The utter ineptitude of female bosses

POOR MICHAEL Buerk. Not only was he witness to the dreadful scenes of the Ethiopian famine, not only did he have to suffer the indignity of presenting those terrible 999 TV series, not only was he born with a mis-spelt surname, but now he’s only gone and upset loads of shrieking women.

His crime? To suggest that our society’s values had been skewed somewhat to over-represent the views and values of the fairer sex (I can hear then whine already) at the expense of our traditional male virtues. Instead of stoicism, reticence, courage, single-mindedness and rationality (let’s face it, the bedrock of Britishness) we are now urged to embrace touchy-feely, fluffy, non-aggressive multi-tasking, which seems to involve being nice to everyone and never making a difficult decision.

He also points out that the number of women in top positions at the BBC is forcing a non-representative female agenda upon us, and who can argue with that? Turn on daytime telly and all you’ve got is programmes about moving house, doing up said house, or selling crap you’ve bought at a French car boot sale at vastly inflated prices and then spending the money on your house.

It’s a joke. If it wasn’t for Thunderbirds and the occasional Norman Wisdom film, I’d have to get out of bed before opening time.

And it’s not just television where this malign influence is evident. In politics we’ve ended up with open borders because we’re too scared to turn hook-handed terrorists away, our education system is a joke because no-one is now allowed to fail, and the Nanny State is now banning inflatable paddling pools from people’s back gardens unless they employ a lifeguard. It’s madness.

Anyone who has ever worked for a female boss knows what a disaster it can be. When men step up to the plate, they do it with authority and confidence. When women plant their backsides in the boss’s chair (after first worrying about whether or not it will fit), they’re often so wracked by anxiety, lack of confidence, fear of failure and the need to be liked that they’re rendered utterly ineffective.

I tell you, if I had a tenner for every lady boss I’ve seen in tears in the toilet (and not just at the Christmas party) I’d be writing this from the deck of my yacht.

The only good thing is that they won’t be there for long, most of them seeing a senior management position as licence to bugger off and have litters of children at the company’s expense. For year after year after year.

I make one final point in support of Mr Buerk, and his thesis that men are undervalued and unnecessarily ridiculed. This week the BBC launched a new TV series called Bring Your Husband To Heel, in which women were shown how to modify their husbands behaviour by using “dog training techniques”.

Consider this. How long do you think a series called Bringing Your Wife To Heel would last? Discussion over.

I’VE WRITTEN before about the horrendous persecution of the Hall family, breeders of guinea pigs for scientific use, so I won’t bore you again with my views on how these urban terrorists and their NuLabour apologists have reduced democracy to a joke.

I would just ask you this: When it comes to the validity of using laboratory-bred animals for the testing of life-saving drugs, who would you rather believe? Over a hundred British scientists, including three Nobel prize winners, or a gang of violent, deranged, lentil-eating thugs, who think that digging up an elderly woman’s body is a valid tactic in their supposedly peaceful campaign? You decide.

SO, THIS Piano Man geezer who’s suddenly made a miraculous recovery. What’s that all about then?

First of all he turns up on the seafront at Sheerness, soaking wet and with all the labels cut out of his suit (must have been Matalan). Then he sponges four months of expensive psychiatric care with three square meals a day and a free piano to play with

The next thing you know he’s confessed to being a gay Kraut con man and buggered off back to Bavaria without even a backward glance. It’s just not on.

I have a cunning plan. I’m going to turn up on Blackpool Prom looking a bit damp and bedraggled and, when hauled in by the dibble, I’ll draw them a picture of Pamela Anderson and a pint of Boddingtons. Roll on four months of fun and games at the State’s expense.

IT’S BEEN a weekend of wailing parents, distraught that their offspring can’t get a university place despite having four A-grade A-levels.

Well of course they can’t, dimwits, because everyone’s got four A-grade A-levels. How are universities supposed to differentiate between the smart and the not-so-smart when everyone’s exam results are identical? No wonder there are now 60,000 kids out there having to face the realities of life instead of looking forward to three years of binge drinking alcopops and buying 10 Silk Cut from the all-night garage and then paying by cheque.

There is a solution to this of course, and one so simple that even the robotic Ruth Kelly should be able to get her alien-shaped head around it.

First, establish how many university places there actually are - this year it’s around 330,000. Secondly, make the A-level exams a bit harder and include compulsory English and Maths sections. Thirdly, set the pass mark so that only the top 330,000 students get through. Finally, send those 330,000 to university, where they will neatly occupy the 330,000 vacancies.

Now that’s not exactly rocket science, is it?

WE RETURN to the Outer Hebridean islands of North Uist and Benbecula, where two years ago conservationists declared war on hedgehogs. Yes, hedgehogs.

Apparently the vicious beasts, introduced to the islands in 1974 to combat a slug problem, were threatening dwindling stocks of lapwings and ringed plovers by eating their eggs. Since then, Scottish Natural Heritage has spent around £200,000 a year on capturing and then killing the hedgehogs with a lethal injection during a month-long autumn cull.

They even pay islanders a £20 bounty for every hedgehog they hand over. And, predictably, a dissenting group of bunny-huggers has set up the Uist Hedgehog Rescue organization to smuggle hedgehogs off the islands and re-home them on the mainland before the killing begins. Think French Resistance meets Mrs Tiggywinkle.

But this is where it gets funny (or even funnier). This year the hedgehog killers were planning to use dogs to flush the evil, wee beasties out of their undergrowth lairs. But wait. Under Scottish anti fox-hunting legislation, if you flush a wild animal from hiding by using a dog, you then must shoot it with a shotgun. No last cuddle and lethal injection allowed.

As you can imagine, blasting a hedgehog with a 12-bore doesn’t leave behind much in the way of hedgehog. Certainly not enough for a decent burial and a swift chorus of All Things Bright And Beautiful. So Scottish National Heritage is now tying itself in philosophical knots having been hoist by its own legislation.

And you can’t blame some of us for sniggering behind our hands at that.

O The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this website, of anyone who isn’t saving up to buy their copy of Fire Engines Of The World Including A Free 1939 Bedford Only £2.99 (and a tenner a time for the other 97 parts), of anyone who isn’t sick to death of the Charlie/Shelley Coronation Street storyline, or of anyone not fervently wishing that Courtney Love and Alan Partridge decide to name their forthcoming child Fernando.