It’s called a glass ceiling because it’s invisible. There’s no roid-filled, bicep-thrusting bouncer at the door denying you entry, just a mysterious mix of gender-flavoured factors that prevent ascension.
On the other side of this barrier are the Chosen, bathing in their power, chuckling smugly at those stuck outside. They’re definitely involved in unholy rites and they shun both the patriarchy and the razor.
Pouring beer is an art. When filling a glass from the tap, it takes skill to know just what angle to hold the glass at to prevent too much foam, and just where to stop filling to ensure the beer comes as close to the top as possible... Read Post
He says, “Don’t make me hit you.” He may be ’roided out, judging from his Jose Canseco-like biceps. “Go ahead,” I hiss. “Show everyone on this street what a gentleman you are.” read more Read Post