Thursday, 31 March 2022

The 10-Minute Rule

A survival technique inspired by crap films

I was overseas and living alone when A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001) popped up on TV one night. I had a hunch it wasn’t my kind of flick, but I persevered because:

a) I didn't have anything better to do; and
b) a lot of people had told me the movie was great.

I wish I’d followed my gut instinct and skipped it.

I immediately hated the kid playing the lead. He had the most punchable face, and his dippy haircut and dopey expression made me want to pull him through the TV screen and break his spine over my knee. I know it’s wrong and unfair to judge anyone by their appearance, but hopefully that little dude was just an ugly duckling.

A.I. seemed to go on for a very, very long time. There’s a scene where the kid gets stuck in a little submersible on the bottom of the ocean, and I actually thought that was the end of the movie. I wasn't happy about sacrificing 90 minutes of my life for a piss-poor film, but I was grateful that I could finally go to bed. I stood up and waited for the credits to roll so I could switch off the TV.

But alas. The movie wasn’t over!

Grumbling, I sat back down in front of the TV and watched in disbelief as that fucking kid discovered weird robot aliens or something on the ocean floor. I huffed and puffed in frustration and boredom as the saga rolled on, but I figured that I’d come this far and should at least finish what I’d started. I can’t really remember what that kid got up to next, but eventually something else happened that made me think the movie had finally finished. I sighed and got up.

But alas. The movie still wasn’t over!

Back in front of the TV I went, but nothing that fucking kid did was even remotely interesting or made any sense. I started yelling at the screen, demanding that the movie end! Eventually it did, of course, but to this day I can't remember how because by that time I'd entered a kind of semi-catatonic state of emotional numbness in which I was looking at the TV without actually watching the movie. When I finally hit the power button on the remote, it was 1:30am and I was exhausted, bleary-eyed and really, really pissed off with both A.I. and myself.

Unfortunately, I had a very similar experience with Her (2013). I hate this movie more than I can say.

Even more unfortunately, I was also badly stung by Prisoners (2013).  If you haven’t seen it, don’t. It's the absolute fucking worst. I'd rather sit through A.I. 3 more times than ever watch this film again.

It’s better to cut your losses than watch garbage to the bitter end. This is basically the 10-Minute Rule. Here's how it works, exactly:

Give a movie (this works for new TV shows as well, btw) 10 minutes of your time. If it fails to grab your attention by then, quit. Stop watching. DO NOT be tempted to give the show another 10 minutes, hoping it will pick up. It won't. You WILL be there until the credits roll and you WILL want to punch yourself in the face for being a sucker.

Also, and this is important: if you say or think 'Man, that's fucking stupid' at any point before or after the first 10 minutes, forget it. Stop watching. You'll be tempted to believe otherwise, but when shit starts rubbing you in the wrongest of ways, the wisest thing you can to do is call time.

Simply put, life is too short to put up with entertainment that doesn't actually entertain. There's a ton of great stuff out there, so don't waste your time on anything that fails to make you happy.

Thursday, 3 February 2022

The Lord's Prayer

When I was a kid, school assemblies always began with a recitation of The Lord’s Prayer. It was always a very solemn and serious affair. By the time I got to high school, however, for some unknown reason The Lord’s Prayer had been set to music - I always thought this stripped away its gravitas and imbued it with a distinctly comedic flavour.

I went to a private high school for boys. It was supposed to be a non-denominational school, but our weekly assemblies carried a heavy Christian vibe and a lot of our guest speakers were disturbingly evangelical. For instance, every year this withered old missionary used to hand out tiny red bibles and regale us with a song about the Holy Land. It was a horrible dirge and this guy used to belt it out like he was trying to blow up our PA system. The refrain was a jarring “JERRRUUU-SALEM! JERRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUU-SALEM!” and the entire school used to sit through it while cringing in collective embarrassment. There was always an awful stunned silence at the end. No one ever applauded; we didn't know how to respond. Once, some nameless student spoke for everyone when he whispered too loudly, “What the fuck was that?”

Every Monday we students opened assembly by singing either the Lord’s Prayer or The Battle Hymn of the Republic. I always thought The Battle Hymn of the Republic was an odd choice for an Aussie school. Anyway, whatever we sang, we sang it accompanied by the school band. Our The Lord's Prayer was an up-tempo rock ‘n roll lite version that I just couldn't take seriously. One morning as we geared up to sing it, the band's lead guitarist substituted the song's usual bland intro with his own improvised grinding/wailing riff. I can't say if he meant it as blasphemy or parody, but it was obviously an unsanctioned move because it drew dark looks from our headmaster. I completely lost my shit. The rest of the song proceeded as usual, with everyone singing along. No one in the peanut gallery seemed to find that guitar intro as funny as I did. Even if I’d wanted to join in – which I never did – I couldn't because I was practically crying with laughter. I don't know who he was, but the lead guitarist became my hero that day.

The song finished with another of the band guys tacking on a glorious, single-note outro on the glockenspiel. *Doink* I hadn't yet recovered from the wailing guitar, and I totally lost my shit again. There was some scattered giggling around the place, and the headmaster tried to murder the glockenspiel guy with glares. The look of outrage on his face was so priceless that I just couldn't help myself. My muffled snorts and heaving shoulders caught the attention of my biology teacher who gave me a verbal warning.

To this day I can’t hear The Lord’s Prayer without cracking up. The addition of music to religion doesn't make it better - religion is already intrinsically awful and, frankly, irredeemable. If anything, it just makes music worse.

Saturday, 15 January 2022

Worst Job Interview

Or: Dodging Bullets

It's late March, 2018. I’m interviewing for a job at a private ESL college in the Melbourne CBD. To get here I’ve taken a 3-hour bus trip and trekked some 30 minutes through busy streets. Great city, a nice place to visit, but there’s a lot of traffic and way too much going on. It's fair to say that I'm not a fan of the Big Smoke.

I’m about 20 minutes early for my interview, but it’s fine. I’m happy relaxing in the waiting area with my e-reader. My new leather shoes have been torturing my feet, especially that long ligament thingy which connects the shin to the upper foot. That bit really hurts. I haven’t worn trousers or a tie in ages, either, and I’m not exactly relishing the experience. On top of all this, the couch in the waiting area isn’t very comfortable. I’m trying to extract my underpants from my arse without the receptionist noticing.

Eventually, INTERVIEWER emerges from the bowels of the college to greet me. He’s the big boss, the CEO. It’s my time to shine!

INTERVIEWER: (Shaking hands with me) Hi. Tim, is it?

ME: Hi. Uh, no, it’s Jim.

INTERVIEWER: (Gesturing) Come into the office, Tim.

I go into the guy’s office. Not only has he gotten my name wrong, I see that he also has the wrong CV on his desk. Funnily enough it belongs to someone called Tim...

INTERVIEWER: (Sitting) So, I see you have experience with [Company Name]?

ME: (Also sitting) No, I’ve never worked for them.

INTERVIEWER: No? You are Tim, aren’t you?

ME: No.

INTERVIEWER: (Looking confused, but also a bit annoyed) Oh, you’re not? Then why did you say you were Tim?

ME: I’m, uh, pretty sure I didn’t…

INTERVIEWER: So, what was your name again?

ME: It's Jim. Or James, if you want.

INTERVIEWER: (Finding my CV directly under Tim’s and flicking through it) Okay. Okay! Oh, so you’re Jim! Actually I didn’t think you were coming today. Because you never replied to my email.

ME: Uh, no I definitely did reply. We confirmed the date, time and everything for this interview.

ME, THINKING: I've got the email to prove it! Also, if you weren't expecting me, why is my CV right there on your desk? Or do you think I'd fucking come here for shits and giggles? I travelled some 4 hours for this and I have to do the same just to get home again!

He goes on to talk about how I've completed a few single-year teaching contracts. He asks me why. I tell him that it's common for ESL teachers to do a year here and there in different countries. People who set out to see the world don't tend to stay in one place for long. He argues that it isn't the norm. It is, though, and he's talking out of his arse. Eventually...

INTERVIEWER: So, I see you’re currently doing your TAE certificate?

ME: Yes, that’s right. I started a few weeks ago.

INTERVIEWER: A few weeks ago? And you haven’t finished yet?

ME: No, it’ll take me another six months.

INTERVIEWER: What? But you can do that course in a couple of weeks.

ME: Can you? I, er, don’t know about that…

To my surprise, we go back and forth on this for a bit. He’s talking out of his arse again. I know for a fact that it’s not possible to complete the certificate in question in a couple of weeks. Maybe it was 20 years ago, but things have changed. When he starts getting argumentative, I let it drop. I don't need a TAE for this particular job anyway - I’m already more than qualified. He asks a few other questions about me and about my work history. Eventually…

INTERVIEWER: So, are you aware of how English teaching has changed?

ME: No. How has it changed?

INTERVIEWER: (After a long pause) It has changed.

ME: (After an equally long pause) Uh, okay…

I'm grinning a bit because of these really dumb exchanges. The guy seems genuinely puzzled by my amusement. When he asks if I have any questions for him, I say no and there's another long moment of silence. The only question I have is too rude to ask: why the fuck would I want to work for an incompetent, gaslighting, combative prick? But he just looks confused, probably trying to figure out why I'm not very enthusiastic about the job. Does he think that as my potential employer, he holds all the cards?

No. Fuck no.

A job interview is not a gift. It's not an act of charity. It's not the granting of a boon by a feudal lord to a dirty peasant. It's a chance for a boss and a worker to see if they're right for each other, and nothing more. And in this particular case, we are clearly not a good match.

Anyway, the dude finally wraps up the interview by saying he’ll be in touch. For me it's the cherry on top because he says it so unconvincingly it's a wonder his pants don't burst into flames. I'm not mad, though - I don't care if I never hear from him again.

I found a job elsewhere a couple of weeks later.

Monday, 6 December 2021

Type 1 error

Until a few years ago, I taught English abroad. If you've ever worked overseas, you'd know that you can't get a work visa without a HIV screening. It is possible to get one before leaving home, but there's generally no expectation of that from employers, and anyway in Australia it's fiddly, time-consuming and expensive (like everything else). 99.99% of the time you'll be tested after arrival in your host country, and it's better that way. Well, sometimes...

OK, so I’d been in Country X for some months. A few days after my HIV test at the local hospital, my boss called me into his office. He dropped a bombshell: the hospital had phoned to say I was HIV positive.

HIV positive. Fuck!

It was one of the most chilling experiences I've ever had; I was utterly devastated. I didn't get much sleep, and I spent days in my own personal hell, agonising over stuff like WHO? and WHEN? Eventually I decided that there was no way I could live with HIV. It might sound dramatic, but I started writing farewell letters and preparing to suicide.


Maybe a week later, my boss called me into his office again. I'd been so preoccupied with my own misery that I'd stopped eating and taking care of myself. He dropped another bombshell: the hospital had made a mistake! A suspiciously large number of patients there had tested HIV positive recently, and it was discovered that a lab technician had royally screwed up.

HIV negative. Fuck!

I felt better, of course, but I wasn't my old self again for ages. I was paranoid about being potentially HIV positive, and I went back to the hospital again and again to have my blood re-tested. The results were always negative. I still wasn't entirely convinced, because when I flew home at the end of my contract the first thing I did was buy a HIV self-test kit. It was negative. Lingering feelings of doubt still remained so I went to a proper clinic for a final, winner-takes-all HIV screening. It was negative.

It’s been many years since all this happened. I’ve since been to other countries where I was tested for HIV (as recently as 2015) so I know I don’t have it. Yet deep down I still wonder if there isn't something sinister lying dormant in my blood, waiting. And it's all because of the one time someone told me I was fucked.

Friday, 5 November 2021

Worst party

It's the dawn of the 90s. I'm a fresh face at uni, and I meet an overseas student called Edmund. He's in one of my English tutorial groups. Seems pretty friendly. When he invites me to a party on a Friday night at something called the Celtic Club in the city centre, I say yes. My first uni bash! I'm stoked because until now I've lived a relatively sheltered life. I've heard university parties really go off, and I'm ready to get amongst it!


Friday night comes around. Woohoo! I get on the bus and go to the city. I find the Celtic Club. I'm ready to rock!

But wait... how come there's no bouncer at the door? That's weird. There's a decent crowd inside, so surely that's a good sign? Everyone's playing limbo, though, which seems a little bit strange. And there's not a drop of booze in sight. I'm a little bit wary. I mean, we've got Australian uni undergrads... playing limbo... at a dry Irish club? It doesn't really add up. But I choose not to overthink it too much - I go with the flow and crack open a can of Fanta.

Edmund finds me, and with his help I start to meet some people. Everyone is very friendly. Actually they're little bit too friendly. You might even say they're suspiciously friendly. They're lovebombing me so much that I'm not sure if I should be flattered or creeped out. Honestly, I feel a little of each. One guy in particular is a very close talker and I'm starting to wonder if he isn't trying to pick me up. Thankfully he doesn't make a move. Eventually the party ends and I go home.


A week or so later, I see Edmund again and he asks if I want to meet some people later that night. I'd rather eat my own vomit, but I say OK. It turns out to be a church service, only it's in a building on campus instead of in a proper church. There's a sermon, and people are jumping around and yelling stuff like “Amen! Preach it, brother!” and “Bring it home! Bring it home, brother!” Everyone is singing their hearts out and swaying around. I can’t sing for shit and I despise OTT religious stuff; I find it all very repulsive. But like they did at the party, people are lavishing me with attention. I'm invited to a rugby training session....


I show up to rugby training. Everyone praises my skills and my physique. It rings hollow because I'm neither very fit nor co-ordinated.


Another week or two later, Edmund invites me to a second party. I really don't want to go, but for some reason I accept. Why can't I seem to say no to people?

The party venue is a flat in the suburbs, and again there's no alcohol. I had predicted this, which is why I rocked up bearing a six-pack of Coke. What I hadn’t predicted is that the high point of the party would be participating in a Bible reading. It's only my second university party and I'm already beginning to think the whole scene's overrated. Why isn't it like in the movies where everyone's drinking from red cups and all the girls are topless? I think I'd rather go to that sort of party...

So, the Bible reading. I was asked to read a passage and answer some questions about it. Had a go, basically, but my take on things hadn't impressed anyone (I kept saying that I had no idea about the "true meaning" of whatever Bible passage it was). I find religious texts utterly incomprehensible. They don't speak to me or move me in any way. I don't want to read them. I just couldn't give a toss, and I don't like pretending otherwise.

The shindig drags on. Someone's going around collecting money, and partygoers are forking out serious amounts of cash. I don't know why. At least I'm not expected to contribute (and being of mixed Scotch/Dutch parentage, I'm sure as hell not about to reach for my wallet anyway). As I'm pondering the money angle, the close-talking guy from the first party corners me and sings me a love song. He composed it himself; it's genuinely awful. I worry that I'm the target audience, so when he says it's for his girlfriend I feel very relieved. Then he casually mentions that after he sings it to her, he's going to ask her to marry him. And also that the church elders have to give their permission first. I'm left wondering if I was mistaken, or did this dude just say "church elders" in a sentence? What the fuck? I mean, those words are scary enough individually, but as a phrase they’re absolutely terrifying. And in that moment, despite all the clues I've been given so far, the penny finally drops...

Religious Nutbaggery 101 - Final Exam

Part A

Question 1

What are some dead giveaways you're dealing with a cult? (Highlight the correct answer/s)

a) parties featuring readings of religious texts

b) parties featuring tithing

c) lovebombers

d) boisterous religious services

e) controlling religious elders

f) limbo

g) all of the above ✔

I took stock of the situation. I asked myself if I wanted to get tangled up in a batshit insane cult or not. Funnily enough, the answer was no. The answer should always be no. Fuck, no!

I avoided Edmund until eventually he got the hint.

Tuesday, 12 October 2021

5 overused fantasy tropes that need to go

NB I co-wrote this essay with a friend years ago. In mid-2020 I submitted it to a certain fantasy writers' website for publication. They rejected it because it wasn't politically correct. Fuck that noise shit.

So here it is. Enjoy!


We’ve been enamoured by the fantasy genre since we were adolescents. If fantasy didn’t exist, we probably wouldn't have been interested in reading. That doesn’t mean we love all works of fantasy, though, nor do we love everything about our favourites. Maybe it's because too many fantasy authors rely on tropes that have been sitting like thick tomes on a dusty shelf in some wizard’s lab (next to flasks of colourful liquids, bubbling and fuming) far longer than they probably should. We’re sick of hearing about:

5. Inns and taverns

Apparently regarded by authors and readers alike as time honoured - even customary - stops for characters during tours of fantasy worlds, inns and taverns are places where skulduggery is guaranteed and secrets (and boobs!) are often revealed. And we get it. It's hard to resist a quaint, candle-lit nook crammed with wooden benches, busty wenches and copious amounts of alcohol. We love it when characters visit one, soaking up its Old World atmosphere as they catch up on the latest news and gossip with their friends, listening to the resident bard, washing down a steaming platter of roast beef with a horn or two of freshly brewed ale. And all for the bargain price of two coppers!

Why we're sick of that shit

Aside from their objectionable ubiquity, inns and taverns seem to be the only places where characters obtain nourishment (not counting castle kitchens or the ‘kill it yourself’ option). Given that restaurants and fast food have been things in the real world for at least a couple of thousand years, it seems a little odd that we've become so fixated on inns and taverns that we're fine with them monopolising the supply of meals and booze. We realise we’re not talking strictly history here, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to vary things a bit, would it? It’s fantasy! Take us to a dwarven burger joint, an elven juice bar, or maybe order centaur home pizza delivery… anything apart from yet another visit to a Prancing Pony wannabe.

And another thing – why are the overwhelming majority of inns and taverns are operated by people who are on the run? Chances are high that you’re buying your next pint from a fugitive legendary sword master, insurgent mage, or public enemy number one royal scion. Is becoming the highly visible proprietor of an establishment open to the public around the clock really the best way to stay incognito, though?

Oh yeah, and why are inns and taverns always places of extremes? They’re either pits of sin and debauchery teeming with miscreants, or they’re family venues frequented by honest, hardworking citizens. They’re packed to the rafters with customers or completely deserted. Booze is either world-class or mostly water. Food is hearty and wholesome or utterly inedible, possibly teeming with weevils. Beds are soft and immaculately clean or they’re filthy and literally crawling with vermin. And women? Women usually don’t visit taverns unless they’re travellers disguised as men or if they work there. As workers, of course, they're voluptuous and dress like sexy milkmaids, and seldom shy away from a bit of cock when offered sufficient incentive. Apparently, it’s a rule of fantasy that you can only get alcohol from costumed whores with overflowing D-cups. Important exceptions include the proprietor’s own daughters, of course. They're invariably maidens whose hymens are safeguarded by all the regular customers. Only an outsider would make the mistake of propositioning one (thereby initiating either a tense standoff that is eventually resolved peacefully, or through a massive brawl that settles everything right then and there).

4. Characters of uncertain/dubious/absent ancestry being revealed as royalty

Although in real life the concept of nobility is increasingly seen as irrelevant, people remain fascinated by it and plenty of fantasy novels feature a ruling class. We’ve got nothing against that, except when it’s abused. Unfortunately, it’s abused a lot.

Scenario one: your protagonist has grown up thinking he’s an ordinary villager (he’s the son of the local tavern keeper, most likely) but now that he’s on the cusp of adulthood, he suddenly shows amazing promise in axe fighting or spell casting or whatever. Of course it's because he’s actually heir to the throne of the Sultanate of Fooqed Yermam. His humble father will soon be revealed to be a deposed monarch who set up a tavern to live out the rest of his days anonymously, before being discovered, of course, by enemies (and also just in time by allies thought to have been murdered but who have miraculously survived) and he will eventually be persuaded to take back the crown. He’ll die tragically, but his son will succeed him and all will be right with the world.

Scenario two: your protagonist is the bastard daughter of the ex-sovereign of Takan'at'in Tha'but, cast out of the palace at birth and forced to grow up on the mean streets of Yurvgaa’tah Bijookan, its bustling capital. No one knows her parentage except for the Big Bad who usurped the throne, a man who has suddenly realised the protagonist is mere days away from her eighteenth birthday, and could be discovered and legitimised by those meddlesome surviving supporters of the old regime. He marks her for death, naturally, but fuck it if her latent magical powers don’t suddenly come to the fore and thwart his assassins’ every attempt on her life! Is it because she carries the blood of the Previously-Thought-to-be-Wiped-Out-But-Conveniently-Making-a-Comeback-Ancient-Magical-Royal-Family-of-Takan'at'in Tha'but? Yes. Yes, of course it is.

Scenario three: a mysterious stranger arrives at a remote village and immediately heads straight for the nearest tavern. Judging by his black garb, the way he keeps to himself, and his propensity for staying conspicuously cloaked and cowled in public at all times, he's carrying a dark, dark secret. Is the secret that he's an elite assassin sent to kill the hidden heirs to the throne of the king of Stroakin Myego* before they can discover their parentage, gain incredible hereditary powers and cut down the assassin’s employer? Nah,  too predictable! Actually, the mysterious stranger is a recently deposed monarch who’s arrived to buy the tavern with the expectation of living out the rest of his days pulling beer... incognito. That is until he's discovered, of course, by enemies (and also by allies thought to have been murdered but who have miraculously survived) at which point he'll reluctantly be persuaded to take back the crown. Oh baby, now that is totally fresh!

*a king who was, incidentally, killed by a rival but whose surviving loyal followers smuggled his small children to the remote village, disguised themselves as pig farmers and settled down to a quiet life of animal husbandry as a cover for their formulation of an elaborate plan that will eventually see their master’s unsuspecting children on the throne

Why we're sick of that shit

Woah, woah, woah! Wait a second... you mean your unassuming characters were really royalty all along? Wow, that totally explains why they were so much more awesome at everything than everyone else! Now they are more legit than ever and will occupy a special place in our hearts until the end of time. Ugh.

3. Characters wearing swords on their backs

We really hope there’s a special place in Hell reserved for the myriad authors who put back-mounted swords on their characters. People seem to think it’s cool. It’s not. It’s stupid because it’s not even remotely practical. There’s a reason why you won’t find a single example of a real warrior who wore his sword with the hilt jutting above his shoulders in, oh we don’t know... the entirety of human history. If you don’t believe us, find one. We’ll wait here while you look.

Didn’t find one? Colour us unsurprised! But if you still think it’s a great idea, go ahead and try it out for yourself. First you’ll need to put together a comfortable scabbard brace, something that lets you wear your sword safely and securely on your back all day long. Even if you succeed in doing that, you’ve just wasted hours of your time because unless it’s a fruit knife you’ve stowed back there, you probably can’t sit. Forget about lying down, too, or getting back up if you’ve fallen over. Congratulations! You’ve given yourself some sweet handicaps - unless you happen to enjoy walking around all stiff and uncomfortable like someone with something stuffed up their arse. You may as well put your sword there for all the good it’s doing you.

The worst part is that even if you do manage to rig up a wearable back mount that doesn’t look ridiculous, you can’t actually draw your sword. And why were you wearing it in the first place? Oh, that’s right. It was so you could have easy access to it should the need arise! Yes, we know, you probably can draw a short blade from a scabbard on your back. But you still can’t sheathe it easily, so please enjoy stabbing yourself in the head, neck or shoulders as you flail around uselessly behind your own back.

Why we're sick of that shit

Your sword belongs on your hip.

2. Characters passing out

The way we see it, too many fantasy characters are in the habit of being knocked out right before a physical fight. They wake up at some point later, when the conflict has been resolved, conveniently saving us the... burden? of reading AN EXCITING ACTION SEQUENCE! Why?! Are authors who use this frustrating device unable to write gritty action? They know they’re not exactly disguising their ineptitude with the whole people-falling-unconscious thing, don’t they? Or is there another reason they don’t want to give us awesome fight scenes? We really don’t get it.

Why we're sick of that shit

It’s a massive cop out, and to explain how, here's a porn related metaphor. You know how when it’s time for the money shot, instead of taking it like a champ the girl suddenly squeezes her eyes and mouth shut and flinches even before the first sticky blob of man goo comes arcing toward her? Yeah, well not describing combat explicitly in fantasy is the equivalent of... that. Both are, of course, completely unacceptable.

It’s really best if you don’t think too deeply about the implications this metaphor has for the writer/reader relationship.

1. Faux feminism

Oddly enough, the thing about good fantasy is… it’s real. It’s recognisable. Good fantasy lives, broadly speaking, in our world – with just enough ‘weirdness’ to create something new and interesting. Sure, you could create a planet where the sky is tangerine… eggs grow on trees… and evil giant snails cram wailing peasants into their bloody, gaping maws. But that ain't good fantasy. That’s fifth grade mashing-ideas-together without thinking about how your world came to be.

That’s why we’re not fans of the many fantasy books that feature tough, physically powerful, every-bit-as-strong-as-a-man female protagonists.

Wait. Before you accuse us of being misogynistic shitlords, consider. That’s not how biology works. The average man is taller and heavier than the average woman and has twice the upper body strength. Reach (a function of height), punching power and brute strength are huge advantages in close-quarter combat, formation fighting in particular. Everything else being equal, an all-female spear wall will not stand very long against an all-male one. You can argue the point all you want, but for the bulk of human history war has been conducted with spears, and history suggests a strong arm wields a spear best. It is mainly for this reason – and not because of some global male conspiracy to keep women off the battlefield – that female fighters have never been a thing.

Yes, there are historical examples of women fighting and even leading battles. They’re scattered, though, and the vast majority fought out of necessity and didn’t actually wield weapons. That’s why, serious fantasy authors, you’ll have to excuse us if we laugh at your 15-year-old heroine who 'just happens' to be a better brawler than an entire host of grizzled male war veterans. Honestly, have you ever met a teenage girl? And you’re also going to have to explain to us, in precise detail, exactly how your fantasy tribe’s women, as a group, managed to become deadlier fighters than all its men. Or do you truly believe that having a vagina is the only prerequisite for a 60 kilo girl to becoming an unstoppable shield maiden? No. Come on, get real. In order to give a fantasy world where these kinds of things exist even a shred of credibility, you need to have a good reason. A specific type of magic could work. A desire to make your characters walking embodiments of third-wave feminist ideology definitely doesn't.

Why we're sick of that shit

We’re all for equal rights, but nature has rendered men and women very different. A woman is not merely a man in different packaging, and female characters need to display a different kind of strength apart from simply being able to swing a sword with more force than everyone else. We get that you want to show how a woman is just as good as a man. We also agree that women can be – and should be – more than just decorative elements in a fantasy story. However, if you think the only alternative is to make them exactly like men in every way, you’re setting up a false dichotomy and forcing them down an avenue that is very difficult to take seriously.

The 10-Minute Rule

A survival technique inspired by crap films I was overseas and living alone when A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001) popped up on TV one ni...