Things that men and women do, sometimes to each other

Marxism Explained, By Wimbledon

I see that the U.S. Women’s Hockey team is threatening to boycott the World Championship unless they get better pay. (Hands up those who even knew there was a U.S. Women’s Hockey World Championship… thought so.)

I guess that this is as good a time as any to explain how this whole thing works, because women’s sports — or rather, the women who play professional sports — are essentially driven by Marxist principle, whereas professional sport as a whole is a creation and creature of pure capitalism.

Here’s how professional sports work.

There is a product — sporting competition — which is driven by one word: quality. The better the people who play the sport and the keener the competition, the better the reward, be it championship honors, financial reward, whatever.

Men watch sports all the time, because they are competitive by nature. Women hardly ever watch sport unless it’s not a sport (e.g. Olympic ice dancing, synchronized swimming or gymnastic dancing, i.e. events which have “style points” awarded instead of scoring goals and such). But in the main, the audience for sporting events is comprised of men. Men are competitive, men want to see goals, and baskets, and home runs, and touchdowns. Style is unimportant unless there’s a goal at the end. This is why men don’t watch Olympic ice dancing, synchronized swimming or gymnastic dancing (i.e. events which are won by “style points” instead of goals), unless they’re watching it with their wives / girlfriends. (Ditto women who go to football matches — it’s mostly with their menfolk, otherwise they’d rather have lunch with their friends. Trust me on this.)

Summary: the higher the quality of play, the greater the support. In English football (soccer) terms, there’s a reason why Manchester United plays to crowds of over 75,000 per match, while lower-division Accrington Stanley struggles to fill its stadium of 5,000 each week — and the Man U players earn more each than the total salary of Accrington Stanley’s entire team.

But let me illustrate the whole concept rather with, say tennis. Tennis at Wimbledon, which is generally accepted as the world championship of tennis.

Many years ago, female tennis players like Billie Jean Moffitt (later King) complained that although they practiced as hard as the men, and won their Wimbledon titles just like men did, the tenisettes didn’t get anything like the reward money (purses) that men did. Because this argument took place in socialist Britain, it made all the sense in the world, so women’s purses were increased.

Except, of course, that the argument not only made no sense at all, its acceptance was a de facto acknowledgement of Marxist principle. How so?

Marxism posits that the “worker” works as hard as the “owner”, and therefore deserves if not exactly equal, then at least commensurate reward. We see this all the time, where “input” is as important as “output”. Except it isn’t. One of the precepts of capitalism, as we all know, is that it doesn’t matter how hard you work; all that matters are the results. What counts in the end is the quality of the product, and not the amount of work put into the product. The quality of the product is what sells, and that’s what results in profits for the producer. (Remember this, because it’s important. Really important.) I’m not even going to get involved in a discussion of the relative value of a worker’s time (where the job is simple, and where the worker can simply be replaced by another worker), and that of his employer (whose work is infinitely more complex, more difficult, and who is not that easily replaced). Nine hours’ work by a worker produces, say, a single product; nine hours’ work by the employer produces a marketing campaign, a sales effort, financing of the entire enterprise, product improvement / redesign initiatives… you get the idea.

So: back to tennis. What gets people (mostly men) to watch Wimbledon tennis is the quality of the competition. If the top 50 male tennis players didn’t play, TV ratings would plummet (ask any NFL team owner how his attendance fared with replacement players during the players’ strikes of 1982 and 1987).

Now let’s compare the relative quality of men’s tennis and women’s tennis. Actually, let’s not, because there is no comparison. Women play best-of-three sets, men play best-of-five, so men’s matches last longer, and attract more viewers in consequence. The quality of the actual play (men vs. women) is also not comparable: female tennis star Serena Williams was soundly beaten in a recent challenge match by the men’s 200th-ranked player, some unknown German guy who reportedly was hung over, had a huge meal and some booze beforehand, didn’t bother to warm up and yet still killed Serena stone dead on the court. It doesn’t matter how hard a female tennis player practices, or how fit she is, or even how much she wants to win (another red herring argument); not one stands a chance against a Federer, Djokovic or Murray. Game, set and match.

So if the quality isn’t there, men aren’t interested. (I would suggest that if Wimbledon wanted more men to watch women’s tennis, they’d make the women play topless or naked, but no doubt some feministical would have a problem with my clinical suggestion. And furthermore I’m told that a large proportion of the female players are lesbians, ergo unattractive to men anyway.)

And yet despite all this, women want, nay demand equal pay to men, even though the product they produce is of demonstrably lower quality, which translates into lower TV ratings — and lest we forget, it’s the spectators who drive the sports business, whether they’re actually in the stadium or, more importantly, watching the match on TV. (By the way, I’m aware than many women attend the Wimbledon tournament itself, but let’s be honest, it’s the occasion which draws them, not the competition, or else they’re simply accompanying their menfolk. The Wimbledon occasion, like the Olympics, attracts many spectators who otherwise don’t watch any other matches throughout the year. Seen the TV ratings for Men’s or Women’s Super G World Championships this year? Nobody has.)

And yes, there actually is a “wage gap” (another Marxist principle, by the way) between men’s and women’s sports in general, because men (who are, one more time, the main financial supporters of all sports) happen to prefer things like rewards for quality and don’t agree with participation trophies.

So the silly American women who want to boycott the Women’s Hockey World Championship are not only sticking it to themselves, they’re going to stick it to women’s hockey in general, because without the U.S. team, nobody in the United States will watch the tournament, and in the end, without U.S. viewers and support, women’s hockey may go the way of women’s professional squash. (Yeah, I hadn’t heard of that either.)

There’s a term for this kind of behavior (other than childish petulance): what is it? Oh yeah, it’s self-destructively stupid. I was going to call them dumb broads, but apparently one can’t call chicks “broads” anymore. Another sign of the impending apocalypse.

Train Smash Women

Daughter has a friend whom I’ll call Emma, whose life is one of tragedy. She was abused as a child, estranged from parents, talks the most brainless shit nonstop, is almost always drunk when not working, only dates large Black men who (inevitably) abuse her… well, you get the picture: her life is just one long train smash. Emma is 21 years old, and I love her dearly, for reasons I just cannot explain.

Let me get one thing perfectly clear before I go any further: when I come across a Train Smash Woman in person, I run a mile in the opposite direction because their very presence in your life is toxic. (Back in my misspent youth, I once had to rescue a teenage Train Smash Woman from her drug dealer by sticking a gun up his nose, but that’s a story for another time. What that taught me, however, was to stay away from her and her ilk, and I’ve managed to do so ever since.)

I’m still fascinated by them, though, in some twisted anthropological sense even though they absolutely exude tragedy — maybe for the same morbid reasons why people slow down to look at a car crash on the freeway. My problem is that I find them funny, and view their exploits with open-mouthed horror combined with helpless laughter.

We probably all know one or two of these unfortunate souls, but let’s look at a couple of the more famous ones.

Example #1: Lindsay Lohan. This woman started off her life as an unbearably cute child actress, became a beautiful young woman, then went off the rails completely in her late teens and twenties and now looks like some medieval gargoyle:

I have no idea what made her decide to dye her exquisite red hair into a shade we can safely call “Dockside Blonde”, nor to transform her beautiful mouth into a ghastly fish-pout, but they are all just examples of Train Smash decisions. Apparently, she recently broke off an “engagement” with some much-younger Russian playboy (like that was going to be her path to future happiness, uh huh) who (of course) abused her horribly. I have to tell you, though, that Miss Lohan is not a perfect example of a Train Smash Woman because she started off well before careening off the rails; most Train Smash Women start off as losers, and just continue down that track. There is considerable evidence that Lohan’s parents are a pair of utter assholes who leeched off her and gave her neither protection nor guidance, but we won’t go there other than to note that asshole parents may be a common factor in the phenomenon.

Example #2: Britney Spears. Like Lindsay Lohan, Britney began her public life well in her early teens. In her case she was a pop singer who, despite a rather thin and weak voice, tapped into the rich ur-pedophilia vein of boy / girl singers and became fabulously wealthy as a result. She was, in the old idiom, as cute as a button:

…and even when she matured and had a couple kids, she still looked good:

Then came the long train smash of broken marriages, disastrous affairs, drink and drug problems, and weight gain — none of which stopped her from performing, though, and she seemed quite unashamed of the Train Smash her life had become:

And the final breakdown came when she shaved her head in a series of online Facebook posts or tweets, I don’t remember:

Britney has not stayed a Train Smash Woman, however: she’s cleaned up her act, ditched the drugs and weight, and now has a full-time gig in Vegas. Predictably, I find her less interesting now, although she is once again better to look at (if you prefer that clean-living, daily-gym-visit look, that is):

 

Now she’s become just another $70,000-per-month superstar, and is of little interest to us anymore.

But no discussion of Train Smash Women would be complete without a look at the ultimate, nay the very embodiment [sic] of the breed.

Example #3: Lisa Appleton. No, I’d never heard of her either. She was on some foul British reality TV show many years ago, and I have to admit, she was quite cute (in that full-figured look I like) and even did a bit of celebrity modeling:

   

Had I been aware of her in those days, though, I wouldn’t have given her a second look.

But time has passed, as has Lisa’s “career” as a reality TV star, and she’s ummm changed quite a bit:

…and her “private” look is even more alarming:

Now I know what people are going to say: “Come on, she’s wearing [that grotesque] makeup… she knew the paparazzi were there.”

Of course she did, you fools — and she knows that every time she leaves the house, some camera lens is going to record her insanity.

And that’s the joke. Miss Appleton has turned her Train Smash life into a career; in modern parlance, she “owns” her Smashdom and uses it shamelessly. (Under “shameless”, I think, is where you’d find her picture in any dictionary.)

Needless to say, the Daily Mail loves her — almost every day sees a fresh example of Lisa being tongue-in-cheek Train Smash-y, and I love the pictures almost as much as the commenters at the DM website can’t understand why the newspaper features her so often. (Duh, you idiots: it’s because of me, and people like me who love Train Smash Women.)

And the best part of all this? Lisa has a daughter who plans on following in her mother’s footsteps in reality TV.

Multi-generational Train Smash Women!

I can hardly wait. Yeah, I know; I’m a bad person.

It’s All Fun & Games, Until

Okay, I might as well admit to it: I love reading Britain’s Daily Mail Online. I know it’s trash, and they’re absolutely the worst people in the world, but it’s like Train Smash Women (I’ll explain that term tomorrow): it’s foul and horrible, but you can’t help yourself.

Here’s a wonderful example (from the DM last Friday): Naked man is spotted teetering on a window-ledge of French apartment block ‘after woman’s partner arrives home’. Go ahead and look (you know you want to); I’ll wait.

I think one of the reasons that these ridiculous stories appeal to me so much is that so often, something very similar has happened to me. And the above story is one such example.

Back when I still lived in Johannesburg — from memory, this was in about 1980 — I lived close to an area called Hillbrow, which was Johannesburg’s equivalent of, say, what the Bronx is to Manhattan: a dizzying array of high-rise apartment buildings in what was at the time the most densely-populated area in the entire Southern Hemisphere (back then it even rivaled Hong Kong in terms of population per square mile). Where I lived was a similar, but not quite as densely populated area known as Braamfontein, which was walking distance (about three miles) from Hillbrow, and next door to Johannesburg’s enormous main train station. All this is to give you some kind of scale for the calamity which is to follow.

I was at some party or other in Hillbrow, and ended up flirting with this rather cute woman. She told me that she was engaged to some guy, but he was always away doing contract construction work and because of that she felt lonely and neglected. One thing led to another (booze, mostly), with the inevitable outcome that we ended up in bed at her apartment. (Nowadays, of course, Good Kim would never have taken advantage of her vulnerability, but in 1980, 25-year-old Evil Kim ruled the roost, so to speak.) Here’s what happened next:

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Husband Potential

This young man is going to go far. From his Plenty Of Fish (POF) profile (UK version):

I don’t use POF very often, I very rarely send the first message and I’m content being single.
I read many profiles, with women describing in detail their previous bad judgment when it comes to selecting a partner. Detailing how they quite simply want a man who is honest, that they can get along with and will remain faithful. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. I urge you all to choose more wisely next time; if you don’t pick well, ask your family to judge them for you, a brother, dad for example.
You probably have bad taste in men because deep down, you enjoy complaining to your friends how badly your partner treats you; it probably gives you a sense of enormous well-being. I could take on a woman like that, but you’d probably get bored with me. So instead, I’ll keep clear and enjoy the spectacle of the entertaining female psyche!
I won’t take a partner for the sake of not being single, I’m looking for a keeper, I’m in no rush, if I don’t reply to you, I probably don’t envisage you being the mother of my future children, sorry! The following qualities are what I’m looking for:
– slim (no excuse ladies, at our age, we should be in our prime). I may budge if you’re really pretty and willing to let me whip you into shape by sharing my athletic lifestyle. Size 12+ is not for me, you may be average in the UK, but just because lots of women are overweight, doesn’t make it right. Too much greed & indulgence in this country
– without child, unless your partner has died, or at least well and truly out of the picture (I know many a good man that’s been a gap filler, only for daddy to get back on the scene)
– be Roman Catholic (I may budge on that, but our kids would be going to a Catholic school, end of discussion!) or at least hold similar values, such as kindness and family values
– Have some kind of interest in sports
– Have more interests than just shopping and watching TV
– Be able to hold a conversation about topics other than reality TV, soaps, clothes, make-up or other female apparel
– Not have any tattoos, or if you do, they must not be visible (on your face, arms or legs). In fact, all tattooed women can do one, disgusting!
I guess I’m going to be single for a long time ha! If you have read my profile all the way through, you probably need to find a hobby, anyone for tennis?

The typical chick in his target demographic will dismiss the above as “rude”, “egotistical”, “arrogant”, “judgmental”, “picky”, etc. which means that most of them will self-select (or unselect) themselves out of the market, as it were. Which, from his perspective, would be a good thing because he doesn’t have to waste his time on sluts, doxies, losers and slatterns.

There are two things to learn from this little piece of wisdom. The first is that there are some good young men out there — he is not the only one — who are available but who are not going to jump at just any woman who makes herself available. He’s being perfectly honest as to what he finds appealing in a potential mate, and what he considers disqualifications.

The second thing to learn is for young women. Look at his criteria, and most especially what he considers to be disqualifications, and don’t do those thingsif someday you want to make yourself appealing to a decent, moral and honest young man, as opposed to your average dating-site asshole who at best is going to pump and dump you.

Here’s the thing: not one of his qualifications is unreasonable. Back when I was in my mid-twenties, about 80% of the women I encountered in my target market (19 – 25 years old) would have easily qualified under his criteria, most with added attributes (i.e. could cook, sew and in short be proficient in what used to be called the womanly arts). But times have changed [10,000-word rant deleted] and he may find the pickings slim.

I hope he finds someone worth his attention, and he probably will — especially as he’s prepared to wait for Miss Right.

Good luck, young fella. We’re all pulling for you.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever

I have a theory about men who are married to the same woman for a long time, and that theory is that she never changes (in his eyes) from the woman or girl he married.

I think the seed of this was planted when at age 20 or thereabouts, I met a man who’d married a beauty queen when he was 24 and she 19. At the time, they’d been married over fifty years, and I don’t know, but I’m certain that they’re both deceased by now.

He’d been a soldier in the British Army (he was a WWI veteran), was still a good-looking man and carried himself with that erect bearing that is unmistakably the look of a senior NCO — in his case, a sergeant-major. His wife had, as the saying goes, not aged well: she’d put on a lot of weight and her once-beautiful face was now moon-shaped. The only thing still beautiful was her hair, which was long, thick and grey, permanently worn in a plait down her back.

But he loved her; good grief, he loved her more than any man I’ve ever known to love a woman. One night, we were sitting in his living-room, both a little tipsy after dinner, when he suddenly said out of the blue, “You know what, boy? I know that _________ is old and overweight. But the only time I ever see that is when we go out and we’re with other people. When we’re at home all alone together, all I can see is the beauty queen I married back in 1922.”

I don’t think he’s alone in this, in fact, I think there are lots of men like him. The popular meme these days is that men divorce their wives as they get older, to “trade up” to a younger, more beautiful woman. That would certainly be true among the rich and famous set — because, let’s be honest, wealth and fame gives them the opportunity to do so, especially when those younger women throw themselves at their, ummm, feet.

But not every man is rich and famous, of course — let’s be honest and say that most men aren’t rich or famous — and among those men, and especially those men who have been married to the same woman for a long time, the very thought of “trading up” is not only ridiculous, but outrageous (i.e. likely to cause outrage). Men like my sergeant-major friend.

I’m going to illustrate the point by looking at a rich and famous man who hasn’t traded up, and has been married for sixteen years to his second wife (his first wife, to whom he’d also been married for about the same length of time, died of ovarian cancer). His name is Pierce Brosnan, and his wife’s name is Keeley. Here they are on their wedding day, in 2001 (they met in 1999):

Here they are today:

…and here they are at some red-carpet affair:

Whenever you see them together, they’re holding hands, or are walking arm-in-arm, or they’re kissing like damn teenagers.

Now I’m going to go out on a limb here, and suggest that Pierce Brosnan could have “traded up” on more than one occasion. In fact, I’m pretty sure that he could have had his pick from, oooh, about half a million women all over the world, had that been his intention. Yet he’s still married to Keeley, and he obviously still only sees the woman he married.

In case you’re wondering about the title of this post, the full sentence written by John Keats is:

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”

As for me… well, I’m one of those men.