Mums know best – out of the mouths of harridans

So, in the midst of post-Brexit chaos, the fight for the leadership of the Conservative party rumbles on, tossing aside carcasses as if mown down by the wheel-blades of some post apocalyptic desert vehicle from Mad Max.  First Boris ‘take back control, until I need to actually take control’ Johnson, followed by  Liam ‘nepotism is my middle name’ Fox, next Stephen ‘I wanna sex you up’ Crabb, <shudders uncontrollably>, then Michael ‘et tu Brute’ Gove….. And the feminists rejoiced.  We were going to have another female prime minister!!  Hurrah!

‘Come on, don’t be scared, eat my scones’

The two remaining candidates are Theresa ‘I’ll cut you’ May and Andrea ‘As a mum, I’ll bake you a lovely scone-then cut you’ Leadsom.  
The beauty of being a feminist is that you can champion women and applaud their achievements; and you are also legitimately allowed to call them out for being a total c**t, if that is indeed what they are.  And that’s what, in particular, Leadsom has proven herself to be this week.

In a beautifully crafted schoolboy error, it was revealed that in an interview with The Times, she claimed that being a mum was a legitimate advantage to being an effective Prime Minister.  Off the record, of course.  Doh!  Eh? What’s that you say Andrea?  

“….. genuinely I feel that being a mum means you have a very real stake in the future of our country, a tangible stake. She possibly has nieces, nephews, lots of people, but I have children who are going to have children who will directly be a part of what happens next.

What you can’t read here is the sneering emphasis she put on the, ‘but I have CHILdren’.  But you can hear it if you choose to listen to the Leadsom audio released by The Times, in its defence of malpractice.  She claims they twisted her words. They quoted them. Verbatim.

Initially, I was pretty outraged. Then I thought, ‘I haven’t actually thought about the future, since approximately 1987‘. And that was only because I genuinely thought that my future was going to see me marry Roger Taylor, the drummer from Duran Duran.  It’s true; I don’t care about anything.  And darling bonkers Aunty Andrea was right to say, I and my ilk have no real stake in the future as a result.  We say ‘fuck you all!- with your kids and your empathy and shit’ (and throw some drugs down our neck. Or something) – and you say to us, ‘fuck you too, you’re irrelevant in our decision making you barren harpies’.  And Whitney Houston poignantly blares out in the background, something about children and future.  The future only really occurs to me when I inhale, and think about the next inhalation and rejoice that I’m still alive.  When I can make progress on my tan.  And when I will have my next large gin. And sex. And a bag of peanut M & Ms. You gotta get your kicks where you can. 

Leadsom has persistently said throughout her campaign, ‘….as a mum‘, leading to that Times journalist’s question.  She suggests that pushing another human out of your vagina is somehow the magic key that unlocks the door to that elusive empathy chamber.  Like some kind of genital Narnia.  And also apparently equips you to participate in high-level international trade negotiations, manage the likes of Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong-Un and heaven forbid in the future, Donald Trump and restore the respect the World has lost for the UK, due to the aftermath of the successful campaign you actively participated in, to leave the EU.  Maybe she’ll show them pictures of her kids during talks.

It’s true that not almost ripping myself in half has left me an emotional shell of a woman.  I hold my hands up.  I never vote, I was not devastated after the referendum result, I have never been moved by photographs of thousands fleeing for their lives, escaping war-torn countries and I couldn’t give less of a f*ck about the turmoil in America at the moment, or the prospect of President Trump.  Chilcott who?  I didn’t cheer on the Welsh boys and I definitely did not cry when Andy Murray just won his second Wimbledon.  I did not cry at this because it was not a little moment of lovely in a fortnight full of shit. Nope.  I drop my pants and moon at Wimbledon!

I walk around snarling at couples in love and kicking puppies.  Largely I just live the life of a Libertine.  A kind of hedonistic free-fall into gin oblivion, if you like.  I burn rubber in the street, insist on receipts for EVERY purchase, because who needs trees: and I buy oodles of beer purely so I can toss the plastic six-pack rings into the sea to deliberately f*ck up the dolphins and turtles.  Because: whatevs.  Future schmuture – that’s what I say.

I’ve got probably forty good years in me, and after that I could not give less of a crap if I tried.  If indeed, I even manage to survive my next night in Sidecar.  And if the world blew up tomorrow?  Yeah, yeah, yeah <exaggerated yawn>.  You can all go to hell in a hand basket for all I *care.  

*Because I can’t, because I don’t have kids.

<throws head back and cackled maniacally into the abyss, like the soulless gorgon that I am>


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