Joanna Lumley walked into the firing line this week after spouting advice which could severely reduce the risk of vulnerable young women falling prey to the gratification of sexual predators.
Yet from the ashes of the Suffragettes bras blossomed a growing trend of women with a penchant for swigging beer to the point of projectile vomiting down their minimalistic attires. Women who stick two fingers up to these deviants lurking in the depths of darkened alleyways.
Pankhurst would be pleased to see her efforts to liberate woman-kind being, quite literally, pissed up the wall with the surge of a generation of grotesque ladettes favouring belching and farting over voting and working.
In much the same way that no-one would leave their wallet on the table in a crowded bar while they nipped for a cigarette and expect it to still be there on their return, a woman wouldn't walk down an isolated street by herself if there was a rapist crouching in wait behind a Biffa bin. It's all about self preservation.
Yes it's a sad world when opportunist thieves will dip into the easy access handbags of innocent tube-dwellers, a man will get beaten to a pulp as he fiddles on the latest I-phone on its release day on an isolated bridge at midnight, or that vulnerable women can't go out dressed like a slutty Katie Price without the risk of abuse being ever present.
In any of these cases the victim is not to blame. Yet hold your bag closer to your chest, keep your phone in your pocket, put a coat on and order a cab and you can slash your chances of falling into the hands of the less morally astute.
Over the years I've put myself in some terrible potentially compromising situations, including nipping over the border to Mexico at one in the morning with a group of people I'd met hours previously (sorry mum). Thankfully I survived unscathed but will remain ever grateful having put myself in such grave danger.
In a column slating Lumley's advice The Independent's Victoria Wright makes the bold statement: "We can wear whatever we like, including vomit, and I can walk home alone at night if I wish."
This Ibiza-esque attitude is depressingly the stereotype a minority of Brits has gained us throughout Europe and beyond.
As the public mounts its moral horse, it continues to laugh at social degenerates going before the cameras on budget victim television shows from Jeremy Kyle to Blackpool 999.
Risk aside, we shouldn't stagger round with vomit dribbling down our fronts and skirts so short that the intricacies of our every crevice are displayed to all who glance in our direction. No backside looks good in skin tight Lycra, cellulite riddled or not.
It's trashy and it gives our country a bad name.
