We're doomed if most women want a Male Boss

The Observer Features Sun 15 Aug 2010

Women bosses are being trashed by men and, more worryingly, other women

What does it take these days to inspire women to self-hate? Not only to self-hate, but to take it to such industrial levels that they are manufacturing their own misogyny?

Last week, it took a study by www.ukjobs.net, which interviewed 3,000 men and women, finding that three-quarters of men preferred to work for male bosses; two-thirds of women agreed. Their reasons were that men were more straight talking and reasonable, less bitchy, cliquey and prone to mood swings, and (this one made me laugh) less likely to feel threatened if others were good at their jobs. Yeah, that's what I've noticed about men too – they're so non-competitive.

Another reason didn't make me laugh, in the same way that Roy "Chubby" Brown doesn't make me laugh. This said the reason male bosses were better was "no time of the month". So here we have it: "Is it your time of the month, darlin'?" That cliche is churned out whenever a woman is annoyed or upset. It's the staple, woman-slamming riposte of 70s sitcoms, usually followed by a gale of canned laughter. Here it was, immortalised in 2010 workplace lore as a bona fide "reason" why male bosses are better. More depressing, presumably at least some women in the survey were happy to go along with it.

Perhaps I should feel cheated that no woman I ever worked for suddenly started bawling about men troubles, bitch-slapping colleagues or involving me in the intimate workings of their menstrual cycle. For the record, here are some of my experiences of working for women. They asked me to do something, I did it, they said thanks. A little later, they asked me to do something else, I did it, they said thanks. And so on. A bit monotonous, isn't it? Or should I say professional, uncomplicated, normal, enjoyable? In fact, strangely similar to the vast majority of my experiences with male bosses.

This is the point. The boss thing is not a gender issue – it is a personality issue or, if you really want to get brutal, an "arsehole" issue. Some people can cope with having power over others; others, be they male or female, should never have been given it. If gender comes into it at all, it is as an afterthought, a preference, the sprinkle of hundreds and thousands on your working-life ice cream sundae. Some people prefer their own sex because of the gender shorthand and intimacy it sometimes brings; others prefer the opposite sex precisely because of a presumed sense of difference and distance. None of this matters more than this question: this boss of yours, is he or she a complete arsehole or not?

What's depressing about this survey is that the catalogue of "reasons" why women do not make such good bosses is effectively a list of why anyone, male or female, would be bad at wielding power. Yet somehow these are defined and presented as "female" traits. So it is that before they've even reached their desks, and fished out a ballpoint, women bosses are being branded, trashed, dreaded and judged by men and, more worryingly, other women.

This goes beyond this survey. If any women comes out with "no time of the month" as a reason for preferring a male boss, not only should they be ashamed, but they should be aware where this self-hatred leads. Are you telling me that these kinds of attitudes do not subliminally leak into everyday work culture, leading to more pressure on female bosses, less likelihood of females becoming bosses, less respect for female workers across the board? Is this the working world that two-thirds of women really want? Let's hope not.

While we're all aware of the glass ceiling, it becomes a whole new issue if it is other women calling in the glaziers.

Face it, Becks, you are too old

So precisely how indignant should we feel on behalf of David Beckham and his brutal "too old" dumping by England manager, Fabio Capello during a press conference? Well, a little, but that's your lot.

Capello's crime was one of manners. Before making any public statement, he should have personally called Beckham and said: "Sorry, you're out, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you got right on my nerves, hanging around like a spare part in the dug-out during the World Cup."

Capello was right. After South Africa, I felt that I could play for England, but, joking apart, no player, including Beckham, has a preordained right to be in the squad. Remember the uproar when Glenn Hoddle left Paul Gascoigne out of the 1998 England squad? Then, come the matches, and it was all "Ooh, Michael Owen" and everyone forgot about "indispensable" Gazza.

As for the age jibe, again Capello is right. Beckham may be one smoking-hot papa on billboards selling underpants, but he is 35. Footballers, like other professional sports people, have a notoriously short shelf life. At their peak, they exploit this very fact to get huge wages – their argument being: "I only have a limited amount of time to make money out of this, so pay up."

Fair enough (fill those studded boots), but then they can't act all surprised and hurt when their much trumpeted limited shelf life turns out to be a reality.

Beckham can continue to play the martyr, refusing to play a "goodbye" friendly and insisting, chin jutting, misty-eyed, that he is still available to play for England. The heart is with him, but the head is not. Capello lacked manners and sensitivity, but he was also right.

Fewer of those diva demands, please, Mr Blair

No photographs. No mobile phones. No personal dedications. Tony Blair's demands for his book signings for A Journey are reminiscent of the contracts of diva film stars, where crew members and other mere mortals are not allowed to talk to them or even look them in the eye. Tony Blair is ready for his close up, Mr Waterstone.

He should be aware that the public is bored with self-justifying New Labour memoirs, which are never as good as our own Andrew Rawnsley's take, though I shall be dipping into Blair's work to get the latest on Cherie's "contraceptive equipment". Knowledge is power, people.

Who'd bother queuing to talk to Blair or get their picture taken with him, anyway? Some of us would happily pay the book price to be assured of avoiding these traumatic experiences. What's the betting that Blair's signing will be full of yawning people in anoraks intending to resell signed books on eBay, or, like those crowds of children you get at zoos, gathered around cages, to watch the angry monkey.