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We did our own research into the lexical world of VAGINA, and this produced some interesting results.
The fact that Republicans are trying to legislate something they are unwilling to even say adds extra layers of hilarity to VAGINAgate. In a world conspicuously devoid of adverts for wiener cleaner, it’s a bit disconcerting to see ‘Woo hoo for my froo froo!’ posted on the side of telephone boxes throughout the country. Such terms are perhaps just about acceptable when you have a little girl with a tricycle injury and don’t want her uttering the C-bomb. The problem with euphemising the term ‘VAGINA’ is that it takes serious discussion of them off to the menu. Of course, the implication that you can’t really love your VAGINA unless you use a certain product is deeply impertinent. Until they finally realised that it annihilated everything good inside your flange, douching that made you smell detergent-like was an incredibly popular activity, promoted mostly by VAGINA-haters in the US.
In light of this, it’s of utmost importance that you learn to call your VAGINA what it is, and furthermore, accept it in its natural state. Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett and Holly Baxter are co-founders and editors of online magazine, The Vagenda.
At my birthday dinner in a glitzy restaurant, my family take their time over a menu of sophisticated stuff such as pollock with romesco sauce and roast rhubarb creme brulee. When my parents divorced in the mid-1950s, I was sent to a small private boarding school on the Isle of Wight. As a junior, I was often on serving duty, and so ahead of the crowd in the dining room when the wooden food trolley with its grey linoleum top trundled in. Watching her spoon bite through the golden-brown potato crust to deposit an undersized wedge on each plate, I knew I could have eaten all 44 portions by myself.
In the ghastly shipboard diet that Forester described – rancid salt pork and biscuits catacombed by weevils – the only delicacy was pea soup, made from split peas that could be preserved for years at sea.
I hadn’t yet read the Damon Runyon stories on which it was based, so I couldn’t appreciate how perfectly Frank Loesser’s songs caught their atmosphere.
I couldn’t begin to guess what “strudel” might be but “cheesecake” was two familiar words in a seeming oxymoron: surely, something was either cheese or it was cake. I later read how much Sinatra hated having to eat cheesecake in the scene, especially as Brando the Method actor (whom he derisively nicknamed “Mumbles”) demanded retake after retake. As the oxymoron melted in my mouth, I thought back to those shivering, famished, hopeless days at a British boarding school and realised just how much better life was capable of getting. Perhaps because our VAGINAS, especially those of our American sisters are, much like Stalingrad, increasingly under siege (Stalingrad is another euphemism for VAGINA). The feminist backlash to the suggestion of transvaginal probes involved women inundating Senator Ryan McDoogle’s Facebook page with detailed information about their lady bits.


From the Inga Muscio classic Cunt: A Declaration of Independence to Dr Catherine Blackledge’s The Story of V, to Caitlin Moran’s How to Be a Woman, women have been trying to wrestle their vaginas out of male hands and away from male terms which don’t belong to us for ages now.
Half the population carry them around in their pants without freaking out, yet if VAGINAS were supposed to complement the saccharine, flower-gathering view of everyday women by smelling like a lavender patch, they would. VAGINAS are a wonderful arrangement of flaps capable of the most magnificent things, just as God, in Her infinite wisdom, intended.
Like many such places in that era, it believed that keeping little boys hungry, cold and terrified was character-building. If you couldn’t stomach your food, you handed it over to somebody else; at breakfast, a famously flatulent boy named G A Fisher routinely consumed four or five plates of a grey porridge that was like wallpaper paste.
My favourite Hornblower book was The Commodore, about our chronically self-doubting hero’s command of a squadron in the Baltic. In the early 1950s, my maternal grandfather, Frank Augustus Bassill, retired after 40 years as a Pathe newsreel cameraman.
What most impressed me was the scene in which Frank Sinatra, as the Broadway hustler Nathan Detroit, needs to raise $1,000 to organise his “floating crap game”. State representative Lisa Brown hilariously offended some Republicans last week when she had the temerity to utter the word during a ridiculously euphemistic debate about female contraception and abortion. The fact that ‘VAGINA’ is back with a vengeance can only be good in the face of patronising advertising such as the below, from a well-known feminine hygiene brand that we don’t care to publicise here.
Celebrating because you got the right product to make your natural VAGINA less disgusting: not exactly the passive aggressive message we relish. The potential for hilarity (pastrami curtains, anyone?) has been eschewed in favour of prudishness.
How on earth are we supposed to retain possession of them if we can’t even call them what they are? Lisa Brown being banned from saying "vagina", it's no wonder America were at the forefront (pun intended) of fanny denial.
Once you do that, you’ll realise that anyone who says otherwise is most likely a DOUCHEBAG.
The food was dreadful: overcooked cabbage, grey and gristly meat with bits of white windpipe in it, shrivelled prunes, “frogspawn” tapioca. It was plated up by a tiny woman named Mrs Eadie, whose husband was a steward on the liners sailing from Southampton nearby. The savage conditions in the Royal Navy of the Napoleonic era seemed not so far removed from those ­under which I lived. When the tsar of Russia came to lunch incognito on his ship, Hornblower served pea soup in a “battered pewter tureen”, which somehow made it sound even more delicious.
He had been a star with Pathe and the company was good to him in return: on top of his pension, he received a hamper of groceries every Christmas and two pairs of free tickets per week to any ABC cinema.


He tries to bet the gambler Sky Masterson, who is well known for betting on anything, that Mindy’s restaurant serves more daily portions of strudel than cheesecake, having already checked with the kitchen that he is right. It was in 1967, the Summer of Love, at a restaurant called the Aware Inn on Sunset Boulevard in LA, to which I had been driven in an open-top Ford Mustang by a beautiful, blonde TV weather forecaster named (truly) Dawn O’Day. We encountered two Italian exchange students who told us that the standard slang term for down there in Italy is ‘potato’ - a visual we’re finding it slightly difficult to get our heads around. They suggest a variety of terms, ranging from ‘mini’ to ‘twinkle’ to ‘hoo ha’, before uttering the immortal tagline ‘whatever you call it, make sure you love it.’ VOM. The whole ‘froo froo’ shebang has led to an internet-wide speculation on how you should refer to your lady parts - with equally cutesy results. Fundamentalist Christians are no better, as the online post ’51 Christian Friendly Terms For VAGINA’, which jokingly suggests such legends as ‘sin bucket’, ‘devil sponge’ and ‘neighbour of anus’, goes to show. Which is why it is of utmost importance that, if you can bring yourself to do it, you stop referring to your ‘la-la’ and start using the proper anatomical terminology. Pussy polishers that claim to say woo woo to your frou frou are just the natural extension of douching, which should have died a death before we even knew they did more harm than good. On the rare occasions when there were seconds, the prefects always called the big boys up first.
But at least I didn’t ­suffer floggings with a cat-o’-nine-tails (we only got beaten with a gym shoe) or have to turn out at midnight in a howling gale to reef tops’ls. Soon after retiring, however, Grandad had to have both legs amputated and remained housebound for the rest of his life, so the free cinema tickets would often be used by my little cockney grandma and me.
A schoolgirl, meanwhile, insisted that her mother referred to it as her ‘fairy’, which is just begging for years of psychoanalysis later in life when she realises that at the same age, she believed that a fairy took her teeth in exchange for money. The same happened to Texas Governor Rick Perry, who since deleting the posts became the lucky recipient of oodles of hand-knitted and crocheted VAGINAS. We wouldn’t go so far as to suggest that you inundate the Facebook page of that ‘feminine hygiene product’ (read: vagina perfume) with ‘VULVA’ posts, but here’s the link and a labelled diagram of the general area.
Here are five fool-proof ways to kick someone out of your life without having to watch them turn into an emotional wreck.
Shout it from your office cubicle, your freelancer’s Starbucks table, your library cubby hole (also a euphemism for VAGINA).
Finally - the mystery of where those milk teeth disappear to is solved (and with it, the origins of the possibly mythological disease ‘VAGINA dentata'). Then there was the viral video, ‘Republicans, Get in my VAGINA.’ VAGINAS are back, and they mean business.



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