I’m the last person you would describe as a feminist - but even I’m apalled by the hard left’s attempt to erase women

BAZAKE'S very own controversialist food critic takes a peak into women's bathrooms, and he doesn't like what he sees.


Aulden Juan-Cragg

3/14/20224 min read

In a statement to the police, my now ex-wife described me as “a patronising bully” and a “misogynist” (a word I can only imagine she’d read in one of her magazines). I’d been referred to as a bully many times before; by my sister, several girlfriends, my grandmother(s) - but even as I carried on quickly through the rest of her mail, before the dog started barking, something about this particular time stuck with me.

Am I a bully? Worse still, am I a “misogynist”? No. The woman was, as always, being histrionic.

I could be accused of having somewhat of a forceful personality, perhaps; but only because I want the world to experience as much of the benefit of my greater understanding of the world as possible. If I seem domineering and determined to have my own way in all things, it’s only because I know best. I cannot help but feel… fatherly towards women.

The hard left, on the other hand, cannot help but feel motherly towards women; always criticising and sniping away, never satisfied, forever glowering down at you with powerful, withering contempt while Dad’s away. The latest of the left’s unreasonable demands? That women should quietly accept who-knows-what set of genitals in the next cubicle.

I am not a friend to women. I’ve never understood them, never had a sincere, meaningful conversation with one, and I can’t think of a single female musician I respect. So imagine my surprise when, all of a sudden, I appear to be on the side of the “radical feminists”.

I read the appalling abuse directed towards JK Rowling with complete dismay. I’ve told women to shut up more times than I could reasonably approximate, but, in my defence, each of them were talking complete rubbish on subjects women invariably know nothing about. JK, however, was merely expressing a perfectly reasonable view on one of the few subjects women are experts on. She, like me, is somebody who understands the value of knowing your surroundings.

I was recently caught short on an ill-judged walk from Berners Tavern to a bar where I was supposed to meet a friend (of my youngest daughters) for birthday drinks. To my absolute horror I was forced to consider using a public toilet situated between an Argos and a Card Factory, which one might reasonably expect to resemble a scene from a clumsy working class parody of Salo.

It seemed safe enough at first glance, though out of an abundance of caution, I called my driver, stationed just round the corner, and had him go in ahead and make sure it was safe. But it was too late; by the time he’d arrived I’d already used the women’s.

Something occurred to me as I made my first tentative steps into the unfamiliar territory; what if I’d decided, there and then, that I was a violent pervert? What if I’d had a little too much to drink with my (totally underwhelming) maple-glazed salmon? The toilet had been entirely empty, but I could so easily have lay in wait, like a spider with its stinger swollen and dripping with venom. It could have ended in catastrophe for any unsuspecting woman in there. I would have struck so quickly and brutally she wouldn’t have had time to shriek. The thought chilled me.

“This is exactly what the left wants” I muttered to myself repeatedly, as I stealthily passed water in the ladies' cubicle, expertly angling my stream against the porcelain to prevent excess sound. My bladder was around a third of the way empty when the door swung open to admit two women, clucking away excitedly, totally unaware of my presence. Having only narrowly avoided splashing urine down my twill trousers, I decided to run something of an experiment.

I allowed the women time to relieve themselves, finding myself quickly intoxicated by the sounds and smells, practically dizzy with the excitement of being unobserved. Perched atop the porcelain and steadying myself against the walls, I peered through a crack in the door and waited for just the moment to strike.

But, conscious of the time, I allowed the moment to pass and the two women escaped without having learned a very valuable lesson. A rare moment of cowardice, perhaps; though only in the service of keeping a young lady from waiting too long by herself.

By the time I arrived, my blossoming companion for the evening had already put several cocktails on my tab. “You’re late” she slurred coquettishly, “where were you? You told me you were only round the corner”.

I began to explain, relishing both an opportunity to flex my world-renowned storytelling skills and to demonstrate my genuine concern for the safety of women. Unfortunately, both went entirely unappreciated.

“You were hiding in the women’s bathroom of a shopping centre for 45 minutes?” she asked me, a bratty, though slightly worried, sneer creeping across her pretty young face.

I began to protest my innocence, pointing out that the women were allowed to escape unscathed and that my intentions were purely feminist - but it was all for naught. The taxi was already waiting outside. She gathered her belongings, called me a “creep” and off she went. Mere moments later I received a message from her, promising to tell my daughter all about my misadventure. I must confess this punctured my earlier enthusiasm for the feminist cause. With regular service resumed, I ordered a pint of bitter and replied - “you’ll both understand when you’re older”.