The unveiling of the Baileys prize for female fiction is a reminder that the drink has proved a risky tipple for men. Over Christmas a burglar in Warrington was caught after forensics found his fingerprints on a bottle. In Cameroon last year, a man was jailed on a charge of homosexuality with only his choice of digestif as evidence.
Neither does the brand encourage equal-opportunity consumption. Its ads are strictly targeted at one gender, from the Here’s to Us promo, in which a girl gang goes round the country, with Baileys their refreshment of choice, to the Mother’s Day push, (slogan: celebrate all that you share). Some posters for that campaign include suggestions showing how to make shots extra special with various toppings, such as caramel and whipped cream and, for the health-conscious, three cubes of apple on a little stick. The Baileys prize, which took place on Wednesday evening , and was formerly the Orange prize is, of course, not open to men. It operates on the logic that positive discrimination is still required in a field in which half the bestselling authors are women, as are six of the 10 most recent Booker prizewinners.
To me, the idea of a gender-specific prize for fiction is as offensive as a gender-specific drink. Real women should boycott such things. Similarly, real men can reasonably, moderately, drink Baileys. They need not worry that others might judge them.
My ex-boyfriend’s lovely dad used to pour it on his puddings as a sauce. My current boyfriend bought me a bottle as a birthday present last month. He felt no shame in the purchase,.
On Saturday, I went on a trip on the Sir Walter Scott steamship round Loch Katrine in the Scottish Trossachs: a fine boat with a small bar offering such delights as the Rob Roy (Baileys and hot chocolate). As we set off, the steward issued a caution over the intercom: due to their strength, the number of Rob Roys served to each customer would be capped: no more than at 12 per person. Now that’s what I call a macho challenge.
Guilt trip
In his new movie, Valley of Love, Gérard Depardieu plays the former partner of Isabelle Huppert, with whom he reunites in Death Valley at the request of their dead son. “I got fat,” he explains. “Whatever makes you happy,” she shrugs. “How could I possibly be happy like this?” he replies.
Such a conflicted sense of obesity (blithely guzzling yet guilty and sad) contrasts curiously with Melissa McCarthy’s undercutting of fat gags in the new comedy Spy. In contrast to Bridesmaids and The Heat, the joke is on those who pigeonhole her on account of her size. It’s clearly a healthier approach – and Spy is terrific fun. Yet something about Depardieu’s sweaty regret feels more genuine.
Sam’s sim
To watch Lisa Dwan perform three late Beckett monologues in a pit at the Barbican is to experience serious sensory deprivation. As well as the stripped-back dialogue and staging, the house lights were off throughout, and the audience – instructed at the start to turn off their mobiles – were so quiet a rumbling tum was the closest thing to a chorus line.
It was an astonishing performance, spoiled only by someone accidentally enabling their phone’s voice activation at the end. So, as the final protracted fade-out into total silence and darkness began, the closing lines rang out: “Say a command”, repeated three times; then “Command not recognised”, twice. I say spoiled; in fact, it sounded quite Beckettian. And, as someone with faint claustrophobia who clutches their mobile at all times, even when it’s off, such interruption did come as weird relief.
