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January 13th, 2013:

A Balanced Contribution

Further to SaoT’s “not a debate” thread (which I have no issue with) and referring in particular to the last sentence of Robert Edwards’ comment:

The sad truth is that some birds are, as you say, ‘easier on the eye’ than others, so good luck to them; it must be q. rough being a munter, but those are the breaks, I’m afraid…

I’m afraid I can’t let Robert’s gauntlet lie unmolested.

You see, I’m no oil painting.  Neither are most of the women in my family.  We are all Plain Janes and therefore, if you accept Robert’s point of view, munters.  We do, however, possess brains, personality and, in the main, senses of humour.  We are also, by and large, with a slight emphasis on the large in my case, successful.  I don’t feel, or have ever felt, hard done by in the looks department.  Despite the lack of visually stunning facial attributes I still managed to bag a successful man.  A design engineer in fact.  We have a comfortable, if modest life together, we live in a nice area and after almost thirty years of marriage he still treats me like the sun shines out of my every orifice.  The lack of any kind of easy on the eye beauty ideal has never held me back so no, it isn’t q. rough being a munter.

I was a beautiful baby and have the pics to prove it.  However, I didn’t live up to the early promise.  Never gave it a second thought because you see, I could beat the pants off the pretty, giggly girly girls when it came to smarts.  Boys, make-up and fashion have never featured on my conversational radar because I would much sooner watch paint dry.  Like the bulk of the female population I don’t envy good looks and I’m of the opinion that if you’ve got it then why not flaunt it.  And, as Robert says, good luck to those who do.  If they want to decorate some bloke’s arm or use their physical attributes to sell goods or catch a well to do hubby then go for it and go for it hard because there is a shelf life to beauty unless you want to go the way of the scalpel.  Smarts last a hell of a lot longer.

I’ve seen pretty girls bed hop like sex crazed frogs in the hope of catching the man of their dreams.  It never seemed to quite work out for them and all they got was a rep for being easy; popular but not wifely material.  I never had to do that to catch a bloke but it isn’t because I’m a munter and no one ever asked me.  I wouldn’t lower myself.  In fact I feel sorry for the lasses who believe they have to flit from bloke to bloke in order to work their way up the social ladder.  I got there through sheer hard graft and using my noggin.  My significant other half came along later.  However it was my well fitted uniform skirt over suspenders (it was bloody hot in the summer of 1976) that initially snagged him.  Right after I nicked him for speeding…

I might be a munter in the eyes of some but I’m not some hairy-lipped, envious as hell, face that sucked a thousand lemons femiloon.  I scorn the harridans who dictate how a gorgeous lass should behave.  How very dare they vilify any woman with the guts to strut her stuff.  They should give us all a break, STFU and go shave their armpits.

Having said that I have a confession to make.

If some fairy godmother popped up and offered to make me easy on the eye as well a keep my intelligence I’d jump at it.  Who wouldn’t want the best of both worlds?  However, if the same FG offered beauty at the expense of 25% of my IQ I’d tell her where to stick her wand.  You see I prize intelligence more than looks.  As for todays female role models – gawd help us!  I’ll never be inspired by or aspire to be a Cheryl Cole, a Jordan or a WAG.  The very idea of living a life like that leaves me cold.  I’d sooner put out my eyes than read about them or watch them.  They have no interest for me.  I’m far more interested in politics, science, shooting clay and off-roading.

Being a munter is no bar to ambition.  All you need to do is look at Charlie Jug-ears’ squeeze.  She might look rough but that didn’t stop her hooking the heir to the throne.

Being plain ordinary isn’t a burden.  Lacking the ability to turn heads never killed me nor turned me into an envious bitch.  My existence isn’t rough by any stretch of the imagination.  Munter is just a name.  I shall wear it with pride because I had to fight for what I have.  It didn’t get offered to me because I have perky boobs and a face that the Royal Navy could use to supplement their depleted fleet.  If individuals need to pigeonhole me as a munter because nature didn’t grace me with a certain type of physiology then it says more about them than about me.  I inhabit the middle ground, a place between stunning and munter.  And let me tell you, it’s bloody crowded.

Socialist Justice? … er…

Well if you will use Kangaroo Courts, you can expect to get jumped on can’t you?

Can you imagine what the world would look like if this shower ever got power? I’ll say no more, but I wonder how many jokes Jeremy Hardy could squeeze out of this on the News Quiz. What you say? It will never come up on the News Quiz. How utterly unsurprising.

A tale of two Great Metropolitan Newspapers…

From The Guardian we have:

“Experience: I gave birth outside Waitrose”. (Please read the whole thing It is unfiskable nonce…) Obviously, The Guardian doesn’t have the companion piece, “I got knocked-up round the back of Aldi”. That would be merely for the lower classes. So enter the Daily Mail. Soon… Too soon if you ask me.

But not yet! The Guardian has this to say about the towels used (was this a John Lewis ad?) “They gave us them” – well obviously! Do you want towels someone else gave birth on? I mean they weren’t exactly saleable after that were they? Do you want some placenta with that Madam?

Anyway I find the use of the name “John” for Lewis somewhat bizarre in the context. It was a boy but it would seem the person who did most was an Alexandria. So not Alexander? I mean name the kid after the effective midwife and not the owner of the car-park.

From the Daily Mail we have this gem.

A disgusted mother is boycotting high street chemist Boots after she found her children playing with a sex toy near the checkouts. [disgusted I tells ya!]

Alison Savory wrote to Boots chief executive Alex Gourlay after her sons, aged six and eight, picked up a purple Durex vibrator displayed ‘prominently’ in the store.

The mother-of-three, from Crowthorne, Berkshire, said: ‘Call me a prude, but it is not something children should be exposed to.

‘Boots presents a family image – since when did it turn into Ann Summers?’

Ms Savory, an acupuncturist, let her sons wait near the tills at the Camberley store while paying for her shopping with her two-year-old daughter on December 23.

She said: ‘I don’t choose to take my children into a sex shop, but in a family shop I felt happy for the children to run around.’

The 42-year-old was ‘flabbergasted’ and ‘embarrassed’ when she found them playing with the penis-shaped toy displayed at their eye level by a wall of condoms next to the till. [a wall of condoms!!!]

She said ‘I wasn’t ready to have that conversation in the middle of a busy Boots – I was very embarrassed.
‘I felt Boots took my choice away as a parent and that upset me.’

Four points. The first is that the Fail article repeats the word “family” repeatedly and ad nauseum. Might I suggest that a “mother of three” probably knows a bit about sex – unless it was all down to jumped-up fanny-mechanic Lord Winston. Second, nobody forced her into Boots. Third, where does she get off on lecturing Boots on it’s business model? If Boots wants to sell sex-toys (perfectly legal – this is England – not Iran) then fair enough. Their biz, their rules which brings me to the ultimate point: she owes Boots an apology, not the other way around. She pretty much admits to letting her kids run wild on private property and wreck the goods which were not her property. Would you want a dildo that had been fondled by a six-year old? I assume you aren’t Jimmy Saville.

So, that is it. That is why I’m a libertarian. Both articles are deeply risible. The Guardian one fails to address the fundamental point which is the lack of an ambulance (20 minutes! – in inner-city London! – spitting distance from the Royal London Hospital -which I lived near for a year and I know has a helipad). I mean it’s like come for the posh ham and stay for the child-birth. It reads like something from the John Lewis press-office. The Mail story is just demented. It is a story about a woman who can’t control her kids and wants a private business to do it instead.

Oh, and seeing as the Mail, which makes a big deal of being a “family” paper, hangs up a “Femail” side-bar which is essentially soft-porn for old gits.

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