She writes for the Guardian

Caption: A pair of Guardian columnists discuss the sheer joy of solo travel with a “common person”.

It will come as absolutely no surprise that the following incoherent piece of privileged, self-indulgent tosh was written for The Guardian. I read it so you don’t have to, but, Oh Lord, give me strength, there are days I wish I didn’t.

“Bidisha”, it will also come as absolutely no surprise to anyone, is an only child who went to an expensive private school, studied Old and Middle English at Oxford, and still lives with her mother. There are as-yet-undiscovered tribes in the steaming jungles of the Amazon who will easily deduce that she is also a spoiled, prattling bint.

Like most Guardian writers — and readers — she witters on endlessly about the need “to do something concrete about climate change” and its “catastrophic and wide-ranging effects”. That “something concrete”, though, apparently doesn’t include doing anything about her carbon footprint.

She writes for The Guardian, after all. Quote:

I am…a gloriously child-free 40-year-old celibate spinster with a passport, no expenses (I still live with my mother in my childhood home)…The joys of solo travel are manifold. Oh, the sheer liberation of not having to be nice all the time; not having to be reasonable and considerate. End of quote.

Also, not having to live up to the high-minded ideals you endlessly preach at other people.

The same hyper-privileged Westerner who babbles that “elite Westerners” can’t imagine “extreme poverty” or “what it’s like not to be able to feed your children” — two subjects about which she knows not a damn thing — gaily admits to indulging in the most carbon-intensive hobby a human can possibly pursue. It is, she says, her “right”. Quote:

You could say it’s selfish – but any woman who has done anything that doesn’t involve being a mummy/wife helpmeet has been called selfish since the beginning of time. We can’t let those cries of jealousy drown out the Stansted airport gate announcement. There seems to be some kind of expectation placed on women that, even on holiday, they will do all the emotional and practical labour to make sure everything goes smoothly and everyone (else) has a nice time. It’s the legend of female submission, masochism and sacrifice. End of quote.

Again, she feels entitled to lecture everyone else on a topic she cannot possibly know anything about. She knows less about “being a mummy” than I do about the finer points of tensor geometry. All her life, she has been the child. She has been the one demanding that others do all the “emotional labour” for her. Quote:

Still, this trend for solo travel comes with a huge caveat. End of quote.

Yes: it’s called a “carbon footprint”. The high priests of the Church of Gaia sternly wag their fingers at us sinners for enjoying meat. Yet, even if Joe Deplorable ate a steak a day for a year, his meat-related carbon footprint is less than a tonne. The average commuter in Britain is responsible for about two and a half tonnes of carbon dioxide a year. Just one long-haul flight would see Bidisha spewing up to 20 tonnes.

For the climate cost of just one of a privileged Guardian columnist’s indulgence in “sheer liberation”, a prole could relieve the grind of the daily commute with a daily juicy steak for nearly six years.

But it’s not for us common deplorables to treat ourselves to such luxuries. We have to work for a living. Such Versailles-levels of indulgence are the preserve of: Quote:

Those lucky individuals who have the money, free time, family support to hold the fort, and the narcissistic-yet-somewhat-basic “lifestyle” #solotravel Instagram tendencies to curate, edit and tailor their holidays. Sorry, I mean their “experiences”. And so they roam the Earth, iPhones in hand, like avaricious Victorian colonials, sampling the exotic curios of an Andalucían yoga weekend here and a Tuscan cookery course there. End of quote.

Yes, she actually wrote that. Apparently with a straight face.

She writes for The Guardian, after all.


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Who is Lushington D. Brady?

Well, a pseudonym. Obviously.

But the name Lushington Dalrymple Brady has been chosen carefully. Not only for the sum of its overall mien of seedy gentility, reminiscent perhaps of a slightly disreputable gentlemen of letters, but also for its parts, each of which borrows from the name of a Vandemonian of more-or-less fame (or notoriety) who represents some admirable quality which will hopefully animate the persona of Lushington D. Brady.

To read my previous articles click on my name in blue.

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