Ryan Bacon: Fifty Shades of Gammon
My last column was heavily criticised by the loony left; vegans, hipsters, bloomin’ teenage snowflakes, and so forth, so I thought I would address your collective idiocy. I’ve been in the industry a long time (some forty years now) but rarely have I witnessed such a backlash as the response to my support of Hollywood media moguls. These are the hurt ones, I suggested, not the so-called ‘victims’. No-one listens to the accused, or gives them a shout: truly, it’s political correctness gone mad. We white men have it tough, you know, we dunno who we are anymore.
I’m now going to address more of the scourge of society: feminists (yeah,them). It’s enough to make one choke on one’s full English breakfast.
Some context here: my most recent date. As regular readers will be aware, I’m a divorced dad of two, but that doesn’t stop the birds queuing up. I recently took out a lovely filly some thirty years my junior, who spoke all through the date (even during the tiramasu!!!) about how ’emancipated’ she is. ‘Emaciated, more like, love’, I remarked. ‘Eat yer pudding. Men like something to grab onto!’ Alas, she didn’t find this remark remotely amusing.
Anyway, she taught me a new word: ‘woke’. I’m assured this is what young people call themselves when they’re ‘enlightened’ and have ‘progressive’ views. She was banging on about being a strong businesswoman with thirty men and women under her (‘Ooh-err, matron!!!’) – in short, how modern she is.
But… Get a load of this, fellas, she refused to pay for the meal!!! Who put his hands in his pockets? Yeah, old Muggins, here.
When I protested, Blondie shouted me down, reminding me that I had suggested the restaurant in the first place, and had written about what an old-fashioned gentleman I am.
Gentle female reader, you can’t have it both ways. Don’t tell us you’re a ‘modern woman’, then start braying when fellas don’t hold the door for you. Spare us all the lie about dressing for yourself. We know the lipstick, heels and perfume is for us- we invented it, after all.
We’re all rutting animals, at the end of the day. This is something your would-be Mary Beards and Jeanette Winterstons fail to recognise, as they crush men under their sensible shoes. Or even your sexy feminists. You do get them.
Woke? You’re positively sleepwalking, ladies.