There is nothing I hate more than a female journalist blathering on about modern day mating rituals and the numerous ways to get the cuirassier of your dreams. It is precisely for this reason that I have turned my attention to Lucy Mangan who’se Guide To Being A Girl begins with the following cunterratum: ‘...from the age of about eight onwards (later if you are posh and have ponies to obsess about and so can sublimate your sexual urges by competing in gymkhanas), the race is on to get a boyfriend.’ It is perhaps inconceivable to a woman like Mangan, with her pre-school house-frau aspirations, that while her prepubescence was spent building a reputation as the classroom slut the rest of us were trying to get to grips with math equations. But never mind that. It’s not her early forays in to tactical-man-trapping that turns me a darker shade of salmon. No. It’s her consummately moronic manual-guide that incites a certain urge to perforate any one of her organs with the sharp-end of a bradawl. Mangan’s wishy-washy ideas on dating and mating – with the same depth of judgment as those of a streetwalker – manifest themselves in monotonous stereotypical eructations about grooming, screwing and the like. I have little inclination to discuss her cuntcoctions at length or try to understand the mind-crippling nonsensical observations such as: ‘Dating may be the reason we (women) don't rule the world. Nothing saps a girl's will or zest for life like it’ or ‘Post-25, your relationships are defined by unrelieved anxiety about the present - could he be The One? Could I make him into The One?’ or better yet, the ways to prepare for a date:’Stop eating and take eight days off work to start exfoliating...Have cosmetic surgery to get rid of unsightly blemishes and noses...Apply make-up with all the proper brushes, puffs, sponges and curlers.’ and so on until eventually Miss Mangan writes herself completely out of relevance.
I do however wonder how this sort of spumous mullock gets in to print and more importantly who buys it. But perhaps I will never know…unless…I join some sort social club for prospective bunny-boilers with self-esteem issues, an inordinate penchant for vodka and Gloria Gaynor’s greatest hits. Then again, I think I’d rather not know. I think I’d rather just pronounce Miss Mangan and her ilk as certified cunts and be done with it.