Marketing to marijuana smokers.

I spent yesterday at the magic meadows festival and had the chance to hand out some flyers advertising my debut novel Nailing Jess, being released by Cranachan publishing on June 26th. It was fun but ultimately fraught, as I spent much of my time trying to size up who among the festival crowd was most likely to smoke marijuana. For two reasons.

Firstly, I like to tell tokers about my book, coz my main protagonist D.I. Jane Wayne is partial to a joint or seven. Secondly, I wanted to make sure as few of them as possible take home my flyers. It is a sad truth that no matter how much enthusiasm a smoker may appear to have about your artistic idea your flyer will be taken home and placed by a window sill or on the kitchen table, where at some future point it will be torn into strips and used as roachs for cannabis spliffs. Of course, this is the long term fate of all Edinburgh flyers that don’t wind up in re-cycling bins, but if you are actively handing your publicity material to known or suspected weed smokers, then it is likely you will accelerate this process considerably.

It’s not an easy task to weed out the smokers in any crowd of people. In fact, it’s almost impossible. The young and those with a point to prove may blow it in your face, but in general most people who partake of illegal substances don’t advertise it. They don’t want to get in trouble.

It’s bewildering why dope remains illegal in a time when you can inject your own ass into your face. A 2011 call for a review of the U.K. drugs legislation by The Global Commission on Drugs Policy was rejected by the then prime minister, David Cameron. “We have no intention of liberalising our drugs laws. Drugs (sic) are illegal because they are harmful — they destroy lives and cause untold misery to families and communities.” It’s an interesting viewpoint, but doesn’t actually answer the question – Why is marijuana illegal?  Especially when you couple it with the knowledge that alcohol is legal in the U.K.

The Oxford dictionary definition of drug is as follows: Drug – Noun – ‘A medicine or other substance which has a physiological effect when ingested or otherwise introduced into the body.’ Re-read this definition, if you will, and recognise that this statement applies to most of what we eat or drink.

But, there will no serious talk of criminalising pie eating any time soon. Or introducing some kind of fine system for caffeine abuse, modeled perhaps on parking tickets, with the requirement that all coffee users be subject to random piss tests.

And as for prohibiting the sale of alcohol…

I’ve never got my head round the hypocrisy of a society that pretends alcohol is safer than weed. It’s such a mind numbingly ill informed opinion, and is completely unsupported by any evidence based or anecdotal data.  Think about it, how often is exclusive marijuana use a mitigating factor in a crime?  How many football hooligans tear up the centre of foreign cities, after having a few tokes at the back of the stands? How many rounds of a bong, before a group of stoners turn native and kick f*** out of each other?

The phenomena of drexting is a wonderful example of the universally held truth – that people do really stupid things when they consume alcohol to excess. Drexting, as defined by techopedia – ‘Texting friends, family, coworkers and significant others while intoxicated.’ I would add texting exs, people you hate, and people you cyber stalk to the endless list of individuals that may find themselves a victim of a drexter’s ill advised 4 a.m. rant.  The word stexting does not exist in Techopedia. That’s because stoned people don’t lose inhibition and reason to the the point where contacting someone that they haven’t seen since 2006 seems like a good idea.

All this talk of the idiocy of our drug laws has distracted me from the purpose of this piece. How to minimise the number of Nailing Jess postcards that will wind up in badly rolled 4 a.m. joints. The absolute truth is I can’t. And, thinking it over, I’m not sure it matters. Yeah, sure, they’re postcards of my book and I think they’re a work of art, a collectors item even. But many smokers turn joint rolling into an art form, so it’s actually a form of up-cycling. All I ask is that you put Nailing Jess to the back of the pile and smoke all the Vote Tory stuff first.

Still crazy after all these years…

I was somewhat of a neurotic kid, and I went on to be come an even more neurotic teenager. For most of my twenties the neurosis was clinical, tapering off to a more manageable ‘we’re all a bit crazy’ in my early thirties. Then something spectacular happened, I had a baby and it knocked the neurosis clean out of me.

I know many women go the other way, and I guess I got lucky. There’s something about the constant immediacy of a helpless living creature that focuses the mind entirely, and the urge to obsess about an incident in a bar in the early nineties dissipates completely. Like all the best metamorphosis, I can barely remember how I used to be, and I often think I make up stories about my misspent youth, just to sound interesting.

More recently, I’m starting to suspect that all my tall tales weren’t actually that tall at all. As crazy creeps into my bedroom at 4 a.m., and shakes me awake with another barrage of unhelpful what if scenarios, I long for a howling baby who shuts up when you feed it. Crazy, on the other hand, is a lot harder to put to sleep. If I engage, then the possibilities are infinite. What if no-one reads the book?  quickly becomes What if they do and they hate it? which begets the question Why would they hate it? which invites the answer They won’t hate it, if they do, it’s because they don’t get it  which poses the query Why won’t they get it? What’s not to get? which prompts the response They won’t get me! They won’t get me!, and suddenly it’s 1993 again, and there’s this incident in a bar…

Only, it’s not the nineties. I’m painfully aware of this, as I sip chamomile tea instead of sinking back Stella – the young lad gets very judgey if I’m drunk before breakfast. It’s all the exposure, see? It’s driving me a bit nuts. I know that’s ironic, ‘coz that’s what creatives types crave – attention, an audience.

Pondering this paradox takes another half hour, and the ship sails on getting more sleep tonight. That starts me worrying about my future lack of energy. How will it affect my performance and drive, in the days ahead, when I need to be on top of my game? Wtf did I become a race horse? It’s very confusing, all this sub-dividing of self into other parts. One part creative- one part seller – one part promoter – one part cheerleader. Just to be clear, I never signed signed off on the cheerleader part. That’s the self that hasn’t already been subdivided by Motherhood. One part carer – one part teacher – one part nurse – one part cleaner – one part cook – one part play mate – one part playstation repairer- one part social representative for your child in the outside world. So, keep your hair washed, and your nails clipped, or he might not get an invite to you know who’s party.

Now, I know other women do all this s*** and never complain, except to each other, where they are always sure to find a captive audience of empaths. Even then, there’s always a caveat about how much they love whoever they’re wishing harm on. Normally, those they’re compelled to care for. Why would you want to kill strangers unless your a psychopath? Which, statistically, most women aren’t.

Except in Nailing Jess, my debut novel, out on June 26th. Withering, the novel’s setting, is overrun with female psychopaths, which is one reason why you should read it. Another is that it’s very funny.


The Hard Sell

ARC – Advanced Readers Copies of my debut novel ‘Nailing Jess’ arrived about two weeks ago. Most of time since, has been divided between staring at them, a stupid post sex grin on my face, and stroking the cover, running my fingernails across the title and my name. The other thing I’ve been doing is handpicking influential people I want to read one and approaching them personally, asking them to do so.

So far, so textbook. I’m lucky, I’m on the ground in one of the cultural capitals of the world -Edinburgh. My home for many years, the birth place of my son and the first city that ever showed me kindness. The six degrees of separation rule halves in a city like this and you are never more than an overprised latte away from somebody who knows somebody whose floor Russell Brand crashed on in the early nineties.

I’m also lucky in that I’m an extrovert. I love having conversations with people, especially strangers. When somebody interrupts my reading on a train, to drunkenly tell me why their ex is such a prick, my eyes light up.

With this in mind, I have managed to orchestrate a few meetings with individuals I really want to have a copy of my book, and persuade them to take one.  Persuade is perhaps the wrong verb. In actuality, once you stand square in front of someone, a copy of your debut novel thrust into their space, they have to be harder than Ray Winstone to hand it back to you. The real challenge is getting them to read it.

So far, still text book. Last week, I had the pleasure of handing a lovely lady – hello lovely lady! – who works at the Edinburgh International Book Festival a copy of my book. At a guess, this woman gets handed a half dozen free debuts every week.  The front cover of my debut saysNailing Jess‘ – “The most shocking book you’ll read this year”

‘You must be happy your publishers wrote that,’ the lovely lady observed. Now, you might think I seized this opportunity to give it the hard sell by saying something like ‘Actually, I’m a bit concerned they’re understating it. I wanted them to go with ‘Nailing Jess’ – ”The most shocking book you will ever read” or ‘Nailing Jess’ – “A book so shocking you may never read again”

You might think I would use such a sentence as a chance to dazzle her with my profound intellect and innate authors ability to articulate. Don’t forgot she’s a literary type. I could have replied ‘What they are referring to is the subversive nature of the book’s core premise.  Namely, that the innate maleness – in origins, in concept, in design and delivery of the patriarchal structure mean that any apparent gains of any ideology opposed to it, are in fact an illusion.’ The trouble with this strategy is with every big word you use, you increase the chances of losing your train of thought and inadvertently sounding silly.

To avoid this, you might have think I could have led with with a more conversational approach. Referring to the fact that my book is set in a matriarchy I could have said. ‘It’s only shocking, coz it’s happening to blokes. Everything that happens in my book – well not quite everything – happens in the real world, every day, somewhere to some woman. And we are not shocked by that at all.’

Alas, retrospect and it’s all knowing analysis, have in no place in actual real time. ‘Nailing Jess’ – ‘The most shocking book you’ll read this year’  ‘You must be happy your publishers wrote that,’ says she. I find myself blushing, and mumbling ‘Well, they have to say something don’t they?’

So lovely lady, if you’re reading this, they didn’t have to say that, they choose to market my book with this line because they believe it.

Nailing Jess – Reading is Believing

Nailing Jess published by Cranachan out June 26th 2017.

On Editing.

I’m not particularly religious but I did find myself speeding through a few ‘Hail Mary’s’ last night. Hail Marys are the go to prayer of the catholic under pressure. It doesn’t matter how many years of my adult life have been spent dissing her, there’s still a mind controlled seven year old within who knows if the crisis is big enough only she can sort it. Those of you experiencing real crisis or personal tragedy should look away now ‘coz I am exaggerating for effect. Truth is, I’m just so f**king sick of editing my first novel ‘Nailing Jess’, that I’m reduced to praying it will stop.

This is an a-typical example of a first world problem. How many writers would kill, or at the very least commit some form of criminal infraction, to have their debut novel published?  I was one of those people once, and then I got a publishing deal. Which was wonderful…at the time. Publishing deals are fantastic as concepts go. They validate every drunken declaration you’ve ever made about one day becoming a published writer. They also look great on your C.V. and make you sound more credible when you fill in self-employment forms.

However, like all the best concepts, from ideology to practical application much of the romance gets lost. Publishing deals are f**king hard word. It’s this thing they call editing. Editing, before you’ve been professionally edited sounds like a great plan. ‘I need an editor, I can’t take this idea further without a real editor.’ I could be heard saying, often. I’m not sure what it was I thought an editor might do, but I had no expectation that would deconstruct my book chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph, line by line. Trim this…Lengthen that…Cut the other… W.t.f? Am I writing a book or making a dress?  Wait a minute did she say cut? What’s she cutting? Why would she want to take that out? That’s really funny. Doesn’t she get it?  F**k!  What if it’s not funny? What if I’m not funny? What if they realise it and cancel my deal?  Can they do that?  Cue half hour spent searching for publishing deal and another half hour pretending to understand a sixteen page legal document.

But, it hasn’t been all bad. I did what I was told, or most of it. Reluctantly, grudgingly acknowledging that these ideas and revisions were shaping a better story. Eventually, after many days and many nights, writing, thinking, procrastinating, swearing… The edit was over. I had hit the ‘send’ button. I could breathe out and get back to the business of watching netflix and telling everybody I had a book coming out.

Only it wasn’t that simple. After the first edit, there was the second, and after the second…well you get the picture. I started to realise that whoever had come up with the saying ‘The devil’s in the detail’ might not have been speaking metaphorically. Prone to hyperbole, I began to wonder if the bible had taken this long. Religious fervour blended with reality as I came to believe only a female catholic icon could save me from my editors.  Because there are not many female icons in Catholicism, on account of its hatred of women, my desperate mind quickly seized on Mary – virgin and mother.

The cynics among you should stop reading now because what happened next is truly remarkable. Today, as in only hours after last night, I got an e-mail from my editors saying they had uploaded the book to the printers. I know what you are thinking. A book that is on it’s way through cyberspace to a printer is a book that has no more edits required. It is a finished novel.

As the reality of what just happened kicks in, I’m seized by a new and different panic. Was it the prayers that had put an end to this relentless editing business or was the book by then finished? I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that I may never truly know. It’s difficult to imagine a catholic icon with a sackful of more important requests for spiritual intervention might have taken pity on a lazy blasphemer like myself. Yet, we are frequently told, by those with a greater authority than myself on such matters, that God works in mysterious ways.

It’s enough to make me almost regret the profane nature of ‘Nailing Jess’.

‘Nailing Jess’ is being released by Cranachan Publishing on June 26th, 2017.





Woman as witness

‘The idea that somehow I would invent it – why would I?’ asked Harriet Harman, when she was accused of lying about an encounter with a sexual predator whilst at university.

There are several answers to that question. Harriet may have made it up to sell more copies of her autobiography, because a career spanning over three decades as a serving M.P. would be of little interest, were it not for a sex scandal.  Harriet may have made it up to further her feminist agenda, not in an immediate policy on the table sort of way,  but in a more vague spitting on the good name of the male dominated culture way. Harriet may have made it up because she knew she could, the tutor in question is dead, and therefore not in a position to defend himself. Harriet may have made it up, ‘coz she f***ing hates men. Any of one of these motives impacts on Harriet’s credibility, and who could blame a cynical public for calling her out as a liar? Also his ex wife, though not actually present during the alleged encounter, says she’s sure he wouldn’t have done that.

So, to summarise, if you are going to accuse a man of sexually deviant behavior, you must not do so in an auto biographical form, you must not so if you are a feminist, you must not do so if he is no longer breathing and you must not do so if he has a living relative or ex relative who can testify to his soundness of character.

This kind of reminds me of when Amber Heard accused Johnny Depp of assaulting her.

There were compelling reasons to disbelieve her too. The most obvious being that he was Johnny Depp and Johnny Depp is not the type of guy that goes round hitting women. There was the issue of alimony, though Heard has since pledged to donate the seven figure sum to charity  (if he ever actually pays her), that shouldn’t detract from the fact that alimony was on the table and therefore goes to credibility. Heard had previously been in a relationship with a woman, I’m not entirely sure how this impacted on her integrity, but it appeared to. Heard was arrested, though never prosecuted, for domestic abuse and there you have it boom! Loads of reasons to call her a liar. Also, Johnny’s ex, the lovely Vanessa Paradis, hand wrote a note calling the suggestion that Johnny was violent ‘outrageous’.

To review if you are going to accuse a man of domestic violence it must not be Johnny Depp. You should not also be seeking alimony from him. You should not now be, or ever have been bi-sexual. You should not ever have been suspected of committing domestic abuse and you should be confident that none of your ex’s lovers like him even a little, or that they have any strong ties, like for example children, with him.

It’s a very similar story to when Woody Allen’s biological daughter Dylan Farrow wrote an open letter accusing him of child abuse, and accusing Hollywood the machine of being complicit in maintaining the hero status of a pervert.

To give this story context, it wasn’t the first time that Allen had been accused of this crime. Dylan’s mother, Mia Farrow, had made the same allegation over twenty years previous during what is described as ‘a bitter custody battle’, like there’s any other kind. So on these grounds alone we can dismiss the validity of Dylan Farrow’s accusations. We don’t have to call her an outright liar, ‘coz that seems somehow crass after an allegation of pedophilia, we can see simply note that she’s delusional, a victim of a fury so great that hell cannot contain it.

To put it succinctly, if you are going to accuse your father of child abuse, you must first make sure he is not involved in any form of legal battle with your Mother. It’s a bit of a catch 22 really ‘coz one imagines allegations of child abuse have prompted the break up of many a marriage.

So, to conclude, accusing men of stuff is a dangerous business, though not as dangerous admittedly, as the stuff they are being accused of. In order to maximise the chances of being believed, women should carefully vet all aspects of their lifes, all the time, on the statistically probable chance, that at some point they will fall prey to a dangerous or deviant man. It’s a tough call, to ask an entire sex to maintain a permanent state of self policing, and downright implausible two hours past happy on a Friday night, but what’s the alternative? That we start to believe them?

First world problems #FeministAFilm

The irony of protesting the Ocean 11 remake, on the grounds of it being an all female line up, cannot be lost on anyone who thought thought the last remake was shit. Seriously, if you’re going to protest something, why not protest that?  Hollywood’s pathological fear of the original, untested idea, #MakeNewStuff.

Instead #FeministAMovie sprang up round the Warner Bros press release. In a nutshell, angry men, with large egos and low self esteem, venting their spleen, because that’s like, the second major movie to be female led this year. I think it’s important to clarify that Ghostbusters ,the other one, has been released and Ocean’s 8 is in pre-production, so there hasn’t been and won’t be a whole two female driven, major Hollywood movies this year. But such absence of imagination is ever prevalent in the twitter mens’ rights warrior, otherwise known as the troll.

There’s a very good reason for this. What the f**k do they actually have to complain about?

See, men’s rights is actually an oxymoron. It’s also clumsy English with the additional, unnecessary word ‘men’s’ in the term. There is no elusive set of men’s rights that need to be fought for, over and above the rights they already have, which form the blueprint  for the rights all oppressed groups, including women seek to obtain.

Let’s briefly review a small but telling amount of the evidence. Women still do more, women still earn less, women still own less, they are still underrepresented in all positions of power and over-represented in all domestic fields. Women are still being harassed, assaulted, abused, raped and murdered, and not just by the Hollywood stable of the stranger at the door, but by members of their own families. In the overall scheme of stuff that actually merits complaining about, women still have the absolute monopoly.

No-where is this fact more self evident than in Twitter.






Brexit – The Mother of all cleaning jobs – Use Blitz Original!

I’m not known for my love of product endorsement, but given that I’m an unknown writer, I feel I can keep my integrity intact and inform my readers of the best invention ever. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Blitz Original by Regina. It is currently on special offer at my local Scotmid for the implausibly low price of £1.34 per 100 sheets, making the cost of an individual sheet a little over one penny. But, even when they put it back to its original price, I’ll still be buying it, because not since John the Hoover ( a little known relative of Henry, sold by John Lewis for £99), has a product so altered the course of my existence. There are some among you who will no doubt sneer at such mediocre merchandise having a spiritual dimension, but you who sneer betray your own sloth, and unmask yourselves as the one in the house who doesn’t clean shit! Anyone who is tasked with the relentless responsibility of having to keep shit clean will know that household appliances and effective paper towels are the gateway to personal freedom. If you don’t believe me turn your hot water and electricity off and go clean your house, come back in four days and we can talk about how right I am.

With this in mind, I can’t help but feel that Leadsom missed a trick, when making her recent, highly controversial remarks on Motherhood and leadership.  By saying that she had children and those children’s children kept her directly invested in the future, she sent twitter into meltdown, and her own insanely fast tracked career into reverse. Motherhood, it would appear, should never give one an edge politically.

Personally, I don’t see why not. My own life divides neatly into pre Motherhood, when I knew fuck all and could do very little, and post Motherhood, when I learned most of the stuff I know, including the limitless resources of any woman when she is compelled to care for a new life. Such knowledge may be difficult, even impossible to quantify, but there isn’t a sane Mother alive that could deny its existence.

Of all that I have learned and every new skill I have mastered, there are none so great as my ability to keep shit clean. Before they let you take a baby home, they give you a few basic tips on keeping said infant alive, and right up there with feeding it, and keeping it warm, is keeping its surrounding environment sterile. The new baby, not yet acclimatized to germs and dirt may become very ill and even die, if exposed to them. There’s nothing like the threat of inadvertent infanticide to make even the most committed slob change her ways and so, just as new life is born, so too is a lifelong obsession with hygiene. By the time the babies immunity system has devolved, so too has their ability to move, and with every stage in their growth cycle comes new and exiting ways they can create mess, and you, the carer, evolve into a an ever more efficient cleaning machine.

I wonder, if Leadsom had offered this spin on Motherhood, might the outcome have been different. Had she simply said ‘Unlike Teresa, I’m a Mum and know how to clean shit up’, would there have been the same public outcry? She could then have gone further with the metaphor, explaining what a horrible mess the boys have made of everything, how toxic an environment they have created, and how it needs someone with years of practical experience in basic hygiene management to clear up the debris. All this fuss over her actual C.V., when her Motherhood C.V. alone showed she has the perfect qualifications for the job in hand!

Actually, I don’t wonder, I know, twitter would not have taken such a quote lying down. There would have been equal, possibly greater indignation, had Leadsom reduced the benefits of Mother as Leader to ‘have experience, will clean’, than there was to her suggestion that those with children have a greater stake in the future. Only, I’m not quite sure why. It is a statement of absolute fact that Motherhood creates a greater awareness of dirt and understanding of how to keep shit clean, which takes me right back to the origin of this train of thought, the ultra absorbency and uncanny durability (you must remember it’s paper!) of Blitz Original. If you are in Scotland this week and pass by a Scotmid, I urge you up pick up half a dozen. You will be so blown away by the effectiveness of this product that you may find yourself knocking shit over, just to watch the power of Blitz Original as it soaks it up.



Nothing compares to her… Why you gotta love Sinead O’Connor

Sinead O’Connor’s having a hard time and refuses to suffer in silence and that’s what I love about her. It’s very inappropriate, this constant public airing of what is still considered fundamentally private stuff, and that’s what I love about her. As most women age they become more discreet, mirroring consciously or otherwise a society that still prefers it’s women docile, but the controversial singer seems to have missed that memo.

Of course maybe I’m giving her too much credit. Fact is, she’s had some form of breakdown, and as anyone who’s ever broken down knows, self censorship is for the clinically well. Maybe at some later point she’ll regret being so open about her family situation, but then again maybe she won’t. Either ways, it hardly makes me psychic to speculate that we haven’t heard the last of this woman’s no holes barred opinions and that dear readers, is a good thing.

The world needs more women like Sinead O’Connor willing to stand up and shout about stuff that’s happening to them, when it’s happening to them, not in carefully edited articles after the fact.  Yes, it makes us uncomfortable, but I think that’s her point.

It’s been over twenty years since she ripped up a picture of the pope on live T.V, becoming overnight one of the most reviled and revered women in the world. I was definitely on the revered side, my eighteen year old self gasping in awe at her wondrously brave actions. See, these days criticising the catholic church is so passe that even the Irish taoiseach (head of state) has got in on the act, but when O’Connor did it, it definitely wasn’t done. In spite of half the homes in Ireland housing victims of child abuse, whose pain could be directly (paedo priests) or indirectly linked to the catholic church, nobody was pointing a finger at them. Nobody that was, besides this petit Irish singer, with the voice of an angel and the courage of a lion.

I saluted her then and I salute her now, confident that she’ll ride this wave of personal crisis, like so many others she’s experienced and hopeful that she’s not done shocking us, because if you read between the lines of what O’Connor is saying, you’ll realise that what she has suffered is a lot more shocking than her refusal to shut up about it.





On the preservation of ‘satire’.

Now that I’m an international brand, I know it’s only a matter of time before all my dirty secrets become public knowledge and anticipating this trend I have decided to fess up to being an Alanis Morissette fan. ‘Jagged Little Pill’,on full blast, provided the sound track to many a drunken binge in my early twenties and yes, of course I knew how ironic it was that she didn’t understand the word ‘irony’, but I continued to play her tunes including ‘Isn’t it ironic?’ anyway.

Truth is, I never gave Alanis Morissette’s grammatical short comings too much thought, until recently. Now, in a world where no-body knows what ‘irony’ is, I wonder if this Canadian Diva wasn’t some kind of language pioneer, the linguistic equivalent of Che Guevara revolutionising words, enabling them to break free of the limitations imposed by meaning. If I’m right then she’s been very successful with the word ‘irony’ and not so successful with other words such as ‘chair’ and ‘superfluous’ which still retain the same meaning as they did before Ms Morissette’s bold attempt to subvert definitions.

She shouldn’t lose heart though. In the wake of the virtual redundancy of the word ‘irony’ other nouns seem to be slowly following suit. Take ‘satire’ for example, a word closely associated with ‘irony’ and indeed back in the days when ‘irony’ meant something, it might feature heavily in a satirical piece of writing.  As recently as yesterday ‘satire’ showed signs of going down the same path when it was used entirely out of context by a bloke who calls himself Roosh V. For those of you lucky enough not to have heard of him, here is my synopsis.

Roosh V is a professional misogynist. I’m guessing it’s his Mother’s fault. She was probably a whore or failing that she may well have been frigid. He’s never read Genesis and therefore reckons it’s revolutionary to agitate for the legalisation of rape. He’s got himself a global following of disenchanted men who also assumably have never had access to a King James bible and think he’s selling something new. A lot of people don’t want to buy his wares. Some have even suggested there’s enough organic misogyny in the world and we don’t need to be clogging up our brains with his processed type. All of this has left the once proud misogynist defensive and this is where his incorrect use of the word ‘satire’ comes into play.

Having correctly calculated the level of public and political outrage his provocative drivel would incite (seriously who ever heard of him before this week and now he’s so notorious that he is the subject of strangers blogs) he has now decided to back track on his most infamous blog ‘How to stop rape’ where he suggests this could be achieved by decriminalising rape on private property. The article, he says was very obviously ‘satire’ only it’s even more obvious to me that Roosh V is trying to morissette the word ‘satire’ and given how quickly and without warning ‘ironic’ went from being a word that people understood and used in context to being a non word, I think we should keep a sharp eye on ‘satire’. Roosh V, you have been warned!