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Hello, I'm Sam Holmes and welcome to Spectator Out Loud. Every week, a few of our favourite writers read their pieces from the latest issue.

This week, we'll hear from Mary Wakefield about the pattern of masonry in modern media,

Lloyd Evans on the British tradition of the pub theatre,

and Tanya Gold on getting drunk on Terramusoo.

First up, Mary Wakefield.

I have Netflix, and in particular the seriesid, to thank for the startling discovery

of how easy it is to slide into a form of man-hating. Not a righteous, feminist rage, but a sort of

dopey, palliative, unthinking misandry. Maid was released last month, and it's already one of the standout

Netflix successes of 2021. It was announced last week that it's set to take over Queen's Gambit

as the most-watched Netflix miniseries. The show is Catnip for Women, and after several late nights

letting one episode tip into another, I can see

why. It's based on the real-life memoir of a woman in America who fled an abusive boyfriend

and supported herself and her small daughter by working as a cleaner. It stars Andy McDowell's

daughter, Margaret Qualey, with Andy herself as the destructive,

bipolar, but still hot, mum.

Maid is well written and well acted, but the secret of its success lies somewhere quite different.

The distinctive thing about it is that every male character is an absolute horror.

I mean every single one. There's

an abusive baby father who swings between violence and remorse, the maid's own father, another

wife-beater, and a slew of shifty venal stepfathers. The bitpot men are shockers too, uncaring

landlords, supercilious doctors, Even the men we never meet,

...