Mad Feminists and Englishmen.

In March of 1915 Billy Thompson, a young British soldier had just arrived in London, home from the Western front. He had been given a short period of leave to enable him to recover from a knee injury. He was to be sent back as soon as he was fit. He was to join a new regiment on his return. His old ‘pals’ battalion had been almost obliterated in a German attack. Those who had not been blinded or suffocated by gas, had been shot or hacked to death in a day long battle that had degenerated into an orgy of hand to hand butchery. Billy dreaded the prospect of going back. He was haunted by the images of the slaughter; the slashing and gouging; the sheer animal ferocity; the horrible screaming of the wounded. He could probably have used his knee injury to blag himself into a desk job. He had thought about it for a while before deciding he had an obligation to do his duty in memory of his mates.

Billy had a ticket for the 10.30 to Barnsley in Yorkshire the following morning. He would see his parents for the first time since the outbreak of war. He would also visit the parents of some of his friends; friends who would not be coming home.

For tonight though, Billy had checked into a boarding house in Bayswater. The woman of the house had taken his tattered, lice-ridden uniform promising to return it, clean and mended the following morning. She had given Billy a suit to wear. “It belonged to my husband,” she said, sadness filling her eyes. “He won’t be needing it any more.”

Billy picked up the walking cane that had been given to him by the pretty French nurse who had bandaged his knee. He wasn’t thinking about pretty French nurses now though. He was thinking of Rose. It was the letters from Rose that had helped him to preserve some semblance of sanity amidst the madness that raged around him. He knew she was working in a factory in Sheffield now, doing her own bit for King and Country. Rose had promised to wait for him. Rose was a real treasure. After the war Billy had already decided, he would give up his apprenticeship at the Barnsley timber mills and find a way to open his own shop. He would make Rose proud of him and he would give her the life she deserved.

Billy limped through the bustling streets of London towards Hyde Park. The city was thronged with men in uniform from all over the world. The British Commonwealth was being drained of its men; young fresh faced lads from the four corners of the globe were being shipped across the channel to be thrown into the meat-grinder that was the western front.

There were men from Scotland wearing the kilts that had once invoked laughter from the German lines. The laughter hadn’t lasted long. There were Welshmen with their dragon emblems and Irishmen with their green cap-bands, who were never quite sure whose side they were on. There were burly Boer farmers from South Africa and Anzacs from New-Zealand and Australia. There were Canadians and Indians and Gurkhas from Nepal.

There was some kind of commotion going on in Hyde Park. A woman standing on a makeshift podium was delivering a speech in favour of the immediate introduction of conscription. She had attracted a large crowd. “Intern all those cowards not in uniform.” She demanded “Make them fight. The women of Britain demand it.” From the midst of the applauding crowd a man could be heard heckling her. “Well said Mrs Pankhurst,” he shouted. “Votes for women and bullets for men.”

Billy’s knee was beginning to act up as he limped his way back towards Bayswater. He took a seat outside the tea-rooms in Paddington Station. He bought a packet of players navy cut and a cup of tea. He would wile away the afternoon watching the trains coming and going. The platform was thronged with soldiers, their kit bags on their backs and their “pudding bowl” helmets slung from their belts. They drank tea and smoked and sat joking and laughing. A woman with a microphone could be heard singing – “It’s a long way to Tipperary” – Some of the young men joined in. Billy wondered if there really was a place called Tipperary. He knew that by the end of the week, most of those lads really would be wishing they were there.

A train pulled in to the station in a cloud of smoke and shuddered to a halt with a screeching of brakes and a deafening hiss of steam. A porter ran along the platform opening all the doors. Most of the passengers were women. Nurses coming to work at the new improvised hospitals which had sprung up all over the city; women who worked as switch-board operators for the army and women who worked in the factories. The women of Britain were rolling up their sleeves and mucking in; keeping the home fires burning. Some of them wore trousers. Billy didn’t think he would ever get used to seeing women in trousers. A couple of Scotsmen were trying to persuade two of them to accompany them to a dance that evening. Billy had seen it all now. Men in skirts propositioning women in trousers.

“All aboard for Southampton,” the porter shouted. Now the soldiers began to cram into the carriages. Wives and and girlfriend waved and shouted encouragement. “Bring back the Kaisers whiskers,” – “Take care over there.”- “Stay away from those French Girls.” The soldiers were hanging out of the windows calling back. One man called out to his tearful mother – “chin up mum, it will all be over by Christmas.”

Billy studied the faces of the young men. He wondered if he had been so naive when he had first boarded that train to Southampton. These lads behaved as if they were going on a picnic. They couldn’t even begin to imagine what was waiting for them in France. Billy knew that the Kaisers whiskers wouldn’t be trimmed any time soon, and many of those lads had just celebrated their last Christmas. He wanted to shout out to them, keep your heads down lads. This war was not about victory. It was about survival.

Billy had seen things that nobody should have to see; men missing their limbs trying in vain to crawl to safety, men literally coughing their insides out into the mud; the mutilated bodies of his comrades rotting in the barbed wire, A young friend of his, blinded by shrapnel, stumbling around begging someone to shoot him, another, insane with fear shrieking towards the German lines before being cut in half by machine gun fire. After a year of enduring cold, lice, disease and near starvation, all his young male friends and relatives; an entire generation, all from the same small town in Yorkshire had been erased in one terrible afternoon.

The British and French armies would throw themselves in massive waves upon the German lines. Many of the men would be blown to pieces by mortar bombs within feet of their own trenches. Many more would be riddled with bullets from German machine guns and rifles. The muddy patch of no man’s land would become a carpet of corpses within minutes. Those few who made it to the German trenches would be pulled in and hacked to death with shovels and bayonets. The following day it would be the German’s turn. The battle would be deemed to have been lost by whichever side ran out of men first. Billy had seen thousands of men sacrificed to take a narrow strip of mud, no more than a few hundred yards wide. The next day the Germans had repeated the process, sacrificing thousands of their own men to re-take it. Billy chuckled to himself at the sheer, monstrous stupidity of it all.

The next train arrived from the other direction. Most of its passengers were carried off on stretchers. A line of men was forming in front of Billy. They were shuffling along in single file, bandages covering their faces, each one holding on the the shoulder of the man in front. The line was led by a sturdy looking nurse in a red-cross apron. Gas, Billy shuddered. Maybe here had been no warning, or there had been a strong breeze that day, or the poor buggers just hadn’t been quick enough to get their masks on. Life and death on the western front was all down to dumb luck. “Come along lads,” the nurse coaxed them gently. “We’re nearly there. We’ll have you all right as rain in no time.” Billy knew that those lads were never going to be “right as rain” again. The blind leading the blind, he thought. They should make them all generals.

As the station emptied, Billy sat sipping his tea and studying the large hoardings across the line opposite him. The first one read – “Is your ‘best boy’ wearing khaki? If not, don’t you think he should be?”

Another one asked the women of Britain. “If he does not think that you and your country are worth fighting for, do you really think he is worthy of you?”

Yet another showed some women looking through a window at a group of marching soldiers. The caption read “The women of Britain say Go.”

Billy noticed the three young women out of the corner of his eye. They seemed to be looking at him. Billy turned away, not wanting to be rude. One of the ladies separated herself from the group and walked over to Billy’s table. Billy made to stand up as he had been brought up to do, but his injured knee defeated him. He remained seated, hoping the lady would understand his lack of gallantry. ‘Coward’ she hissed, dropping a white feather on the table in front of him. Billy was speechless. He wanted to call after her. He wanted to explain. He was no coward. He had done his duty. He couldn’t shout out to her though. Billy was a gentleman, and a gentleman did not raise his voice to a lady. He was suddenly overcome by anger. How dare she? He didn’t owe her any explanation. As she re-joined her group, one of her companions called out to Billy – “Shame on you.”

There was an elderly reporter from the London Times at the next table. He had witnessed the scene and invited Billy to join him for lunch. He asked Billy to recount his experiences in the trenches and sat, scribbling in his notebook as Billy told his story. The conversation finally moved on to the subject of the suffragettes. Billy confessed that he didn’t really know much about them. The reporter began to explain the movement’s assertion that women were treated as second class citizens by men and that many women felt they were unfairly treated. Billy’s expression turned into a scowl as the reporter explained that the suffragettes were also strong supporters of the white feather campaign. The reporter continued to explain how many women resented the way they were so poorly treated by society. Billy’s final reply –

‘Well if they want to swop places with me they’re more than bloody welcome’

William Harold Thompson was killed in the fighting around Messines in June 1917. He was twenty years old.

More Feminist Paranoia

More Feminist Paranoia.

Loathe as I am to include a link to the festering mountain of infantile tripe that is feministing.com, I couldn’t help being struck by this video.

http://feministing.com/2013/12/23/new-indian-ad-turns-the-spotlight-on-leering-men/

The video shows men in public places allegedly “leering” at women. Yes when a man dares to look at a woman he finds attractive, he is leering. The video is tagged with the words “rape culture” and “sexual harassment”. The video is an advertisement for TV in India that I can only assume is designed to shame men for having perfectly normal and natural sexual desires.

But wait. None of the women in this video were sexually harassed, never mind raped. None of the men touched any of the women. So what exactly is the point that this advert is trying to make. Are we now being told that men should not look at us? Are we being told that being looked at is being harassed? Are the makers of this video seriously trying to eliminate all forms of normal sexual expression?

The advert made the point that when the men realized they had been caught looking at the women, they turned away self-consciously. Well of course they did. They instinctively averted their gaze because they did not want to be rude or intimidating. This is also normal human behavior. If men did not “leer” at women then the human species would be long since extinct.

Men should not take this advert as an insult. It is actually a tribute to their good manners and self control. It is further proof if any more is needed, that while most men are attracted to women, most men (not all) do not have any desire to bully, intimidate or harass women in any way.

This is just one more example of the pathetic, whining, victim mentality of feminism. Its message is very simple – I’m a woman, hear me snivel. A man looked at me today. Whaaaaaaa, I’m a victim. Pathetic!

I look forward to the next update of feministing’s bizarre logic. What’s next? A campaign to persuade cats not to chase mice.

 

 

I Need Feminism Because.

 

I was visiting University College Dublin last year to meet a friend of mine. I was waiting for her in the arts building when I noticed a huge display of photographs along the wall of a corridor. On further investigation I discovered that the photos were the result of an event that had recently been held by the college feminist society. Participants were invited to make signs telling why they needed feminism and hold them up to be photographed. Photos from similar events had also been sent in from feminists in other parts of the world.

What puzzled me, apart from the sheer childless pointlessness of the event itself, was the mind-boggling stupidity of the declarations themselves. Feminists once again prove that they have absolutely no sense of reality, truth or even self-respect.

So here is my take on why “I need feminism.”

 

1)      I need feminism because I know that men are pigs, and I hate sexism.

2)      I need feminism because it teaches me that what I do with my body is my choice, but not my responsibility.

3)      I need feminism because I am chronically insecure and I have no sense of humour.

4)      I need feminism because it helps protect me from my crippling prudishness and my morbid fear of human sexuality.

5)      I need feminism so that when someone says something nasty to me, I can make silly placards and blubber like a pathetic victim instead of standing up for myself.

6)      I need feminism so that I can bury my neurosis in smug conceit, by stereotyping men as evil misogynist brutes.

7)      I need feminism to help me convince myself that applying negative, degrading stereotypes to men is not sexist.

8)      I need feminism so that I can complain loudly about violence against women while laughing heartily at violence against men.

9)      I need feminism so that I can scream “creep” at any man who approaches me, while wondering why I am still single and where all the good men have gone.

10)  I need feminism to help me blame all of my own weaknesses and failings on the patriarchy.

11)  I need feminism because nobody has the right to tell me I look pretty.

12)  I need feminism because nobody ever compliments me.

13)  I need feminism because I have the right to spend hours in front of the mirror making myself as sexually attractive as possible, but then expect men not to look at me in a sexualised way.

14)  I need feminism because I know that only rich, tall, handsome men have the right to be sexually attracted to me.

15)  I need feminism because I have the right never to be exposed to anything that offends my delicate sensibilities – But I am an empowered woman.

16)  I need feminism because I believe that men should be forced to be attracted to unfeminine women too.

17)  I need feminism because I should be paid the same as a man who is more experienced and works longer hours than me.

18)  I need feminism because I haven’t had sex in years.

19)  I need feminism because it allows me to convince myself that parroting off a lot of mindless, unsubstantiated nonsense that I learned in gender studies, makes me sound like an intelligent, educated person.

20)  I need feminism to help me convince myself that there is nothing that men can do better than women, while demanding that the playing-field be artificially tilted in my favour so that I can compete.

21)  I need feminism because all my male colleagues should have to walk around on eggshells for fear of saying something that offends me.

22)  I need feminism so that I can boast that I am an empowered, independent woman, while stamping my feet and whining like a baby every-time anyone says anything “inappropriate.”

23)  I need feminism because it allows me to believe that men are responsible for their actions even if they are drunk, but women are not responsible for theirs.

24)  I need feminism because it teaches me that it is empowering to be reduced to a simpering baby if I hear a sexist joke.

25)  I need feminism because it allows me to laugh at all the “stupid man” tropes on the TV while angrily bemoaning “sexist stereotypes” of women.

26)  I need feminism so I can feel good about receiving state hand-outs for bringing babies into the world that I cannot support.

27)  I need feminism because free-speech is over-rated.

28)  I need feminism because it allows me to enjoy being pandered to by weak, fawning male feminists, while I’m waiting for a proper man to come along and sweep me off my feet.

29)  I need feminism because it allows me to bristle with self-righteousness when I see an advertisement portraying a woman in a bikini, but remain completely blind to the one which shows an oiled up beefcake wearing only a tiny pair of briefs and a fire helmet.

30)  I need feminism because I deserve to be cosseted, pampered, given special privileges and protected from anything that might upset me, and all because I have a vagina.

31)  I need feminism because playing the victim is much easier than being the “empowered” woman that I claim to be.

32)  I need feminism because I am a weak, pathetic, insecure, talentless, whiny, neurotic, coward who is afraid to stand on her own two feet and take ownership of her own life-choices.

 

Agony Column: Ask Fiona

Have you got a problem within your relationship or your workplace? Fiona the Feminist will respond to questions from both women who are being oppressed, and men who are trying hard to move away from their oppressive, sexist ways.

Fiona will be pleased to give you the benefit of her advice, drawing from her own deep well of feminist wisdom.

Everyday Sexism???

I finally bit the bullet and logged on to Everyday Sexism. It is a website set up to allow women to post their stories of the horrific misogyny and sexism which supposedly pervades our societies. The site is being lauded all over the other online feminist echo-chambers as “brave” “revealing” and “visionary”. Mostly it’s just one after another poster whining about some guy saying something she didn’t like or complaining because a man looked at her boobs. I was thinking about instances from my own life which I could post on the site that would compare with some of the entries I read.

I was sitting on the grass reading on the campus of the college where I work last summer. A young guy walked over to me. He noticed the book I was reading was Russian and asked me where I was from. I told him.

“Russian girls are the most beautiful in the world.” he said.

“Ha ha.” I replied and I suppose you say that when you meet a Spanish or Polish girl?”

“Well obviously not,” he laughed, “but I’m lying when I talk to them.”

“You speak English well” he continued. “Are you part Irish?”

“No, I’m 100% Russian.”

“So you don’t have any Irish in you at all?”

“No” I smiled, knowing the punch-line already.

“Would you like some?” the guy said.

It was a silly conversation that we both knew was going nowhere. Nobody was threatened or offended or violated or any of the things feminists want us to be. It was harmless banter. I didn’t take any offence because – well – because I’m a grown up.

So this is a story of sexism and apparent misogyny that I could post on Everyday Sexism. The problem is that I don’t believe that this man was some sinister sexist woman-hater. He was just joking. That’s right feminists – A joke is an alien concept to you I know, but it usually involves someone making fun of someone else but without any intention to harm. The funniest jokes are usually the ones that feminists would call “inappropriate” or “offensive” which is why a day at a feminist seminar is never going to be a barrel of laughs.

Some of the posts on Everyday Sexism are indeed, disturbing tales of rape and sexual abuse. Many of them are obviously fictional but I’m sure some of them are true. The overwhelming majority of the posts however, are simply shrill petulant whines by pathetic insecure people who consider themselves victims because someone once said something they didn’t like. One woman claimed to have been left feeling “devastated” because she had overheard a racy joke, and no, I’m honestly not making that up! I am leaving a few examples below which are typical of the entries on Everyday Feminism along with my own thoughts on each one.

Here are some whines of wisdom from a male user called Tim who obviously considers himself to be a thoroughly enlightened individual.

“Some of the men at my place of work met up earlier for drinks before the Christmas party. Topic of discussion when I joined them was ‘Who are your top 3?’. Meaning the 3 women in the office you’d like to do.”

Oh my! The sheer horror of it. We can feel the righteous, right-on anger boiling from his post. We can only hope that poor Tim got the counselling he needed after that ordeal. I get the impression that Tim is only in his early twenties so listen up Tim. Here is some free advice from an older woman. Your colleagues were indulging in some harmless banter. In England they call it schoolboy humour. It is sometimes childish but it is completely harmless and natural. Only a chronically insecure prude could possibly find it offensive. Furthermore you seem to completely under-estimate women. You obviously have no idea what kinds of conversations groups of women have about men. I can assure you that they tend to be ten times more “vulgar” and “sexist” than the example you are bleating about here. Listen carefully Tim. Nothing is less attractive to a woman than a fawning, sycophantic gelding. Do yourself a favour and grow a pair, and stop being such a prissy little baby.

A user called Claire though, has suffered even more abuse than poor Tim. Claire describes how a male colleague at the next desk asked her to hand him a pen. The pen she handed him was a very large one. When she gave him the pen, he uttered this shocking abomination – “so you like them big, do you?” I am speechless! Poor Claire will probably never be the same again.

Now User ACM makes her bid for victim of the month. “Every time I see a man reading page three” she snivells, “it makes me feel exposed, vulnerable and victimized.” Really? “Exposed,” “vulnerable” and “victimized?” and all because some guy is looking at a picture of a topless woman? I thought the phrase was – “I’m a woman hear me roar,” not “I’m a woman hear me blubber pathetically about something completely inconsequential.”

User Poppy goes for the sympathy vote. “I’ve only been kissed twice.” she says, “and both times it was unexpected and I did not initiate it.” Poor Poppy has only been kissed twice. On the face of it there doesn’t seem to be any mystery as to why that is. One question for Poppy though. Would it have been OK if you had initiated it, or would that have meant that you were being oppressive …… Or something?

BrokeGirl chimes in with her harrowing tale of the awful misogyny she experienced in a deli. The guy behind the counter offered her two burritos instead of the one she had ordered. She never expected her refusal to illicit such a terrifyingly misogynist response. The disgusting pig joked “I understand. Gotta keep that figure.” My heart goes out to this noble victim. BrokeGirl, wherever you are, we salute your bravery in the face of such unspeakable horror.

User anon has this shocking tale to tell. Reader discretion is advised.

“A male examiner walks past and starts talking to guys I was with about how they think it went and what careers they want in the future. Never made eye contact with me, spoke to me or acknowledged my existence.”

Hmmmm. Just a thought. Maybe he didn’t want to look at you for fear of you accusing him of objectifying you or something. Maybe he was afraid to talk to you because he was sure whatever he said would be taken as sexist. Maybe he was wisely giving you a wide berth for his own good. You see anon, men don’t generally like engaging with whiny, over-sensitive simpletons who expect them to walk on eggshells.

Susie tells us how she went to work wearing no bra with her boobs sticking through her dress. Susie thinks bra’s are oppressive you see. Her male boss predictably “oppressed” her by making a very reasonable request to cover herself in the workplace. Susie blubbers plaintively about how she felt “disrespected” Well no Susie. Your boss has the right to expect his employees to dress appropriately for work. The fact that you put him in the uncomfortable position of having to ask you to cover yourself is just selfish. You were the one being disrespectful.

Susie comes back to tell us how, on the Paris Metro, two men- Yes that’s right, two, took out their penises and stood masturbating while staring at her on a crowded carriage.

Sorry Susie but nobody who has ever been on the Paris Metro is going to believe that for a minute. Anyone who tried that on the Metro would be lynched by the other passengers. You need help Susie because your demons are very much in your own head.

User F tells us that “Many Men still think its acceptable to touch a woman’s boobs or bum in clubs.”

Many men? How many is that? Is it twenty or two hundred or two million? Sorry F. but they don’t. I don’t know what kind of clubs you go to. Maybe you’re wandering into strip clubs by mistake? I have been on this planet for thirty three years and I have been groped by a stranger on the bum an entire total of once. This seems to confirm to me that most men do not consider it acceptable to touch a woman without her consent. Oh and no …. I wasn’t traumatized for life but thanks for asking!

Ariana wades in with this particularly petulant whinge. “My boyfriend likes to call me his girl when we’re alone. It’s a term of endearment and, according to him, should be interpreted as a sweet gesture. Am I the only person who doesn’t like belonging to anyone other than myself?”

No Ariana, but you are probably the only person who is so “offended” by what is obviously a term of endearment. You might also be the only person who is unaware that you have the right to break up with your boyfriend if he bothers you that much.

OK this is getting really boring. It just goes on and on. There is page after page of this drivel – literally thousands of entries, all from these woefully insecure people who probably should never be allowed outside without supervision. If this is representative of the quality of the character of people that western universities are churning out, then the western world is in deep, deep trouble.

Of course this website is designed to do what most feminist sites are designed to do; paint women as perpetual victims who constantly need to be protected, by feminism no doubt; and cast men as disgusting, woman-hating brutes who think with their penises.

If there is any site that I have encountered that is truly insulting to women, then it is Everyday Sexism. I would like to say to any men reading this, that most women can actually take a joke. Most of us are actually grown up enough not to have a breakdown whenever we hear someone say something we find distasteful. Most of us have nothing in common with the pathetic, whiny, dribbling half-wits on Everyday Sexism.

As I often say. Feminism is not about strong women demanding equality. Feminism is about weak, insecure women who can’t handle equality.

Everyday Sexism is just one more example of that.

http://everydaysexism.com/

Feminism VS Femininity

“Where are all the good men gone?” As soon as the presenter asked that question, I began to tune out. I had heard the question so many times before. It is always asked in a sort of self-pitying rhetorical tone. It’s a question that nobody would dare to try to answer objectively. I turned off the TV and grabbed my keys. I was going to collect my friend from the airport.

My friend Tatiana was arriving on a flight from London where she had worked for two years. She was coming to Dublin as a fully qualified veterinary doctor to set up her own practice. I was delighted to be welcoming my oldest friend to the country where I had settled.

Tati strode through the arrivals gate with the grace of a gazelle. She was wearing a long tight skirt, a short red jacket and red heels. Her mane of silky chestnut hair bounced on her shoulders as she walked. She seemed completely unaware that she had already turned every male head in the arrivals hall or of the glowering looks from the sea of lumpen “gender neutral” women that surrounded her.

I introduced Tati to my circle of friends and helped her to settle in. One day we were sitting in a cafe with a mixed group of people, Tati whispered in my ear, “It’s just like England,” she said. “The women look like men and the men look like women.” Tati was exaggerating of course.There are some very feminine women in both Ireland and England, but I could see her point.

Irish women are indoctrinated since childhood by their feminist driven culture to see femininity as a negative thing. Most of them make little or no effort to make the most of their feminine assets least they “objectify” themselves. Feminity is derided by feminism almost as much as masculinity. Most feminists are almost obsessed with an inexplicable fear of normal human sexuality. In fact I believe it is this prissy, prudish hatred of sexuality that is the driving force behind many feminist organizations. Leading feminist writers are obsessed with it and on the streets or campuses of our cities, most feminist activism seems to be very much rooted in a sort of neo-puritan paranoia.

Add to that the fact that one of the expressed aims of modern feminism is the destruction of the nuclear family as we know it. Feminist doctrine sees marriage as slavery for women and home-makers as unpaid employees. This is what Sheila Cronin of the American National Organization of Women had to say.-

“Since marriage constitutes slavery for women, it is clear that the woman’s movement must concentrate on attacking this institution. Freedom for women cannot be won without the abolition of marriage.”

These views are repeated by most of the leading lights of the feminist movement. Attacking femininity is therefore a good strategy from a feminist point of view. If men are not attracted to women then they are not going to want to marry them. It works both way I suppose and there can be nobody who is not aware that traditional marriage rates are plummeting across the English speaking world.

An Irish friend of mine once told me that she would not lower herself to any compromises to attract or keep a man, while bemoaning the fact that she was still single at thirty. Well bully for you dear, I thought. Enjoy your single life. Men make all kinds of compromises for women. It’s up to us to meet them half way. If we don’t then why should we expect any man to be attracted to us.

I went to meet my sister in law and some of her female friends one day in a pub. They all wore jeans, trainers and baggy fleeces and all were unhappily single. Two glamorous looking Italian women walked in. The young bar-man, who had given the minimum of service to my sister in law’s group, began fawning all over the Italian girls. The two Italians were not stunningly beautiful by any means, but they were all high-heels and skirts and perfume. They were 100% female.

My companions began to make remarks about how pathetic men are as the bar-man kissed up to the two Italians. Their remarks were disguised as humour but I could sense the bitterness bubbling just beneath the surface. The word “bimbo” was used with the usual implication that a woman who makes the most of her feminie charms must therefore be stupid.

Dublin has become home to hordes of pretty Polish girls who ooze femininity and have definitely attracted the interest of Irish men, not to mention the ire of the local female population. Another female friend of mine cannot understand why her male house-mate spends so many hours on foreign dating sites when there is a woman in his workplace who has made it obvious that she is keen on him. I have met the woman in question and I understand perfectly.

What the local women don’t seem to understand is that men are attracted to women. A man want’s to be with a female. Women are attracted to maleness. A woman wants a masculine man. There is nothing wrong with that. But why then would they expect a man to want a woman who is devoid of femininity?

I feel sorry for the legions of single females in Ireland. They want what everybody wants; to meet someone and find love and companionship. I just don’t get the self-defeating arrogance of refusing to make any effort to find it. If only they hadn’t jettisoned the very thing that will attract a good man in the first place – their feminity.

I’m Offended ….. Whaaaaaaaa

I was arguing with a feminist at the college where I work. It is an unfortunate habit of mine. Anyway, I shot down her assertion that women have traditionally been oppressed throughout history by pointing out some basic historical fact. Unable to counter my argument she went into feminist default mode. She said that she found my analysis of her argument “offensive” and added that I had made her feel “uncomfortable.” Feminists never fail to do this in my experience. You will see them use the same tactic all over the internet all the time.

The problem with feminism is that it is an ideology based on feelings and emotions rather than fact or logic. Most feminist theory can be quite easily dismantled by anyone with an IQ higher than 10. Feminists have long given up trying to debate like adults. They have for the most part accepted at some level that their theories are built on air and that they turn to dust very quickly whenever they encounter such patriarchal inconveniences as facts based on science or history. Some feminists will instinctively resort to screaming insults when confronted with the truth. The more practiced ones however, will almost always retreat behind their ever present barricade of victimhood. It’s a cleaver strategy and it is facilitated by the politically correct culture that has pervaded every aspect of our society, partly thanks to feminism. It’s all about everybody having some kind of divine right to feel good about themselves all the time; everybody’s opinions are equally valid it seems no matter how monumentally idiotic their pronouncements may be. It is a culture that has stifled debate of any real value all over the Western World.

How many times do we see debates on important issues degenerating into childish competitions where both sides are trying to prove they are more “offended” than their opponents. In recent years in Ireland, debates on a whole range of issues from child-abuse to gay-marriage to immigration have all been watered down by political correctness to such an extent that they become pointless. Every-time someone tries to engage in any kind of dialog about any controversial issue, the usual legions of gutless, dribbling idiots come crawling out of the woodwork, wringing their hands and claiming that someone said something “offensive.” Being “offensive” has become such a career killer for broadcasters and politicians that they now try to avoid these cowardly slurs by shying away from many of the issues that really need to be discussed. Truth is irrelevant. History, biology, science of any kind – logic, objective research, scholarship: It’s all irrelevant. The only thing that really matters is that nobody feels offended!

This culture suits feminists just fine though. For an ideology so completely devoid of substance, this touchy feely culture is a godsend. A feminist will always use this well-worn get out of jail free card when confronted with the yawning emptiness of her own doctrine. She will simply say she finds you’re argument “offensive.” In our modern PC society being “offended” trumps logical argument every time and the person who is the most “offended” wins the argument. In the mind of a brainwashed idealogue, – I’m offended means that you are wrong. If I feel uncomfortable then I must be right! QED.