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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Peter Hitchens on Twitter seemed barely human – then he came round for tea

During his visit I realised I had an awkward duty facing me.

But what about Peter Hitchens?” everyone is asking after my last encounter with him. He came round to the Hovel, you see, the day before the column, in which I said all sorts of nasty things about him, appeared. The reason why he came round is complicated and boring, but suffice it to say that books were exchanged, in a spirit of mutual diplomatic tension.

I offered him a choice of red wine, whisky, or tea. It was five o’clock. (He was punctual, which unsurprised me. He chose tea; he is not a fan of intoxication. Aha! I thought, he’ll love this: as a foe of modernity in many of its aspects, such as duvets and central heating, he will appreciate the fact that I do not use tea bags. Loose Assam leaves, put into a scalded teapot. “Conservative in everything except politics” was a formulation – originally, I think, applied to George Orwell – that Peter’s late brother was fond of, and I thought my old-fashionedness would soothe him.

Not exactly: he noticed I was pouring semi-skimmed milk into the mug. Of course you put the milk in last when you are using tea bags. When pouring from a pot, you put the milk in first. Milk poured in afterwards does not emulsify satisfactorily. If you are one of those people who say “but how do you know if you’ve put in the right amount of milk?” then I exhort you to start trusting your pouring arm.

Semi-skimmed milk, I learned quickly, is a no-no in the world of P Hitchens.

“But Orwell himself,” I replied urbanely, “said that milk that was too creamy made the tea taste unpleasant. Not, of course, that I believe everything Orwell said, but on tea-making he is sound.”

Mr Hitchens demurred, saying that Orwell was referring to the equivalent of what we know today as Gold Top. This allowed me to go off on a little rant, a positive, life-enhancing rant, about how good Gold Top is, how my children love it, etc. We moved into the living room. I noticed my shoes were more old-fashioned than his. Come to think of it, they may have been older than him. They’re almost certainly older than me.

There was a mood of civility in the air. Slightly strained, perhaps, like his tea, but unmistakably present. Part of the reason was that I had mentioned our forthcoming meeting on a social medium, and two of my friends, one a well-known novelist, the other a well-known columnist, both women, both left wing, had asked me, extremely sincerely, to pass on their best wishes. They knew him of old, had worked with him, were fond of him. These are two women whose opinions I take very seriously indeed. The Peter Hitchens I knew, of column and Question Time panel, was clearly not the whole picture. If these women say he’s Basically All Right, or All Right enough to ask me to pass on their best wishes, then that is pretty much good enough for me.

During his visit I realised I had an awkward duty facing me. I was becoming increasingly conscious that, the next day, in newsagents throughout the land, the latest edition of this magazine would appear, and in it, on page 82, would be a column by me, which contained several jokes at the expense of P Hitchens, Esq. And I knew that this column would not escape his vigilance. I massaged the bridge of my nose and launched into a pre-emptive apology. “I think I had better tell you...”

He seemed to take it fairly well, though I’d not given him the full nature of my assault. When we were tossing insults back and forth on Twitter, he seemed barely human; now, in my living room, he all too clearly was. I suppose this is how we all see our enemies on Twitter: as botched versions of the Turing Test, spouting opinions that are quite clearly wrong in spite of all our well-reasoned arguments. The only variable is how quickly the arguments de-evolve into base invective. I have my own theory about this. It involves Lacan, so I’ll spare you.

A couple of days later I received an email from him, courteously asking after me and my latest troubles, the ones I can’t write about due to their immensity. It also contained the precise quote from Orwell regarding milk in tea. (“Ninthly, one should pour the cream off the milk before using it for tea. Milk that is too creamy always gives tea a sickly taste.” You have to love that “ninthly”.) “Tempus mutatur,” I replied... but noted, too, that there was no mention of That Column. I was rather impressed. 

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 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear