Abortions, she’s had a few, but then again she can’t remember exactly how many, tra la.
Lily Allen sang and laughed on her Miss Me? podcast when trying to recall the number of abortions she’d had. ‘I want to say five? Four?’ she wondered, as if she were trying to recollect how many of her teeth she’d had capped.
‘Yeah, I’ve had about five, too,’ admitted co-host Miquita Oliver, in queasy competition with her more famous friend. Both women gloated over the fact they could talk openly about their abortions in public these progressive days, without shame or censure. ‘And no one came to shoot us down,’ as Oliver put it.
Well. Not so fast, ladies. I’m loading my blame-game blunderbuss as we speak. For I can’t be the only person who is aghast at the casual callousness exhibited by this pair of dimwit braggarts. You can be pro-choice and fully support a woman’s right to choose – I am, and I do – but still be appalled by this immature and laissez-faire attitude to abortion.
Terminating a pregnancy is a difficult decision many women make when they believe they have no other options open to them. It shouldn’t be used as a form of contraception by stupid, irresponsible, moronic First World women who repeatedly can’t get it together to protect themselves from becoming pregnant. Buy a packet of condoms if you can’t be bothered to do anything else, Lily. How hard can it be – even for you?
Anyone can make a mistake and be forgiven. Five mistakes? That is no oversight. It is a pattern of reckless behaviour that is shaming and disgraceful. Certainly nothing to be proud of, and unworthy of a joint boast on a doubly pathetic podcast.
Lily Allen jokes about abortion on her Miss Me podcast
Rachel Reeves’ tears put triple glazing on the glass ceiling. She made all women look weak…
Call me cold-hearted but no, I don’t feel sorry for Rachel Reeves. Am I supposed to be awash in sororal sympathy for a 46-year-old woman in high office who wept in post this week? Count me out, sister.
Not just because Rachel’s tears appeared to be exclusively for herself. It is more that after everything she has done and all the fiscal harm she has caused, we are the ones who should be crying.
Indeed, as the tears slalomed down Rachel’s cheeks I felt more like barking with mirthless laughter, not popping the corks on my own tear ducts in a moist show of solidarity.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer having a sob in the House of Commons for reasons unknown? It is not a good look, even if – as she insists – a ‘personal matter’ had momentarily overwhelmed her.
And it also made me angry because every time a high-profile woman like Rachel Reeves weeps in public, she does every woman a terrible disservice.
This puts triple glazing on the glass ceiling. It makes us all look weak – unworthy of positions of authority and major responsibilities. Oh, look at us girlies, only fit for rubbing carrot-puree stains out of baby’s bib and ironing hubby’s socks before we sob into our evening gins, blub, blub, glug, glug.
Big girls don’t cry. They just get on with it.
Of course, I don’t relish another human’s discomfort – who does? And to be honest, Rachel had the puffy-eyed look of someone who had been crying for a fortnight, not someone upset because Keir Starmer had refused to guarantee her job during Prime Minister’s Questions. If there is something critical going on behind the scenes, let us wish her good luck and a speedy resolution.
Chancellor Rachel Reeves appears tearful as opposition leader Kemi Badenoch speaks during PMQs
Nevertheless, this was a bad, bad show. It looked like a hormonal collapse from another femme failure who can’t cope when the going gets tough. A woman who wilts like a stick of damp rhubarb at the first sign of trouble.
And one year to the day since Labour came to power, Rachel is lost in a sea of troubles, including the gutting of the welfare Bill and that humiliating U-turn on winter fuel payments. The Chancellor now faces a choice between breaking her own borrowing rules or raising taxes again. And we all know what she is going to do, amid grim forecasts the economy will continue to shrink like one of her pussybow blouses in a boil wash.
And no, it is not entirely the Chancellor’s fault that this bungling, chaotic government is even worse than the last bungling, chaotic government; a crew of unworldly mediocrities who are ruining this country, not running it. Yet as the fiscal masthead on this ship of doom, Rachel must bear her share of blame.
On Thursday she breezily tried to explain away her tears by saying she’d merely had a bad day at the office. She tried – and failed – to look and sound as chipper as a chip in a cheery chipmunk’s cheek.
‘It was a personal issue and I’m not going to go into the details,’ she told Sky News. ‘The difference between my job and many of your viewers’ is that when I am having a tough day it is on the telly.’
Dearie me. If there is one thing worse than being disappointed by politicians, it is being patronised by them. Reeves was sitting on the Labour front bench during the 30-minute live broadcast of PMQs. If she can’t keep it together for half an hour on national TV, what hope is there for her – and us?
Politicians are only human – but they have a serious responsibility to the electorate. We don’t expect them to let emotions get the better of them at crucial moments, no matter what is going on in their private lives.
Cabinet ministers must exert unimpeachable discipline in public life, while the Chancellor of the Exchequer above all must be competent and capable, no matter how bad the pressure gets or what is going on in his or her life.
A bad medical diagnosis, a failing marriage, a disappointment, a catastrophe? The truth is senior politicians must meet with triumph and disaster and treat these two imposters just the same – on a daily basis. It is a lot to ask, but with a great office of state comes great responsibility.
For if the Chancellor sneezes, the economy catches a cold. And this week Rachel Reeves’ unchecked tears had real consequences – the markets panicked, UK borrowing costs jumped, the yield on ten-year gilts rose, the pound fell against the dollar. The message from around the world was clear. Uh oh. Chick in charge. If a male politician had cried in public like this he would be shown little mercy. Rachel Reeves seems to have survived the incident, but her card has been marked.
While it was distressing to see her struggle, this simply is not good enough. For her, for us, for women and for the electorate. We all deserve better.
A dame of self discipline
You won’t catch Dame Anna Wintour crying in public. And not just because she always wears dark glasses. After 37 years the editor-in-chief of American Vogue is ‘stepping away’ from that role without shedding a tear.
At 75, she now wants to help ‘the next generation of editors storm the field with their own ideas’. I think she means ‘my ideas’
Dame Anna Wintour at his year’s Met Gala, the fashion extravaganza she organises every year
For Wintour’s greatest achievement was not just becoming the most powerful woman in fashion, but staying at the top for decade after decade.
They don’t make ’em like Dame Anna any more; chilly, disciplined, terrifying. At her desk by 8am, raw steak for lunch and a decree no meeting should last longer than seven minutes. ‘It keeps everyone focused,’ she said.
Rod’s rock of ages saves Glasto
Controversies aside, you have to admit that the BBC’s coverage of Glastonbury is fabulous. All the action from all the stages, featuring all the bands you’ve never heard of – along with a sensational set from headliner Olivia Rodrigo on Sunday night.
There is so much to enjoy, including Jo Whiley’s festival fashions and candid shots of the crowds getting their ancient rocks off.
It is fascinating to me that the huge audiences there are almost exclusively white, but what Glasto lacks in diversity it makes up for in age range. ‘Nans for Rod Stewart!’ read one sign waved aloft at the 80-year-old rocker’s gig (right) on Sunday. Even Lulu, 76, turned up in a pair of fringed trousers to sing with him.
Still, one must wearily turn to the controversy of the ridiculous rappers Bob Vylan following their ‘death to the IDF’ chants during their Glasto set. ‘We are not for the death of Jews … we are for the dismantling of a violent military machine,’ they pleaded on Instagram, after their gigs around the world were cancelled and the American government revoked their work visas.
Too little too late. Yet it is still puzzling that not one BBC employee – among the 500 working on the Glastonbury site – had the wit to pull the plug during the hate-filled set.
Still, there is always a bright side. ‘Thank goodness for Lulu and Rod Stewart! They saved the whole thing,’ said Nigel Farage on LBC yesterday, which is quite possibly the most Nigel Farage-ish thing he has ever said.
I love Marks & Spencer more than life itself and its delicious Count On Us lemon mousses (81 calories per pot!) have made my summer. But I cannot forgive them for calling their range of snacks Picky Bits.
‘Whether you call it girl dinner, picky tea, party tea, or picky bits,’ says the M&S website, ‘we’re talking about a delicious combination of easy-to-prepare ingredients.’
Bleuurrgh. How I hate that phrase. Picky Bits! PICKY BITS. Scream! Picky Bits is even worse than the dreaded ‘Light Bites’, the loathsome ‘Nibbles’ or even the truly hideous ‘Finger Food’.
Call them snacks, canapes or even appetisers. Call it a picnic, a spread, hors d’oeuvres or refreshments. Please, call it anything but Picky Bits, which sounds like something a seagull would peck from an overflowing pub bin.
And judging by M&S Picky Bits Caesar Butter Beans – ‘creamy butter beans in a Caesar-inspired dressing topped with cheese’, barf – that might just be true.
