Caitlin Moran - How to Be a Woman

CONTENTS

ABOUT THE BOOK

1913: Suffragette throws herself under the King's horse

1970: Feminists storm Miss World

Now: Caitlin Moran rewrites The Female Eunuch from a bar stool and demands to know why pants are getting smaller

Theres never been a better time to be a woman: we have the vote and the Pill, and we havent been burnt as witches since 1727. However, a few nagging questions do remain ...

Why are we supposed to get Brazilians? Should you get Botox? Do men secretly hate us? What should you call your vagina? Why does your bra hurt? And why does everyone ask you when youre going to have a baby?

Part memoir, part rant, Caitlin Moran answers these questions and more in How To Be a Woman following her from her terrible 13th birthday (I am 13 stone, have no friends, and boys throw gravel at me when they see me) through adolescence, the workplace, strip clubs, love, fat, abortion, Topshop, motherhood and beyond.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Caitlin Moran had literally no friends in 1990, and so had plenty of time to write her first novel, The Chronicles of Narmo , at the age of fifteen. At sixteen she joined music weekly Melody Maker , and at eighteen briefly presented the pop show Naked City on Channel 4. Following this precocious start she then put in eighteen solid years as a columnist on The Times both as a TV critic and also in the most-read part of the paper, the satirical celebrity column Celebrity Watch winning the British Press Awards Columnist of The Year award in 2010.

The eldest of eight children, home-educated in a council house in Wolverhampton, Caitlin read lots of books about feminism mainly in an attempt to be able to prove to her brother, Eddie, that she was scientifically better than him.

Caitlin isnt really her name. She was christened Catherine. But she saw Caitlin in a Jilly Cooper novel when she was 13 and thought it looked exciting. Thats why she pronounces it incorrectly: Catlin. It causes trouble for everyone.

PROLOGUE

The Worst Birthday Ever

WOLVERHAMPTON, 5 APRIL 1988

Here I am, on my 13th birthday. I am running. Im running from The Yobs.

Boy!

Gyppo!

Boy!

Im running from The Yobs in the playground by our house. It is a typical playground of Britain in the late eighties. Theres no such thing as safety surfaces, ergonomic design or, indeed, slats on the benches. Everythings made of concrete, broken Corona pop bottles and weeds.

As I run, Im totally alone. I can feel the breath in my throat catching, like sick. Ive seen nature documentaries like this before. I can see whats happening here. My role is, clearly, that of weak antelope, separated from the pack. The Yobs are the lions. I know this never really ends well for the antelope. Soon, my role will turn into a new one: that of lunch.

Yah pikey!

Im wearing Wellington boots, NHS glasses that make me look like Alan Bennett, and my dads Withnail -style army coat. I do not, I admit, look very feminine. Diana, Princess of Wales is feminine. Kylie Minogue is feminine. I am femi-none. So I understand The Yobs confusion. They do not look as if they have dabbled much in either a) the iconography of the counter-culture or b) the inspirational imagery of radical gender-benders. I imagine they were confused by both Annie Lennox and Boy George when they appeared on Top of the Pops .

If they werent so busy chasing me, I would probably say something to this effect. Maybe I would tell them that I have read The Well of Loneliness , by famous, trouser-wearing lesbian Radclyffe Hall, and that they need to open their minds to alternative modes of dress. Perhaps I would mention Chrissie Hynde, too. She wears masculine tailoring. And Caryn Franklin on The Clothes Show and she seems lovely !

Yah pikey!

The Yobs stop for a moment, and appear to confer. I slow to a trot, lean against a tree and hyperventilate wildly. I am knackered. At 13 stone, I am not really built for hot pursuit. I am less Zola Budd more Elmer Fudd. As I catch my breath, I reflect on my situation.

It would be amazing, I think, if I had a pet dog. A well-trained German Shepherd, who would attack these boys almost brutally. An animal really in tune with the fear and apprehension of its owner.

I observe my pet German Shepherd, Saffron, 200 yards away. She is joyfully rolling in a slick of fox shit, and waving her legs in the air with joy. The dog looks so happy. Today is working out really well for it. This is a much longer, and faster, walk than usual.

Although today is obviously not working out very well for me, I am none the less surprised when having finished their tte--tte The Yobs pause for a minute, and then start throwing stones at me. That seems a bit extreme, I think. I start running again.

You dont have to go to this bother to oppress me! I think, indignantly. I was already pretty subjugated! Honestly you had me at Pikey.

Only a few of the stones actually hit me and, obviously, they dont hurt: this coat has been through a war, possibly two. Pebbles are nothing. Its built for grenades.

But its the thought that counts. All this time spent on me, when they could be engaging in other, more worthwhile pursuits like abusing solvents, and fingering girls who are actually dressed as girls.

As if reading my mind, after a minute or so The Yobs begin to lose interest in me. It looks like Im yesterdays antelope now. Im still running, but theyre just standing still throwing the occasional rock in my direction, in an almost leisurely way, until Im out of range. They dont stop shouting, however.

You bloke! the biggest Yob shouts, as a final thought at my departing back. You bummer !

I get home, and cry on the doorstep. Its honestly too crowded to cry in the house. Ive tried crying in the house before you explain why youre crying to one person between the sobs, and then youre only halfway through before someone else comes in, and needs to hear the story from the top again, and before you know it, youve told the worst bit six times, and wound yourself up into such an hysterical state you have hiccups for the rest of the afternoon.

When you live in a small house with five younger siblings, its actually far more sensible and much quicker to cry alone.

I look at the dog.

If you were a good and faithful hound, youd drink the tears off my face, I think.

Saffron noisily licks her vagina instead.

Saffron is our new dog the stupid new dog. She is also a dodgy dog my dad procured her in one of the deals he periodically conducts at the Hollybush pub, which involve us sitting outside in the van for two hours, while he occasionally brings us crisps, or a bottle of Coke. At some point, hell suddenly come bowling out at a rapid lick, carrying something incongruous like a bag of gravel or a statue of a concrete fox with no head.

Its gone a bit serious in there, he would say, before gunning off at top speed, pissed.

On one occasion, the incongruous thing he came out carrying was Saffron a one-year-old German Shepherd.

Used to be a police dog, he said, proudly, putting her in the back of the van with us, where she promptly shat all over everything. Further investigation revealed that, whilst she had been a police dog, it was only a week before the police dog trainers realised she was profoundly psychologically disturbed, and scared of:

1) loud noises 2) the dark 3) all people 4) all other dogs 5) and suffers stress incontinence.

Still, she is my dog and, technically, the only friend I have who isnt a blood relation.

Stay near, old friend! I say to her, blowing my nose on my sleeve, and resolving to become cheerful again. Today will be truly notable!

Having finished crying, I climb over the side fence and let myself in through the back door. Mum is in the kitchen, getting the party ready.

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