As the industry suffers, press outlets of all stripes are turning to sexist filler and side-boob close ups to sell their wares. Photograph: Getty Images.
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Laurie Penny on page three: the real threat to young women’s health and happiness

David Cameron is wrong to try and ban pornography online when the casual objectification of women continues as a decoy for vicious xenophobia and social conservatism in the mainstream media.

David Cameron is confused about pornography. The coalition government has just moved to impose mandatory filtering on the distribution of online smut, putting measures in place to ban certain search terms and impose an “opt-in” filter on explicit content. When challenged, however, about page three of the Sun – the topless softcore wank-matter that’s still distributed daily in Britain’s most-read newspaper – the Prime Minister was loath to support a ban. “On this one,” he argued, “I think it’s probably better to leave it to the consumer rather than regulate.”
 
This may or may not have anything to do with Cameron’s career-defining hesitancy to challenge Rupert Murdoch under any circumstances. Yet the fact remains that, according to the Conservatives, boobs on the internet are “toxic” for children, but soft porn all over the paper, where little boys and girls can easily find it and see their parents reading it, is just fine.
 
Page three has never just been about page three. Rather, it is a litmus test for whether or not one supports the objectification of young women as part of the cultural discourse – and what you think should be done about it. For some campaigners, page three is a symbol of everything wrong with our “sexualised” society; others are prepared to go to rather extreme lengths to defend an institution they claim is “traditional”, which means “archaic and sexist”, and “just a bit of fun”, which means “fun for men at women’s expense”.
 
I am not of the school of feminism which believes that the answer to the ubiquity of sexist imagery is to slap bans on everything we don’t like. I do not support David Cameron’s porn ban. I believe that it is extremely difficult to achieve radical ends by conservative means, and that censorship is invariably conservative. I also believe that giving this government, or any government, the power to monitor and control how we use the internet is a very risky proposition – because we’ve already seen, in the past few months, how such powers can be abused. I do, however, support the campaign against topless models on page three, and there are specific reasons why.
 
I have nothing against boobs before breakfast. I see my own most mornings in the mirror and I have yet to be traumatised into a tornado of abject self-objectification. Nor do I wish to deprive hard-working glamour models of a living: in its proper context, my main problem with softcore porn is the lack of mainstream provision for anyone who isn’t primarily attracted to slender young white women with submissive smiles. No, my problem with page three is a professional one. I have an interest, as a journalist, in working in an industry that does not rely on the ritual objectification of women to sell news content.
 
As the profit margins of the news industry disintegrate, press outlets of all stripes are turning to sexist filler content and sideboob close-ups to sell their wares – and ameliorate the appearance of their worst excesses elsewhere in their pages. What’s most abhorrent about page three is that it mitigates the xenophobic, hawkishly right-wing content of the rest of the paper. The problem with the Sun is not just page three, but pages one, two and four to 28, and the insertion of a bit of jolly soft porn into the mix puts a sexy smile on social conservatism. Sexism, from objectification to body-shaming to reactionary dissection of women’s life choices, is the strategy that tabloids have chosen to keep their profit margins healthy in an age where the internet threatens their business model.
 
As a young woman working in a media industry that remains, despite recent improvements, deeply sexist, I have had more dealings than I anticipated with the news economy of misogyny. It’s about what role women play in the press, both as journalists and, more frequently, as the subjects of reports, adverts and the vast amount of page-filler that falls somewhere in between. Women are there to sell papers, particularly young women, particularly young, white, attractive women between the ages of 16 and 30 who may or may not have experienced a recent wardrobe malfunction. The other things that sell papers include shaming celebrities for having the “wrong” body shape, endless coverage of famous women’s “weight battles”, and female columnists castigating one another for being too pretty, or not pretty enough, or too maternal, or not maternal enough.
 
On 12 July, the musician Amanda Palmer responded to the Daily Mail’s shocked coverage of her Glastonbury nipple-slip by stripping buck naked and singing a song about the newspaper that managed to find a rhyme for “misogynist pile of twats”. (Lyrics: “I’m tired of these baby bumps, vag flashes, muffintops/Where are the newsworthy cocks?”) I happened to be in the audience, and can confirm that it was the only possible response to a tabloid culture that treats women’s bodies as newsworthy commodities whose actual owners can expect a barrage of slut-shaming should they choose to take control of them.
 
Or at least that’s what I would have said if I hadn’t been jumping up and down in glee and squealing incoherently at the time. In Tabloid World, airbrushed soft porn is acceptable, but cellulite is the subject of lengthy, moist and expectant disapproval – as are skinny jeans, stray boob-flashes, accidental camel toes and Rihanna in any situation.
 
The news economy of misogyny is far more insidious, far more mainstream, and far more damaging to children and young people than online pornography. It titillates readers with hate and provides a steady stream of propaganda, reducing women to bodies for the rest of us to judge. From page three to the rest of the paper, it’s the oldfashioned press, and not the internet, that’s the real threat to young women’s health and happiness right now.

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

This article first appeared in the 29 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue

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Jamie Reed: What it's like to stop being an MP

As I approach the whips’ office through the tearoom staircase, a colleague shouts: “It’s Steve McQueen!”

Leaving parliament was never going to be easy. Having entered the Commons at a relatively young age – I was 31 – I knew that a parliamentary existence would be strange, even weird.

I knew that I would never be a “lifer”. A long Commons career followed by a sinecure in the Lords was never for me. This was informed by an aversion not to prolonged public service – the career in the nuclear industry for which I have departed parliament is just as dedicated to public service – but to the culture in which politics in Westminster is undertaken. There is a lot wrong with parliament. I arrived with a healthy contempt for its culture, behaviours and practices; I leave with the knowledge that this contempt was correct.

As a young MP, I felt like Carraway, never like Gatsby. Still, leaving the Commons has taken a huge mental and emotional effort.

21 December 2016

The news of my resignation breaks a few hours early because of a leak. The ­Guardian’s north of England editor, Helen Pidd, brings forward the publication of our interview as a result. Within minutes, my phone explodes. Twitter is unusable. My email server begins to creak. I watch with mounting ­anxiety. Ignoring calls from journalists – many of them friends – I talk instead with my fellow MP John Woodcock.

In politics, you acquire a sixth sense for who would be with you in the trenches at the worst moments. John is such a person. I don’t remember the conversation; I just remember hanging up and crying. I ­shower, dress and head for my in-laws’ farm. When I open the door, there are bottles of champagne on the step. That night, trying to avoid the news, I learn that I was young, popular, brilliant and talented. It’s like being at my own funeral. I drink the champagne.

24 December

I receive a text from Jeremy Corbyn wishing me and my family well. I thank him for his warm words on my resignation.

9 January 2017

I’m en route to the Vogtle nuclear power plant near Atlanta, Georgia, as a guest of NuGen. At Vogtle, Georgia Power is building two AP1000 reactors – the same type as will be built in Copeland. This is a project to which I have devoted 12 years of my life – from writing nuclear policy with the Blair government to making sure that Copeland was chosen as a nuclear new-build site and working to ensure that successive governments maintained the policies underpinning the nuclear renaissance that the Blair-Brown administration began.

Clement Attlee’s Labour government created the nuclear industry, the last Labour government created the nuclear renaissance and I am leaving parliament to return to the nuclear industry – yet Labour will be forced to fight the by-election in my former seat amid allegations of being anti-nuclear. There is nothing new in post-truth politics. Lies have always had the power to seduce.

23 January

It’s my last week in parliament and I’ve made arrangements to see the whips. As I approach the whips’ office through the tearoom staircase, a colleague shouts: “It’s Steve McQueen!”

1 February

I leave my home in Whitehaven for Sellafield at 6.45am. As I drive through the frost, an iridescent light appears on the horizon: a new dawn has broken, has it not?

I collect my pass and enter a whirlwind of meetings, inductions and instructions. Everyone is generous, welcoming and warm. It is at this point that, for the first time, I am faced with irrefutable proof that I am no longer an MP. I am reminded of my parliamentary induction. Chief Whip Hilary Armstrong told us, “Get in the chamber . . . Don’t hide . . . Sink or swim . . .” New Labour was no place for a snowflake. I am reminded, too, of my induction by the House payroll and expenses administrators. A year before the expenses scandal shook Westminster, they informed me: “All we ask is that you don’t buy any antiques . . .”

2 February

As when I entered parliament for the first time, I don’t have a desk. I’m hot-desking, or hot-podding, or hot-cubing. I remind myself that, for now, I remain the Crown steward and bailiff of the Manor of Northstead.

I bump into a colleague from my first time in the nuclear industry. “All right?” he asks.

“Getting there,” I reply.

“You know what they’re saying, don’t you?” he continues.

“No. What?”

“‘The bloody ego has landed.’”

I walk away wondering if it’s now my role in life to remind people of films set in the Second World War.

3 February

It’s a Friday and it strikes me that I have no constituency surgery. Everyone around me has their head down, meeting targets, solving problems. This is a £2bn-a-year operation. There’s no room for Gatsby here. This is why my new role excites me.

The self-immolating stupidity of Brexit, combined with the complex and growing needs of my family, contributed to my decision to leave parliament. Most of all, though, it was the opportunity to work in this organisation and help to drive change within it and my community that caused me to make the switch. My former constituency can and should be at the centre of one of the fastest-growing parts of the UK economy in the years to come. A changing Sellafield and a dynamic industry will be at the heart of this, and time is of the essence.

20 February

The by-election in my former seat draws near and my time as the Crown steward is running out.

I am repeatedly approached by the media for comment and I duck every request. This is for someone else now and I wish my successor well. None of us is indispensable. 

Jamie Reed is Labour MP for Copeland.

This article first appeared in the 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit