Not Just Punishment celebrates the works and achievements of women in the public eye, and provides regular installments of serialised writings to entertain and delight you.
If you’re a fan of the benefits feminism has brought society (and let’s face it, who isn’t?) I hope you’ll enjoy this blog’s blend of humour, imagination, and hero-worship. If you’re not a fan of feminism, well, shame on you. I hope you look at the things I’ve written on this site and change your mind. And if you don’t…. there’s always Top Gear.
Natalie Cassidy has been a bit of a martyr to the culture of snarkiness and body fascism that pervade our women’s magazines. When she made an exercise video a couple of years ago and lost a load of weight (viz. her head was unconvincingly photoshopped on top of a smaller woman’s body), they were all over her, congratulating her madly on her miraculous weight loss. ‘Look, you lazy gluttons,’ they implied to their readers. ‘All it takes is a bit of determination and a whole lot of self-denial’. At the time, all images of Cassidy implied she had a different body. And I mean that literally. Look at this laughably fake effort:
Strictly Come Special K
At risk of widespread derision, I’ll go out on a limb here and say that I don’t genuinely believe that Cassidy ever actually looked like this (see above).
Recently, the gossip mags and women-hating newspapers (yes, the Daily Mail, I’m looking at you… for a change) have been snarking on her over her inclusion in the Strictly Come Dancing starting line up, mainly because she’s returned now to her natural size. Cassidy herself has talked about her own happiness with her own image, and her decision to stop fighting against her body’s natural shape. Well, good for her. I think she looks HOT.
Foxy antipodean actress Cate Blanchett validates knitters the world over with this awesome granny-square dress, worn to the opening of the Screen Worlds: The Story of Film, Television and Digital Culture exhibition in Melbourne this week. There is nothing that says “I dress how the hell I like, and screw you and your gossip columns” like a knitted dress, and it’s “screw you, squared” when the dress is made from crocheted granny squares. I’m glad there’s somebody out there willing to represent the knit-nerd corner in that crazy, airbrushed flash-bulb Hollywood world. Good on you, Cate: you’re a real champ, and no mistake. Keep on frockin’ in the free world!
The Daily Mail like him. Things approved by the Daily Mail, beginning with setting down rules about what ages women can wear mini-skirts, to repatriation of immigrants, are generally a bit rubbish, and Michael “at last, a comic who’s funny” McIntyre is no different.
The Mail likes him because he is safe, and doesn’t swear, and probably because healso has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher above his bed.
Why haven’t I posted on this blog for a while? I’ve been busy, that’s why. It’s not all beer and skittles fighting a one-person battle for equality armed with only a laptop and an internet connection, you know. Sometimes I have to go to work as well, and that’s no laughing matter.
Also I have been blogging a bit more on Red Room. Over 500 people have read my blog over there. 500! Can you believe it? SUCKERS. Awesome suckers!
In the Spring of 2006, three young ladies by the name of Sophie, Lucie & Brooke made the mistake that thousands of young women make every year: they auditioned for X-Factor. They were young, fresh-faced, innocent, and could sing a bit, although their dancing was a bit ropey. (worse than mine, even).
They made it through the initial audition, and no further. Thankfully, boy-band botherer and world’s worst human being Louis Walsh kicked them out of the contest, in favour of several groups of lads wearing tight t-shirts.
Thankfully, this initial disappointment worked out in our favour, since rather than becoming some kind of train-wreck identikit b*witched for the noughties, the Dolly Rockers spent time working to find their sound, writing their own material (sample lyric: “She’s from Hull but she talks like the Queen, She wears haute couture… WHAT THE FOOK DOES THAT MEAN?!”) and raiding Gwen Stefani’s nightmares for their costumes. Now, rather than squeezing themselves into a marketing exec’s idea of what might be profitable, they’re bounding around, their personalities and intellect on full show, and having a whale of a time while they’re at it.
As well as being full-time pop stars, The Dolly Rockers find time to make funny little videos on their own YouTube channel, giving advice and guidance to anyone who wants it. There, you can find out how to get big hair, how to dress like a dolly rocker, and how to get revenge on a vile ex-boyfriend.
Their first single Je Suis Une Dolly, was picked up and pushed by Radio 1 DJ Scott Mills, and rushed out in time to capitalize by Parlophone. Since then, things have been a bit quiet, with their next single Gold Digger coming out on August 31st.
At the end of this blog post, I’d like you, my readers, to fondly remember the Dolly Rockers for doing what they do best: being lairy in somebody’s back garden.
Only 19 years old and already a millionaire, Watson is smart, beautiful, stylish, articulate, and talented. Ten years after she was chosen from thousands of other young hopefuls to play the part of Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter series, she’s rich, is set to study at the ivy league university Brown in the US next September, and if rumours are to believed, will soon have her own clothing range as well! Yeah, you could hate Emma Watson – but it would be churlish.
It seems fitting that somebody as smart as Watson should land the role of Hermione Granger, an intelligent student who gains admission to Hogwarts primarily through dedication and hard work, rather than being born into wizardry. In interviews, she’s compared herself to the character, saying that playing the role came naturally to her, since in many ways they are very similar: “I just felt like that part belonged to me. I know that sounds crazy, but from that first audition, I always knew… but I always knew I was going out for Hermione. She came so naturally to me. Maybe so much of myself at the time was similar to her.” She deprecates herself as being a “proper, proper nerd” and being “boring and sensible”, which I absolutely love. Nerds are cool and sexy!
Of her decision to study in the US, Watson has said that it is the broad approach of the US system which appeals to her. She had originally planned to study at Oxford, but changed her mind after meeting American students on a summer acting course, and finding out about the wider options available in the US.
Unlike so many other frequently-photographed teenagers (no names mentioned) it is almost impossible to find a picture of Watson badly dressed. She’s got one of those enviable senses of style that allow her to mix designer, unique and vintage finds without looking like she got dressed at a jumble sale in the dark. (Could you teach me how to do that, please?).
Recently, news has leaked of plans for Watson to design a range of teen clothing for Fair Trade clothing company People Tree. Watson has previously spoken of her interest in Fair Trade clothing, but has been reluctant to wear it since so much of it looks like fairtrade clothing: “I’m really interested in Fairtrade fashion and organic cotton, but it’s hard because, to be honest, the stuff’s kind of ugly or really plain”, she told Elle magazine. It certainly seems like a good pairing: People Tree are one of the few companies who make the sort of fairtrade clothing you’d actually want to wear, and with Watson’s instinct for style, it seems inevitable that the result will be stylish, classy, ethical clothes that teenagers actually want to wear.
Q. How do you make Lady Gaga cry? A. P-p-p-p-p-p-p-poke her face
Lady Gaga: who honestly knows what to think? Officially, she’s a singer and performer, but she also appears to relish in her role as a sort of professional talking point, a bizarre public figure who generates conversation by arriving at airports dressed in a leotard and outsize sunglasses, and by playing at Glastonbury from inside an enormous box. Once you hear one of her tunes, the damn thing gets wedged in your head for literally days. (“Can’t read my, can’t read my, no he can’t read my poker face,” anybody?) While some people relish having that sort of earworm, others ie. me, find it an infuriating life-ruiner. Debate in the gossip columns about her large hands, muscly legs and ridiculous layers of make-up are rife; and yet La GaGa goes about her business regardless, continuing to do concerts in outfits that are more abstract sculpture than haute couture, and do press conferences in gimp masks without a shred of embarrassment, as though she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care what anybody thinks of her.
So, Lady Gaga: do we revere her as a modern-day Madonna for the noughties, a fearless performance artist who forces the chattering classes to accept more confrontational modes of female sexuality, or do we think she’s a sort of “La Roux for idiots”? (Thankyou, The Guardian).
Let’s weigh up the evidence, should we?
1. Continually sings about her own vagina.
“I wanna roll with him, a hard pair we will be, A little gambling is fun when you’re with me, Russian Roulette isn’t the same without a gun, And baby when it’s love if it’s not rough it isn’t fun… Cos I’m not bluffin’ with my muffin, I’m not lying, I’m just stunning with my love-glue gunnin” (Poker Face).
Confident in her own voracious sexuality, knows what she wants in bed and doesn’t care who knows it: Ten points.
2. Dresses as though she’s a living art installation.
Claims: “I dress this way because my whole life is art, and my whole life is performance.”
Then that explains get-ups like this:
Kermit my, kermit my, no he kermit my poker face
and this:
Just dance!
Quite frankly, I’m of the opinion that the pop world needs this kind of fearlessness. If it wasn’t for crazy bitches like Kate Bush, Bjork, PJ Harvey and Lady Gaga putting a bit of thought and creativity into their wardrobes, the whole world would be full of boring twats dressing like Coldplay, and who wants that? I’ll tell you who. Kasabian. A hundred points.
3. Might take herself a bit too seriously.
In a recent interview for MTV Malta, GaGa claimed that the gimp mask she was wearing (yes, gimp mask) was “not just a mask, it’s a temporary art piece by a designer friend of ours”. Hard to tell whether or not she was joking – on account of the mask covering her face. She went on to talk about her commitment to her work and the life of solitude and her admiration to designers who live a life devoted to fashion. Generally gives the impression that fashion and pop music are really really important rather than being a bit cheap, transient and throwaway, like Primark. Props to her for having the courage of her convictions, but is she destined for a bit of a body-blow when she becomes a bit ‘last year’, in the way that all pop phenomena eventually do?
Here’s the interview:
4. Entire career and persona appear to be an elaborate art prank that went a bit too far.
The evidence is all there. The outrageous persona. The freaky costumes, the explosive stage shows. The way she talks about her work, as though she’s daring somebody at the press conference to start laughing and poke holes in it all. This ridiculous self-congratulatory interview with Paris Hilton that seems too absurd to be true:
…points to her recent career being a bit of a well-conceived and extremely well-planned practical joke, in which Gaga and those around her have cooked up a whole new persona, an arresting wardrobe and ‘pop concept’ to go with it. Then she can go on telly and to press conferences to talk about her work with a straight face, defying anybody present to be the first to notice that the whole thing is an elaborate hoax.
Scientists at Newcastle University have created, for the first time, synthetic sperm from stem cells, in so doing achieving what buffoons have wanted for many years: to render men theoretically redundant.
In light of this scientific breakthrough, a slew of reactionary articles celebrating the “end” of mankind have been wasting my time on the internet. “Yes, let’s get rid of them!” they trill, in a whimsical, faux-amusing fashion. “They always leave their wet towels on the bed anyway.” Let me tell you, readers, that I’m exactly as humourless about articles that propose getting rid of men as I am about articles that castigate female celebrities for going out without washing their hair. Men are brilliant, and a world without them would be rubbish, for the following reasons.
1. I love cock. There, I’ve said it.
2. A world without men would be the sort of place that had no such thing as Elvis Costello, James Gandolfini, Charlie Brooker, Graham Linehan, or Terry Wogan, and who wants that? I’ll tell you who. IDIOTS.
3. Yes, I know we’re proposing getting rid of men that come hereafter and not the ones we have currently, but that means getting rid of all future possible Elvis Costelloes, James Gandolfinis, Charlie Brookers, Graham Linehans, and Terry Wogans. This would be stupid and rubbish and anyone who thinks it is still a good idea can come and meet me in the car park after work for a dust-up. See, women can aggressive too!
4. A lot of them can make me laugh.
5. Some of them are very sensitive and thoughtful. I have even heard that some of them can dance a bit.
6. Men, (as well as women, don’t think I’m negating the work of women here, fact-nazis) have always done lots of good work like naming stars, splitting atoms, writing books, inventing vacuum-cleaners, and bringing me a cup of tea in bed. Long may it continue.
So we’re all agreed then! A world without men would be spectacularly rubbish and boring. Let’s put the whole issue to bed and move on, shall we?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about cunts, and when I say that, I’m not talking about that awful woman with a voice like Mars Attacks who sits next to me at work, talking about her boyfriend all day. No, I’m talking about actual lady’s cunts. Yours and mine, and everyone’s we know.
I’ve noticed lately that advertisers are doing their damnedest to fan women’s insecurities about their lady-parts to try and flog us all new products. These are products aimed at pubic grooming, everybody, so don’t get squeamish – everybody loves a well-looked after pussy, after all.
Thanks to all the fighting that our mums and grandmas did (thanks mum, thanks grandma) we ladies are now in the fortunate position of being able to choose whether we want to rock a full-on 70s-style bush, or a smartly-waxed Hollywood, without anybody criticising us for our choices. That’s one of the array of choices that you get to make as a modern woman. (Not quite as important as deciding whether you want to train as an engineer, a mechanic, or a teacher, but hey).
I could just about stand it when it was Gillette trying to flog a razor specifically aimed at trimming women’s pubic hair. As far as I can see, Gillette developing a razor aimed specifically at women’s bikini lines is essentially the same as when Rowntree’s started marketing Kit Kat Bites in a bag: it’s a superfluous new product that doesn’t do anything your old razor / normal Kit Kat didn’t do. Only difference is that there’s a new advertising campaign to go with it.
So much for the ‘special’ razors. But earlier on today, my ire was stoked during a commercial break during Friends (and you all know how much I love Friends), when I saw an advert for FemFresh, a new product which coyly describes itself as being “specially developed to cleanse and refresh the most sensitive area of your body”.
This is no good on two counts. For one thing, agony aunts for time immemorial (thanks Just 17, thanks Mizz) have been urging teenage girls not to wash their cunts with soap. All together now: it upsets the delicate balance of your innards, and gives you thrush. Secondly, why be so coy? Just say what you mean, guys: “Come on lady, your cunt is disgusting. Sort it out.”
Who in their right mind thinks any cunt is disgusting? Fannies are a thing of great beauty. Surely everybody knows that. They come in all shapes, all sizes, all colours, and every last one of them is a smasher. All of them have a unique beauty, and they can bring you great pleasure. If there’s one lesson I can give you today, it’s to learn to love your cunt, just as it is.
It’s not smart to burn all your bridges in a resignation letter. The world of work is a small place and you never know who you might meet again. A resignation letter that doesn’t disguise your contempt for your boss, those you work with, or the general culture of the workplace you’re leaving, can haunt you professionally for years.
But just say… just imagine that it wouldn’t. Imagine you could write anything you liked in your resignation letter. What would you say?
It might look something like this:
“Dear George,
I am writing to give you 4 weeks’ notice of my resignation. As you know, I have been working here under sufferance for several years now. At first I only came here because it was an excuse to get out of the house, but once I got a mortgage I kind of had to keep on working here, against my better judgement.
It isn’t that I dislike the work. There’s nothing I enjoy more than coming to an office where people strenuously avoid eye contact with one another, and spend all day with their heads down in silence, pushing bits of paper around from one tray to another. In fact, I like the work so much that earlier on this year, when the guy who used to sit next to me walked out one day at lunchtime and never came back, I didn’t complain that management considered the best way to redistribute his work was to pour his in-tray into mine. The difficulty is more that my work is so pointless that, for two whole months last year, I didn’t do a stroke of work, and nobody seemed to notice for ages.
This bout of laziness did appear to have some form of payoff in that, eventually, my colleagues seemed to catch on to my incompetence. The eyes that were once so pointedly fixed on their desks began to look up when I approached, to give me looks of pure hatred and ice. I realised that I had made a difference: my colleagues were no longer indifferent to my existence! In a small way, it was a sort of triumph. In other ways, it was a disaster. People pointedly left me out of the tea-round. Nobody brought me Twixes back from the corner shop any more. My life at work became a sort of slow death by exclusion.
I could manage this, given that I only had to put up with it for a seven hours a day. And in a way, it was a bit of a compliment that you valued my work so highly that you handed down an increase in my hours to nine a day, to give me time to get everything done. I didn’t expect any increase in pay or conditions to go with the extra hours. I’m not unreasonable. But then I saw a job doing the same sort of thing within a ten minute walk of my house that’s better paid, and that’s when I decided maybe my quality of life would be better if I could get home in time to watch the teatime edition of Neighbours.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for undervaluing, underpaying, mistreating and generally wringing me dry for the past 5 years. I look forward to watching Australian soaps while you still remain at your desk, eyeing your underlings suspiciously and thinking about how much you hate everybody.
All the best for the future,
David.
(In the interests of not getting fired from my job, I’d like to make it absolutely clear that this resignation letter is pure fiction. PURE FICTION. It in no way reflects on the actual circumstances of my day job or the way I do my work.)
If you could write your “I QUIT” letter without fear of retribution… what would you write?
