Cliterati is pleased to welcome a new columnist - the fun, feisty, fierce and always rational Dr Strange Bird. Read her views on women, punk and pure unadulterated hussydom, then decide for yourself - do you have clit?

“… and wearing a bollock ring. What the f**! was all that about?”
The Dr may be paraphrasing Mr Johnny Lydon’s gleeful tirer de piss at the expense of Malcolm “mutant muppet of Mephistoles” McClaren (as seen in Julian Temple’s insight-filled biopic of the Sex Pistols, The Filth and the Fury). But, yes, what the three-fat ladies is all that about? Do you remember punk? What d’ya remember? The politics? The chaos of ’77?. Or the gorgeous, gobbing women?
For the under 25s in the audience (hi there, young lovers) the Dr is not talking about that most fearful of things, the punk parody, the mohekan beacons of Carnaby street postcards or the swish-sway swindlers of an Isabella Blow style supplement, dishing up “subculture” at nigh on a 1000 quid a pop.
I’m talking about women buggering the bouffant and twin-set and two-fingering the piss factories (see Smith, Patti, poet). I was just an errant kid scratching crayons down pavements on my North London council estate when these abominations of all things held sacred as style and taste began flaunting themselves on the street corners.
A real punk woman just oozed and oozed brazen sexuality of the type my mother would brandish “hussy”. Now real hussydom is something that, like good orgasm, cannot be forced or faked or fabricated. It’s not about poise and it cannot be posed. It is just there, the unashamed that is unabsorbed. Nothing can claw it or curtail it back into what Johnny Lydon calls the “shitsytem” (got a turn of phrase, hasn’t he, our Johnny?). Hussydom sings through a black plastic rubbish bag as well – better – than through dollar-x amount of Versace leather.
At the level of hussy women do punk better than men. Any one can be a scumbag or a sleazeball. All that takes is balls. But to be a real hussy takes clit.
Now, in the Dr’s opinion, the evidence is that McClaren, self-confessed guru, of — well, just about any subculture since ’76 (he, allegedly, according to himself, was even the midwife of hip-hip) — has neither balls nor clit. He is a fiddler after both and the bollock-chain-tastic, gimp-sucker pasting he got in The Filth and the Fury kinda demonstrated the point. The elaboration — particularly the mask of gimpdom — thrust upon the basic fundamentals of hussydom a la the King’s Road Sex were, when viewed through the filter of 25 years, so unsexy the Dr almost fell asleep. But a well placed safety pin in the hands of a hussy…
The Dr is not a hussy. But she aspires...
And to all aspiring hussys, she says — “Never mind the bollocks. Feel the clit…”
For Dr Strange Bird’s rational thoughts on the spirit of ‘77 go to Rationalist.org