Why "fun feminism" should be consigned to the rubbish bin

If men like a particular brand of feminism, it means it is not working.

What is feminism? A political movement to overthrow male supremacy, according to us radicals. These days, however, young women (and men) are increasingly fed the line from "fun feminists" that it is about individual power, rather than a collective movement.

Caitlin Moran, whose best-selling book has made her into one of the country's best-known fun feminists, is an apologist for porn and wasted an opportunity during a feminist debate on Newsnight to joke about cardigans. The writer Natasha Walter claims that being able to wear trousers and drink beer on her own means sexism is dead, and other "feminist-lite" types can be found blogging nonsense about the need to include men in our movement and not offending the poor dears with mentions of rape and domestic violence.

We need to bring back the radical edge to feminism, and do away with any notion that slutwalking, lap dancing, sex working or Burkha-wearing is liberation for women. If men like a particular brand of feminism, it means it is not working. "Fun feminism" should be consigned to the rubbish bin along with the Lib Dem party.

I am tired of being told by so-called third-wavers that my feminism is fascist, old hat, irrelevant and man hating. It is nothing personal to me; just that feminism is something that has been central to my life since I was a teenager. I do not want to see its radical edge co-opted by over-privileged, self-serving faux feminists.

These "fun feminists", who have little or no idea about the theory or practice of this movement, take advantage of the benefits that radicals have fought long and hard for, whilst contributing nothing. In fact, they are damaging to other women, and are destroying progress won by those of us who do not weep when men disapprove of our views.

So keen are the funbots on not upsetting men, they betray those second wavers who made great sacrifices to break the silence on male violence towards women. Heterosexual women know full well that most men run a mile away from proper, radical feminism, so they chose to spout the type of nonsense about lipstick and burlesque that the boys just love to hear.

It is not enough to call yourself a feminist because you are a strong woman. Thatcher was an enemy to feminism, as is Nadine Dorries. Like other liberation movements, feminism has an ideology and a goal. It is not about personal liberty and freedom, but the emancipation from oppression and tyranny for ALL women, whatever our race or class.

Some younger activists are radical in their approach, such as those who organise the annual Reclaim the Night marches across the UK, but increasingly, so-called feminist blogs are full of articles on how radicals are responsible for creating an image of feminism as being "against men". Did anyone notice white people, who were by definition responsible for the introduction and maintenance of apartheid in South Africa, being placated and excused by black civil rights activists? Do members of the hard-left doff their caps at the ruling classes in the hope that they will "keep them on board"?

During a panel discussion at a feminist conference last year there was a massive kerfuffle when the critic Bidisha dared to suggest that being a feminist is belonging to the "girl's team". Imagine white folk telling black anti-racist activists that their movement is ineffective because white people are not given equal say about strategies for change.

"Fun feminism" isn't feminism at all. It is about the rights of the individual. In the "fun feminist" world, anything goes, no matter how destructive or harmful it may be to the individual or to women as a class.

For heterosexual women, feminism can be a nightmare. Women are the only oppressed group who are expected to love their oppressor. But please stop trying to play nice. Until we overthrow male supremacy and admit that male power is the problem, not radical feminism, nothing will change.

Julie Bindel is a journalist and feminist campaigner. She tweets at @bindelj

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism