I was listening to t’wireless the other night, and that new Lily Allen song was playing. You know, the jaunty number about an otherwise lovely relationship being spoiled by shoddy times in the bedroom. The one that can in no way be construed as an attack on all men.
Aha, though. Because it would appear it can. As soon as it finished the DJ jumped in with a remark about her “tales of woe,” and I wonder if a man released a song like would he get away with it, hmm I don’t think so somehow ha ha, but sure aren’t we men useless at everything anyway, and it’s 11 o’clock and here’s the news.
Let’s, for a moment, ignore all the squabbly noncefights about who gets to be the equalest, and concentrate on what a colossal sackbag you have to be to make comments like that. And not just to make them, but to be so horrendously glib and passive-aggressive while you’re at it. I get that you’re insecure. I get that you grew up in the midst of a lot of change and uncertainty. But surely you realise how you’re coming off? Surely you could think things through a bit more? Because I would respectfully submit that if in order for you to see a personal insult in those lyrics, your knee has to possessed of a jerkiness rarely seen outside of late-stage Parkinson’s.
So and anyway. I guess if there’s a wider point to be made, it’s that it’s pretty embarrassing to be a man sometimes. There’s a line to be skated between victim and apologist1, and it’s easy enough to fall off. But seriously fellas, could we at least refrain from taking a dive?