Jo Brand's week

Like comedy, political life contains very few women, even though women are gaining more than a foothold in other areas of work. In comedy, I think it is a confidence problem. Plenty of women try it, but many give up, because they find difficult audiences more damaging to their self- esteem. Blokes, on the whole, tend to have more confidence, or at least appear to. They're dead good at seeming to have things under control, which is half the battle.

I suppose politics is similar to comedy in several ways. You get a bit of a verbal mauling in the press, some heckling, and you are called upon to talk a fair bit of rubbish under pressure. So what's putting women off politics? Well, it could be the way in which women politicians continue to be scrutinised purely visually by a section of the press; the hours are difficult for women with families; and the House of Commons is like a boy's club at which bickering and point-scoring reign supreme. I suspect, however, that a fair few women might have been put off by some female role models and not least Gruppenfuhrer Thatcher. Back this week at the Tory party conference, as humourless and rigid as ever, I expect many women think that if this is the prototype, maybe it's not worth bothering.

Eileen Heseltine, mother of Mick, wants children to be soundly thrashed, following an incident in which a friend of hers was hit with a stone thrown by some kids from the local council estate. Much as I sympathise with the poor woman, I would surmise that perhaps the kids throwing the stones have already had several sound thrashings and maybe that is why they are behaving like this. I wonder whether young Mick got leathered or not. It may explain a few things.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" I was asked today. I have absolutely no idea, apart from apparently being encouraged not to have a flu jab and agonising about which record is going to be number one on Jesus's birthday. Young and healthy people, according to the Chief Medical Officer, should not have a jab because there are only six million available and they should be reserved for vulnerable people. Why don't they provide enough for everyone? Money, of course. So, all you big girls' blouses out there who can really cope with a bit of shivering, sweating and looking like a menopausal cod for a week, lay off the jabs. At least you can lie in bed and listen to the usual charming selection of aural seasonal offerings, from Spice Girls to the cast of Emmerdale. On second thoughts, go and get a flu jab.

You might be surprised to learn that I've never been a fan of Miss World, and it seems I am not alone. Some people feel the same in India, where the hallowed contest will burst into the swimsuited-cleavaged-I-want-world- peace glory we all know and largely ignore. However, in India, one group has threatened to set the venue alight and another slightly more committed mob have said that one of their group will commit suicide on each of the 17 days leading up to the contest. What dedication. Puts our protests in the shade.

It's remarkably pleasurable to see the underdog win. I was in Soho the other day and a lorry which picks up cars and takes them to the car pound was blocking our way. The man on the machinery was nearly finished with his job and a small crowd had gathered to watch. (And I bet you always thought Soho was a really exciting place.) He had attached wires to the wheels and began to haul the car up. As it rose to about two feet off the ground, a man appeared from nowhere, sprinted towards the car, opened the door and dived in. At this point, the towaway man, thinking he would have a bit of fun, hoisted the car up another couple of feet and then jiggled it about a bit. Everyone was laughing, including a traffic warden standing by. Eventually, our hero was lowered rather roughly to the ground. He turned the ignition on immediately and sped away in a cloud of exhaust to an enthusiastic round of applause. Like life, though, it wasn't all great. The warden had just managed to slap a ticket on the car. No wonder he looked so cheerful.

The winner of a poll to find the nation's favourite post-war poem has been announced, and it is a piece about growing old disgracefully by Jenny Joseph. It is all about how, when the writer grows old, she will behave very badly, look ridiculous and please herself. It is reassuring to know that so many people like this poem, but confusing when you think how many older people eschew a life of wildness for blue perms, crimplene and endless bingo. Still, if an entire generation gets into its eighties and starts wearing purple and spending the pension on brandy, there are going to be some great parties.

I can't help thinking that the company that makes Wonderbras and the Breakthrough Breast Cancer charity are strange bedfellows. The Wonderbra advertising campaign has, after all, been based entirely on the assumption that if you don't have two flawless Zeppelins down your blouse that arrive several seconds before you do, then life ain't worth a thing. This country's mammary fixation has led many women to believe that losing one of these assets is the end of the world. Still, in this day and age, I suppose that any money is welcomed by charities, wherever it may be from.

I often wondered if my name would ever make it to hurricane status and I was rewarded this week by the discovery that Hurricane Josephine was sweeping across the Gulf of Mexico. Hurricanes are quite predictable these days, due to the improved science of meteorology. In the old days, the only way you could tell if one was coming was to lick your finger and hold it up.

So when will Hurricane Josephine strike? Not tonight, possibly.

According to Sarah Biffen, wives of Cabinet ministers have had enough. So has the rest of the country, madam. Her main complaints are that her husband is always tired ... a positive advantage, I would have thought, in the case of some of the more unsavoury geezers in the Cabinet. Sarah Biffen's other complaint is that Cabinet wives are sick of going to state banquets. Apparently, the novelty wears off very quickly, and these poor women sound as though they believe that being grumpily forced to shove yet another morsel of expensive posh people's food down their throats is a fate worse than death.

Well, I am sure there are plenty of people in this country who haven't had a meal like this ever, who would be only too willing to fill in for them - or indeed fill them in, on the basis of that complaint. Moaning about this sort of privilege is not much of a vote catcher, I would have thought.