Jim Hopkins: Why feminists have to rely on 15 good men in black

What a terrible time to be a feminist. The angst must be palpable, the fury extreme. Or more extreme, put it that way.

Because fury has always been a major ingredient in the feminist recipe. It is, in large measure, what has made feminists the Spanish Inquisitors of our age. And also what drives them to extreme lengths in pursuit of their laudable goals.

Tragically, becoming a feminist usually means you have instantly to acquire a very stern look and go into politics - a fate no caring parent would wish upon their happy, healthy daughter.

Just as they would never hope to see young Fionella doomed to a life in Gender Equity Compliance Monitoring down at the Ministry of True Enlightenment.

But that's the sort of dreadful fate that occurs when feminism infects an impressionable mind. Requiring people to heed the creed can cause irreparable damage. Far better for the young things to simply join the Destiny Church. At least they'd get over that quicker.

Alas, the unrepentant willfulness of the unbelievers is another matter altogether. It must be particularly galling for the Inquisettes of 2005 to confront continually a world apparently determined to ignore their ascetic dogma - except in places like schools and universities where independence of thought and doctrinal deviation can be rigorously eliminated.

Elsewhere, however, outside such moated fortresses of purity, things are not looking good. The streets are awash with exposed midriffs and diaphanous tops, the very antithesis of proper attire.

Every day the feminist eye is offended by fashions that don't only suggest a willingness to sleep with the enemy, they positively demand capitulation.

Boosted and bolstered by lashings of Botox and beachfuls of silicon, many of the sisterhood's sisters appear alarmingly willing to be sexual objects.

It goes without saying that the blokes - Boo! Hiss! - are quite happy to play along. In fact, they're spending nearly as much time grooming and preening and spraying and waxing themselves as the blokesses. And that's before they start on the six-pack abs.

Clearly this was not what feminists had in mind when they issued their first manifestos. Trouble is, theirs wasn't the only revolution going on. You see, while they were busy planning a new and abstemious world order, a few snotty boffins were equally busy inventing the Pill. And the Pill won.

It was always going to, of course. Only sad sociology types who genuinely believed they could re-engineer human nature by having a hack at the dictionary could ever have thought otherwise.

The Pill won because it was easy. One swallow did make a summer. Overnight it switched the sexual emphasis from reproduction to recreation. And people all over the place thought: "Hey, that's a good idea. Let's party."

By putting a chemical barrier between cause and effect, the Pill offered an equality feminists couldn't match. It offered women the same freedom from consequence that blokes had enjoyed for millions of years.

So the world started putting itself about with gay abandon. Which can't have gone down well with the Inquisettes. Especially since the new friskiness gave those horrid capitalists a host of new opportunities to extract money from the passionate proletariat.

That wasn't meant to happen. Navel-piercing and Brazilians weren't exactly must-have items on the liberated agenda. But that's how it is with history. Things don't go to plan. They certainly haven't this time. In the battle for hearts and minds, the score right now is Sodom 1, Sappho 0.

But things could change. And quickly, too. Hold the saussies, lads and lasses. Don't start planning a victory barbie yet. This game could still go Sappho's way. Whether her fans would regard the win as one worth having is quite another question.

For here is the nightmare now confronting the sober sisters. If Mr Tamikaze is to be believed - and we've heard very little from him lately, so he probably is - the good and virtuous feminists have a detailed 15-year plan for the rest of us, the exact nature of which we do not know but they do.

Of course, implementing the plan means you have to be in gummint. And being in gummint means the electorate has to be happy. And making the electorate happy means the All Blacks have to beat the Lions.

Indeed, numerous learned pundit persons are already predicting a late July election specifically so that maximum electoral benefit can be extracted from the wave of euphoria sweeping the nation in the wake of a series win.

This must be absolutely appalling from a feminist perspective. Terrible, in fact. Relying on something as aggressively masculine as rugby is a violation of everything they've ever fought for.

Blokes shouldn't be in charge. They shouldn't be determining how things turn out. Certainly no self-respecting feminist in pursuit of a better world would ever depend on one man, let alone 15.

Yet in this case they must. Because rugby is us. We are how we play. In this still-chauvinist land match equals mood.

So although it might be ironic (and unwelcome for sure), the fact remains that for the next few weeks feminists will rely much more on footy than ever footy will rely on them.