Legs and toffee hammers

There are some days when all the careful counselling about being trolled and clickbaited and manipulated evaporates into an urge to be Baseball Bat Beyoncé.


I won’t buy the Daily Mail. Won’t click their links. I judge people – real, fierce, animosity-filled judging full of imaginative curses and leyline witchcraft – who have one in their supermarket basket. I don’t want their sexist, racist, Ukippy, sewer-crawling pages anywhere near me. (If you don’t know which picture I’m talking about you’ll have to search for it yourself. I ain’t putting it here.)

And who knew that what would finally break out my inner toffee-hammer-wielding rampant feminist (again, ok) would be a front page picture of four legs? Apparently, women who cover up too much are terrorists, and women who reveal their leg bones are jointed are simply bimbos with limbs. Limbo bimbos. Tibia totty. Feisty fibulars. Have you seen ’er femur? No wonder they don’t make any sense. Two minutes of this kind of nonsense and your synapses liquify.

The headline doesn’t even rhyme properly, unless you say ‘Brexit’ in that weird ‘Breggzit’ way. It’s wrong on so many levels.

Our country is about to camouflage the white cliffs of Dover and fill up the Channel tunnel with broken promises to stop anyone getting in, but let’s concentrate on four patellae. I must stop now. I can feel my tiny lady brain overheating.

And do you know what I’d wear if I got anywhere near a Daily Mail editor? Trousers. Because they have lots and lots of pockets where you can hide a really big toffee hammer.