opportunity for men to let their hair down, an exercise in damaging male privilege, tantamount to sex slavery, less offensive than many ‘Ladies Nights’, a scandalous confection of fake rage, or of no interest whatsoever. Or, as I see it, a mild curiosity and an exemplar of the hysterical instincts of a small sector of the morally outraged to anybody – especially any male – seen to be having fun. Don't have a nice weekend.