The Noughties will be remembered as a stunted deformity of a decade when technology was routinely more impressive than people; when information was more available than ever before and yet when people’s grasp on the basic and fundamental arguments that once underpinned the assumptions of society seemed to slip as if greased and feebled.
A generation came of age into a culture that had accelerated so far away from its axioms that it seemed senseless and incomprehensible. It was as if we had all wondered into a doctoral seminar on modular forms and been asked to connect it back to Euclid in our heads. If that last allusion means nothing to you, it is because I am right – you are living in macro-culture and do not know the ground beneath your feet. You are adrift.
Nowhere has this been more true than in Feminism.
The arguments underpinning feminism are very clear, very simple and often incontestably correct. Take this, against the objectification of female sexuality, for example:
1. By presenting female sexuality as a consumer object, you reduce it to something less than it is – a commodity to be bought and sold.
2. If it is a commodity, then rape (unauthorised acquisition of the commodity) is the moral equivalent of theft – no worse.
3. Therefore Nuts magazine is actively re-incentivising rape.
4. stop it
Or, even simpler, try this one about the use of Ms as a title.
1. when a man gets married his title doesn’t change, he is ‘Mr.’ before and after.
2. when a woman gets married her title does change, from ‘miss’ to ‘mrs’
3. one’s title is routinely used in official correspondence
4. therefore a woman’s legal and social position is contingent on her relationship to a man where a man’s is not contingent on his relationship to a woman.
5. this is unequal: use Ms.
Shimples, as a meerkat might say.
And yet, in the noughties, these continued to be controversies because everyone came in at the wrong floor and started chucking opinions around based on the irrelevant surface.
So now Jordan is a feminist icon because she made a bunch of money re-incentivising rape and changing her title to Mrs.
It has been a decade of cheeky, sex-fearing breasts wobbling merrily from reality TV to magazine shoots past student activists who were so busy propping up the most appallingly misogynist regimes on earth in the hope of annoying Dick Cheney that they barely batted a mascara’d eyelid. It was maddening. All this lad’s mag shit was bad but sort of OK in the 90s because it was still, at least, controversial – in the noughties it was just inherited – normalised by the vacuous treadmill of ever-replenishing youth.
Even worse was, to borrow a phrase, the ‘female as a genre’ music that infected the second half of the decade. Sure, the stereotype these collaborationist morons were embracing for financial gain was more to do with Dave Gilmour’s wank fantasy than the average Nuts reader’s, but there was No real difference – it was just the same old objectified, treacherous package marketed to the literate as effectively as it had been to the trogs.
Everyone was a stupid fucking cunt in the noughties – yes, that’s right, a cunt – I’m using a gendered swear as an insult, and you can’t do anything about it cause you couldn’t even be bothered to find out why I shouldn’t. You cunts.