Dear reader, we were going to give you another thrilling installment of our contemporary crime thriller. In this episode, the bank manager turns a blind eye to the money laundering whilst the leader of the opposition puts his best foot forward and invites the crime bosses around for a discrete tete a tete. What ensues is an exhillirating roller coaster ride of graft and deception, and in the best tradition of “artful” Arty Sinodinos, more ‘can’t recall’s’ than a amnesiacs convention.
But instead, we have this reflection by our esteemed poet Ira Maine, which may draw some light on the vexed, (cos Saint Tone of the Santamaria wants us to think it so) issue of gender. And in keeping with the splendid initiative by the Federal Government on non binding, marriage non-reform to indulge us all in a postal vote, Ira has sent this missive via morse teleprinter. The original being translated from cuneiform and wax tablet. We apologise for the deferrment of the crime fiction thriller, but provide you with stills of the upcoming dramatisation to whet your appetite. Enjoy!
Ira writes about Cecil’s (alleged) dissapearance into the wild west
‘What? No rude postcards, not even for ready money? No suggestion of the inexplicable joy attaching to subtly delivered innuendo? No be-bosomed belles disporting themselves on bayside beaches? No bathing boxes, no blazered buffoons bewitched by passing pulchritude? Oh, lack-a-day! Some urgent action must be taken to redress this politically correct imbalance.
Where have all the postcards gone, I ask myself? Burned, like books by the postcard Nazis, a humourless bunch of unimaginative jackasses, both male and female, who can’t see beyond their PC noses.
The present state of women’s affairs, I feel, though wholly admirable, takes itself a soupçon too seriously, lacks a sense of humour, and would seem to suggest that we men, if we are to be politically correct, must ignore both women’s sensuality and sexuality completely.
The difficulty here is that as a result, we are breeding a generation of odourless, colourless male wimps who don’t know their arse from their elbow when it comes to dealing with the fair sex. Women, it must be said, have to take some responsibility for this situation. Women are so intent on exercising their right to not be viewed as sexual objects that they are ceasing to be seen as sexual objects at all! Banter, pleasantries, the odd well-meant compliment, are increasingly and alarmingly met with suspicion, hostility and quite often, verbal aggression.
Where the hell has the sense of joy, of celebration gone? For whom is this dried-up, inquisitional alternative to life intended for? And it is not just the women! Look at Trump, and Turnbull and Teresa May! What a drained and empty bunch they are. God save us all from this triumvirate of mediocrity.
Women are,undoubtedly, sexual objects.They are the glorious, astonishing pinnacle of achievement in the natural world, and are designed specifically to ensure the continuance of the race. Glass ceilings are cracking and equal pay is on the way. Given their present power, all women have to do to break through these barriers is to collectively withdraw their skills for a day or two, then watch the other side cave in. But their principal function, that function Nature intended them for, hasn’t altered one whit, not one iota.
They are still marvellously, dazzlingly, sexual objects and that sensuality ought to be allied with a joyful celebration of what unique creatures they are. Instead we are presented, by women, with a wizened, Calvinistic view of sexuality which seems to owe more to the mediaeval Church than to modern, feminist thinking.
I think it is time for a change. The women’s movement needs a new momentum, perhaps a new, celebratory leader, somebody, for God’s sake, with a sense of humour! Those older women who brought about the modern women’s movement were highly intelligent, with guts and energy and zeal. We need more of the same lest the whole movement fail for want of that essential momentum.
Men also need to be reminded who they are and how important they are. They need to be lifted out of their present incomprehension. This shouldn’t be a problem for most women. It is, after all, what they have been doing for men since Adam was a boy.
As a flourish, as a finish to this piece in praise of those older women, I would like to include a politically incorrect and perfectly shameful quote from one of the songs of the late English songwriter, Jake Thackray;
‘…I love a good bum on a woman,
It makes my day…’
No gentleman could possibly disagree’…