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Feminism now seems ubiquitous – and irrelevant. That's the test for Spare Rib Feminism now seems ubiquitous – and irrelevant. That's the test for Spare Rib
(5 months later)
In 1998 I met Ross Benson, the late and very orange foreign correspondent, in the library of the Daily Mail. It was my first day as a journalist, at the Evening Standard's Londoner's Diary, situated on the floor below. "You look like Monica Lewinsky," he said, presumably as a kind of welcome to the trade. "Would you like a cigar?" Up my vagina, you mean? Not so much. I'd rather have a career than a blazing penis of Freudian plant matter administered by a hack known for his dashing personal style, but thanks for the metaphor, Ross (aka "Dross"). It makes me feel like one of Joan of Arc's smoldering body parts.In 1998 I met Ross Benson, the late and very orange foreign correspondent, in the library of the Daily Mail. It was my first day as a journalist, at the Evening Standard's Londoner's Diary, situated on the floor below. "You look like Monica Lewinsky," he said, presumably as a kind of welcome to the trade. "Would you like a cigar?" Up my vagina, you mean? Not so much. I'd rather have a career than a blazing penis of Freudian plant matter administered by a hack known for his dashing personal style, but thanks for the metaphor, Ross (aka "Dross"). It makes me feel like one of Joan of Arc's smoldering body parts.
Of course, I did not say this. I was university educated, and I knew when to giggle professionally – the defensive giggle, if you will, as distinct from the defensive pout, or the defensive smile.Of course, I did not say this. I was university educated, and I knew when to giggle professionally – the defensive giggle, if you will, as distinct from the defensive pout, or the defensive smile.
The Standard's Londoner's Diary was like a sexist cocktail party, where my gender was a sort of complex and undiscussed disability, which I was expected to disguise unless it was to be deployed in the getting of a story. If you were a man, and not incompetent, you would eventually be sent to see the editor, Max – Max Hastings, a frightening person who writes very well on war and rather less well on British Airways cutlery – to discuss a possible promotion to the news desk. If you were a woman, you were not, although you might be sent to features to report on dog fashion shows or dungarees. Even on the cusp of the millennium, being female was still a story, but not a particularly interesting one.The Standard's Londoner's Diary was like a sexist cocktail party, where my gender was a sort of complex and undiscussed disability, which I was expected to disguise unless it was to be deployed in the getting of a story. If you were a man, and not incompetent, you would eventually be sent to see the editor, Max – Max Hastings, a frightening person who writes very well on war and rather less well on British Airways cutlery – to discuss a possible promotion to the news desk. If you were a woman, you were not, although you might be sent to features to report on dog fashion shows or dungarees. Even on the cusp of the millennium, being female was still a story, but not a particularly interesting one.
I tell this tale of dull sexism in a privileged place because it would not have happened at Spare Rib. Spare Rib was the feminist magazine that was banned by WH Smith and the Republic of Ireland, yet still – at least initially – featured recipes and skincare advice, because nothing about female identity is simple, then or now.I tell this tale of dull sexism in a privileged place because it would not have happened at Spare Rib. Spare Rib was the feminist magazine that was banned by WH Smith and the Republic of Ireland, yet still – at least initially – featured recipes and skincare advice, because nothing about female identity is simple, then or now.
It was profoundly transgressive in the early 1970s, when rape was legal in marriage, and women were denied mortgages and floated like dead fish in typing pools. Marsha Rowe, the first editor, was threatened with deportation by Edward Heath, which should be terrifying, but I suspect wasn't really. Spare Rib covered domestic violence, lesbianism and birth control, squabbled about radical v socialist feminism, was mocked and misrepresented by the threatened mainstream and finally died in 1993, aged 21. Now it is being relaunched under the journalist Charlotte Raven, who promises a "penitent" George Galloway at the launch party, in some kind of yet to be revealed menial role, which is excellent, but not enough.It was profoundly transgressive in the early 1970s, when rape was legal in marriage, and women were denied mortgages and floated like dead fish in typing pools. Marsha Rowe, the first editor, was threatened with deportation by Edward Heath, which should be terrifying, but I suspect wasn't really. Spare Rib covered domestic violence, lesbianism and birth control, squabbled about radical v socialist feminism, was mocked and misrepresented by the threatened mainstream and finally died in 1993, aged 21. Now it is being relaunched under the journalist Charlotte Raven, who promises a "penitent" George Galloway at the launch party, in some kind of yet to be revealed menial role, which is excellent, but not enough.
From a perch in a liberal newspaper, the view of the feminist landscape is confusing. Never has it seemed so all-conquering and never so irrelevant. Feminist websites and blogs proliferate. Feminism, now reborn as a marketing tool, is almost fashionable – a terrible fate, because fashion is tidal and what comes, goes.From a perch in a liberal newspaper, the view of the feminist landscape is confusing. Never has it seemed so all-conquering and never so irrelevant. Feminist websites and blogs proliferate. Feminism, now reborn as a marketing tool, is almost fashionable – a terrible fate, because fashion is tidal and what comes, goes.
We middle-class feminists bicker, fret and "check our privilege"; we criticise each other's feminist credentials the way we used to taunt each other about our frocks. Sometimes, it seems, calling oneself a feminist is a personal act of vanity, with no wider resonance – witness Louise Mensch the feminist, Theresa May the feminist and, most fantastically, Margaret Thatcher the feminist, even though her supporters will happily tell you that the woman stood for no one but herself. For the majority, the revolution has stalled. The word means nothing.We middle-class feminists bicker, fret and "check our privilege"; we criticise each other's feminist credentials the way we used to taunt each other about our frocks. Sometimes, it seems, calling oneself a feminist is a personal act of vanity, with no wider resonance – witness Louise Mensch the feminist, Theresa May the feminist and, most fantastically, Margaret Thatcher the feminist, even though her supporters will happily tell you that the woman stood for no one but herself. For the majority, the revolution has stalled. The word means nothing.
Female unemployment outstrips male; sexual assault is still too often a crime without punishment. Gender segregation and stereotyping whine on; access to abortion is threatened. Female representation in parliament, the professions and the legislature is woeful, and a desire for equality is classed simply as greed in that terrible, dishonest, term, "having it all". The government bullies women unceasingly; universal credit will make more women financially dependent on men.Female unemployment outstrips male; sexual assault is still too often a crime without punishment. Gender segregation and stereotyping whine on; access to abortion is threatened. Female representation in parliament, the professions and the legislature is woeful, and a desire for equality is classed simply as greed in that terrible, dishonest, term, "having it all". The government bullies women unceasingly; universal credit will make more women financially dependent on men.
What now? Obviously, feminism has become too personal, too confused with consumption. It has, I think, become divorced from politics; Labour did too little and the Tories nothing at all. Where is the specialist legislation or even the will to legislate? This is the monster that Spare Rib faces, even as it wields a penitent Galloway – dressed, ideally, as a naughty kitten. How will it mobilise women in their own interests? For myself, I have no answer but this – anger, that most unfeminine of emotions, seems ever the wisest course. But I am a columnist. I would say that.What now? Obviously, feminism has become too personal, too confused with consumption. It has, I think, become divorced from politics; Labour did too little and the Tories nothing at all. Where is the specialist legislation or even the will to legislate? This is the monster that Spare Rib faces, even as it wields a penitent Galloway – dressed, ideally, as a naughty kitten. How will it mobilise women in their own interests? For myself, I have no answer but this – anger, that most unfeminine of emotions, seems ever the wisest course. But I am a columnist. I would say that.
Twitter: @tanyagold1Twitter: @tanyagold1
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