By Paul Lester
October 10, 2008
This is probably as good a time as any to reassure everybody how I feel about women. I love them. Every single one of them. My mum, my grandmothers, my sister? All great. My ex-girlfriends? Got photos of them all pasted chronologically on my wall, a veritable shrine to ladies past (although I can't help detecting a decline in the quality of pulchritude sometime around the turn of the '90s, which can possibly be put down to the loud American grunge music I was listening to back then).
But seriously, folks, women are fab. Golda Meir? One of the great Israeli leaders of all time, male or female, although with regard to her appearance, enough with the bun already. Marie Curie? Nobody did pioneering work in the field of radioactivity like La Curie. Florence Nightingale? Few men could hold a lamp with such elan. Mother Theresa? Sure, she was as ugly as sin, but she ministered to the sick and needy with a selflessness that was positively holy, even if her views on abortion were a bit suspect and her face bore more lines than Amy Winehouse's toilet.
No, women are the best, even - especially - the neurotically intense ones who become aggressive and reach for the nearest saucepan of boiled water at the merest hint of rejection. Those ones are my favourite. I love those.