No. 31 Fanshawe on Feminism

Although not a fan of the species myself, I concede that women have a place in the world. After all, how is a chap going to water, feed, and clean his immaculate self without a woman there to do it for him?

But what fresh hell is this? By the deuce! It has come to my attention that there are murmurings among those of the female persuasion that they consider themselves the equal of the far superior chap.

Such lunacy can only have sprung forth from the mind of a woman and is evidence, if evidence is at all needed, that such murmurings should be treated with the all around contempt that they deserve. The foolish creatures are clearly unhinged to consider themselves of a similar cut and stature, or even to believe that they share the same capital mindset of the sporting gent.

Since learning of this blatant affront to all that is good in Her Majesty, the Queen’s, god-fearing land, I have visited my local library – where nowadays they not only allow the poor through the gate, but let them handle the Jackie Collins – and boned up a little on the subject. It did not for pleasant reading make.

It would seem that this ridiculous movement goes by the name of ‘feminism’ and was started up in the forty-sixth year of Her Majesty’s reign, 1998, when a mentally deficient Australian harridan going by the name of Jermaine Jackson set fire to her brasserie [sic]. I pray that there were no members of the nobility taking tea there at the time, and more importantly, what the Dickens were they thinking letting the facetious female own an eating establishment in the first place? That is exactly why this land is in the state it is today. One can only live in hope that she was swiftly escorted to the gaolhouse and charged with endangering the upper classes, never to breathe our clean air again.

Now my own experience of the female gender has pretty much been limited to berating the serving staff, beating the kitchen maids, and hearing the occasional disembodied wail of torment from mad Aunt Jemima, whom Pater kept locked in the attic for the duration of my residence at Fanshawe towers. Aside from that I tend to give this most degenerate of species short shrift, unless of course it is Her Majesty, or the equally eminent Dame Thatcher; both of whom I’d remove my Topper for without a second thought.

But this charitable willingness by one’s self to turn a blind eye to a lady wishing to continue with her croquet or needlework after the chores have been completed seems to have been spat back in his Lordship’s face.

Which beggars the question as to what – aside from the Jackson woman – is the genesis of this ‘feminist’ claptrap? This oh so fragrant [sic] cock of the snook towards authority?

What the devil put this horrific notion of equality into the confused creatures’ minds in the first place?

Gads, man! It would seem that the Great British judiciary itself is at fault. My research has revealed that the very same system of law that was put in place to protect those of us of a higher social standing and our land from the grubby, thieving paws of smelly proletariat , is the very same system of law that is now paying lip-service to the un-ladylike upstarts, and not only protecting them in their endeavour to overthrow their betters and masters, but actively encouraging them. How else would the woman’s convoluted mind have reasoned that she was within her rights to question a fellow’s ownership of her?

It was with equal amazement that I discovered that not only is it no longer considered cricket for a chap to beat his wife with a shoe when she steps out of line, but that she is perfectly within her rights to walk alongside him when out in public.

It not only makes me shudder, but thankful that I have no dealings with such specimens. My formative years at Eton as the fifth form toast rack put paid to that, and although it smarted at the time I am eternally grateful to the thoroughly decent chaps of upstanding calibre, such as ‘Pogo’ Patterson, and ‘Gripper’ Stebson, for curing me of any sympathetic leanings towards the weaker sex that I may have once harboured.

What in the name of Christopher Biggins will they demand next? Divorce rights? Jobs? Equal pay? Shares in companies?

It is enough to toast a temperate toff’s Topper.

This ‘feminist’ lark needs nipping in the bud, post-haste. I propose the repeal of the vote, the reinstating of the birch and the hanging of any female showing the slightest signs of independence.

It is the only solution, dearheart. Consider one’s selves well and truly warned. What ho!

More Fanshawe nonsense:

No. 28 Fanshawe Reveals All
No. 25 Fanshawe Joins the Fold
No. 24 A Sporting Fellow’s Jollies
No. 16 The Working Classes and their Like

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