PMQs sketch: Angela Merkel's bazookas

After a month without, PMQs returns with LOLs, nurses and ... the economy.

It was when Sir Bufton Tufton rose and asked about Angela Merkel and her bazookas that you wondered if the future of the country really was in safe hands.

Some may point out that Sir B is a fictional character but that only makes it even harder to explain away Sir Peter Hannay Bailey Tapsell, Conservative MP for Louth and Horncastle.

Sir Peter, who doubles as Father of the House of Commons, is not apparently fictional but makes a good stab at it at every opportunity he gets.

And one such opportunity came earlier today when he found himself at Prime Ministers Questions with a bit of spare time on his hands.

PMQs returned to the parliamentary timetable today after an absence of almost a month to give MPs a bit of a break after they had a bit of a break for Easter six weeks ago and before they go off for a bit of a break for Whitsun in eight day's time.

Since they last got together the government has re-launched itself at least two more times, growth forecasts have again been down-graded, Tories and Lib Dems massacred in local elections and some of the Prime Minister's best mates sent up in front of the Leveson Inquiry.

With Dave himself due in the same dock soon, Labour with a double-digit lead in the polls and even Ed Miliband less nerdy than ever, the stage was set for a scintillating - if one-side - return to the fray.

Indeed the PM displayed a sickly pallor, if such a thing is possible beneath the expensive tan of someone who travels abroad as often as possible, as he arrived for the contest. His nervous demeanour was only matched by that of his Chancellor George Osborne, who clearly expected a kicking himself; but neither could match the appearance of Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg who looked as if tears were but one further slight snub away.

Time off usually imbues PMQs with that back-to-school excitement so beloved of many MPs but a few days of debates on the Queen's Speech seemed to have taken their toll and even the usual suspects took time to open their insults bags.

Having been roundly drubbed by Ed M at all appearances at the Despatch Box in recent months, Dave has been told by his advisors that he must get a grip on his temper and his tantrums.

And arriving with welcome news on the unemployment front he seemed in control as he batted away the Labour leader's early insults which themselves appeared to have been on holiday. But breeding will out and after a few fumbles Ed managed to re-locate the button which turns Dave into his alter-ego Harry Flashman and normal service was resumed.

Having dropped in references to Leveson and last week's exposure of his LOL texting tendencies by Rebekah Brooks (which Dave was at least  prepared for), Ed turned the screw.

Energetically aided and abetted by his own in-house bruiser Ed Balls, he moved on to the economy, dropped in the nurses, asked what the Prime Minister was on, and told him to calm down.

To be fair, Dave tried his best but you could see he will need a few more hours on the couch. Snacking on the PM has been a regular hors d'oeuvres on the Commons lunch menu for Labour in recent months. But it's also been a hidden pleasure for his Cabinet Ministers as well; happy to see him getting a slice of what he serves up to them regularly.

But most of the infamous faces were notable by their absence today - although reports were coming in of Home Secretary Theresa May taking serious abuse from the Police Federation, and Communities Secretary Eric Pickles had only managed to make his way to the end of the Front Bench.

With a re-shuffle now apparently imminent could it be that out-of-sight, out-of-mind may be the approach being taken by those on whose feet, if not careers, the Prime Minister has to trod as he makes his usually baleful exit from the Chamber.

All of which brings us untidily back to Sir Bufton. Or at least his presence on earth, Sir Peter, and his question about the German Chancellor and her bazookas.

Sir Peter, who has not been bothered by the the demands of high political office in his fifty-plus years as an MP, often makes interventions which soar above the heads of most of those present, and his latest was no exception.

The Prime Minister, noting the appearance of Angela Merkel amongst the words, chose to answer a question about Greece . . .

Photograph: Getty Images

Peter McHugh is the former Director of Programmes at GMTV and Chief Executive Officer of Quiddity Productions

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Meet the hot, funny, carefree Cool Mums – the maternal version of the Cool Girl

As new film Bad Moms reveals, what the cool girl is to the diet-obsessed prom queen, the cool mum is to the PTA harpy.

I suppose we should all be thankful. Time was when “mum’s night off” came in the form of a KFC value bucket. Now, with the advent of films such as Bad Moms – “from the gratefully married writers of The Hangover” – it looks as though mums are finally getting permission to cut loose and party hard.

This revelation could not come a moment too soon. Fellow mums, you know all those stupid rules we’ve been following? The ones where we think “god, I must do this, or it will ruin my precious child’s life”? Turns out we can say “sod it” and get pissed instead. Jon Lucas and Scott Moore said so.

I saw the trailer for Bad Moms in the cinema with my sons, waiting for Ghostbusters to start. Much as I appreciate a female-led comedy, particularly one that suggests there is virtue in shirking one’s maternal responsibilities, I have to say there was something about it that instantly made me uneasy. It seems the media is still set on making the Mommy Wars happen, pitching what one male reviewer describes as “the condescending harpies that run the PTA” against the nice, sexy mummies who just want to have fun (while also happening to look like Mila Kunis). It’s a set up we’ve seen before and will no doubt see again, and while I’m happy some attention is being paid to the pressures modern mothers are under, I sense that another is being created: the pressure to be a cool mum.

When I say “cool mum” I’m thinking of a maternal version of the cool girl, so brilliantly described in Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl:

“Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot.”

The cool girl isn’t like all the others. She isn’t weighed down by the pressures of femininity. She isn’t bothered about the rules because she knows how stupid they are (or at least, how stupid men think they are). She does what she likes, or at least gives the impression of doing so. No one has to feel guilty around the cool girl. She puts all other women, those uptight little princesses, to shame.

What the cool girl is to the diet-obsessed prom queen, the cool mum is to the PTA harpy. The cool mum doesn’t bore everyone by banging on about organic food, sleeping habits or potty training. Neither hyper-controlling nor obsessively off-grid, she’s managed to combine reproducing with remaining a well-balanced person, with interests extending far beyond CBeebies and vaccination pros and cons. She laughs in the face of those anxious mummies ferrying their kids to and from a multitude of different clubs, in between making  cupcakes for the latest bake sale and sitting on the school board. The cool mum doesn’t give a damn about dirty clothes or additives. After all, isn’t the key to happy children a happy mum? Perfection is for narcissists.

It’s great spending time with the cool mum. She doesn’t make you feel guilty about all the unpaid drudgery about which other mothers complain. She’s not one to indulge in passive aggression, expecting gratitude for all those sacrifices that no one even asked her to make. She’s entertaining and funny. Instead of fretting about getting up in time to do the school run, she’ll stay up all night, drinking you under the table. Unlike the molly-coddled offspring of the helicopter mum or the stressed-out kids of the tiger mother, her children are perfectly content and well behaved, precisely because they’ve learned that the world doesn’t revolve around them. Mummy’s a person, too.

It’s amazing, isn’t it, just how well this works out. Just as the cool girl manages to meet all the standards for patriarchal fuckability without ever getting neurotic about diets, the cool mum raises healthy, happy children without ever appearing to be doing any actual motherwork. Because motherwork, like dieting, is dull. The only reason any woman would bother with either of them is out of some misplaced sense of having to compete with other women. But what women don’t realise – despite the best efforts of men such as the Bad Moms writers to educate us on this score – is that the kind of woman who openly obsesses over her children or her looks isn’t worth emulating. On the contrary, she’s a selfish bitch.

For what could be more selfish than revealing to the world that the performance of femininity doesn’t come for free? That our female bodies are not naturally hairless, odourless, fat-free playgrounds? That the love and devotion we give our children – the very care work that keeps them alive – is not something that just happens regardless of whether or not we’ve had to reimagine our entire selves to meet their needs? No one wants to know about the efforts women make to perform the roles which men have decided come naturally to us. It’s not that we’re not still expected to be perfect partners and mothers. It’s not as though someone else is on hand to pick up the slack if we go on strike. It’s just that we’re also required to pretend that our ideals of physical and maternal perfection are not imposed on us by our position in a social hierarchy. On the contrary, they’re meant to be things we’ve dreamed up amongst ourselves, wilfully, if only because each of us is a hyper-competitive, self-centred mean girl at heart.

Don’t get me wrong. It would be great if the biggest pressures mothers faced really did come from other mothers. Alas, this really isn’t true. Let’s look, for instance, at the situation in the US, where Bad Moms is set. I have to say, if I were living in a place where a woman could be locked up for drinking alcohol while pregnant, where she could be sentenced to decades behind bars for failing to prevent an abusive partner from harming her child, where she could be penalised in a custody case on account of being a working mother – if I were living there, I’d be more than a little paranoid about fucking up, too. It’s all very well to say “give yourself a break, it’s not as though the motherhood police are out to get you”. Actually, you might find that they are, especially if, unlike Kunis’s character in Bad Moms, you happen to be poor and/or a woman of colour.

Even when the stakes are not so high, there is another reason why mothers are stressed that has nothing to do with pressures of our own making. We are not in need of mindfulness, bubble baths nor even booze (although the latter would be gratefully received). We are stressed because we are raising children in a culture which strictly compartmentalises work, home and leisure. When one “infects” the other – when we miss work due to a child’s illness, or have to absent ourselves to express breastmilk at social gatherings, or end up bringing a toddler along to work events – this is seen as a failure on our part. We have taken on too much. Work is work and life is life, and the two should never meet.

No one ever says “the separation between these different spheres – indeed, the whole notion of work/life balance – is an arbitrary construct. It shouldn’t be down to mothers to maintain these boundaries on behalf of everyone else.” Throughout human history different cultures have combined work and childcare. Yet ours has decreed that when women do so they are foolishly trying to “have it all”, ignoring the fact that no one is offering mothers any other way of raising children while maintaining some degree of financial autonomy. These different spheres ought to be bleeding into one another.  If we are genuinely interested in destroying hierarchies by making boundaries more fluid, these are the kind of boundaries we should be looking at. The problem lies not with identities – good mother, bad mother, yummy mummy, MILF – but with the way in which we understand and carry out our day-to-day tasks.

But work is boring. Far easier to think that nice mothers are held back, not by actual exploitation, but by meanie alpha mummies making up arbitrary, pointless rules. And yes, I’d love to be a bad mummy, one who stands up and says no to all that. Wouldn’t we all? I’d be all for smashing the matriarchy, if that were the actual problem here, but it’s not.

It’s not that mummies aren’t allowing each other to get down and party. God knows, we need it. It’s just that it’s a lot less fun when you know the world will still be counting on you to clear up afterwards.  

Glosswitch is a feminist mother of three who works in publishing.