Monday, 26 March 2007

Spitting Madonna (an inter-issue intermission)

'It's it's it's it's it's it's... What is it?'

'I think it's...'

'Don't think it. You need to know it.'

Are we tripping here?

An innocent schoolgirl being frog-marched to meet the Fasc(ion)ist bully.

Egged on by a pair of leering accomplices, the paste-haired bitch humiliates and debases her victim.

'She's nah-theeng' sneers one of the henchmen, the misogyny dripping from every pore of his being while a hareem of submissive concubines pout in agreement.

'You know what to do,' the bully commands.

Cut away to a back-room where the sweaty-pawed old men slap the victim around a bit before stripping her reluctant frame.

Meanwhile Her Royal Heinous sprawls suggestively, slicing sheet after sheet of an unidentified manuscript through a shredder. (Who knows, maybe the script of her husband's next film.)

Back to the torture chamber and the helpless waif is being looked up and down by the Mistress.

'You made it,' she says, finally.

Her pet worm slithers at her feet.

'No' he hisses. 'YOU made it.'


Well actually a six year-old child in Malaysia probably made it. WHAT THE SHITTING FUCKERY IS GOING ON HERE?

Schoolgirl costumes are all very well in the privacy of your own home. They're even better down the local fetish club. But when it comes to prime-time TV they belong on adverts for Cheesestrings or Yu-Gi-Oh. We'll even let them pass in the Britney video (although it's not a patch on the shaven-head look.) They certainly DON'T belong in a sub-arthouse tribute to Japanese sado-porn, squirted from the washed-out, sold-out imaginings of a once-great pop queen.

Once we almost believed in you. I mean, you were no Geri Halliwell, but you had your moments. You actually seemed to believe in women. Now you are reduced to polyester catsuits.

Cut at the knee.

And we know.... we just know... that down in the offices of OWM, they're wetting their sheets with dreams of catsuits.

Cut at the knee.

Friday, 16 March 2007

We told you it's not just us...

Well this blog soared past its first 1,000 visitors in the first five days since we publicised ourselves (welcome to you each and every one, although you've drunk us dry. Bring a bottle next time).

We thought a few people might agree with us about the horror of OWM, but it seems we have scratched open a festering sore on the flesh of Observer readers everywhere. The many heartfelt comments on this site speak for themselves, but hello - all over the country bloggers are tearing our favourite supplement to strips, soaking the tatters in lighter fluid, incinerating them, snorting up the ashes, sneezing them out into a Kleenex and then burning that too. Here are just a few we found on a quick trawl around.

There's a wonderfully spiteful (and avowedly hungover) rant about the Grazia feature from Eilidh, who is clearly a woman after our hearts.

The David Cameron interview incurred suitable wrath from Skimskitta who skewers it with glee:

"What does this article begin with? a dissection of Tory policy? a
view on Cameron's leadership style?, maybe something about the amazingly bungled
handling of the EU under his leadership? No the first 500 words or so deal with
the 'groupies' (which the reporter recognises herself in) waiting 'dreaming of
photo opportunities', then a discussion of how smooth Cameron's cheek is! (no
seriously, an exact quote 'I assume that he shaves, but it is hard to believe he
needs to. He has apple cheeks!') "

But the OWM feature that really sent the blogs foaming though lately has been the 50 Men Who Really Understand Women. There's a very smart (if slightly earnest) feminist critique by Joanna Tocher at The F-Word; an assortment of heavy hits and deft stiletto strokes are delivered by Princess Emmaline ; atommickbrane and incorruptible. But our runaway favourite and brand new number 1 site is Freaky Trigger. They rose to the challenge and turned the tables.

Irrational. Contradictory. Mad. The top 50 is an irrational
list. But what do you expect - it was voted for by men!

We at Freaky Trigger towers were shocked when we saw the
Observer Woman Magazine’s
Top 50 Men Who Really Understand Women article -
it seemed somewhat familiar! Surely, we thought, this couldn’t have been stolen
from an up and coming Freaky Trigger article?? We hereby bring the publication
of of Freaky Trigger’s Top 50 Women Who Really Understand Men forward for your
delectation. In it, you will find women who understand men are drunks, women who
understand their function as breast carriers, women who have carved out new
ground within the fiercely competitive mens footwear market, and women who know
that the true function of men is to be ground under heel like dogs. Your panel
consists of a bunch of flabbergasted male drunks, and one exhausted female drunk
who took dictation.

The list is inspired, but we won't steal their thunder and spoil the surprise. Read for yourself.


Please drop us a line if you spot / create any OWM-related gubbins, or better still, drop it in the comments box. Same goes if you'd like to be added to the esteemed blogroll that is See... it's not just us.

Publications that are better than Observer Woman Magazine: #1 of what could be an extremely long list indeed

This book has just been published for Red Nose Day, after a Herculean effort from Mike at Troubled Diva.

We particularly like the detail that it costs £8.96. Not £8.99, because that would just be common. Minus the cost of paper and ink, about £3.63 of that will go towards feeding Lennie Henry's ego.

We're not in it, but many of the contributors who are in it really, really hate Observer Woman. We know because they told us. And that's good enough for us. We're not normally known for our charitable disposition here at OWMMS, but we will make an exception for this. Why? We can do no better than quote the words of fellow OWM-hater Clare at Boob Pencil:

[Buy it] and that means you can resolutely TURN THE FUCKING TELLY OVER tonight and not watch any of the God-awful not-very-funny drivel we Brits are going to have inflicted upon us, and you can do so with a clear conscience.

Thursday, 15 March 2007

March edition: A short apology.

In our previous expectoration, we may have inadvertently given the impression that one item in the March edition of OWM could actually have been quite interesting.

After careful consideration of the article in question, we now realise that this allegation is completely without foundation.

In the name of the father is in fact seemingly interminable, largely unreadable, mostly unfathomable and ultimately turgid. We solemnly promise all our readers that in the future we will never again make the elementary error of assuming that because something in OWM looks interesting, it will in fact be interesting.

In our defence, we would have been remiss in our duties had we not brought to your attention this particular example of OWM's unrivalled style:

"The carved Charles II staircase is a triumph. It is really not the kind of
place that its owner, however severe her deadlines, can very easily

(thanks to Hysteresis at the Big Chill forum for the spot)

Sunday, 11 March 2007

Miscellaneous hate page


We know it's common but we love it...

4. Gays. Our fag-haggery knows no bounds.

We're spitting too much to speak.

"I spent an hour with Leo"

You're a showbiz journalist. You made a buck interviewing an actor, then persuaded the editors of OWM to pay you to write an article about writing an article? And plug your book at the same time? Marianne MacDonald - we salute you.

How old is too old for the Mini Mini?

Ask J Lo. She's been stepping out in high old style lately. And she's 37.

Wow, can she still walk without a zimmerframe?

"The risk: If your thighs meet in the middle, it's a no."

Women whose thighs don't meet in the middle look like nutcrackers.

"Tight, bright, scary as hell... It's Body Con."

Tight, bright, scary as hell... It's Bobby Conn!

His and hers Viagra

This is quite an achievement. A topic tumescent with humour, passion, eroticism, personal revelation and interpersonal drama, and you manage to make it really, really dull.

We can draw only one conclusion. OWM is a crap shag.

In the name of the father

Actually this looks quite interesting. When we stop spitting we might read it. Go on, tell us we're wrong.

Beauty Queen
Winning question: How do you make your nose appear smaller using just make up?


With powder, like foundation, you place a lighter colour down the top of the nose and darker powder on either side.

OWM Editor: Note to subs. The words 'powder' and 'nose' should never appear in the same sentence.

on the basis of practically no information whatsoever, backed up by a feel-it-in-my-waters sort of hunch, I'd guess...

Kathryn Flett explains the OWM editorial policy in a convenient purse sized nugget.

What's in it for me? OWM's inferiority complex uncovered

What's in it for me?

"I'd much rather read about Jennifer Aniston because she makes me feel hip."

So it's like this. You have somehow persuaded a national newspaper to give you a monthly magazine supplement to play with. Your brief is to tell us what to wear, what to buy, what to like, what to despise.

And how do you do this? You recommend a different magazine, the one you really want to work for. Because unlike you, they know what to wear, what to buy, what to like, what to despise. They're so chic and smart and young. And you're so terribly insecure. If it wasn't for Grazia you'd have to, like, think for yourself.

"The key is succesful women in trauma. But unlike the Daily Mail, Grazia seems like it is on their side. That's really clever."

How remarkably honest. The key is sincerity. If you can fake that you've got it made. If only there were more successful women in trauma, think how much more fun we could have and how much more lovely money we could make.

"Laura Benjamin: 'Lindsey Lohan's rehab is the funniest thing I've ever seen."
Charming. Celebrity Big Brother here we come.

So we've never had it so good?

Imagine this.

As a young girl you grow up being told by OWM that you can go to university, leave and get yourself a good career - possibly as a pop star. By your mid-twenties you'll be earning a six figure salary, forging a path in a previously male-dominated world. You'll own your own flat, a Mulberry handbag and a Marc Jacobns frock.

By thirty you'll decide you want six babies but because you can't find the time you'll go down to the IVF clinic and demand a multiple birth.

You'll be visited regularly by the pixies and fairies who will drop little Vuitton banglets into your champagne glass when you're not looking, you'll have an occasional but deeply satisfying sexual liaison with Santa Claus and your lady bits will emit the fragrance of rose petals while film stars throw themselves at your feet.

Earth calling OWM? Earth calling OWM? It's getting chilly down here.

Who are you trying to kid? You phoned up nine of your richest friends and told them it would be an absolute hoot to do a photoshoot with the gorgeous Jamie Hunter and tell all the hilarious gullible plebs that they too can have a life like yours.

"This dreamed-of life reads like the delusions of a mad woman, of course."

Too damned right it does. You are a mad woman. You're several rings outside Saturn. You're a screwed-up, envy-ridden harridan who thinks IVfuckingF is a fashion statement. You shouldn't be let near a small domestic pet, let alone a magazine. Your trust-funded friends are worse.

There are teenagers throwing tomatoes at the windows of our local laundrette that have more of a clue about life than you do.

And quite frankly, they dress better.

We are super-confident, smart, young generation why oh why, oh fuck off you must be kidding

We'll be with you this evening. Just give us a bit more time to get sufficiently irate and sufficiently pissed.

In the meantime, if you wish to begin ranting about Grazia or anything else, knock yourself out here.


Thursday, 1 March 2007

We hate you. Hate you hate you hate you.

The 50 men who really understand women

Erm, excuse me?

My friend George ...

He's an actor. He's fucked lots of women. He's saved a kid from a sewer in the face of raging torrents of water and some very scary-faced health and safety officers. Although he was just pretending.

Three out of five women are in love with Philip Green. Well, his shops anyway
Hooray, it's the bloke who makes the fags. Oh no, it's the guy who has made millions flogging clothes so skinny that you can't get your arms in a Size 16.

What do you give the girl who has everything? A session with Mario.

Or a bit of respect perhaps?

How I get dressed

Fall out of bed, underwear, then work out which charity shop bargain matches my day best.oh and then go to work

Balancing act Juggling work and kids? David Cameron could be just the man to restore your work-life balance. Unless he's too busy changing nappies


Now that just takes the fucking biscuit. I'm starting a blog.

How can you live with yourselves? Is this what you think women are? What we are reduced to? Debased to? Do we have no other interests? No value? No brains? Who ARE these women you are selling to? Who buys this image fashion image fashion image fashion carousel? We don't need it, we don't want it. I don't want to look at pictures of skinny women in expensive clothes. I may as well look through a catalogue. If you can't give us something useful at least give us porn. Or knitting patterns. Leave us out of this selling frenzy where handbags are worth everyhing and independent thought worth less than our plastic smiles.

Food. Sport. Music. Woman. The follies of dull men. Is that all we are? Another outlet for spare cash and opportunity for making a million. Is a woman one interest? Does a woman only have one interest?

A pox on you and your flavour enhanced hydrogenated oil eye make-up and your Terry de Gunzburg's Touche Eclat.