Lily Allen's Hard Out Here mocks every stupid sexist pop video you've seen in the last five years

Also, Lily Allen's balloons are funnier than Robin Thicke's balloons.

There are five things you need to know about Lily Allen's video for Hard Out Here.
 
 
 
  1. Her balloons are definitely funnier than Robin Thicke’s balloons

According to the ancient language of balloonspeak, Robin Thicke has a big dick. But Lily Allen has a baggy pussy, because she’s had two babies, and she’s not going to lie about it. Which kind of means that they’d make a perfect pair.

 

 

  1. Growing a pair is the new growing a pair

Because it’s particularly ‘hard out there for a bitch’, Lily suggests that anyone contemplating bravery should ‘forget your balls and grow a pair of tits’. Of course, this sentiment was somewhat pre-empted by a person purporting to be Betty White, way back when we were all decorating our Facebook page with that notorious adage: ‘Why do people say ‘grow some balls’? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you want to be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding.’ Betty White herself denied that these words had ever left her lips in a 2012 Guardian article that was disappointing for about five minutes – at least now we have Lily.

 

 

  1. Twerking in slow motion looks weirdly repulsive

As the camera zooms in on the twerking back-up dancers’ arses that Lily periodically spanks with dollar notes, you notice how compellingly strange a rapidly moving bum cheek looks when subjected to some fancy camera work.

 

 

  1. Blue lipstick is back

You had it in the mid-nineties, and now you can have it again. Lily’s scenes of liberation include partying among her balloons in a rain mac, and dancing around in trousers and a long-sleeved t-shirt: unheard-of womanly attire in pop videos for at least the last five years. The good news is that make-up which doesn’t even pretend to look natural is also back on the agenda (it graduates to blue lipstick after starting off at face glitter, something I’m delighted has been resurrected so close to Christmas.)

 

 

  1. YOU NEED ELECTRONIC CIGARETTES

Product placement became legal in 2010, but has kept itself fairly low key since the law changed. There’s no denying that electronic cigarettes E-Lites are after the demographic who know and love Lily Allen’s music videos. Proper bitches smoke electronic cigarettes. But are we supposed to want to be proper bitches? The jury’s out, and it may be twerking.

 

Lily Allen in Hard Out Here.
Holly Baxter is a freelance journalist who writes regularly for The Guardian and The New Statesman. She is also one half of The Vagenda and releases a book on the media in May 2014.
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Women aren’t supposed to blame their foulest moods on their hormones. It’s time we did

It’s our job to play down the, “I’m pissy and want chocolate because I’m getting my period” thing as much as possible.

“NEVER CALL ME AGAIN. EVER,” I bellow at some hapless cock dribble called Brian or Craig who is sitting in a call centre somewhere. It’s too bad we haven’t been able to slam down phones since 1997. No matter how hard I jab my index finger into the red “end call” icon on my iPhone, it doesn’t have the same expulsive effect.

I’d put hard earned cash on Brian/Craig’s next thought being this:

Someone’s time of the month, eh?”

And if so, he’s bang on the money. I’m about to period so hard, the shockwaves from my convulsing uterus will be felt in France. Maybe Brian/Craig shrugs too. Right now, it kills me to think of him shrugging. I need to have ruined his day. I need for my banshee shriek to have done, at the very least, some superficial damage to his eardrum. I need to have made this guy suffer. And I need a cake. A big cake. A child’s birthday cake shaped like Postman Pat. A child’s birthday cake that I’ve stolen, thereby turning his special day into something he’ll have to discuss with a therapist in years to come. I’d punch fist-shaped craters into Pat’s smug face, then eat him in handfuls. All the while screaming unintelligible incantations at the mere concept of Brian/Craig.

Brian/Craig works for one of those companies that call you up and try to convince you you’ve been in a car accident and are owed compensation. Brian/Craig is a personification of that smell when you open a packet of ham. I’ve told Brian/Craig and his colleagues to stop calling me at least twice a week for the past six months. Unfortunately for Brian/Craig, this time he’s caught me at my premenstrual worst.

There’s an unspoken rule that women aren’t supposed to blame their foulest moods on hormones. Premenstrual hysteria (literal hysteria, because wombs) is the butt of so many sexist jokes. It’s our job to play down the, “I’m pissy and want chocolate because I’m getting my period” thing as much as possible. It’s the patriarchy that’s making us cranky. It’s the gender pay gap. It’s mannequins shaped like famine victims silently tutting at out fat arses. And we’re not “cranky” anyway – babies are cranky – we’re angry. And of course I’m angry about those things. I’m a woman, after all. But, if truth be told, I’m cranky too. And, if even more truth be told, it is because of my hormones.

Premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD) is PMS cubed. For years now, it’s been making me want to put my fist through a wall every time my period approaches. Take the sensation of watching a particularly jumpy horror film: that humming, clenched-jaw tension, in preparation for the next scary thing to happen. Now replace fear with rage and you’ll have some idea of what PMDD feels like. Oh and throw in insatiable hunger and, for some reason, horniness. For at least a day out of every month, I feel incapable of any activity that isn’t crisp eating, rage wanking or screaming into a pillow.

And if, like me, you also suffer from anxiety and depression, trying to detect where the mental health stuff stops and the hormone stuff starts becomes utterly Sisyphean. Then again, the extent to which the hormones themselves can fuck with your mental health tends to be underestimated quite woefully. It’s just a bit of PMS, right? Have a Galaxy and a bubble bath, and get a grip. Be like one of those advert women who come home from work all stressed, then eat some really nice yoghurt and close their eyes like, “Mmmm, this yoghurt is actual sex,” and suddenly everything’s fine.

For too long, hormone-related health issues (female ones in particular) have been belittled and ignored. There’s only so much baths and chocolate can do for me when I’m premenstrual. I wasn’t kidding about the Postman Pat cake, by the way. And, Brian/Craig, in the vastly unlikely event that you’re reading this – yeah, it was my time of the month when you called. And if I could’ve telepathically smacked you over the head with a phone book, believe me, I would’ve done.

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.