The ‘me too’ campaign have teamed up with the ‘time’s up’ brigade and formed a new, consolidated, cohesive and unified group that, quite frankly, you wouldn’t want to fuck with. I may have to rephrase that end bit. And although both those causes are noble, worthy and could both be replaced with ‘about fucking time!!!’ like all populist protests, they can go a little far.

In that anyone with a grudge against someone in Hollywood (and that’s almost everybody whose ever worked there) can invoke the ‘me too’, name-and-shame and the person named has a massive presumption of guilt by the media and everyone else. No-one asks the story, considers ‘the other side’, its just ‘me too’ and then he’s a son-of-a-bitch. Turning something with good intention into a modern-day lynch-mob.

And there’s also the ‘not me too’ to consider. Those who weren’t abused, assaulted, raped or intimidated. How do they feel? The ‘me too’ almost becomes a badge of honour, the admission to a club. And that club means that men, albeit horrible, Weinsteiny, abusive, megalomaniacal, power-wielding misogynists, found the members attractive and desirable enough to risk their won careers (eventually) for the pleasure they sought. And thus the ‘why not me too’, by extension, are unworthy of groping, seducing, abusing. Which, in the vain and narcissistic world of movies, is almost insulting.

So to show my own solidarity with all of the above, I went to see a proper, non-abusive, totally woman-ish movie last night. Ladybird. Written and directed by a gel, (Greta Gerwig), and at least half the actors were women, and no-one gets shot or punched. And Saoirse Ronan is totally captivating, even though she looks a total mess through the entire movie. Its wonderful. And in normal circumstances I’d want her to win tonight’s Oscar for the best acting by a female person in a non-lgbt, non-objectified, proper feminine role. But I think that’s gonna be Frances McDormand’s for 3 Billboards.

And on the way home we stopped and picked up felafel. Which would also win an oscar for the ‘best felafel in a wrap’, so brilliant was its performance throughout its very short career (about 4 minutes, I reckon). And as with all great film performances, it left me wanting more. A credit to its skill? Or a reflection of what a pig I am? I almost felt guilty eating something in which nothing had died to feed me.

Happy Sunday. Come on Brighton

A xxxx