Why I Really F*cking Hate Bridget Jones

Helen Fielding has announced she's writing a new Bridget Jones novel. Please pass me a shotgun, some warfarin and a baseball bat, I'm going in...
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Helen Fielding has announced she's writing a new Bridget Jones novel. Please pass me a shotgun, some warfarin and a baseball bat, I'm going in...

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Oh for fuck sake. As if womankind hasn’t already suffered enough, it is about to receive a fatal blow to its dignity, sanity and ability to spot raging bullshit in the same way that a falcon spots crippled voles. Yes, it’s true, Helen Fielding has revealed that she is working on a third Bridget Jones novel.

Spare me Fielding. I was happily lolloping along with my life until I discovered this, making my joy ignite like a fart that’s come too close to a Swan Vesta. I thought you’d successfully dashed the equality of women on the rocks of your twin stabs at literature n the 90s, but no. Now you’re taking 21st Century women, destroying whatever they have left of their dignity and repeatedly reversing over it until it looks like gender roadkill.

Now, I made a stab at reading the first of Fielding’s books way back in 1996 but gave up a third of the way through because it made me want to drive a stake through Jones’ bleating bloody heart. So when the second book was published in 1999 I was forced to form a Jones exclusion zone around myself. Then there were the films. Oh fuck, the films. And as if that lot didn’t agonise me enough, there will be a film released later his year called – gird yourself – Bridget Jones’ Baby.

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Indeed, the third instalment of the Bridget Jones saga could be cluttering the shelves of our nation’s bookstores as early as October. That’s just what women need in time for Christmas, a self-proclaimed heroine who is so clumsy, self-obsessed, confused, narcissist and determined to marry and procreate that she makes Anthea Turner look like Emmeline fucking Pankhurst.

Imagine living with the calorie/ shag/ fag counting Bridget Jones. Problem is that women have been living with her since the first book was published in 1996. She’s been rammed down the nation’s throat like a surgeon’s fingers rooting along an inflamed oesophagus. For some reason the world and its cavorting media think that Bridget Jones is a mirror image of women everywhere and that we must be chuffed to shit to see a ‘real woman’ – whatever the fuck that is - prance across our pages and screens.

Well this ‘real woman’ is not. In fact Jones is so far from who I am that I’d need a Chilean observatory to even recognise myself in her. In fact the last time I chased a man it was because he flashed me his cock while I was out walking, not because I was pitifully determined to be betrothed. And the last time I counted how many calories I ate it was because I’d proudly hit the 50,000 mark on the day before my last period.

And as for the character of Jones being foisted on women everywhere, the media is made up of nut-fiddling, cock-wombling, shit-wads. It’s even more bleak than women being made to choose which female character they most resemble from Sex and the City. Choose? Do we really have to? What in the frig is wrong with just being ourselves?

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Look, I know that there are loads of women who adore Bridget Jones and I’m under no illusion as to how ragingly popular the character is. What I despise is how she has become an Everywoman, as if being worryingly neurotic, toff-voiced and incapable of buying decent spinnaker-sized knickers is, essentially, what every woman really is. Well thanks for that vote of confidence in your gender, Fielding, love. Nice one.

Worse, we have Fielding to blame for that most heinous of literary crimes, chick-lit. Thanks to the vile rise of Jones women have been assailed with tomes written ‘for her’ for years. You can spot them in Waterstones, like hulking great clots of blood on a newborn lamb. They’re pink, they’re cartoony and they have titles in comedy fonts, because women are incapable of understanding any text that doesn’t resemble the hairy end of a tweezer.

So the very notion of the up-coming film Bridget Jones’ Baby makes me want to take a long and largely uncontrolled shit. Through my ears. Look, I am to parenting what Pol-Pot was to peace talks but this film should really be called Bridget’s Bullshit Bingo. There’ll be shit jokes and shag jokes and stitches jokes and weeing-standing-up jokes and it’ll all be done with Jones’ usual bug-eyed panic and inability to get her pretty little booze-addled head into gear. How delightfully ditzy. How delightfully bloody stereotypical.

Which means I’m not as excited about a new Bridget Jones book or film as the world says I should be. In fact, if I had the cash I’d pay Fielding the sum of her advance just to kill the girl off with the sharpened end of a crazed spoon. You know, for the sake of women who don’t want to be portrayed as hormone-crazed, knicker-confused maniacs. Believe me, the terrified objects of Jones’ pustulant affection, Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy, are fucking well welcome to her.