OR: Wimmin, as I like to say. So, our baps ROCK! This we’ve already established, and also that they are on a similar scale to nuclear weapons, but in a really good way, and because of this have the potential to save the world. But is that really so impressive? So tell me really, what else is so bloody great about womanhood, that we deserve our own day?
Before we proceed, I’d like us all to cup our puppies, hoik them proudly aloft and say out loud, “I love my t*ts!! And all the other things that make me a woman (but mostly my t*ts).”
Being a woman is cool because women are the only people in the whole, wide world who can be queens. OK wait, not the only people in the world, but the only people who can be actual ruling female monarchs of countries, and that’s pretty cool, no? The reason this is so fabulous, is because queens get to wear all the best stuff at formal functions. Take Queen Elizabeth II, current ruling head of my own fair land. When she’s got somewhere to go, she pulls out all the stops and there is no holding back. State opening of Parliament? Yeah baby, “Spangle me up and hand me my sceptre and orb, I got important sh*t to do!” It’s all in there, diamonds, pearls gold, silver, platinum, fur, silk, velvet and she totally knows how to work a twenty foot train. Boys, you got some medals and chains. Boo you.
Where Vogue/Glamour/Elle tell us, ‘less is more’, Lizzy says, “Chuck it all on there GURL!” And being the queen of Blighty, she also gets to tell Prime Minister David Cameron he’s a ridiculous joke of a bumbling idiot –probably. Being told you’re a tw*t by a lady pensioner in a tiara has got to smart.
Insults from women mean something and have more impact. Because boys call each other *rseholes and d*ckheads for fun, you never know when it’s real or not and so you take no notice and continue to be a real life *rsehole or a d*ckhead. It proves the ‘boy who cried wolf’ theory, correct. But, if a woman says to you, “F*ck you you lying, cheating c*nt”, especially calmly and well pronounced, you really are going to go away and seriously think about what you’ve done. Maybe for as many as fifteen years and maybe in a cave away from all civilisation. Good. You should.
We get to wear a dazzling array of really pretty shoes. You have two choices, lace-up or slip-on in different shades of brown or black. Unless you’re a hipster, and then you can get away with wearing red patent or blush pink suede, because you are so ironic.
A woman in a position of power seems to command more respect and is doubly as sexy as the man in the same position, because even now, it’s still kind of shocking or surprising to see it. But when you do, you think, ‘Wow! She must have massive cojones to be in that job’, because sadly, it’s still true, that she probably had to grow a pair, work four thousand times as hard to get there, forfeit a social life, maybe her marriage and even choose between a high-powered career and a family. We salute you.
We have wonderful (mostly neat) sexy bits, 1. tucked away in a beautiful little package that needs unwrapping like a present and which are, in no way, a pee-dribbling inconvenience that needs constant jiggling, touching and re-adjustment. A man’s bits are all blatant and dangly and in the way and in your face. (Don’t get me wrong, I like them, I like them a lot. I just don’t want to own one, it would ruin the line of my sharp trousers). We cup, men grab. It’s a little like comparing a warm hug with a strangle. (Unless strangling’s your thing), there’s no competition.
And we’ve come up with so many pretty names to reflect our beautiful bits: flower, twinkle, muff, tuppence, lady garden, quim, minnie, nonnie, fou fou, foof, falula, Lily, sugar bowl**, to name but a few. I’d say most of the ugly names for the vagina were invented by men. If you ever refer to my beautiful lady garden as beef curtains*, I will rip off your c*ck with my bare hands. How do you like them apples?
I like to call it what it is, my vagina and of course there’s c*nt, made most famous by Germaine Greer, who published a magazine article entitled “Lady, Love Your Cunt.” And I do, really do, love mine. The earliest citation of this usage in the 1972 Oxford English Dictionary, c 1230, refers to the London street known as Gropecunt Lane. I wonder what on earth happened on that Street? But there is no clear and agreed origin of the word, but connections to Latin cunnus are obvious and simply translate as vulva. Not so gross, shocking or insulting now is it, you big vulva?
We don’t cause each other physical discomfort to illustrate our affection for each other. We don’t slap each other hard on the upper arm or back, while saying, ‘Hey *rsehole, good to see you man!’, ‘You too d*ckhead.’ All the while guffawing and laughing gruffly in a manly way.
We are completely at ease hugging and kissing each other, because, strange though it may seem, we actually really like and love each other and that’s not something to be ashamed of. Love is a beautiful thing brothers.
We can cry whenever we want to and not be embarrassed. When we’re happy, when we’re sad, when we’re neither, when we see lovers, news reports, puppies and dead people. At weddings, funerals, when we’re hammered and suddenly realise we are going to suffer for three and a half
days weeks (and can also no longer walk), redundancy meetings. In the street on the floor, the night before our fortieth birthdays. True story.
We don’t have to bottle up our emotions because it’s a sign of weakness and indicates our emasculation. This is how wars start menfolk. So, I suggest, after we’ve collectively flashed our boobs and there’s a momentary worldwide ceasefire, you need to have a good old sobfest (rent Kramer vs Kramer or Amour), get it out of your system, hug it out and let’s get on with having a lovely peaceful life.
Happy International Women’s Day to everyone who is a woman, is in a relationship with a woman, has a mother, a sister, a daughter and amazing girlfriends who they love and admire. Be nice and kind to women, give them an education, show them things that don’t involve any of the Kardashians, show them a little respect and they will do great things.
Footnotes: 1. For information only, if you ever find yourself ‘diving for pearls’ (see, another beautiful metaphor), take note, please don’t try to rub our button right the way off. We love it, it’s a great source of pleasure to us and is very, very delicate. Be gentle and loving and kind and caress it. Don’t bludgeon it. That’s yours for free. No need to thank me, but you will want to if you take my advice.
*Happened once. The outcome was not good.
**Thank you to all my girlfriends who shared their vagina names.