No one should take British women as role models

Nirpal Dhaliwal
Nirpal DhaliwalSep 23, 2016 | 15:19

No one should take British women as role models

Last week, two events occurred that reflect something of the present condition of women in Britain. The first was the televised results of lie-detector tests undertaken by three young women, one of whom was alleged to have defecated in their aunt's refrigerator.

None proved guilty, but that their aunt should, on finding a stool in her food store, leap immediately to the assumption that the culprit was a female member of her own family is only natural given the degraded state that a great many women of this country revel existing in.


If one ventures into the Anglostani interior on any Friday or Saturday night, into the provincial shire towns where there are few immigrants to civilise them, one risks seeing a multitude of women - of all ages - heavily plied with alcohol, screeching, puking, brawling, copulating and squatting together to void their bowels and bladders openly on the street as they loudly discuss their sex lives, in full view of not only the public but also the police, who stand impotently aside, knowing that to interrupt this insanitary behaviour - which is regarded here as a sacred hard-won feminist right - is to risk sparking a riot.

I had my own personal encounter with the grubby state of the nation's gender relations recently while travelling on a London underground train late at night. A tearful, inconsolable Britisher, swigging beer as he staggered about the carriage, pleaded of his wife, "Why did you have to touch my friend's co*k? In front of everybody?" She stared guiltily down at her mobile phone in silence as he weeped, "And he didn't even buy you rosé!"

Surprised as I was to learn that the Anglotariat drinks rosé - opening the occasional tin of processed chicken tikka tends to be the limit of their cosmopolitanism - and that this the currency with which they negotiate the fondling of genitals, I could only feel sadness for the man as he sat next to sympathetic strangers and talked of his public shaming by the woman with whom he'd sired two daughters, and how his social life would now be limited by his unwillingness to have his wife within reaching distance of any penis.


As is typical of British men when they talk of their partners, his tone was of morbid and lethargic resignation rather than any sort of passion. All the while, his wife continued casually perusing Facebook as if being publicly accused of being a treacherous molester of crotches was a minor marital mishap, no worse than forgetting the napkins for a family picnic.

The women of Britain now face the galling prospect of being vastly overtaken by the men and women of the wider world. (Photo credit: Google) 

Sadly, in Britain, many feminists would argue that the forgetting of napkins and the faithless molesting of crotches are necessary strides in the progress of women, freeing them from the confining shackles of heterosexual domesticity.

Last week's second inglorious marker of the condition of Anglostani womanhood was the release here of Bridget Jones's Baby. Fifteen years after the original movie, Renee Zellwegger reprises her role as the blundering, weight-and-romance-obsessed British dimwit who steam-rollers through life unfazed as she humiliates herself at every possible turn.

The film has, of course, been a roaring success in Britain, where female self-respect and modesty are regarded as handcuffs of the patriarchy, but it has bombed everywhere else.

How the British see the role of women is of little interest to a world that has moved well on from caring what they think of most things and, indeed, would rather not know.


Today, Indian women can see for themselves just how little they have to learn from their British counterparts as the movie goes on nation-wide Indian release. Bridget Jones is an object lesson in what not to do as Indian women forge their own unique destiny.

Her shambolic character and self-deprecating humour no longer charms a world that sees it for what it is: proof of a deeply flawed and unreflective psyche that takes neurotic joy in its own failures.

The vulgarity of what is considered women's liberation in Britain is just another nihilist reaction to this country's moribund post-imperial malaise. Knowing that they have no influence on humanity, British feminists have no vision for themselves other than to proudly emulate the worst excesses of their menfolk.

Having struggled to achieve equality with their men, the women of Britain now face the galling prospect of being vastly overtaken by the men and women of the wider world. They have arrived at parity with British men precisely at the moment when being British is no longer the advantage that it was.

The despair at seeing their hopes sink under the crashing waves of globalisation has given Britain's women their terrifying thirst for alcohol. Over 55 per cent of them are estimated to have a drinking problem, and a staggering third of all pregnant women here will binge-drink themselves into oblivion.

This need to soak themselves in booze affects mainly the older generations: the millennials coming into adulthood now are drinking notably less, being both embarrassed by their forbears and much more conscious of the financial cost.

The older generation of feminists here, who shoulder the responsibility for leading their sisters into this abyss, are merely deluded one-dimensional leftists who can only regard men as enemies and competitors.

A leading elder-feminist, Suzanne Moore, recently wrote an article in which she declared, "As a class, I hate men", and underlined this with the moronic assertion that "any intelligent woman hates men."

This is what passes for thought among British feminists. None of them can confront the truth that the glass ceiling that women here cannot smash through is not imposed by the patriarchy but simply by their own mediocrity.

Having had more resources at their disposal than most people in the developing world will ever dream of, if Britain's women have not arrived at the lives they wanted, they only have themselves to blame.

Disgusted by the adversarial nature of British gender relations, many women here now seek peace and stability within Islam. British women have the highest conversion rate to the religion of any demographic in the West, often doing so in order to deepen and sanctify their relationship with a Muslim man.

They long for the security and affection of family life, and many of them are happy to be one of several wives their husband keeps, finding the sharing of conjugal responsibilities to be a blessed relief.

The products of an aimless and deeply confused pigsty culture of excess, these women have escaped into the relative sanity provided by the discipline and structure of the Sharia. Given the alternative - to grow old while drowning in cheap booze and cheaper bitterness - who can blame them?

As India's brave and brilliant women stride into modernity, they should take stock of the failures and dysfunctions of the British. They will make up their own minds on what direction to take, but they owe it to themselves to learn as much as they can from those who once lead the way but can now barely crawl as they head drunkenly for the exit of history.

Last updated: September 23, 2016 | 18:40
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