Moranthology Page 12

  Lots of them are obvious and laudable morality—not killing, not lying, not stealing, doing your very best not to have sex with next door’s wife; or else common sense housekeeping tips for hot countries—pork and shellfish would have been perilous in a pre–Sub-Zero era in the Middle East, for instance. They’re all fine.

  Then there are the more questionable rules. For anyone who’s watched Jerry Springer or read Us Weekly, “respecting your parents” doesn’t make sense if your father is basically Frank from Shameless, or your mother some neurotic socialite who abandoned you to a host of disinterested nannies.

  And, finally, there are the rules—scattered across all religions—that would only have been made up in an era where women were second-class citizens, i.e., any point before the release of Working Girl in 1986. The value on female virginity; female sexuality being “dangerous”; divorce being considered shameful: understandable rules from a pre-contraceptive society where women’s main purpose was to keep family bloodlines undisputed, and prevent small, muddy villages exploding in a series of General Hospital–like plot-lines.

  And, so, to the burqa—currently the world’s most controversial outfit. Last week, the French government brought in a law making the burqa illegal in public places—prompting complex, but often inconclusive, emotional reactions, from pub gardens to broadsheets.

  On the one hand, there feels something deeply amiss about seeing a woman walking down a street, in twenty-first century Paris, shrouded from head to toe as if she were some ghostly, flickering projection from 1,000 years ago. Some official urge to address this seems understandable.

  On the other hand, the pictures that went around the world on the day the laws came into statute—French policemen grabbing a woman, on her own, and dragging her away; the inference, if not the actuality, being that they would then strip the burqa from her face, even as she protested—were also deeply disturbing. Xenophobic governments telling immigrant women what to wear—making laws about their wardrobes—also feels medieval. With another cultural shift, what other laws could be brought in to legislate against the clothes on women’s backs: Fur? Mini-skirts? Pants? You could find passionate advocates against all of them. But in the case of the French government against burqas, who is really telling who what to wear here?

  Well, I have a rule for working out if the root problem of something is, in fact, sexism. And it is this: asking “Are the boys doing it? Are the boys having to worry about this stuff? Are the boys the center of a gigantic global debate on this subject?”

  And this is basis on which I finally decided I was against both the French legislation and women wearing burqas. France was the last European country to give women the vote, the French senate is 76.5 percent male, and it’s never passed a law on what French men can wear. Not even deck shoes; or alarming all-in-one ski suits in bright pink nylon. So there’s clearly some sexism going on there.

  Secondly, meanwhile, the logic of the burqa is a paradox. Yes, the idea is that it protects your modesty, and ensures that people regard you as a human being—rather than just a sexual object. Fair enough.

  But who is your modesty being protected from? Men. And who—so long as you play by the rules, and wear the correct clothes—is going to protect you from the men? Men. And who is it that is regarding you as just a sexual object, instead of another human being, in the first place? Men.

  And—most importantly—which half of the population has never been required to walk around, covered from head to toe, in order feel like a normal human being? Men.

  Well, then. Burqas seem like quite a man-based problem, really. I would definitely put this under the heading, “100 percent stuff that the men need to sort out.” I don’t know why women are suddenly having to put things on their heads to make it better.

  Men invented burqas—men are banning burqas. And they are the only people who would have invented them. Because I can’t believe a female-invented religion—with a female god, female prophets, and laws based on protecting women’s interests—would ever have invented an item of religious clothing that required so much ironing.

  Other times, however, fashion is a bit easier to deal with. You just have to look its insanity firmly in the eye, and say, “No. No, fashion—stop being silly. Shoo. I am too busy for this nonsense, as well you know.”

  THIS CAPE MAKES ME LOOK LIKE WIZBIT

  I love this time of year, when the autumn/winter trends are minutely detailed in the media, and womankind can observe the fashions which are bearing down upon it at 100mph.

  As someone who is both technically and actually a woman, I would never wish to absent myself from these vital dispatches. So, as is tradition, I spent this summer holiday as I have the last five—casting an eye over the forthcoming fashion weather, and making my wardrobe calculations accordingly. I learned that the forecast for 2011 is both varied and absorbing.

  Capes, for instance, will continue to be a hot look—despite their unnerving ability to make the wearer look like Wizbit and/or someone who’s had their arms chopped off in a jousting tournament, and is inexplicably coy about admitting it in front of their peers. (Wizbit was a triangular children’s TV character who had very few distinguishing character traits other than being triangular in shape. He is not one of British TV’s most legendary inventions.)

  “No—no, there’s nothing wrong. Just gonna wear this cape for a while. No reason. Could you just . . . put that sandwich in my mouth, please? It’s for . . . a dare.”

  Should you not favor the cape, and/or prefer to have the use of your arms, there is apparently another option for you: the “Mannish Coat,” instead.

  “It should look like it’s borrowed from the man in your life,” Vogue explained, over shots of tweedy, boyish, single-breasted numbers.

  This, of course, would be fine advice if the man in your life were Benedict Cumberbatch in Sherlock, who rarely has less than a grand’s worth of hot and alluring tailoring hanging on the peg by the front door. Were I to wear a coat borrowed from the man in my life, however, I’d be pitching up at smart dinners in a bright yellow Radiohead Pac-a-Mac, decorated with one of Thom Yorke’s trademark cartoons of a sad, abused panda.

  When it comes to actual clothes, the summary for F/W11 is apparently “sophisticated” and “modest.” In a post-Middleton era, it’s “all about” pussy-bow blouses, tight midi-skirts, and court shoes. I cannot say I receive this news with great joy. At thirty-six, I’m a seasoned Fashion Veteran now—and in all my years of Style Combat, I have come to have a particular reason to view tight midi-skirts with Feud Eyes.

  Don’t get me wrong—your Mad Men–style skirt looks great when you’re lolling around in it, smoking a fag. Attempt to get down a flight of stairs in one, however, and the extreme restriction around the knees becomes apparent, causing all manner of problems in posture and gait. However many icy martinis you’re holding at the time (and FYI more than two is difficult, although certainly possible, particularly if you’re not shy about utilizing the crook of your elbow), it’s hard to maintain an air of sophisticated allure when you’re having to kick your calves out sideways, in the style of a windup plastic bath frog. And court shoes look Thatcher. Always have done, always will do. And they tend to fall off when you’re running, like you’re some union-crushing Cinderella.

  So—having spent my holiday debriefing myself on the F/W11 mood board—I returned this week to London, and did what all women do every year, head full of the “must haves,” “directional pieces,” and “looks” we’ll be “channelling” until spring: went to Topshop, and bought whatever made me look thinnest.

  Obviously that’s not the entirety of my F/W11 wardrobe makeover—I also popped into Mango and Zara, as well, and bought whatever made me look thinnest there, too. And I certainly wouldn’t rule out, at some later point, buying something from H&M if it in any way makes me look a bit like Elizabeth Taylor drinking gin while sitt
ing on Richard Burton’s lap. But, frankly, that’s it. When all the fashion editors were on Twitter in August fretting about which coat they were going to go for this autumn, I just looked in my coat closet, noticed that my duffel coat was still there, and said, “Yes. I know which coat I am going for this autumn. The one that I already have.”

  Because the truth about the gigantic hoopla of each new season’s developments is this: there is no must-have, platinum-plated, worn-by-Anna-Wintour item in the world any woman would wear if it does anything other than make her look thin and a bit “likely.”

  On top of this, Vogue can list as many “must have” “directional pieces” as they like—if it’s not in a shop we’re wandering past we’re going to kind of . . . forget to buy it. Yes. That’s right. Simply not get around to it. We might sometimes like the idea of getting the £600 green snakeskin belt by Dior but—like whale-watching in Peru—it’s not very local, and would, financially, require canceling Christmas in its entirety.

  This is why the phrase “I wear a mixture of high-street and vintage”—the “quirky” wardrobe descriptor claimed by Alexa Chung, Kate Moss, et al—amuses me so much. That just means “a mixture of cheap stuff and old stuff.” That’s what we’re all wearing, dear. That’s what we’ll all be wearing in F/W11.

  Some discrimination isn’t bad, ladies. Like positive discrimination. That’s the good discrimination.

  WE NEED QUOTAS, LADIES. OR WE WILL BE LONELY PELICANS.

  In a report as interesting to read as it must have been wearying to compile, The Guardian recently ran statistics on the male dominance of British public life.

  Over a month, they painstakingly recorded that 78 percent of newspaper articles, 72 percent of Question Time contributors and 84 percent of the presenters and guests on Radio 4 were men. Ninety-three years after women got the vote, they still aren’t saying very much. Well, obviously they are saying a lot: they’re in the kitchen getting the tea ready, and shouting at Toby Young spraffing on on Today—his ability to be a total tit about any and all events so reliable, you could use it to power an atomic clock. But. Still. Women aren’t getting paid to say things publicly. That—like coal mining, and arranging illegal dog fights—is still the domain of men.

  If you do ever see women commenting on current affairs, it’s usually as a vox-pop of “just” “a mum” outside a shopping center on the Six O’Clock News, being asked what she thinks of the government’s plan to open up a Hellmouth, just by the ring-road, and let all the demons of the lower realms pour forth.

  “I don’t know much about these things,” she will say, doubtfully, jiggling the buggy to keep the baby quiet. “But it worked out quite badly that time when they raised all the dead, and let them traverse the streets at night, eating cats to fuel their evil quests. And they’ve closed the library. I sometimes worry they might have gone too far. Not that I’m political. Sorry.”

  So. Given that these are pretty embarrassing statistics for a first world country in 2011, what are we going to do about it? Many, of course, would say that “we” shouldn’t “do” anything—that attaining a position in public life is just something best left to Nature. Women should think of themselves as salmon, say—and just keep trying to leap up that waterfall, over and over again, until they finally get to the top and lay their eggs (appear on Newsnight talking about Syria).

  Personally, however, I think that idea is—to use the technical term—bollocks. Society isn’t Nature—it’s made by people. Hopefully, polite and civilized people. And if society isn’t working for 52 percent of the people, then it would be mannerly to change it so that it does. That’s why I’m totally in favor of employment quotas and positive discrimation.

  “But Cate,” those who object will say, who know what my nickname is. The good nickname. Not “Snakey Mome Rath.” “But Cate—if you insist 50 percent of your workforce is women, and force employers to hire them, that means you’re gonna get women who are wildly ill-qualified desk-meat, smashing at the keyboards with their faces, and making a total hash of it. Women racketing around the office who don’t know the difference between ‘up’ and ‘down,’ keep pressing buttons on the air conditioner saying, ‘This printer isn’t working,’ and posting confidential client information on Twitter. That can’t be right!”

  Well, it’s not “right.” It is, however, totally normal. After all, in an office that’s 70 percent men, at least 20 percent of them are going to be wildly ill-qualified desk-meat, smashing at the keyboard with their faces, and making a total hash of it. Of course they are. That’s just statistics. People who are anti-positive-discrimination are ignoring the fact that we’ve been giving jobs to MILLIONS of stupid, unqualified people for millenia: men.

  Please don’t misunderstand—I am not prejudiced against the stupid men. Or the stupid women, for that matter. As we all know, any office—from Budgens in Crouch End to the White House—only needs three clever people to run it. Everyone else there is essentially just a background extra, to keep the important, capable people from feeling lonely. And that’s another reason why we need quotas. When women are in a minority in any situation, they feel as understandably odd and stressed as two pelicans in a camel enclosure. And the camels can’t help but look at the pelican beaks oddly, and go off and do “camel things” in the corner, while the pelicans feel awkward and alone, and go on a weird diet, out of self-loathing.

  In this situation, you just need to wang half a dozen stupider pelicans into the enclosure, to keep the best pelicans company, and even out the numbers—so that both “being a pelican” and “being a camel” is totally normal in London Zoo’s New Pelican & Camel Experience.

  Men who complain about positive discrimination look like—to use the technical phrase—girls. Let’s face it—the next Bill Gates or Barack Obama isn’t going to be held back because AAAAAAABBA Office Supplies in Dartford has been forced to hire three female accounts managers. Come ON! Do you really think you have something to complain about? Do you really think you’re at a disadvantage? Stop whining! Rosa Parks managed to kick-start the Civil Rights movement in America, on a bus, WHILE CARRYING SOME GROCERIES. You need some perspective on just how hindered you really are.

  Here I can go into a lovely segue—from the politeness of female employment quotas, to the politeness of chivalry—all as smoothly as a local radio presenter going from the sport into travel and weather. And that’s plenty smooth.

  As “Downton Fever” (some people watching Downton) swept the nation in 2012, an interview with Michelle Dockery, who plays Lady Mary, and—as revealed later in this book—crunks to “No Diggity,” provoked controversy when she lamented the end of chivalry in an interview in the Radio Times.

  “Those old manners—such as men standing when women arrive at the dinner table, or opening doors for you—are lovely, and it’s lovely when you see a man doing that today,” she said. “But young men wouldn’t think about that for a second [now], because that’s not the culture anymore.”

  This prompted much squabbling over the desirability of a chivalric revival, with many women and men arguing against it, as they believed all chivalry was essentially men patronizing women, and implying they were weak and helpless.

  I strongly disagreed—primarily on the basis that I like sitting down.

  I WOULD LIKE SOME CHIVALRY, PLEASE, DUDE

  There has recently been some debate on the place chivalry has in the modern era—prompted by the massive success of Downton Abbey, which shows a forgotten world of gentlemen rising as a lady enters the room, using quadrille gloves when engaged in quadrilling, and making only the faintest legal protest over women gaining the vote in 1918.

  Having observed its full glory on television, modern opinion seems to be split on the desirability of now staging a full chivalric revival. The main argument against it is that it presupposes weakness in women. The common complaint is that if a man, s
ay, stands up to give his seat to a woman on the Tube, he is basically saying, “Lady, I think you are having a massive period, and might faint if you remain standing. That would then delay this Tube for all of us normal, non-menstruating people. So, on behalf of everyone with a tight schedule, have my chair and sit tf down, lest we all suffer from your physical misfortune.”

  And I can see why that might be slightly annoying—if you were, perhaps, a hale and hearty wench, who prides herself on her upper body strength, and can climb up a rope rather than hanging at the bottom of it, uselessly, like a 5′5″ lady-bauble.

  However. Speaking as someone who, four days a month, really might faint on the Tube if someone doesn’t give up their seat, I am eternally grateful for any gentleman who stands as I limp into his car. Sometimes, I have been suffering so badly on public transport I have inadvertently let out a low, animal-moan of “Maaaaa”—then had to style it out by pretending to be a slightly unhinged person, singing along to Mama Mia on my iPod. I have had swooning moments so intense I had to rest my head on a Slovakian’s rucksack, while mouthing the words “Don’t faint, Cat-Mo; don’t faint” into a gigantic outside pocket.

  And that’s before we even mention pregnancy. The first three months of gestation—when there are no visible indicators to the onlooker—are a panoply of astonishing and dehabilitating physical side effects. I had one incident where my feet became so mysteriously hot, I eventually had to go into a changing room in New Look, and sluice them down with a bottle of Purdey’s. All kinds of head spinning insanity can be going on inside a woman’s body. Some days, it’s like we’re covering up a circus that’s on fire, using only an A-line skirt and a blouse. Underneath, there are clowns jumping out of windows, and crying seals everywhere.