IN what has been one of the most tumultuous and unsettling episodes of British politics in my lifetime, I find myself lamenting. Lamenting not only that we have an unelected leader steering the good ship Britain, but that if I were to pick one with a gun to my head, I doubt very much it would be May.

I have nailed my colours to the mast early: I’m not a fan. And funnily enough, judging by the tenor of the personal reactions to this appointment on social media, I’m not exactly alone. And as one does in these most trying of political times, I joined the conversation, and whipped out my favourite Little Mermaid gif, of the Machiavellian Vanessa transforming into Ursula, the sea witch. It was favourited and retweeted until I was called out on the tone of the picture. Had I crossed a line? Had I been decidedly unfeminist in my choice of media?

Yes. And it took me longer than I’d care to admit to re-examine that choice, and realise it was misjudged. It was really only the next day, when a colleague sent me a picture of the front page of this very paper, that I realised the beast I was feeding.

There, on the front page of a national newspaper, was May’s face digitally contorted into another Disney Villain, this time Cruella de Vil. It did not sit right. At that same moment many were posting similarly scathing comments, many of which fell into the same tired tropes that haunt women in positions of power. You see, I wasn’t acting alone. My seemingly innocuous tweet was a pixel in a picture that when I took a step back, I wasn’t comfortable viewing. Powerful women are bad. Why do we keep reinforcing this idea?

We have a long tradition of astute political satire in this country, and no-one should be immune from that treatment. Satirists can use the powerful vehicle of humour to draw attention to failings and injustices, and even side-step the silencing of political dissent where such direct feedback would be forbidden and punishable. The hallmarks of good satire are equal parts acid and poking fun. Wit is more easily discerned than malice. It’s a delicate equilibrium, and too often it’s upset – me and my ill-thought tweet, The National and its front cover. Too often the hatred is thinly veiled behind the veneer of humour, and reflexively defended by invoking the gods of free speech.

We have to become more self-aware in our ribbing. We must ask ourselves at what point does the scale tip in the wrong direction? At what point does it stop becoming satire, and veer into sexism?

This is a tricky one to define. The two are not binary extremes, and elements of each often have an uncomfortable overlap. It’s about weighting. Which is it drawing attention to most? The flaws in the political, or the flaws in the person? Is the comment going to add to a picture that scrutinises the work, or denigrates the individual?

In few places in recent years has this misogyny been thrown into as sharp relief as in Australia. During Julia Gillard’s tenure as Prime Minister she was on the receiving end of manipulated images, gendered backlash, and the almost unbelievable menu at the Liberal National Party fundraiser, serving the “Julia Gillard Kentucky Fried Quail” – small breasts, huge thighs and a big red box. Where’s the political in that? It’s not subversive, or clever, and draws no attention to anything other than the menu writer being an idiot.

So what do cartoon villains and opposition dinner menus have to do with sexism and May? Everything, really.

Theresa May is a powerful woman. Powerful women, whether real or mythical, are often hobbled by negative framing. When we employ ideas that ratify the sexist, we undermine the validity of their position for all of the wrong reasons. And each of these instances tally up. They may seem throwaway, harmless, transient and personal – but they all add up to a portrayal of women in the media that has a noxious effect on how we view all women.

This is why the satire fails. If it’s interwoven with allegorical misogyny, it will never have true political power, because sexism doesn’t carry any political clout. All it does is add to the cacophony of tired tropes that cling to women in positions of power.

As women we’ve heard this all our lives. As kids if we assert ourselves, we’re bossy. By the time we reach adulthood, we’re witches. Your cleverly crafted political barb is never going to hit the mark if the first thing women recognise in it are the same lazy stereotypes we’ve had used against us since birth.

How can you shift ideas or subvert the political discourse if only half of the population can relate without feeling the burn of gender stereotyping?

We’re more different than we could ever be similar, but to treat Theresa May – and indeed any women in a position of power – with kid gloves merely because we have the same internal plumbing would be remiss. Rarely do we do anything but rail against the pack leader. There will always be a reason to hate. But being able to separate the political from the pointedly specific is vital if you want the full power of a satirical blow.

So, in future, I’ll be employing a sort of satire Bechdel Test: 1) Does it draw attention to the issue or the person? 2) Is it negatively gendered? And 3) Is it funnier than it is hostile?

It’s wishful thinking to expect everyone to do the same – but I know it will help me separate the important issues from the patriarchal noise, and to look at what really counts.