Don’t dare call me (or any woman) FEISTY!

It’s a vile insult for a female, rages VIRGINIA IRONSIDE, who even finds ‘sweetheart’ less patronising

OF ALL the insults in the English language, there is one I hate most of all. It’s not even intended to be offensive – most of the time – though I’d argue it always has nasty undertones.

The awful word is ‘feisty’ – and I’m not alone in finding it infuriating. Britain’s work and pensions secretary, Amber Rudd, recently complained about being called ‘feisty’, saying no-one would ever use the word to describe a man. That’s true, but she doesn’t go far enough in explaining why it is so execrable.

On the surface, it’s a positive term to describe a woman with spirit; one who’s game, fearless, willing to stand up for her beliefs and who won’t be messed with.

But when I was branded feisty – by a woman I’d just met, in fact – I instantly felt prickly about it, and wondered why. So I did some detective work. Words in English have a long history that can seep into their modern meanings and ‘feisty’ has meant some far-from complimentary things over the years.

The word derives from the Middle English term fysten, meaning ‘fart’, and was used in later centuries to describe the yapping, smelly, aggressive lapdogs muchloved by old ladies. How empowering, to be compared to a grizzling terrier.

Another word from the same source is ‘fizzle’, as in ‘the romance fizzled out’ which gives a good sense of how flattered one should be to be called feisty.

So why and how did such a term come to be used of powerful, confident women – and widely considered a compliment?

It was hardly used at all before the late 20th century, but its use soared from the Sixties, when women began to make their voices heard on issues such as equality.

Its current meaning may come from the States. A Forties dictionary of US dialect says it means ‘conceited’, but ‘eager’, and is often used to describe small dogs.

Over there, it’s used to describe the sort of woman I loathe – an opinionated New York academic, devoid of humour or, indeed, make-up, who bangs on about rights and reeks (if not of farts), of self-righteousness, fury and bitterness.

SO how did I come to be called feisty, then? The woman who uttered the word was a counsellor, who I’d gone to see during a personal and professional slump. I said I was feeling like a ‘hopeless’ woman. I’m certain she was only trying to boost my pitiful lack of confidence when she replied that I was a ‘feisty, successful woman’ who should be proud of my achievements.

That people assume a woman will feel it’s a compliment to be called what is, essentially, a pain in the neck only made me feel more loathsome than before.

No, I don’t want to be considered a ‘ditsy airhead’ (words used to describe women more often than men), but I don’t want to be belligerent or objectionable, either. If it comes down to being considered either confident and feisty, or self-effacing and pleasant, I know which I’d choose.

There’s a lot of fuss now about terms used to describe women – especially those used by men.

I’m usually pretty relaxed about what anyone calls me. ‘Darling’, ‘angel’ and ‘sweetheart’ I find pleasant terms of endearment.

I also use those epithets to describe anyone and everyone – men, children or animals. Yes, there’s an element of patronage, but we all like to feel loved and babied sometimes – and I can even cope with a ‘dear’, a ‘duck’ or, at a pinch, ‘babes’. But ‘feisty’ is different, as it implies an amount of aggression – most frustrating when one is simply speaking up for oneself.

It’s a bit like ‘bossy’, another horrible word that tends to be used only of women. So often, whenever a woman is assertive, there’s a negative adjective, or name, thrown at her under the guise of flattery or humour. For example, in the past, I’ve made the softest, most harmless request, only for a man to jokily reply ‘Right-ho, matron’, as if I’d issued a command in the manner of a sergeant major.

Other adjectives that are sure to offend include ‘hormonal’, ‘hysterical’ and ‘shrill’.

Men, of course, rarely suffer such indignity, allowed to be assertive without facing accusations of aggression. But I’m sure they wouldn’t like it, either, any more than they’d like being called ‘angry’, ‘loud’ or ‘smelly’.

While feisty is the absolute limit, there are plenty of other words you should never call a woman. Here are the worst . . .

ONE OF THE ‘GUYS’

WHY do waiters, on approaching a table of female friends, insist on saying: ‘Hi, laydeez!’? Or, even worse, ‘Hi, guys!’ Why does anyone have to be described before they can be served? What’s wrong with ‘Hello!’?

It’s probably to give a waiter, feeling a little threatened by female diners, a sense of control, by bunching customers together into a handy group. This also allows him to ignore anything the women might actually need.

WIVES’ TALES

AND then there are those dismissive phrases that men use to describe their wives, such as ‘the wife’ or ‘the missus’, as if she were a possession or an object.

I’ve even heard men call their wives ‘mum’, dismissing her as ‘just a mother’.

When women do this, constantly referring to ‘my husband’, it is often a status thing – using their hapless mate as social leverage.

This wouldn’t go down too well in my circle, unless used to impart information. A judicious ‘my wife’ or ‘my husband’ can stop a predatory member of the opposite sex getting too close.

My problem with it is that when someone stops calling you by your name, you become a type and not a person.

Matters get even worse when you go one step further into stereotype – using jokey sitcom epithets such as ‘her indoors’, ‘she who must be obeyed’ or ‘my better/other half ’.

Even these days, men will do anything to hide their emotions and, by referring to their partners with a chuckling phrase, they cover up their true feelings – of love, or even loathing.

Girlfriends get different treatment. ‘My bird’ was the phrase in the Sixties, but ‘my squeeze’ is equally repulsive or, worse, ‘my latest squeeze’. Who wants to be anyone’s latest anything?

Then there’s the uniquely male putdown ‘she’s a little minx’ and the equally repellent habit of saying ‘miaow’ after any critical remark by a woman.

‘PERFECT’ PRINCESS

ODDLY, while I’m happy with ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’, being called ‘princess’ feels oddly unflattering – as if one were some untouchable, remote goddess. Princesses are fantasy figures, not real women.

Many a time, I’ve gone out with a man and seen him melt into infatuation, only to realise it’s not me he’s taken with, but an idealistic representation of me.

NOT SO CLEVER

THEY seem like rather simple descriptions – but both ‘clever’ and ‘stupid’ are loaded terms. ‘Clever girl!’ is said to a woman who’s managed to change a light bulb, untangle string or simply put one foot in front of the other.

When UK Labour Party leader Jeremy Corbyn appeared to call Theresa May a ‘stupid woman’ in Parliament last month, there was outrage. (I hate to say it, but I have, in a very unsisterly way, described other women like this.) Yet, funnily enough it’s OK for women to say these things to each other, isn’t it? It’s when men do it that it’s so annoying.

I’ve even heard myself scream, ‘Stupid woman driver!’ out of my car window at some hapless and erratic female driver – but woe betide a man who yells it at me.

Similarly, when someone was sorting out my sat-nav, I heard myself saying: ‘No, don’t put in a woman’s voice. Women have no sense of direction.’

Again, OK for me, because I’m a woman. Absolutely unacceptable for a man. And I’ve never forgiven the perfectly normal bloke who, when I turned right instead of left in the car, simply shouted ‘Woman!’ at me.

THE F-WORD

BUT worst, I believe, is when anyone is rude enough to make assumptions about me and my views, such as thinking they know the way I voted in the Brexit referendum or how I feel about Donald Trump or, indeed, anything else.

I simply don’t believe they would do the same to a bloke. They’d ask first.

The other day, a charming man turned to me and said ‘What do you, as a feminist, think of . . .’

He got it with both barrels. First, the assumption that he, as a bloke, knew what I believed (imagine me saying to a bloke “What do you, as a reconstructed man, think of such-and-such?”), and second, the assumption that I was a feminist at all.

Which, actually, I’m not.