I'm Not A Housewife, I'm A Hornbag!

Lowri Turner: Fat & Can't Cook

I haven't had a quality rant for a while, so I'm going to have one today. A while ago I heard professional mouth Lowri Turner slagging off the "new fashion" amongst women for doing things like baking and sewing for fun. Apparently we are "perpetuating our own form of slavery". Fuck off. Perpetuating our own form of cake, I rather think. I prefer my own form of cake to all shop bought varieties, particularly Mr. Kipling, who makes exceedingly damp cakes. Perpetuating my own form of cake also has the bonus of being able to lick the bowl, which is the point of making cakes.
I also regularly perpetuate my own forms of pasta sauce, marinade, salad dressing, clothing and jewelry. All things which according to Lowri are morally deficient acts, slights and sins against the noble sistren who fought for our rights, as if every time a woman bakes a fairy cake, Germaine Greer gets another wrinkle. This from the woman who gets a slight thrill off her own raciness at having a baby before she was married. Ooovvff! How scandalous! This chubby self-admitted domestic failure generally works on homes and 'lifestyle' programs, and thinks it's a triumph of women's liberation and the zenith of cleverness to spend slightly more than the ingredients of a good pasta sauce would cost on a jar of ketchup with dubious grey flecks in.
Meanwhile, on the other channel, hamster faced soybotherer "Dr." (PhD American Holistic College Of Nutrition. Hem.) Gillian McKeith is waving her arms at a table heaving with bought cakes and Dolmio, which she will do until the fatty of the week is humiliated and ashamed enough to take a crap into a takeaway container and have it probed and criticized on national TV. "How very very stupid you are." she tells them. "Look at you! You can't even shit right. And look at your children! They're fat too, and it's your fault. You're eating yourself to death, and you're going to leave three fat orphans behind you if you don't actually manage to kill them first. If you cared about your children or yourself one little bit, you'd be prepared to chop up vegetables and cook real food." Six months later she's back gushing away about how gorgeous her victims look, and what a difference the good diet has made to their skin and hair as well as their Body Lard Index. "You look ten years younger!" She crows. "Ah, the cleverness of me!"
Once Gillian has finished crusading for the enweement of the nation, sourpuss botox pusher Nicky Hambleton-Jones (who is a qualified nutritionist, by the way) is marching people who look about as good for their age as McKeith down to the surgeon's office telling them that they need surgery. Hark at the South African pot calling the kittle blick. Oh, and Nicky? Should Have Gone To Specsavers.
As a modern woman I refuse to eat dirrrty plastic food and get ripped off for the privilege, I refuse to buy this season's black military jacket when I can just sew new buttons and a bit of trim on last year's, I will absolutely not feel guilty about not subsisting on a diet of soy and aduki beans, and you'll never convince me that frivolous elective surgery is a good idea. And most of all, I refuse to be told what to do by an additive bloated lazyarse. Sexual equality means neither woman nor man can tell me what to do. Let she who is without sin amoungst us lose the first stone.
I do not cook the dinner most nights in order to be a good little wifey. I cook most nights because I'm a better cook than my husband. I do not have a cupboard full of arts and crafts materials because it's a suitable recreation for an accomplished young lady. I have that stuff because for twenty quid I can make a necklace that would cost you about three hundred pounds in a shop. I do not bake so that my husband comes home to the smell of baking and the warm glow of satisfaction at his masterhood of the house. I bake so that there is cake. And I wouldn't do any of that stuff if I didn't enjoy it.
Because, Lowri, I am actually not fucking stupid, I actually am very good at these things, and I am secure enough not to play my inadequacies off as moral victories over other people. Now if you'll excuse me I have to go- I've got grilled duck with rosemary and red wine on the stove and my foccacia dough is ready to go in the oven.