This is a word young people use to describe someone who is ‘punching above their weight’ ie going out with somebody who ‘could do better’.
Presumably ‘could do better’ is a purely subjective assessment, but personally I think it’s pretty easy to spot the punchers.
I am resolved never again to get involved with one. I don’t think Ex was punching, but I do think the majority of the men in my life were.
As a result of them living off me, expecting me to provide a lovely place for them to stay, food, drink, and fine-dining, just because I am richer (work harder) than they are, I have turned into an arch anti-feminist.
A feminist man, on the other hand, by definition finds it acceptable for the woman to be more successful than he is, so then she can pay for him and look after him – handy!
Living the first thirty years of my life in the middle of what most people would assume to be the centre of male chauvanism – Eton College, one of the last remaining all-boys schools – I have been lucky enough never once in my life to have experienced the faintest whiff of it. I’m sure it still exists in some places, but I do think the feminists are terribly vocal and rather unattractive in their views about what must be a relatively minor problem these days.
Well – ooops. This attitude of mine is beginning to get me into trouble.
Last week I had dinner with two barristers. One of them had been at Exeter University with me; the other was Cambridge- educated; and all their children went to Oxbridge.
Conversation flowed with energy, warmth and enthusiasm, until I mentioned the jolly A’levels my daughter Faye, who wants to be an actress, is taking (drama, film studies and music tech). And how, to my delight, as a result of her achieving her dream (or, more likely, becoming a waitress) she will never have to pay back her student loan, so it becomes a generous gift from the government.
On top of which she will be able to respect a nice, mediocre, gentle, kind, moderately successful husband who will look after her, she can be an involved stay-at-home Mum and caring housewife, and live happily ever after, just as nature, over the millennia, has decreed. As opposed to a lonely, bitter, manless, childless, over-achieving, stressed-out Cheltenham Ladies College/Oxbridge-educated terrifying merchant banker who makes men quiver in their boots.
The merry atmosphere froze, and we drove home in silence.
This Thursday we have Faye’s school’s parent/teachers meeting, where I shall be facing some renowned ‘FemiNazi’ who teaches Faye her fourth subject (probably to be dropped at the end of the first year), English Literature. Faye achieved a ‘7’ in English at GCSE, thanks to excellent teaching and elder brother Will’s input into her ‘The Inspector Calls’ coursework essay. A knowledge of famous written works, we informed a reluctant Faye, will add depth and breadth to her overall knowledge and understanding of the Performing Arts.
Poor thing has found herself in a class of only eight children, two of whom achieved straight 9s at GCSE. These youngsters devour books for breakfast, for fun! It takes Faye a month to plough through just one! She is completely out of her league, indoctrinated by my old-fashioned thinking, and yesterday, the FemiNazi bully made her cry.
I am enormously looking forward to a jolly good row on Thursday evening.
Meanwhile, I am so over-educated, over-achieving and over-competent that I have inadvertently emasculated almost every man I have ever gone out with. And now, reduced to scouring Encounters and Muddy Matches nationally, I still cannot find a single man of any appeal. My new skinny brownness, not to mention my up-my-own-arsedness, is not going to help with this punching problem. I’m hoping that Radio 2’s Jeremy Vine’s ‘Week of Love’, focussing on on-line dating every day this week, might help further reduce the taboo, and that some decent men might finally sign up.
So I think I might have another go on Tinder. Although round here I shall probably find myself swiping cows and ponies left and right, as opposed to actual human beings.
My dermatologist friend’s daughter is about to marry somebody she met on Tinder. Both are Cambridge graduates.
Oh no. I have discovered that neither my mobile phone nor my ‘Google Notebook’ are up-to-date enough to accept the Tinder ‘app’. Excuse me while I just disappear pop out through the garden gate for a minute, to shag a sheep.