The Page 3 model is offered up as an ideal, but is she really? Photo: Getty
Show Hide image

The Sun is offering a date with a Page 3 girl as a prize – women and men deserve better than this

It’s the logical outcome of countless messages regarding what a woman is supposed to be: beautiful, available, smiling, bending to the will of men and existing only to reflect men’s glory.

Most of the news can be put into four main categories: “men doing important things”, “men doing violent things”, “men kicking balls” or “men justifying doing violent things, with or without balls, on the basis that such things are important”. If women get a look-in, it tends to be because we are incidental to the narrative. Perhaps a woman is married to someone who does important things, perhaps she has been a victim of male violence. Maybe she has slept with a man who kicks a ball. Every now and then, quite by accident, a woman may have ended up in the position of “doer of important things”, but in that case her clothing, demeanour and family status must be constantly scrutinised, lest we become immune to the incongruity of it all.

The Sun does at the very least have a space devoted to women doing something else: having large breasts. Of course, not all women have large breasts and some do not have breasts at all, but that’s beside the point; at least it’s a woman doing her own thing, albeit entirely in the interests of satisfying the heterosexual male gaze. Even so, I do sometimes wonder how one might explain all this to a visiting extra-terrestrial: yes, male and female human beings really do consider themselves to be equals. Yes, I know it looks as though women exist only to serve the needs of men but that’s just pure coincidence. I know that if the situation were reversed – if I were to find a planet upon which all Category A aliens were assigned the status “doers/experiencers”, and all Category B aliens found themselves in the position of “carers/accessories” – I’d be drawing some pretty harsh conclusions about hierarchies, equality and inclusion (or perhaps I’d just assume Category B aliens were a lesser species? Either way, the “it’s all equal, it just doesn’t look that way” narrative really wouldn’t wash. Category B aliens could talk about empowerment until they were blue in the face – unless they were naturally blue in the face – and I wouldn’t be convinced).

It has been argued that given the extreme nature of internet pornography, getting in a flap about Page 3 – a woman with her top off – is somewhat naïve. I think this misses the point. While I’ve seen many women with bare breasts (it happens when you’ve been a breastfeeding peer supporter), what matters here is context and the context here is not really sex, but sexism. Internet pornography has its limits. However versatile and (hopefully) willing, a woman only has so many holes to penetrate and her skin will only stretch so far. Besides, sex is demanding and messy and imaginations get jaded. Page 3 gets us back to basics: woman as object, as salve for the male ego, without any of that pesky effluvia nor the risk of friction blisters.

The ultimate demonstration of this comes with the Sun’s decision to allow readers who sign up in its Fantasy Football Dream Team to “enter a prize draw for a date with a Page 3 model”. According to the small print, the lucky winner will get to choose between either Rosie or Kelly (obviously I cannot imagine what criteria will be used in the decision-making process):

Travel not included. Date will be at a location agreed with the Promoter. Choice of Page 3 Girl is subject to availability and schedule of Page 3 Girl. Date must be arranged and agreed with Promoter by no later than 6 October 2014 otherwise date will be forfeited.

Romantic, huh? One wonders whether there are other rules, perhaps regarding physical touch, personal space or topics of conversation. I don’t believe it is a comment on the dateability of Rosie or Kelly to say that the whole thing sounds rather grim, one long, dehumanising photo opportunity: stand next to a woman who wouldn’t come near you, had your name not been picked out at random, and insist to yourself I AM A MAN. To me it seems unspeakably lonely and antagonistic, a million miles away from the soaraway fun it is supposed to be. Nonetheless, it is the logical outcome of countless messages regarding what a woman is supposed to be: beautiful, available, smiling, bending to the will of men and existing only to reflect men’s glory. That this is not what we are really like – neither me, you nor Rosie nor Kelly – makes it all the less surprising when the men who supposedly adore us turn on us. It is humiliating to stand beside a woman who would not want you were it not for the enormous weight of patriarchal expectations upon you both; even more humiliating when both of you know that she is a human being, just as complex and authentic as you are, tits or no tits.

The Page 3 model is offered up as an ideal, but is she really? Relationships between men and women ought to be better than this: more fluid, more real, more open on both sides, with more willingness to expose not just flesh, but ideas, feelings, weaknesses and passions. Perhaps the existence of Page 3 would not matter were it not that this sexless, bloodless woman-as-object ideal seeps into our wider consciousness, increasing men’s reluctance to see women as human and women’s conviction that what men expect from them is not love but artifice. She contributes to a narrative of festering resentments and dashed expectations where there could be warmth, humanity and lasting connections. She implies a dull dependence – you’re only a real man if you want me – that inevitably topples over into rejection.

Both women and men deserve better than this. There are far more stories than the ones we are currently told and far more ways to connect with one another, whether we are using sight, touch or words. You can’t win a person; it’s only through getting to know them that your life will be enriched.

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

Getty
Show Hide image

Just you wait – soon fake news will come to football

No point putting out a story saying that Chelsea got stuffed 19-1 by Spurs. Who would believe it, even if Donald Trump tweeted it?

So it is all settled: Cristiano Ronaldo will be arriving at Carlisle United at the end of the month, just before deadline day. It all makes sense. He has fallen in love with a Herdwick sheep, just as Beatrix Potter did, and like her, he is putting his money and energy into helping Cumbria, the land of the Herdwick.

He fell out with his lover in Morocco, despite having a private plane to take him straight from every Real Madrid game to their weekly assignation, the moment this particular Herdwick came into his life. His mother will be coming with him, as well as his son, Cristiano Ronaldo, Jr. They want to bring the boy
up communing with nature, able to roam free, walking among the lakes and fells.

Behind the scenes, his agent has bought up CUFC and half of Cumbria on his behalf, including Sellafield, so it is a wise investment. Clearly CUFC will be promoted this year – just look where they are in the table – then zoom-zoom, up they go, back in the top league, at which point his agent hopes they will be offered megabucks by some half-witted Chinese/Russian/Arab moneybags.

Do you believe all that? It is what we now call in the trade fake news, or post-truth – or, to keep it simple, a total lie, or, to be vulgar, complete bollocks. (I made it up, although a pundit on French TV hinted that he thought the bit about Ronaldo’s friend in Morocco might not be too far-fetched. The stuff about Beatrix Potter loving Herdwicks is kosher.)

Fake news is already the number-one topic in 2017. Just think about all those round robins you got with Christmas cards, filled with fake news, such as grandchildren doing brilliantly at school, Dad’s dahlias winning prizes, while we have just bought a gem in Broadstairs for peanuts.

Fake news is everywhere in the world of politics and economics, business and celebrity gossip, because all the people who really care about such topics are sitting all day on Facebook making it up. And if they can’t be arsed to make it up, they pass on rubbish they know is made up.

Fake news has long been with us. Instead of dropping stuff on the internet, they used to drop it from the skies. I have a copy of a leaflet that the German propaganda machine dropped over our brave lads on the front line during the war. It shows what was happening back in Blighty – handsome US soldiers in bed with the wives and girlfriends of our Tommies stuck at the front.

So does it happen in football? At this time of the year, the tabloids and Sky are obsessed by transfer rumours, or rumours of transfer rumours, working themselves into a frenzy of self-perpetuating excitement, until the final minute of deadline day, when the climax comes at last, uh hum – all over the studio, what a mess.

In Reality, which is where I live, just off the North Circular – no, down a bit, move left, got it – there is no such thing as fake news in football. We are immune from fantasy facts. OK, there is gossip about the main players – will they move or will they not, will they be sued/prosecuted/dropped?

Football is concerned with facts. You have to get more goals than the other team, then you win the game. Fact. Because all the Prem games are live on telly, we millions of supplicant fans can see with our eyes who won. No point putting out a story saying that Chelsea got stuffed 19-1 by Spurs. Who would believe it, even if Donald Trump tweeted it?

I suppose the Russkis could hack into the Sky transmissions, making the ball bounce back out of the goal again, or manipulating the replay so goals get scored from impossible angles, or fiddling the electronic scoreboards.

Hmm, now I think about it, all facts can be fiddled, in this electronic age. The Premier League table could be total fiction. Bring back pigeons. You could trust them for the latest news. Oh, one has just arrived. Ronaldo’s romance  with the Herdwick is off! And so am I. Off to Barbados and Bequia
for two weeks.

Hunter Davies’s latest book is “The Biscuit Girls” (Ebury Press, £6.99)

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge