Being a lifelong feminist, having burned my bra in 1972 and ripped as many others from as many women as I could to ‘enlighten’ them, back in the day, I like to keep abreast (ha, ha, haaaa…) of the rules. And it ain’t easy.

As feminism morphed almost seamlessly into post-feminism, without even a chip in the glass ceiling, and twerking oscillated (in so many ways) between ‘the worst kind of objectification’ to ‘taking control of YOUR BODY, GIRL!!!’ depending on who was doing it, I’ve been trying to stay current. It took me a decade to realise that ‘post-feminism’ wasn’t another way of saying ‘pole dancing’, but at least I make the fucking effort.

Now its weight. Size. Body shape. And ‘body positivity’.

The wonderful singer, (and Spurs fan) Adele, lost 3 stone of her ‘curves’ and posted pictures, showing her svelte, slim and smiling. To receive an immediate slating from the feminazis for ‘not being true to her shape’ or ‘size’ or whatever, and ‘adhering to the catwalk concepts’ instilled by the patriarchy, blah, blah, blah.

Yet over in the blue corner, we have the NHS. Struggling for funds to cope and stating that last year over 700,000 hospital admissions had obesity as a contributing factor. From which we may deduce that being overweight is not really a big help in life. Possibly in death, but not life.

So how can I be a true feminist and stay alive? When it would appear that the only way to be a real ‘sister’ is to pile on the pounds until you resemble Jo Brand then get type 2 diabetes, congestive heart failure, cholesterol-clogged arteries and die stuck to your bed at 37 stone, eating eclairs all day (and night) at 32 years old. Is that ‘the feminist ideal’ then?

It’s so confusing. I want to be a good feminist but find it difficult to put on sufficient weight as to qualify as ‘grotesque and obese’ as the sisterhood requires.

As if I don’t get enough aggro being a Spurs fan. Now this!!!

Happy Saturday, though from 5.30 onwards, that is rather doubtful.

A xxxx