During today's guest spot we will be talking to Caitlin Moran about her UK bestseller, How To Be A Woman, that will be released in the U.S. tomorrow.
The book about a 13 year old girls quest to what it means to be a woman in today's world tackles the real issues teenage girls face with a humorous twist.
Be sure to tune in at 3pm et for the full conversation and let us know what you think @thecyclemsnbc
I have no idea what to wear to a strip club. It’s one of the biggest
wardrobe crises of my life.
“What are you wearing?” I ask Vicky on the phone.
“Skirt. Cardigan,” Vicky says, lighting a fag.
“Boots. Low heel.”
“Oh, I was going to wear boots, low heel, too,” I say. “We can
both wear boots, low heel. That’s good. We’ll be matchy.”
Then a bad thought occurs to me. “Actually, maybe we
shouldn’t both wear boots, low heel,” I say. “If we look too matchy,
people might think we’re an act. You know. Like a lesbian act. And
try and touch us.”
“No one would believe you’re a lesbian,” Vicky sighs. “You’d
make a terrible lesbian.”
“I wouldn’t!” I say indignantly. This offends my can-do nature.
“If I wanted, I could be a great lesbian!”
“No, you couldn’t,” Vicky says. “You’re offensively heterosexual.
You fancy Father Christmas. By no stretch of the imagination
could Father Christmas be construed to have Sapphic androgyny.
He wears Wellington boots indoors.”
I can’t believe Vicky is doubting my ability to be a lesbian, if I
really wanted to be. She’s seen how versatile I can be on a night
out. Once, when we went to Bournemouth, we blagged our way
backstage of a theater and convinced the star of the show—a
legendary sitcom actor—that we were prostitutes, just to see his
reaction. He said, “Blimey!” in a very edifying manner. My capabilities
are endless. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
“Maybe I’ll wear sneakers, instead,” I say.
Vicky has asked me if I want to join her for a night out at
Spearmint Rhino, on Tottenham Court Road. It’s the year 2000,
and strip clubs—for so long regarded as the holding pen for the
last few sad, sweaty fucks on earth—have become acceptable
In Britain, the mid-nineties have been all about the rediscovery
of the British working class’s monochrome tropes—
pubs, greyhound racing, anoraks, football in the park, bacon
sandwiches, “birds”—and strip clubs come under this heading.
“Ladettes” now enjoy a night out in the classier strip clubs of the
metropolis. Various Spice Girls have been pictured in strip clubs,
smoking cigars and cheering the acts on. Titty-bars are being marketed
as an exciting, marginally loucher version of the Groucho
Club—just somewhere for anyone who liked to start a night out
at 1 a.m.
Partly out of journalistic hunger to cover the phenomenon,
and partly because newspaper editors are invariably excited by
pictures of female hacks in a strip club, the Evening Standard has
asked Vicky to go spend an evening in the Rhino in order to see
what all the fuss is about.
“It’s against every single one of my feminist principles. These
are arenas of abuse,” I said when she called.
“The manager is giving us complimentary champagne all
night,” Vicky said.
“I will meet you there at 9 p.m.,” I said, with all the dignity I