the problem with breastfeeding

 

 

Over the past week or so, breastfeeding has been under a deluge of attack from certain media sources. First we had Farage calling for an end to 'ostentatious breastfeeding' and most recently Jeremy 'I hate Mexicans' Clarkson took a break from being our unoffcial Prime Minister by comparing breastfeeding with taking a piss. Certain tabloids seem infatuated with the way in which mothers choose to feed their babies and like a wave of nausea that just won't stop; we see them querying their readers again and again on what they think about a perfectly legal act that is protected by the Equality Law. It seems as though every idiot with access to a keyboard is desperate to share their barely legible and pretty unwelcome viewpoint that the people what have vaginas need to stop getting out of bed in the morning/walking down the street/eating Kitkats Chunkies in public/ drinking coffee/ watching Emmerdale/ visiting their dying relative/ nourishing their babies because quite frankly they're OBVIOUSLY flaunting it.

This deep rooted and very real concern that women can sometimes be a little bit sexy is echoed by Nigel Farage whom a few days ago called an end to 'ostentatious breastfeeding'. Presumably this is some new fangled trend that involves nipple tassles and the hypnotic truthful hips of Shakira. I for one hate it when I'm going about my everyday business; trying to manipulate a despondent British nation with hard hitting policies on immigration and all I can see around me is sleep deprived women shaking their breasts at me to the tune of 'Mambo No. 5'.

Another completely relevant and credible opinion spews forth from Jeremy Clarkson's latest offering to Beelzebub in 'The Sun' in which he makes the tiresome and disturbing comparison between breastfeeding and taking a piss arguing that '..When we want to do that. We go to a little room, and do it in private'. I'd like to counteract his commendable analogy by suggesting that it is plausible that countless women would be incredibly shocked (and mildly aroused) at the sight of Jeremy sitting down for a meal at Claridge's hotel in London and taking part in the most natural act a human can do. 

 

Close your eyes and imagine Jeremy sitting in a bustling dining room with legs splayed (to remind us that he does indeed possess a penis.  Of course, he'd be enjoying an intimate lunch with James May about how television nowadays is full of burkhas and people with names he finds a little bit tricky and scary to pronounce; when a familiar cry disturbs them from the thresholds of a stately Bugaboo pram. Jeremy smiles apologetically at James who raises his hands and folds his arms as a sign that it's no matter. This jovial conversation can wait. There are more important things. 

 

Jeremy carefully lifts his hungry newborn babe and sets the bundle of joy across one arm. With the other hand he clumsily fiddles with his shirt buttons and blushes as he makes eye contact with James across the table. James wisely senses the tension or perhaps the rumbling of his own man-cave and excuses himself to the gentlemen's room.

Feeling a tad more relaxed, Jeremy unhooks the clip from his nursing bra and cups his boob. He can see that baby is getting restless now and the cries are becoming more and more shrill. Hurriedly he cups one sagging man breast and gentle touches his hairy nipple to the tip of baby's nose. Baby knows it's time. He latches. Jeremy breathes a sigh of relief. 

As if by magic; James returns from the now uninhabitable stench of the gentlemen's room and smiles at this beautiful scene of motherhood. He couldn't be prouder or feel more in love with Jeremy than he does right now. As James sits down he can see that baby has fallen asleep at the breast. Jeremy whom until now has looked on adoringly at little Richard's over stylised crown of hair bob up and down with each suckle, gives a little chuckle and discretely puts his bosom away. Holding little Richard tight he finally removes his gaze and looks at James as if he is about to close this perfect scene with something even more wonderful. 

 

James can feel his heart skipping a beat as he waits in anticipation for something delightfully beautiful to end a wonderful afternoon. Jeremy softly whispers so as not to wake the slumbering Richard, 'I was just thinking but you know, when 'Johnny Suicide' decides to jump in front of a train. Why can't we you know, just carry on and let it drive on through their mangled corpse. Cos.. you know. It won't make them any better'. James leant forward cross the table and then back again. Rubbing his stubbly chin. He furrowed his brow and then smiles sheepishly as that one nugget of wisdom reminds. It reminds him of the man he fell in love with. As if he had forgotten..