Culture

It's time to ban Bridget Jones

October 02, 2013
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So, she’s back. A fictional character that became a byword for desperate singletons has reared her chardonnay-addled head once more. From the media frenzy you might imagine Princess Di had risen from the grave, but no, it’s good ol’ Bridget back for an apparently long-awaited third instalment. And this time she’s wearing leather.

Now don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't find the films mildly diverting (especially the first with its famous Cleaver/Darcy fight scene), and appreciate that the books are a cut above what now passes for chick lit. What I'm opposed to is the whole “BJ” (why did I only just notice that pun?) phenomenon - this girlish hysteria over a character who spends most of her time self-loathing and the patronising assumption, perpetuated by the media, that “there is a bit all of us in her”. Well, I’m sorry but this hapless, self-obsessed creature, who her own creator describes as the “ultimate banana skin girl” is nothing like any of the brilliant women I know.

When Bridget was born in 1995, I was sweet sixteen – still at school and full of hope abut the future. I was going to have a career, I was going to be successful and somewhere along the way possibly get married and have a family. Finding Prince Charming didn’t really figure – I wanted an equal not an uptight alpha male like Darcy. But, Bridget Jones, with its Jane Austen-like fairtytale ending, has played havoc with the romantic aspirations of my generation.

While the TV series Sex and the City, a similar late 90s cultural phenomenon, did much to tackle the stigma of singledom, Bridget Jones set us all back – it perpetuated the myth that all women really want is to find a man. Far from seeing Bridget as a cuddly national treasure we were all petrified of ending up in a similar overweight, semi-alcoholic, unmarried state. I have lost count of the times I have consoled a lovelorn female friend wailing that she was fated to be an eternal “Bridget Jones”. It also fuelled a sense of apathy – there was nothing we could do except wait for our very own Mr Darcy to show up who would make us feel better about not shedding those final five lbs. No wonder so many of my thirtysomething friends are freezing their eggs. And, let’s not forget men here – Bridget’s self-imposed desperado status has only shored up out-dated, misogynist views that any women not wed by the time she is 35 belongs on the scrap heap.

It shocks me that in a modern society where women are having babies later than ever (the average age for a first child is now 31, that’s a five year rise in just over a decade), there is apparently still a place for Bridget. Long after the independent ladies of Sex and the City have been put to bed, with Samantha wedding herself to singledom, we are expected to hail the return of a character whose cringe-inducing notes to self include; "Do not text when drunk. Be classy not crazy. Don't come on too obviously strong. But do do sensual things like stroking stem of wine glass up and down."

And, she’s single again. Which would be fine if the reason behind it was remotely realistic. Going through a difficult divorce might have bred some strength of character into Bridget. But instead, she’s a widow – with a toy boy. All of which cleverly propagates the flimsy fairytale upon which BJ is founded. It's ok, you will find “the one" and he will love you “just the way you are” (even when you wear granny pants), and never leave you. He might die, but hey – then you get to make a fool of yourself with a much younger man so, again, everything will be ok. At least you’re not alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe in love and relationships. I just don’t understand why women enjoy seeing our gender stereotyped in this pathetic, self-indulgent manner. In the new book, Bridget appears to be stuck in the 90s - still reading self-help books, battling nicotine addiction (gum, not cigarettes at least) and having yet another stab at writing a screenplay. I only wish that Helen Fielding had left her there.