I recently attempted to write a parody of John Waters’ columns. I started with a tortured attempt to tie social media to the Biblical tale of Onan, taking a detour to ancient Greece in the company of Sophocles and Euripides, before bemoaning that the internet gives “a notional equality which suggests that some person with a laptop is the equal of a man with a column in the paper”.
I went on to make outlandish statements like “the professionally-aggrieved who howl ‘misogyny’ continue, as ever, to misconstrue wilfully an attempted examination of pre-misandrist societal norms”.
I finished up with the nonsensical observation that radical feminism seeks not just to deny the rights of fathers but “the rights of God the Father Himself” and called for a truly modern Ireland as envisaged by Eamon DeValera and Archbishop John Charles McQuaid.
I was happy enough with my silly effort but now I realise I was wasting my time. The increasingly sub-orbital tone of his columns, combined with his recent piece of performance art at Wheatfield Prison, proves once and for all that John Waters is truly beyond parody.