Press ladies
Jeffrey Bernard
What an enormous number of silly, unliberated women there must be around to support all those women's magazines. And, dear God, aren't there a lot of funny women writing for them. They're so bloody serious. I bought seven of them this morning and after looking through them I really think I'd rather listen to the conversations in a rugby club locker room than those in the editorial department of a woman's magazine. I never realised that women were so hung up about sex. I always thought they were so 'together'. I mean, most of the men I know, and I include myself, are usually on their knees snivelling, whimpering and whining at the feet of women whose toenails they'd lick for a pat on the head, but it seems, judging from these wretched periodicals, that it's the ladies who've got more problems.
Mind you, I've always suspected that after God had created the world in six days that he didn't rest on the seventh but then created crumpet as a practical joke that would drive us all mad and I bet he's still laughing. Splitting his sides in fact if he's looking over Deirdre McSharry's shoulder. No, the thing is you see, women have got this dreadful obsession about what these magazine writers constantly refer to as the 'multi-orgasm'. It seems that one at a time is a bit old hat. On the other hand, I suppose it's possible that it hasn't occurred to them that you can always have another orgasm after a tea break, decent interval, cigarette or meaningful conversation held with eyes riveted to the ceiling. You don't have to have them all at once and I for one prefer them spread out over the year.
At the other end of the rainbow there's Vogue with its extraordinary bits about women who are completely and utterly out of touch with reality, plus concessions to the thinking woman in the form of pretentious, self-indulgent, over serious moans and wails about the horrors of life as experienced by Edna O'Brien.
There seems to be a special sort of bird that Vogue loves to write about. Usually called Arabella, she's married with two children, Rupert and Jocasta, and she lives in Wiltshire with her husband Piers in a house that they had renovated for a piddling £50,000. Piers spends his days in the City and Arabella spends hers preparing caviare mousse and nightingale tongue sandwiches on a scrubbed pine table with a copper electric mixer. Before she met Piers, by the way, she was launched into society and then wofked for a short time as a secretary at the Tate Gallery.
Harpers had a load of old nonsense recently about which women around today were witty and which ones weren't. They
must have had a brainstorm searching for the witty ones, but I have to disagree with their verdict that Irma Kurtz of Cosmopolitan isn't. She is. I don't know whether or not she means to be, but she is unless, of course, like so many of us drunken, male hacks she'll write anything in return for a cheque in the post. She once wrote a piece saying that sex was overrated and she's since followed up with a piece saying it's boring and another recent one saying it's funny. Please make your mind up Irma.
I suppose that what, in the end, keeps these magazines ticking over is the fact that they're enormous fun to work on. So much so that I'm in the process of trying to raise enough capital to start a man's magazine for deep thinking egg heads with loads of sexual problems.
In our first issue of Crunch guest columnist Angela Rippon has done an in-depth interview with Andre Previn which runs to twenty words. Francis Bacon has been testing various makes of condoms and Bill Grundy has been trying out a new slimming diet which still allows you to drink six bottles of Hirondelle a day. Michael Parkinson has contributed a fascinating article 'Famous People Are Just Like You And Me' and our foreign correspondent, Richard West, will begin his penetrating series from the Reeperbahn.
We hope to include lots of humour and Melvyn Bragg will be reviewing Antonia Fraser's new biography of Confucius and Bernard Levin reviews the new recording of the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. In our 'Up Front' section there will be a comprehensive guide to publishers' ana art gallery cocktail parties plus a feature on Erica Jong's new novel Fear of Fucking.
Our regular slots are 'Your Stars' and a monthly column by our consultant psychiatrist Russell Harty. In the first issue our centrefold 'Workmate of the Month' is a gorgeous colour pull-out picture ot Margaret Drabble sitting at her typewriter. Next month's centrefold — order your copy now — is a picture of Germaine Greet beating up a Manchester United supporter.
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