While it is obvious that not every feminist statement can or has to represent all women, I naively thought we had reached the point where we did think we had to represent someone more than just privileged white women.Well, not if the pages of the 'Guardian' are anything to go by...
But this is, it seems, 'Pile in on Lily Allen' time:
In the video she walks away from her twerking dancers. She remains in charge. They don't. Maybe I have read it wrong. But what I see is the black female body, anonymous and sexualised, grinding away to make the rent.I just see a dancer in paid employment. Must be my glasses.
Allen herself says the whole thing is meant to be lighthearted, dealing "with objectification of women … It has nothing to do with race at all."Well, she should know, it's her so...
Whether the project is feminism or a way of selling a song. Our sketches matter. Who gets to be in charge of our bodies matters. So I am sorry but Allen cannot be the one to say this is nothing to do with race.She's only singing it, you see. It can't be left up to her to decide what it's about, and to tell those listening what it's about.
Where would that lead..?
Ha ha - serves Lili Allen right. Hoisted by her own petard. Now she's being called racist:
The lyrics required a delightfully mocking video and the peerless combination only threatens those dependent on the disease remaining incurable.
O/T any Racoon news, Julia?
Shake dat bootie.........
As a hetero female I was mesmerised by the video. Oh to be so lithe and limber.
Fuck the rampant jealousy of the white feminists, those magnificent "women of colour" dancers put the Cyrus brat to shame.
*THAT'S* how you Twerk, little girl.
Such harsh criticism is enough to inspire a songstress to pen an “Its not fair” ditty.
I've got nothing.
Reading Suzanne Moore's article, I felt so moved that I had to fart.
Obviously, the overprivileged, privately-educated Lily Allen must be a racist, misogynistic, elitist, singing phallus. I farted again.
In fact, I felt that the only way I could connect with Suzanne Moore was to print out a picture of her face. And fart on that.
It was only later that I realized that it wasn't Suzanne's words, but the sugar-free Fisherman's Friends I'd had earlier today that had this effect on me, and that Suzanne has to pluck 400 words from somewhere to do it.
The same place my flatus came from. Oh, no, I don't mean my bottom - it can write far better than that, I meant hers.
About the only writing from Suzanne I'd enjoy reading would be a victim impact statement - and even then, I'm not so sure.
Of course, it's just a teensy bit possible that Moore is really just jealous of nubile black dancers - and Lily Allen - for being young and attractive, and that she doesn't want people to look at them for this reason.
For some years now Moore has been going through the m....er, certain changes in her life, which have been having a....physical effect on her. Her Guardian photo hides these visual facts by putting a spotlight in a helpful position.
Back issues of the Mail on Sunday reveal the truth, confused expression and all. In fact she reminds me of Harriet Hormone, who doesn't want men to look at page three beauties. Isn't it time these women grew up and faced the facts of middle life?
These days the good sharp slap has been superseded by hormone replacement therapy, and taking this may assist in the emotional maturation of these two cantankerous involutional women.
"... only threatens those dependent on the disease remaining incurable."
Quite! A certain type of feminist in particular.
And sadly no, no news on Anna - I'm dreading the denouement of that story, as I fear the worst, like Leg-Iron...
"*THAT'S* how you Twerk, little girl."
"About the only writing from Suzanne I'd enjoy reading would be a victim impact statement - and even then, I'm not so sure."
Isn't that the subtext of all her columns, though?
" In fact she reminds me of Harriet Hormone..."
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