Poldarse

One of the great pleasures of having my car radio permanently tuned to radio 4 is the serendipitous nature of my commuting listening. During the week I get the Today Programme and PM, but at the weekend I catch the end of Weekend Woman’s Hour and hear all about how the better half of humanity are currently occupying their intellectual, multi-tasking high ground… and knitting.  Yesterday evening I heard a snippet about various reactions to the reinvented Poldark and in particular Aidan Turner’s torso. Stripping off his shirt for action he appears to have raised passions of more than just the lecherous variety.

Lecherous, of course, because the ladies love a bit of beefcake, the dirty cows, but it’s also aroused the herd – the beasts of protest - from their notoriously shallow slumbers. While Aidan says the attention he’s getting is fun, the wimmins say “Fun? You call the objectification of bodies, fun’?” Meanwhile others, in between gasping “Phwoarrr!” are jeering and saying “Hah! Men! See how YOU like it!” to which men are mainly going “What?” and “Any chance of a cuppa?”

Confusion in the ranks while the various competing women’s issues collectives start to wonder how to deal with the perceived threats. Do they leer and letch, or does that make them as ‘bad’ as men? Or do they wring their hands in anguish as humanity shows what they are convinced is its dark side - an interest in the other sex? Will this have an adverse effect on young people across the gender-divide? And how can any of this be pinned on the patriarchy? Because, naturally, the patriarchy will be in there somewhere; the radicals, as they see themselves, will be eating their own tail in a bid to outcompete in the increasingly convoluted conspiracy theory wars; where sister is set upon sister for being the wrong sort of angry.

Rather than settling for an acceptance that, in the overall scheme of things, men and women are different after all, what they seem to want, more than anything, is for young men to grow up with at least as complex a range of body image disorders as any young girl is perceived as being subject to. Poldark isn’t just showing his chest, he is causing young men to self-harm in pursuit of impossible standards. That’s how socialist equality works – the work isn’t finished until all can be equally fragile, miserable and manipulated. Until somebody tells you, comrade, you can’t understand how you are being used. You were happy as you were? That is unacceptable, brother, you must take up the struggle and feel the pain.

Easter Bunny for the laydeez

When you become a socialist, is a part of your brain removed to install the circuitry that makes you screech at the slightest hint of anything you don’t like? Must you be made to believe that the whole of the establishment is bent on your subjugation, aided by the media and the corrupt corporations? Or is reality simply – and far more likely – somewhat more mundane than that? Poldark hasn’t raped, or beaten, or enslaved anybody, ladies, he’s just taken his shirt off.

The Brutes!

On the drive home from work the other night I happened upon Weekend Woman’s Hour and – quelle surprise – a discussion centred on sexism, feminism… and bloody men! The article fawned over a ‘male feminist’, clearly confused, who had become something of a Radio Four ephemeral airwave celebrity among the little ladies, for speaking out about the disgusting sexism he encountered every day at work. On a building site. I’m serious; the whiny little shit didn’t like the way the men, in an all-male environment, behaved in an entirely manly manner. Men! They even told nasty, horrible sexist jokes… the primitive cave-dwelling beasts.

My first thought was that a career in construction was possibly not the best fit for young Adam – I kid you not, that was his name (Maybe he was just ribbing them, geddit?) – but then it was revealed that the firm belonged to daddy. He added that when the same men encountered women - customers, for instance - they were invariably polite, respectful and professional, but when they were alone in the exclusively male enclave of the site hut, why, the language was… so dreadful he simply couldn't repeat it.

The Woman’s Hour audience and commentators lapped it up. What a refreshing change! A real man at last, speaking out about the nasty, cruel, smelly, testosterone-driven, sweaty man-cattle that blight the lives of feminist martyrs who spend their time mining hard at the coal face of outrage. What a gentleman! What a dear! If only all men could be like Adam instead of the usual lumbering, lumpen mass of misogyny that is there for all to see, if you look hard enough. Men! With their big, clumsy hands and their frightening deep voices. Men! With their ugly hairy bodies and their inability to listen to a woman’s troubles. The irony hung in the air like thick wreaths of cigar smoke stinking up the joint.

The trouble is though, unlike feminists, men very rarely sit around thinking up reasons to hate the opposite sex; they are probably too stupid. And while some men undoubtedly are of that hateful disposition, those types of men are generally shunned by other men because, well, because men very rarely sit around discussing reasons to hate women. We’re too busy making up multi-targeted jokes which hurt nobody except for overly-sensitive types and those keenly attuned to any possible slight. Also, men have incredibly thick skins and even if they did understand the subtle passive-aggressive attacks on them waged day and night by the righteous Adamites it almost certainly wouldn’t bother them. See how infuriating they are!

Is this what a feminist looks like?

I pity poor Adam his tender sensitivities because they will be his downfall. Just as women say they love a man who makes them laugh and then set about perfecting put-downs to intercept his every attempt at doing just that, those who say they love a sensitive man will invariably dump the dullard for a grunting misogynist brute. But Adam’s young yet and he’ll learn. Meantime I’m sure any hurt will be soothed by a comforting hug from his boyfriend.