For the first time I can remember, it’s cool to be a Feminist. In fact, it’s a basic sign of evolution akin to the opposable thumb, and severely crushing on New York Times Political Correspondent, and frontline Feminist, Ronan Farrow. 

During my 20’s, reading Girl Curriculum literature by the likes of De Beauvoir, Greer and Steinem, left me compelled to challenge my world. And it was a challenge. The late 90s/early Noughties, (Naughty by name, etc) adopted Porn as Pop Culture. 

Lads’ mags featured adult actresses on front covers, no longer relegated to the top shelf. The Playboy brand became symbolic of empowerment. The fun response was to embrace it. Ladettes went to lap-dance bars, downed pints, and became Sexy Girl Heroes to the boys with the fantasy dollars.

I was never going to be that girl, but there was nothing empowering about being a Feminist, either. It was something you were labeled as (by both men and women) to suggest you were a poe-faced, pain-in-the-ass, nobody wanted to fuck or be friends with, but I wasn’t naïve enough to believe everyone who enjoyed a bit of scantily-clad recreation was misogynist. 

I found my freedom as I locked eyes with Ariel Levy’s, Female Chauvinist Pigs. Levy explained, females were adopting misogynistic behaviours in an attempt to control their own exploitation. Ladettes were convinced the road to equality was sign-posted by Tits & Ass. But, who made those sign-posts? Who told us we were heading in the right direction? Erm, duh. The Boys!

Good, hey? Give it a read if it’s your cuppa tea.