The #MeToo campaign goes up my arse sideways.
The once empowering movement has transformed into a violent and hateful vendetta against males.
The hashtag is a mere weapon. A scalpel perhaps? Used to lacerate the hearts, lives and ballbags of good men.
‘Wolf Creek’ actor John Jarrett is having his name dragged through the mud currently for an ‘alleged assault’ that happened before I was born.
Oscar-winning actor Geoffrey Rush has been in court this week defending his name in a defamation case against The Daily Telegraph. Rush is suing the tabloid newspaper for two articles published in 2017, which he believes painted him as a “pervert” and “sexual predator.”
In Arthur Chrenkoff’s powerful column discussing identity politics he states:
Your opinion on an issue is automatically deemed invalid if you’re not a member of a group whose plight is being discussed.
Is it any wonder, then, that EVERY woman wants to identify as a victim, so she can be part of the conversation?
In a column I wrote, I expressed my disapproval of individuals who ‘lessen’ a person’s experience because it isn’t ‘technically’ rape. But the definition of assault is starting to get blurry. Perhaps we need to redefine?
Are women becoming weak as piss or what?
There’s no need to demolish a man’s life because of a flirty text, a touch on the knee or an inappropriate comment. Fluffy accusations hog the attention from real victims and the issues they face in the aftermath.
I realise having blokes buzzing around like flies can get agitating. But just arm yourself with some Aeroguard.
A touch on the breast during a stage show seems pretty insignificant to me. Even a few touches seem insignificant. Uncomfortable and inappropriate maybe. But worth ruining a man’s life and career over? Certainly not.
This is not a competition on who can be a bigger victim. Entering the Victim Olympics (proudly sponsored by Fairfax Media) certainly isn’t my cup of tea. But I share this information to make a point and reveal the spectrum of sexual assault and harassment in a more clear light.
During my rape, my ONLY thought was: Will he kill me after dropping his load? (I discuss this more thoroughly in my memoir). Then I managed to survive unlike the Jill Meaghers or Eurydice Dixons of the world.
I admittedly commodified my trauma and wrote books, columns and a one-woman show about the experience, in the hope of educating and healing others.
But much of the stuff that gets blown up as ‘traumatic’ actually isn’t in the scheme of things.
Chicks are traumatised by everything now. They complain of PTSD because of an election outcome. They get their pussy-hairs in a knot if the wind doesn’t blow the right way.
I’m done with this monolith of sooky-lalas who desperately crave victimhood and the attention it brings.
Grow a juicy kick-arse vagina and stop whinging.
Vanessa de Largie is a freelance journalist and sex columnist who divides her time between London and Melbourne.
Illustration: A Band Apart/Miramax.
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