Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Tory Maguire, and confected moral indignation about floral covered floozies ...

Hold on a moment, I'm summoning up a head of righteous steam, a bout of incredible indignation.

I'm outraged and I'm shocked.

Certainly almost as shocked as Tory Maguire, in Does this even qualify as a "dress"?, as she explains how shocked she is that Haley Bracken went out basically topless.

Did Mrs Bracken wake up this morning with a TV deal, or a $100,000 cheque under her pillow? Because then perhaps I could understand why she decided to leave her dignity at home last night.

To say nothing of the dignity of web sites who run that kind of image to cultivate plenty of hits. Fortunately, unlike The Punch, this site has no dignity, and even if it did, we make sure we leave it at home at night.

Someone needs to explain to me the point of this race to the bottom of the scrap fabric bin that we’re exposed to twice a year: once at cricket’s “night of nights” and then at the other end of the year at AFL’s Brownlows.

Except when we're exposed to it on the tabloid editions of Chairman Rupert's empire. And on The Punch of course, which just loves the race to the bottom of the scrap fabric bin.

Oh there's nothing like a good bout of hypocrisy to make the heart sing. I love the smell of a hypocrite burning with rage in the morning.

As usual, Tory nails it in one:

Is there some kind of reward for the WAG who turns up in the tackiest, ugliest “self designed” outfit? (I love how they’re usually “self designed”, no actual designer would put their name to them).

WAG? Oh such a sensitive term. Did you think she was talking about a highland district in the Amhara region of Ethiopia, or perhaps the wagging of a tail, or the Wag Islands, Nunavut, Canada? Or just wives and girlfriends. As deployed in the best of British tabloid press. As a way of elevating the esteem of women and their place in society, never mind their misfortune in pairing, bonding or partnering with a jock.

And Tory had the explanation right down to a T:

... I think there’s a formula at play here. The less productive one’s day job, the less material in one’s dress.

Yep writing for The Punch about the amount of material in a dress surely qualifies as the least productive day job going around. And now we're writing about Tory writing about a dress.


How to elevate the mind? I know, drop in to one of Rupert's rags and see what's going down. Oh yes, that Rhianna, she so rocks the Daily Terror. And no, I'm not going to provide a link. Do your own dirty work, before dropping back into The Punch to express your confected moral outrage. And make sure you're wearing a burka while you do it.


Naturally Tory brought out all the usual chit chat about moral standards and the decline and fall of civilisation, along with this post from one Lady Fong:

I thnk she looks lovely, creative and proud of it. It is so hot [temperature] in summer in Oz that in truth we should all go naked if it weren’t for airconditioning. Why can’t a woman design and wear her own dress? Is there some UNIFORM way we all have to clothe ourselves. You are on a slippery slope Tory: next you’ll want us all to be in burka…that’s where your thinking ends.

Eek. A nudist. Stone that Fong!


  1. It's true. All true, especially the bits about Tory being named after a horse-faced, talentless, directors accident.

    Except, in this case, our Tory masquerades as a journalist. So very earnest, so very head-up-her-own-bottom.

    And no, I'm not bitter because she said "Wow, you're so much more rational in your emails Joel B1"


  2. I wouldn't - actually make that couldn't, shouldn't - be caught dead in that kind of frock - too many men would faint, suffer heart attacks, even die of shock. And in turn I'd rather be caught with a librarian than a jock, but it would be nice if she'd laid off the tut tutting and the cluck clucking, like a common scold or gossip over the front fence.

    Did you see that dress, well I never, and so on and on.

  3. Pfft, as if journalists are ever outraged by an outfit.


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