On 20th January this year, The Sun newspaper printed an edition without a topless woman on its third page. The same day, its sister paper, The Times printed a suggestion that the tabloid had bowed to ever increasing pressure to do away with the feature and the 200,000 names on the No More Page 3 petition.
There was a whole day of No More Page 3 campaigners and high profile women being interviewed about their reaction to this. Without wanting to be melodramatic and to pretend this was some sort of huge leap forward, it was a step in the right direction. It was a day to celebrate, even in a small way.
Less than 24 hours later, The Sun's Head of PR, Dylan Sharpe let the world know that this had all just been a prank and that in fact, Page 3 was here to stay. He did this by tweeting a picture of a topless Page 3 model to women such as Harriet Harman and Kay Burley who had celebrated Page 3's passing the day before.
It was hard to beat Kay Burley's response ('I'm sure your mother is incredibly proud of you, Dylan. I know I would be') but this is a poem about the prank and how it felt symptomatic of a much wider issue.
There was a moment
last January
when it felt
as though
maybe
we'd made
a small shuffle
forward,
brought humanity
up to date
with the amount
of years
it's been alive.
Twitter rose to the occasion
became the predictable
hive of
horror and celebration
at one less
woman
featured
naked and voiceless
daily.
And the Sun
sat silent
quietly apologetic,
hands up
given in
had felt the pressure
of two hundred thousand voices,
respectfully
packed up its
lingerie
and photoshoots
and whispered,
'Fine, you win.'
And having done nothing
more than
retweeted a couple of things
and signed the petition,
I didn't gloat or brag
I knew this wasn't equality on a plate
the balance of power
hadn't suddenly shifted
dramatically
but it was one day
when I felt grateful
to campaigners
who had faced
years of daily berating
rape threats
and anonymous trolling.
There was a whole
twelve hours
of commentary
which in the name
of presenting
a balanced media
interviewed Harriet Harman
alongside
folorn looking
Page 3 girls
now jobless
and seething.
And there were women
who quite rightly said
they would not let
Page 3
quietly slip away
and die a death unnoticed,
women who for 45 years
have had to listen to
the aggressive dissecting
of the best bits
of a naked girl
over their breakfast table
their lunch break
their classroom.
Women who felt
that for every boy
who thought
he could have a say
about the size
and shape
of a stranger's flesh
because every day
his dad does the same
about Nicola, 19
from Brighton.
Or every school girl
stood awkward in her uniform
uncomfortable
in front of the blokes
buying take away tea
in the café
and gawping at under 18 tits
in a back to school special
For every one of those people,
David Dinsmore,
we could not let this go
without a fight.
About why it hadn't
happened sooner.
And maybe it was planned
and premeditated
or reactionary
an error of judgement,
an editorial mistake
but Tuesday morning came
and The Sun fought back
with their sexy winking Lazarus
dug up
from the grave of the 1970s
and Dylan Sharpe
leading their army
of leering
sneering
drooling men
holding up pictures
of smooth
young
female flesh
and stuffing it
in to the faces
of every woman
who had dared to say
the day before
'We will not say thank you,
don't expect us to be grateful.'
And suddenly,
like being the only one
at the table
not wearing a suit
or all the times
my Mum's
waited in the rain
outside the pub
for us to arrive
or the quiz team
at my local
who when my boyfriend's not there
spend all evening saying
that if there's a sports round
we shouldn't even bother playing.
It became all too clear
that this was just
yet another
humiliation.
Like the naked photo
text around the classroom
or the whistle from the van
at 2am
or the car of men
who followed me home
until I drove to the police station,
the man who grabbed my arse
at the lights
when I was out running
or the,
'Cheer up babe,
it might never happen.'
This exclusive
men and boys club
who elect their leaders
in the form of
harmless blokes
like James Corden
Russell Brand
and Jeremy Clarkson
where
'Alright love,
calm down,'
is ok
because he's
'working on his feminism.'
And this club is not one
you are invited to be a part of,
full of men
who are intelligent enough
to recognise
that Dapper Laughs
is more dangerous
than funny
but still find
themselves
asking
in 'the name of equality,'
'Well, when's International Men's Day?'
Sir, I am happy to inform you
that your special day
is every day.
And this club
needs to hold its head in shame
for every girl
who's ever been put off
wanting to play football
professionally
because of the likes
of Andy Gray,
or the female football player
on the radio
who said
she didn't mind not being paid
as much as her male counterpart
because at least she didn't
have to deal with the undending
recognition and fame.
This club need to take responsibility
for the man on the table
next to me
branding it
'PC gone mad,
you can't even
hold a door open
for one of them these days
without being accused of rape.'
And for all of the men
to whom they give a bad name,
the men
who take their daughters
to the supermarket
the newsagent
the bus stop
the café
and the train
and then have to try
and explain
and make it make sense
before being told,
'Look, if you don't like it,
just look away,
if you've got a problem
then why don't you just
turn the page?'
Like all the times
me and my friends
tell ourselves
to just walk past it
pretend you didn't hear it
don't say anything
because it's embarrassing
so just let them win.
And all the grown women
who have said to me,
'I wish I still had your flare,
as you get older
you get ground down
and just kind of grow out of it.'
This club of men
who keep telling me
they can see no link
between these pictures
of silent,
sexy,
lip biting women
presented
so normal and every day
that they're published
in a national newspaper
and the lurid words
said to me
in passing
at the 3am on the street
before grabbing my hand
and laughing when I screamed
or the sixth form teacher
who asked me for naked photos
of myself
when I was 16.
They can see no link.
So when it turns out
that Page 3 is actually here to stay
and our one day
free of it
was just the tension
on the rubber band
at the back of the class
before catapulting
this joke
to the front.
Well, that's all it was,
a joke,
I mean,
Christ,
why don't you try getting a sense of humour,
love?