One woman's week, with Karen Fenessey
It was the most embarrassing moment of Rebekah Brook’s life: appearing at the Leveson enquiry dressed like she was off to a Dido concert.
If only Rebekah had taken some style tips from me, people might have taken her seriously. Real women get their point across by slicking their hair down, drawing huge eyebrows on and raising the volume of their voices incrementally until everyone agrees with them.
The reason for her demise: a baby. Two factors alone make women a laughing stock: the first is motherhood and the second its hilarious aftermath, obesity.
You need a flat chest in business for squeezing into ventilation shafts and team building weekends which involve limbo dancing. If it hadn’t been for my limbo skills, which some have likened to a fast-moving rattlesnake with a human head, I would still be licking brown envelopes in Bono’s shed for literally no pay.
Women with children shouldn’t be placed in positions of responsibility. Imagine a woman trying to run the IMF when all she can think about is whether young Ruben has shat his nappy or if little Charlotte looks as svelte as she thinks she does in a tankini (probably not).
Look at all the bewildered women of history and you’ll find they’ve got one thing in common: kids. Whitney thought the children were our future and look where it got her. Carla Bruni had one and immediately lost control of France. Kate Moss made a decision to get photographed doing lines of coke by the Daily Mirror – the kind of moronic choice only the mother of a toddler could make.
Mothers of two are worse: Margaret Thatcher, Sylvia Plath, Aung San Suu Kyi, Holly Willoughby.
Mothers of more than two can’t even dress themselves. Angelina Jolie was the world’s sexiest woman but now look at her stupid leg. No doubt she shopped for Oscar outfits on Rodeo Drive just like in Pretty Woman, but instead of Richard Gere pawing her breasts it was a legion of snot-nosed Sesame Street fans. Imagine the scene: young Pax pressing all the buttons in the lift, Maddox sneezing half-digested Quavers onto a display case of Cartier watches, Knox pissing into his Hunter wellies which squelch when he walks, and finally fiesty Vivienne gets over-familiar with the slender leg of a mannequin which topples face first into a bronze plate upon which had been carefully stacked a five foot high pyramid of Ferrero Rocher. Angelina, at her wit’s end, grabbed some rag off the sale rail and the rest is history.
Soon she’ll be like Rebekah, dressed in her school sweater and banshee hair-do, purring and lolling as Lord Leveson gets bored and starts texting his wife about dinner.
Tragic – a waste of my TV licence and of a woman.