Oh dear. What a good thing I am neither standing as a parliamentary candidate, nor married to anyone who is. I'll show them a X-rated rant. He dealt with - 'He'. I can't even remember his name. What was it? Help me out here, hive mind - Jepps, I think that was it, Jepps - he dealt with subjects like rape fantasy and paedophilia, in a thought-provoking way. Controversial, yes, and I cannot say that I agree with everything he said. But I take particular exception to the way the Mirror handled what they considered the most outrageous of his comments (I'm that stupid. I object so strongly to something the Mirror said that I feel compelled to blog about it. Thank fuck I never pick up the Sun. Not that I picked up the Mirror. Facebook delivered it into my lap. Fuck off, Facebook. I've had enough of you. More of that later.
To return to my point: he said this, according to the Mirror.
If I could be arsed I'd dig out my copy of Nancy Friday in which she said the same thing but forty years ago. Was it okay for her because she's a woman? An academic? Or because she said it discreetly between the covers of a book and she isn't married to a parliamentary candidate? Or because she said it at least a generation ago when - somehow - it was less controversial than it is today, which I cannot believe? Just to be clear, Nancy Friday's research included the fact (which some may find uncomfortable, but please let's not forget she was talking to real people - real women - whilst conducting her research) that some women fantasise about rape scenarios. The important point to remember here is FANTASISE. People fantasise about all kinds of hyper-real situations and activities. That does not in any way suggest that they wish to make it reality. At all.
This is a non-story. Like all the other smear-type stories in the run-up to the general election. Grow up, media, and focus on fucking policies. Though of course I recognise it isn't just the media who are responsible for this sort of shite. Look what a hatchet job the Tories managed to do on themselves with this bit of spinny-platery. Twats.
Of course people are interested in lurid details. This is because, when you get right down to it, everyone is twelve. We all are. The honest among us think nob jokes, Your Mum and pull-my-finger are the funniest things in the world. Unsophisticated, yes; but Puerile just never stops being funny. The less honest pretend to be too mature to laugh whenever anyone says 'bellend' or 'titwank', but they're pretty much all still pruriently obsessed with the private lives of others. Maybe the reason for this obsession is a refusal to accept what Nancy Friday pointed out in the first place. Not even in the first place - Kinsey was there first, I think, in the fifties. See? Sex was not invented in 1963.
The honest among us are more likely to read a blog like that and say, Okay, let's talk about it. Or if some parliamentary candidate or other enjoys being spanked on the weekend, we truly don't give a fuck because it's their business. I hate - and I mean I really HATE - to agree with Max Mosley on this, but I do.
As for the spanky candidate, I object to his public conduct far more than his private conduct. He's a UKIP candidate. Now, there's offensive. Ha - spanked on the weekend? I'd much rather be spanked on the -
What did I allude to before? Yes - Facebook. I've given it up. To be precise: I haven't deactivated my account; I still have Messenger, I may occasionally update my fanpages, and Instatwit still auto-feeds to my timeline. But for a while I need to remember what it was like when I didn't have humanity at its most repulsive, plopped straight into my lap. Actually, that's not even fair. My Facebook friends are lovely. I received very little in the way of unpleasant stories and blind ignorance - not to say it wasn't there but it could have been far worse. My greatest irritation was - is - the propensity to share improbable 'news' stories without checking facts first. Does anyone seriously think that's what a sheep looks like after it's been shorn? Fuck's sake, people.
No, I just - I just need a break. That's all. Stick around, though, hey? All, I don't know, three of you who are reading this? I'll say this: nothing like giving up Facebook to remind you that nobody is listening.
Anyway, here's another thing. My son and I were reading Harry Potter together the other night when he suddenly turned his face to me and said, Mum - what's a c**t?
I felt an unexpected mix of shock and glee. I put my hand over my mouth and snorted as if I were - well, as if I were twelve. See? Told you.
- Did you just say what's a c**t?
- Where did you hear that word? Don't let it be from me, don't let it be from me, don't let it be from me...
- The bike track. Phew. And it's in that book you gave me.
- I don't think it is.
- No, it is.
- No, it isn't. It can't be. I know it's got 'slut' in it, but it can't possibly have c**t in it.
- So tell me what it means?
So I explained about Anglo Saxon words, and Norman invaders, and taboo words, and the difference between internal and external genitalia, and the mystery of the female body, and the fear of it, and witchcraft, and the subjugation of women, and feminism, and shock value, and slang, and social context. We talked about words for the male organ being used as pejoratives too. He looked half terrified, half delighted.
I explained all this. Then I added,
- And if I ever hear you say it, I'll knock your fucking block off.
- Mum! Stop swearing!
- I love you, Son.
- Love you more, no returns.
And finally, here's one more thing. This happened.
Then this happened, and he was satisfied.
So I made these, because he was brave.
BUT I also made something else, which I didn't take a picture of because they all got ate up in like three minutes. But here's the recipe, because one day when I publish a collection of my incredible creations this will be among them.
BACON MOTHERFUCKING COOKIES
1. Make cookie dough. The big soft melty kind. I've told you how to do that before, and I'm not giving it all away that easily
2. Fry six rashers of smoked bacon, cut up small, with two teaspoons of cinnamon, one dessertspoon of cocoa and a tablespoon of sugar
3. Add the bacony bits to the cookie dough with half a bag of dark chocolate chips. I don't know how much that is. Half a small bag. It's up to you, it's cookies, not thermite*.
4, Bake those motherfuckers until they're golden. Golden, I tell you. Then use them as bait to catch attractive bearded tattooed hipsters. Works like a fucking charm.
*Now, THIS is thermite. Booom!