Amongst the showboating guff of the King's Speech this week, one declaration struck me as particularly hollow.
'My Government will bring forward plans to halve violence against women and girls,' said Prime Minister Starmer through the obliging ermine trumpet of King Charles.
Starmer wasn't promising anything specific, like improving rape conviction rates or the quality of police responses or putting more bad boys behind bars.
There was no mention of trying to keep women safe from abusive partners or the terrible attentions of deranged strangers; no initiatives to safeguard vulnerable children, no increase in imaginary funding for fantasy schemes or missions.
No. He was going for something much bigger, something more nebulous, but truly heroic-sounding. He was going to 'halve' the violence, ladies! Let's all throw away our pepper sprays and rejoice.
Halve it? How, exactly?
'My Government will bring forward plans to halve violence against women and girls,' said Prime Minister Starmer through the obliging ermine trumpet of King Charles
In Sir Keir's speech, there was no mention of trying to keep women safe from abusive partners or the terrible attentions of deranged strangers; no initiatives to safeguard vulnerable children, no increase in imaginary funding for fantasy schemes or missions
A woman is killed by a man every three days in the UK. Domestic abuse makes up 18 per cent of all recorded crime in England and Wales while, in the year ending March 2022, there were 194,683 sexual offences against women, of which 70,330 were rape.
Recently, there was the shocking killing of a mother and her two adult daughters by a man with a crossbow in their own home.
And now Home Secretary Yvette Cooper is wondering if she should, you know, order a clampdown on crossbows. Perhaps this is the kind of dynamic action the PM means.
Trying to reduce gender-based violence against women is an admirable ambition, of course, but how can a government legislate against the darkness of the human heart? How can they, for example, stop men such as Gavin Plumb from doing their worst?
Plumb is the low-life wart, the fetid 30st man-sponge of flop sweat and unspeakable secretions, who was arrested in his underpants and charged with soliciting murder and incitement to kidnap and rape television star Holly Willoughby.
He feigned surprise when police smashed down the door of his home in London in October last year. 'Wot is going on? Wot are you talking about?' he cried, bustling about like an angry jelly.
However, when informed of the charges he admitted breezily, almost lecherously; 'I'm not gonna lie, she's a fantasy of mine, I mean she's a fantasy to a lot of guys isn't she?'
It was as if he were talking about a popular dish on a takeaway menu. And in the fetid corners of his sick mind, that is exactly what he was doing. He saw nothing wrong with it.
He was snared after an undercover police officer in America infiltrated an international online group called Abduct Lovers — dear God! — and alerted the FBI, who then got in touch with their UK counterparts.
During his trial, the judge said that Plumb's rape plans were so 'horrifying, shocking and graphic in detail' they were not shared in open court, though the jury heard them.
The 37-year-old security guard was sentenced to life in prison, with a minimum sentence of 16 years. Is that even enough? He has two previous convictions for false imprisonment and attempted kidnap in separate cases involving two schoolgirls and two air stewardesses. 'I have a stewardess fantasy,' he said at the time, as if that excused everything.
One might hope that a man like Plumb, a clear danger, would never be free to pester again. But no.
When informed of the charges after his arrest, Plumb admitted breezily, almost lecherously; 'I'm not gonna lie, she's a fantasy of mine, I mean she's a fantasy to a lot of guys isn't she?'
During his trial, the judge said that Plumb's plans of what he would do to Holly Willoughby (pictured) were so 'horrifying, shocking and graphic in detail' they were not shared in open court
After the trial ended earlier this month, the senior investigating police officer said everyone had to 'stand up and call out misogyny' — which is almost as fatuous as the PM's half-baked 'halve it' half-measure.
Girls, give three toots on your safety whistle if you agree with me. For we all know there is a mission creep of misogyny out there, a malignant swell of bad feeling that some men harbour towards many women, be they in public or private life.
The PM only has to canvass his own female MPs to find out what is going on; women like Jess Phillips, Shabana Mahmood and Diane Abbott who all suffer horribly from online and in-person male abuse.
As Labour MP Nadia Whittome pointed out, male violence and misogyny are 'endemic'.
Women such as Holly Willoughby, who are both beautiful and empathetic, perhaps attract the worst of it. The pop star Taylor Swift has been so harassed by male stalkers and threats of violence over the years that she now carries QuikClot army-grade 'haemostatic' dressings in her handbag just in case of gunshot or stab wounds.
However, you don't have to be famous and luminous to attract unwanted attention.
For under the thin skin of civilisation and Labour party promises, misogyny throbs on. It happens over the internet where oddbods, incels and men like Plumb channel their unhappiness into a hatred of women.
It happens on the street with the slowing down of a car, the muttered imprecation, the quickened footstep, the implied threat.
Women are on trial for being women their entire lives, while girls find out early how to negotiate the tricky landscape.
This is our lived experience in both big ways and small and, of course, it doesn't end in violence for all of us.
Yet, for those women who are unlucky enough to suffer at the hands of men, to have a grandstanding Prime Minister blithely promise to 'halve' violence against women — when he can obviously do nothing of the sort — is more than just insulting. It is another blow upon the bruise.
Trump's keystone copettes
Few could have been impressed with the reactions and actions of Donald Trump's female bodyguards.
Trump is rushed off stage by the secret service after being shot during a campaign rally in Pennsylvania
When the former president was shot on the podium in Pennsylvania, they bobbed up and down like meerkats, panicked and span around in circles.
They acted like I would act if Brad Pitt was standing at one end of the bar and Dominic West was standing at the other and they were both beckoning me over to share a bottle of champagne.
One agent even had trouble holstering her gun. Instead of responding with the smooth action expected from a member of an elite unit under pressure, she looked like she was scrubbing her thigh with a loofah. What should we make of the fact there were no female bodyguards in sight when Trump turned up at the Republican National Convention two days later?
Have the Keystone Copettes been axed or sent back to holster class? It's a fair cop, if so.
Culture vulture that I am, what I love most about other countries are their supermarkets.
The fascination of the butter section and the 15 types of ready-rolled pastry in French supermarkets. The profusion of dill-flavoured items and dull cheeses in Danish supermarkets. The terrifying sweet treats in Scottish supermarkets, including something called an Empire Biscuit, which would break the molars on a sabre-toothed tiger.
In America, what gets me is the milk section. It is udderly baffling.
In a Santa Fe supermarket I visited, there was a wall of milk ten cabinets long, some of it being sold in the size of jerry cans the Desert Rats used to top up their Crusader tanks.
Varieties included reduced, 2 per cent, 1 per cent, whole, low-fat, fat-free, lactose-free, vitamin-enriched, ultra-filtered, skimmed, Vitamin D with DHA Omega 3, grass-fed, half and half, goat milk, plant-based milk and, of course, non-dairy milk, too. Then there are the nut milks, the oat milks, the rice milks and the flavoured milks, plus dried milk, soy milk and cultured milk.
Yet everyone you meet is dairy-free, nut-aware or only imbibing coconut water — so who is drinking it all?
And the award for the best legal drama goes to...
Yet more drama with Baby Reindeer, which has earned 11 Emmy nominations despite the alleged 'real life Martha' suing Netflix for £132 million.
You heard right. Where was that figure plucked from? The lucky dip counter at the Last Chance Ranch, perhaps.
Fiona Harvey, the Scottish woman who allegedly inspired Martha the stalker, has filed the huge lawsuit against the streaming platform for defamation, negligence and privacy violations.
She claimed in an interview with Piers Morgan: 'They have billed it as a true story, and so has he, and it's not. He is lying and they are lying.'
But few would have known who Fiona was, had she not gone on Piers's show in the first place. And like a lot of her answers during that appearance, none of this makes much sense.
The semi-autobiographical drama tells the story of stand-up comedian Donny, based on writer Richard Gadd's alleged experience of being harassed and stalked by fictional Martha.
He plays himself and has been nominated for Best Actor and Best Writer, while actress Jessica Gunning has been shortlisted for Best Supporting Actress for her brilliant portrayal of Martha.
Congratulations to them both. They deserve it. Low budget Baby Reindeer became an unexpected global success, attracting more than 60 million views within a month of its release earlier this year.
It was a hard watch at times, but its success proves that audiences will always respond well to the raw and the emotionally honest. Although clearly there might be jeopardy in being too honest.
The wig is up, Dan
Daniel Craig in a new campaign for fashion house Loewe, where he gamely poses in various items from its new collection including chunky knits
... But is he just doing it in an attempt to make us forget the budgie smugglers he wore in 2005's Casino Royale?
Daniel Craig is fronting a new campaign for the luxury fashion brand, Loewe.
The actor, 56, gamely poses in various items from its new collection including chunky knits, a leather jacket and colourful trousers surely only a toddler — or Ed Sheeran — could love.
And what is that on his head? A wig, a dead pet, some pampas grass there was no time to dye? I don't want to know.
Loewe describes the campaign rather pretentiously as 'a study on how characters and their clothes are intimately related' but what the hell character is Daniel playing?
A post-trans Danish architect who just wants to live, laugh, love her new life? Jack Grealish's Pervy Uncle Dan? Apres-ski Jurgen Klopp? Adele — Me and My Mum-Bob?
Daniel is so naughty. He'll wear anything in an attempt to make us forget the budgie smuggler years — but it is never going to work.
