Articles by Sexist Newsroom


Sanitary Conversations

Period isn’t a dirty word, but for a hella long time period poverty has been thought of as an area too murky to dive into. The grim reality is that whilst we’ve been whispering in hushed tones about our time of the month, many folk across the UK and beyond are forced to go without…


Little Mixed up about what to wear?

image by itv The press (and the public) have lost their minds over Little Mix’s choice of attire for their performance on the show that birthed them just a few short years ago. Performing in what appeared to be the love-child of a 90s Madonna corset and a roll of gaffa tape, Little Mix set…


It’s Not Justice

  This week seems like the perfect time to tell you about a new campaign we want to lend our support to. Set up by an amazing team of women, including former and current members of NMP3HQ, It’s Not Justice seeks to provide a space for survivors of sexual assault, abuse and rape to share…


An open letter to Newsnight

Dear BBC Newsnight, You describe yourself as “late night in-depth news” and so what I tend to expect is a pre-bedtime grilling of notable events and issues. But last night I felt as though I was somewhat short-changed. You interviewed Michelle Gayle about the ‘culture’ young footballers are immersed in, and it was implied that this…


Report from Uganda : Abortion

by Sumy Sadurni As I sat down across the table from Joy, listening to the methods that Ugandan girls and women use to perform unsafe abortions, I grimaced and crossed my legs as a natural reaction. Joy Asasira and James Zeere, from the Centre for Health, Human Rights and Development (CEHURD) based in Kampala, the…



Honestly, ladies, we just can’t do anything right, can we? If we’re not seducing hapless little MPs with a seductive flash of knocker, we’re wantonly revealing parts of us that nobody must ever see, murdering babies and selfishly destroying our bodies by getting old. Whether we’re violently frumpy or so hot that men’s pants disintegrate, we’re…



Welcome, dear readers. Pull up a footstool shaped like ball-gagged Kelvin Mackenzie trying to fellate himself, pour yourselves a glass of a cocktail we call Mother’s Twatted and ponder desperate tabloid writers in fear of the day someone says ‘let’s make it a free sheet and staff it with 15 year olds on work experience.’ We’ve arrived…

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