Secret Diary of a Fat Admirer

Now, this blog isn’t actually about feminism in itself, but I would like to take this opportunity to point out that yes, I agree with the fundamental tennets of feminism because yes, obviously women are equal to men, should have the same opportunities and warrant the same level of respect. I’m not even a self-described feminist, I just recognise these things to be true because I’m not a massive, aching cock. I don’t think there needs to be a special ‘ist’ word for that, frankly.

Now, on to the point. What this short blog is actually about is a subset of men whose existence I’ve taken note of recently who seem to think that being a man and being a feminist means you always have to take the side of the female participant in any argument where one person happens to be male and the other happens to be female, whether or not the debate has any cunting thing to do with gender or not. Who, having realised that women are an oppressed group (whatcha want? A fucking medal, Captain Obvious?) think that that means they need to be defended and protected like delicate flowers at all times. Now, I’ve been known to be a little… overprotective of the opposite sex in certain instances, because I can’t quite shake my inbuilt sense of chivalry. That said, if I was a woman, I can very easily imagine I’d want to punch these patronising arseholes in the face so hard they’d wind up shitting their own teeth out for a month.

So- a direct address to these men: Stop it. You’re not a feminist, you’re just a man who’s sold his balls on eBay to the highest bidder. Either that you’re just trying to get into someone’s pants. I don’t know, I don’t care. I just think you should be aware that if I (a fairly unengaged example of the male species) have seen through you, then presumably any actual female feminists worth their salt will as well. Now sit down, shut up and stop being an embarrassment to the Y chromosone.

EDIT: If you’re going to read this allowed, I reccomend doing so in the voice of a slightly harrassed and increasingly exaggerated parent telling their youngest offspring not to shove crayons up his nose… ‘cause that’s exactly what I felt like I was doing when writing this.

SECOND EDIT: I should also stress, in order to deprive potential critics of a metaphorical leg to stand on, that I am in no way suggesting that there is no such thing as a male feminist or that they shouldn’t have a part in the debate.They do exist and they should get a say. I just feel it worth my time to draw a line between them and the group of people I’ve described in the blog above.

So, it’s now 2am where I am, and the reason I’m so late clocking in for today’s blog is because I’ve been playing the DLC for SR3. If those acronyms mean sod all to you- don’t panic, that merely indicates that you have a lot yet to learn about the world of game nerds, young jedi. Be patient, and wisdom will come. Etc.

Anyway, you know it’s a good game when the DLC keeps you interested until 2am. For those of you who own the game and are wondering whether or not to purchase the Downloadable Content, here’s a brief summary:

DLC 1: Genkibowl VII- Fun in places, but not much more than a loose collection of additional activities tacked onto the main game. Would only reccommend for those of you with a few spare Microsoft Points or equivalent on your accounts to spend.

DLC 2: Gangstas in Space- Probably the best of the games three bits of DLC, this one feels substantial in length, introduces a couple of new characters and rewards the player well for taking the time to complete it with additional sci-fi vehicles to tear up the skies of Steelport in. Also: very fucking stylish- because it take place within the shoot for a metafiction sci-fi movie (i.e. a piece of fiction within the fictional game-world, for those of you who are new to the phrase ‘metafiction’), there are sections where the screen’s colouration changes and has film-grain and faults added to simulate the effect of 1950s-60s-ish film reel footage. It looks gorgeous and is supported by some pretty decent sound effects and deliberately awful, B-movie voice acting. Would reccomend to everyone who loved the original game

DLC 3: The Trouble With Clones- Another one that adds an element of style to proceedings by overlaying a voiceover onto events that tells the tale of what is happening as you play it out (in a deliberately crap parody of the style adopted by the likes of H.G. Wells for their stories). Also, you get superpowers, which is a pure joy. Unfortunately, it feels very bloody short and fails to reward players adequately for the time they put in, as none of the weapons, vehicles or powers you gain in the self-contained adventure are permitted to carry over into the main game for use afterwards, which feels like a missed opportunity with the addition of temporary superpowers as a potential special weapon option. Would reccomend to the most committed fans of the series.

Well, that’s ‘bout it for tonight, folks. I know I normally try to blog about something meaningful and political, but tonight I just don’t have the energy for that shit. G’night one and all. Sweet dreams and piss off (actually, if you’re reading this in America not long after the time of writing then I guess that should be ‘good morning and piss off’ but let’s not split hairs).

So, some people seem to think that when I use the word ‘Cunts’ I’m only adressing women. That’s such a literal-minded attitude and displays a total lack of imagination. I recently had an argument with a chap- ‘Red no.3’ if anyone feels like sending him a parcel bomb in some kind of sicophantic act of devotion to me, your marvellous overlord and sexual collossus- who I initially approached with praise for one of the first people to actually offer a rational critique of my blog (that’s right- he’s a straggler from the last time I managed to piss everyone on the internet off) rather than just launch personal hatred at me. This is how your very own Secret-Diary-of-an-FA learned the valuable lesson: Never Be Polite to People Who are Determined to Hate You. Anyway, he chose to believe that my special treatment of him was because he was a male rather than a female, as oppose to my being entirely fair-minded and rewarding his stab at intelligent debate. Additionally, he also complained that I called women ‘cunts’, which I didn’t: I called my rudest critics ‘cunts’- the fact that they happen to own vaginas has nothing to do with it.

What astonishes me is that anyone would be dense enough to TELL me what words they find particularly offensive. I’ve gotta hand it to my opponents though, when they shoot themselves in the foot, they use a nice hefty cannon don’t they? Discovering that I can be 5000 times more effective at offending people I dislike simply by using one specific words is a joy, by the way: a bit like discovering a hidden score multiplier in Rez (speaking of which, that counts as product placement, so if you’re the developers of the game: you now owe me money).

Anyroads, where was I…. oh yeah: sweeties, you can ALL be cunts, whether you’ve got one hiding beneath yer trendy designer pantaloons or not. I don’t discriminate: I just hand out insults and bollockings to the most deserving. If YOU want to be called a cunt, just provoke me, and I’ll be happy to oblige. Or apply formally via the Fuck-You Corporation, PO Box S9FUCK 7QA.

You know, I can’t help but feel that if the cause of Fat Acceptance is ever going to be won, it’s not going to be by the core particpants. At least not in their present state. Question: huh? Answer: think about it. Or rather, think abou the Gay Rights movement and the level of success that has enjoyed here in England. In the 1980s, homophobia was at its height. By the 1990s, prejudice was on the decline. By the early 2000s, the notion of the Civil Partnership had gained legitimacy. Now the pariamentary types are talking about proper marriage between gay couples and the last time I went into Café Nero during gay pride it had been decorated with a massive foam cock. No. Really. I kid you not.

And why this level of success? I have a pretty persuasive idea that it has to do with the way that movement played up to its image as something camp and faintly charming. It gave people outside the movement a narrative that could be followed. It knew what it was doing it the field of Public Relations. And it was bolstered by the fact that people love a bit of formidden love. There’s a reason people still read Romeo and Juliet despite it being creepy and pervy. People love the narrative of star-crossed lovers… especially when they have the Public Relations acumin to weave an acceptable archetype for themselves so that the general public doesn’t impose a stereotype on them instead.

And with the utmost respect, the Fat Acceptance movement has the same level of PR-acumin as, say, a particularly inhospitable Great White Shark. The movement isn’t getting any level of public attention with its pure Acceptance rhetoric. Because it’s too far removed from the experiences of the neurotypicals who, let’s be honest, tend not to think about that shit too much. When the movement gets any mainstream media attention, it’s because of the fetishes associated with it- Fat Admiration and Feederism. And a sensible movement would have realised that this is something it should use to its advantage.

‘Cause like I said, folks really do ship them some star-crossed lovers. 98% of the human race are never going to read, understand or give one solitary toss about ‘Fat!So?’, but everyone can appreciate the romance inherent in finding love with someone who actually finds you attractive in spite of what society would deem ‘flaws’ with your body. Because deep down, that’s what most people really want: to be loved for who they are and all of who they are.

Link the movement more strongly with Fat Acceptance, acknowledge that these two different things (Acceptance and Admiration) are two different faces of the same coin and you provide the public with a jumping-on point they actually care about, thus meaning that we might actually get somewhere in the next 20-30 years. Because so far, and I do apologise if this home-truth cuts you up a little: we’ve got fucking nowhere. Seriously: not one serious media profile of the movment in the mainstream, not one debate in parliament… Sod. All. Basically, we need a better a fucking PR department.

So, recently a news story emerged that said that many married men are eating healthily in front of their wives to avoid confrontation, but sneaking out to eat the food they actually like when they get the opportunity. And with that one news story, I think normal folks just lost any right to tell feederists that our attitude towards food is fucked up. I may regard the act of consumption as potentially erotic, but at least I know that I will never wind up in a relationship where I feel I have to practice an elaborate act of subterfuge in order to eat a sodding pie.

Seriously, sometimes I think normal people must be actually insane. Never mind the attitudes to food specifically: every so often I’ll hear about some day-to-day thing that the majority of people do that’s gone sailing gracefully over my head. Take football (soccer to my Amerian readers). In England, football’s a big deal. I’ve had several conversations with normal folk who genuinely couldn’t get their heads around the idea that I didn’t support a football team or even follow the sport. I mean, I have no problem with people who like football, but I don’t see what’s so hard to grasp about the fact that I couldn’t give an guff-flavoured toss about the sport. I mean, for crying out loud: it’s some men kicking a ball around a field! It’s totally underwhelming, at best.

But millions of people seem to think it’s important. Similarly, millions of people regularly tune into shows like the X Factor to hear near-identical pop-twonks warbling songs that have already been done better by other people. Another few million are prepared to spend money on clothes that are ‘labelled’ when the exact same garment sans label would be half the price. And all these examples are considered normal behaviour. Now, I can understand any one of these behaviours as a personal quirk… what leads me to seriously doubt the sanity of our civilisation is that they’ve been adopted by such huge swathes of people and nobody seems to be remotely bothered by it. I think the epitome of this trend is branded underpants- I’m looking at you, Men who Buy Kelvin Klein undergarments. They’re fucking knickers, for pity’s sake! They’re a holster for your cock! What do think you’re getting exactly by shelling out the additional few quid? Again, as a personal quirk, this would be just fine. But it doesn’t seem to register with huge numbers of people that there’s somethings slightly odd, not to say dysfunctional about this.

Attitudes to food and health though… those are the ones that always really throw me. I won’t list all the other mental shit I’ve encountered over the years, but this thing about people actually feeling the need to eat BEHIND THEIR PARTNER’S BACK is something so astonishingly batshit mental I honestly can’t quite understand it. If you’re married to someone, and I realise this might sound naive, shouldn’t that be on the basis that they’re someone you can share your whole self with, not just the publicly-acceptable part? If you’re having to sneak around in order to do something as simple as fucking eat what you want, do you not think maybe something might be wrong with your relationship?

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: Norms are weird. Be glad you’re not one of them (I’m assuming you wouldn’t self-idtentify as ‘normal’, at any rate. If you did, you probably wouldn’t be reading this blog).

Well, that’s all for today folks. Until next time, feel free to do something with the time between my blogs, or just sit at the computer. Weeping over my temporary absense. Because I’m just that fucking brilliant.

Hallo there, lovelies. I’d love to stop and do a proper blog- in fact, I have one all composed in my head and an even better idea than that just came into my head. But I just downloaded a shit-load of content from Xbox Live, so I regret to inform you that today’s blog is nothing more than an elaborate holding pattern for tommorrow’s, cunningly disguised as some words. Oh, and apparently I’ve lost a follower. Which is odd, given that I didn’t lose a single one when I was actually pissing everyone off. What have I done this time? Actually, don’t tell me. I’d rather just pretend it’s got something to do with pent-up erotic tensions. On which vaguely sickening note, I bid you all good evening!

You know what the world needs? A room in every city, town, village and hovel-zone, where people can go and speak their mind to one another. And when I say speak their mind, I mean REALLY speak their mind. All the rude, nasty little thoughts. All the bile, hate, misery and borderline narcissisum. All the stupid, petty gripes that don’t mean anything. What we need is just one big room where people can go and get it off their chest. And no-one’s allowed to interupt. But if you’ve offended someone, when it’s their turn to speak, you have to sit and listen to everything they say about you. Even if its horrible and makes you want to weep and maybe even cut yourself. You have to sit there and listen to every last word of it.

And I guarentee you, after a few weeks, those rooms would be deserted. Because mankind would have learned a valuable lesson: that no matter how much effort it might cost you, you have to try and not act like a prick.

Y’see, there’s this general attitude on the Interweb-thingy that goes something like this “I Feel This Way Very Strongly So That Gives Me the Right To Be Rude To Everyone Who Doesn’t Agree.” Now, I’m known for being quite… abrasive. Let’s be honest here, if you’re short on the word “fuck” you can always pop round my place to borrow a cup of it. But the one rule I always have, unless provoked passed the point of endurance, is that I attack types and attitudes. I only name names when it’s absolutely imperative, and I never go out of my way to pick a fight. The recent controversy surrounding this blog demonstrates that I’m always ready to finish a fight that someone else starts by whatever brutally repressive methods I deem necessary… but leave me alone and I’m basically a fluffy kitten made of candy-floss and rainbows. Other people on the web… not so much.

Like the rooms in my hypothetical scenario, the Internet acts as a megaphone for every grievance everyone has ever had. Which is a good and sensible way of relieving stress with like-minded people. Unfortunately, also like the rooms in my hypothetical scenario, the Internet allows its participants to go at one another hammer and tongs over any fucktarded thing that occurs to them. Unlike the rooms, however, the Internet never makes the instigators of these shitstorms sit still and face the consequences of opening their flapping, semi-literate oreo-sockets. Which means that from the arguments that take place on the web, nobody ever learns a single, solitary cocking thing.

Hence the rooms. If we actually instituted these things, we could teach everyone to conduct themselves with a modicum of decorum… even on the web. Because there would be a physical, definitive demonstration that the Right to Freedom of Speech comes with certain responsibilities, foremost amongst which is not to be a massive turd sandwich with a pus-‘n’-vinnegar sidesalad.

What I’m trying to express is a general principle that I wish everyone in the world would take notice of: that there’s a right way and a wrong way to talk to and about people, and simply opening the slot in your face and saying the first thing that pops into your head almost always falls into the latter category. I consider myself to be living proof of this: I’m already considered by some to be a force of unreasoning rudeness, but if I actually said everything that passed through my skull to everyone I felt like saying it to, I’d be single-handedly trebling the national suicide rate.

Of course, no-one’s under any obligation to take my advice from this article. But if you choose not to, if you choose to cling to personal rudeness as a method of communication… well since by your logic I’m allowed to say this: you’re a cunt, then, aren’t you?