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Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Bap Attack
Classy girl, her
Could someone do me a favour and remove Loose Women’s Denise Welch from the public eye? Because if she flashes her tits one more time I’m going to have to remove my own eyes, decontaminate them, encase them in concrete and bury them a mile below the surface of the earth for the next one hundred years.
What the fuck is wrong with the woman that she has to keep flashing her saggy funbags at photographers? Christ, it wouldn’t be so bad if they were a magnificent paean to the wonders of the female form but, let’s be fair, they’re not. They swing in the wind and are encased in flesh coloured bras. I know this. I have seen them over and over again, as has the rest of the poor, sobbing nation.
Anyway, that’s besides the point. The real conundrum is what makes a fifty-something successful woman whip out her knockers at any given opportunity? It reeks so badly of desperation, insecurity and some wild craving for the front pages that it’s actually distressing to watch. And no, it’s not about women reclaiming their bodies, grasping equality from men and being ballsy and life-loving. There are ways of doing that which don’t involve forcing your dignity through a cheese grater, which is what Welch seems to do every time she leaves the house.
Look, I’m not a fan of Welch anyway, mainly because I’m not a fan of the show Loose Women.  It’s like a lunchtime parade of screeching fishwives that makes me wonder how much more damage womens’ rights can take before men attempt to lock us back up in our kitchens.
This bap parading, though, is doing the equivalent of taking womens’ hard-won equality and rubbing its face in the dirt. Girls, you want to be accepted in the boardrooms of the nation? You want to reach the giddy heights of senior management? You want to claim the Cabinet for your own? Well, whatever you do, don’t ask Welch for her support. She’d forsake intellectual argument and negotiation for dragging her oft-seen nips across the shag pile of the boardroom floor. Classy, Welch, classy.
There can’t be a soul on the planet who doesn’t witness Welch’s antics with a giant, internal ‘ouch’. It’s cheap and nasty and whether it’s a symptom of her personal turmoil or not she has to show mercy and stop.
Den, love, just take a breath, have a think about whether this is how you want to be remembered and tuck the tits away. I’m sure there’s a clever, engaging, intelligent woman in there somewhere. You just have to open your mind to find her, not your top.  



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