The debt women owe

I’m in debt to society. And it’s not just my student loan. It’s a debt I’ll never repay, something I will owe forever. But like that library book from about seven years ago, I have no intention of paying my dues. As a woman, I owe perpetual prettiness to society, but send in the bailiffs: you ain't having it.

Let’s start at the beginning. I remember a time when I wasn't self-conscious; the glory days of my childhood when my snap-happy parents would capture me toothless and beaming on a seaside somewhere, caked in sand. Simpler times. But as I grew older, into my tween and teen years, I realised that imperfect photos of myself were no longer funny or silly, they no longer captured an unguarded moment: they were deeply embarrassing and altogether unacceptable. If a photo caught me by surprise, I demanded the photographer delete it, lest I throw a tantrum and reap revenge with similarly coveted images to show our friends – or worse – the boys. My hair couldn't be too frizzy or cover too much or too little of my face, my chin had to be at the right angle to avoid the appearance of a sly second one, my shoulders couldn't be too hunched. Getting a photo that looked even remotely natural was not an option: my image had to be flawless. This fear of perceived ugliness has followed me for years, but never did it become more acute when I found myself on Facebook, ogling jealously at the girls who could look pretty while giggling or smiling with their mouth shut, coquettishly. And even now I have to stop myself from experiencing the same feelings of inadequacy when faced with my own complexion looking back at me. And what’s worse is that I bet not many, but almost all of the women reading this will feel the same about themselves.

Many issues are at play here: we live in a world where perfection isn't desired but required of our female role models. Even women who don’t make a living from their beauty, women who never bought into the beauty industry in the first place, are expected to perk up and slim down and breathe in. Hilary Clinton, Mary Beard, Caroline Criado-Perez: some of the most powerful women of the modern age have been derided as sexless, ugly crones, their minds far less worthy of analysis than a particularly “unflattering” outfit or haircut. But what it comes down to, what I think is ultimately at play here, is the idea that women owe society something. In this case, women owe society prettiness. Prettiness isn’t just an arbitrary added bonus to an already brilliant woman; it is the price she must pay for occupying space in the public sphere. When women take up air time, the very least they can do is titillate the audience while they say their bit and before they bugger off into obscurity again. Those not pretty enough to meet some undefined yet ever-oppressive standard, can either expect to be blocked from the success they’re owed, or forcefully scolded on mass by newspapers, commentators and the trolls of the internet, who are absolutely outraged, literally spitting with fury, that a conventionally unattractive woman be allowed to rear her head above the parapet and actually say something. How dare she? Doesn't she feel mortally ashamed of herself for her inadequate looks?

It’s the same force at play on a smaller scale with me and my wee life in London, with my 500 odd Facebook friends. I’m belligerently forcing myself out of this mind-set but when left unchecked, my subconscious (and usually all too conscious) mind can’t bear to be seen looking less than lovely, for fear that people will think less of me. They may judge me. They may be surprised that such an unflattering image has surfaced. They may think I’m becoming sloppy. And this is because I've been socialised to believe that as a woman, I owe people perpetual prettiness, and that any less than this will result in a personal failure on my part, a failure to behave in a way that I know to be the norm. And when people, particularly women, behave in ways outside of the norm, we make ourselves vulnerable to scorn and harsh judgement. But that judgement is at fault, not your double chin. And in turn that of course means that, as a woman, other women owe you nothing too. You don’t have the right to feel repulsed or offended or incredulous when a fellow woman looks a little less than perfect. That roll of fat is fine where it is and that sweat patch is supposed to be there. I know this is a problem with patriarchal standards, but thanks to internalised sexism women can be as complicit in this problem as men, which makes it all the more tricky to navigate.

You may be thinking to yourself: hey now, lighten up, it’s not so bad. You don’t have to be pretty, nobody will die if you’re not. And sure, you’d be right. If I put a picture of myself on Facebook with a few spots and mad hair, I won’t be thrown from my home and branded a leper. But when women live in constant anxiety about their appearance and whether or not they've met this standard of beauty, it can make life significantly less fun and the internet significantly more hostile. For example, on Sunday I ran the Bupa 10,000 race in London. I've been training for this 10k endurance test for around a month, and as I waited among thousands of runners at the starting line, I nervously bounced from foot to foot, listening to the excitable titters of my peers. Two women directly in front of me were talking about this time last year when they’d run the race for the first time. One woman explained to the other that she’d beaten her target time by over three minutes but the photos that Bupa’s photographers took of her were disgusting. She described herself as mortified by the images. The other woman laughed empathetically and said that if she saw a camera along the route, she’d duck her head down, even if it meant running into a fellow runner. They laughed: I died a little inside. This woman had completed a very difficult physical challenge and exceeded her target by a significant margin, but the take-away lesson was how unacceptable it was that she’d looked sweaty and unappealing while she did it. The pride she felt in her achievement was marred by the way in which her moist, pink face had been captured in the act of her own success. How truly depressing is that? Had I not been crippled by a case of the ‘nervous-need-a-wee’s, I’d have leaned in (as Sheryl taught me) and patiently explained that she didn't owe those onlookers perfection: she owes nobody anything and she should be able to appear dripping with sweat, with seven chins and dodgy wonky boobs and feel absolutely no fear of judgement whatsoever. I refrained because that would have also been entirely patronising and far too complex an issue to tackle mere seconds before the klaxon rang.

I’m not suggesting that as a woman, trying to make yourself look attractive is a poor choice of activity. I get an expensive haircut once every eight weeks, I wear mascara, I wear clothes that suit my shape. I even occasionally pick profile pictures that make me look the nicest I can be. Just because I’m calling out the problem doesn't mean I’m not myself a victim to it, as I probably will be for life. But if a photo exists of you and you don’t look how you want people to think you look, try not to delete it. I hate to break it to you, but that is in fact what you look like. And what you look like is fucking brilliant, not “imperfect”. Also, unless you’re a model, it’s completely irrelevant.

And finally, to the men out there – the ones who this is news to, and even to the ones who get it right 99% of the time, but still grimace when they see a picture of Beth Ditto: women don’t owe you prettiness or sexiness, or a smile. Your gratification means absolutely nothing. Women also don’t owe you a sexy dance in a club, a kiss, or sex. Your entitlement as you stare at me in the street or grab at my hand in a club is ludicrous. If you want to look at a person who works in an industry where beauty is the currency, Google ‘models’ and have yourself a field day. Just don’t expect prettiness to be delivered to you via every medium you choose, then be disappointed when it’s not. 

I also owe this blog to somebody: Erin McKean of A Dress a Day first got me thinking about this a few years ago and I've partially stolen her words. Reading what she had to say for the first time was one of the most liberating experiences of my life. So check it out. And while you're at it, here are the photos Bupa's paparazzi took of me. See, I'm putting my money where my mouth is. Oh, and I beat my hour target and raised £565 for Refuge, so my appearance couldn't be further down my list of things to be proud of right now.

What do we tell our daughters?

On Monday night I went along to an event held by Pages of Hackney, a brilliant independent bookshop down the road. The event was a panel discussion with Kat Banyard, co-founder of UK Feminista, Nimko Ali, founder of Daughters of Eve, Zoe Williams, Guardian journalist and Melissa Benn, author and campaigner. It was Benn’s book that inspired the evening and shaped the debate: “What do we tell our daughters?”

Benn’s book details the struggle and awkwardness but, ultimately, the empowerment that erupts in the conversations had between mothers and daughters. Sex, relationships, the media, pornography, the elusive female orgasm... Not topics for those prone to blushing. The awesome foursome spoke passionately about what it is we should be telling our daughters, often contradicting each other, frequently profound, occasionally depressing but unanimously honest.

The whole thing got me scratching my chin about what I’d be telling my daughter about the world, if she were here now in 2014 (and of an appropriate age for such conversations). But it’s not the first time I’ve considered it: in 2012 myself and my dearest pal Rhiannon organised an International Women’s Day showcase at our students’ union. We included Vagina Monologues passages, poetry, singing and three of us wrote letters to our daughters. It seemed so easy at the time. Mine was filled with gutsy 'girl power' rhetoric – you can achieve anything you set your sights on, don’t let no manz tell you different grrrl, and for the love of god, the hair under your armpits is SUPPOSED to be there amiriiiiiight. Just two years ago, that felt so authentic, so bloody revolutionary – but I’m not so sure my message would be the same now. The ages of 21 and 23 don’t seem like such a gigantic leap but when you’ve spent a year as one of only two women at the helm of a 22,000 strong students’ union, received violent threats after talking about equality, had a misogynistic 'parody' twitter account dedicated to you, and been reduced to your “sweet arse” by a colleague and peer, the whole “you can do anything, sista!” discourse just doesn’t seem so relevant. Or true.

So I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to fill my hypothetical daughter’s head with sassy feel-good mantras; I want to prepare her for the complete and utter BS she’s inevitably going to face, and give her the insight to reject it. I’m sure if that was the flavour of my performance piece two years ago, I would have been met with 300 pairs of eyes, agog and horrified. So I guess it’s a good job it’s taken me this long to figure it out. So here goes.

Sex

The biggest lie you’ll ever be told is that men like sex more than women, or that men have needs to fulfil that women simply don’t have. This is a lie fed to you by films, tv shows, songs, your friends and pretty much any type of media that is driven by men – male writers, male producers, male directors, or just males themselves. The idea that men have “needs” that women don’t feel legitimises the imbalance felt by women in heterosexual relationships; it also legitimises male infidelity and partially legitimises rape and sexual assault. “Men have urges, they can’t control them, they are biologically wired to sow their seed”: this notion that male sexuality has a superior significance does women a huge injustice. At best, women miss out on sexual pleasure and at worst, men feel entitlement over women’s bodies and rape is normalised behaviour. But this isn’t just about women: this idea does a disservice to men too. Thoughtful, kind, passionate and exceedingly well-evolved men. The men who will work their tongues off trying to overcome centuries of female sexual oppression (and make up for lost time) by spending Frank Ocean’s entire album going down on you. The men who stand alongside you at protests over a woman’s right to a free, safe abortion. The men who fancy you loads but who’ll walk you home after a drunken night out, tuck you into bed, then see themselves out. Men are not brutish thugs who rape and pillage – we’ve evolved, get with the programme. But “boys will be boys” and we allow and expect them to behave this way so, of course, some will.

Just to clarify that point: your sexual pleasures and desires are equally as important as a man’s. Your lust is as strong, as potent and as natural. Those who tell you differently are afraid of what women could do if collectively we all realised this. Because there would be hell to pay. Or, more likely, we’d all become lesbians. If you’re a lesbian by the way, I’m totally down with that. I dig chicks.

A sexual relationship should be entirely reciprocal – if they’re coming, you should be too. It may take longer and result in some mild jaw cramping, but that’s the price we all pay for equality. If you’re not having a wild (and safe) time, find someone else to have special cuddles with. Trust me, you really don’t want to be missing out.

Relationships

Relationships are really hard and usually boring. They’re also incredibly political even when you don’t want them to be – remember darling, we’ve discussed the 'the personal is political' thing before, I hope you were listening. But aside from that, a good relationship should be the most comfortable thing in the world, like wearing a giant woolly jumper in bed with an electric blanket with a packet of chocolate hobnobs. You should feel comfortable showing your partner what you look like in the morning, with no make-up and unbrushed teeth. If you let this person inside you, they should be able to see the outside of you as it really is. You should be able to say things, think things, do things free from fear or anxiety because that person should be your greatest advocate and ally and even the wildest of notions should be comfortably shared.

Sometimes men hit women. This has a lot to do with power and fear and anger and objectification, which we’ll explore in a minute. But sometimes relationships can pain you in other ways, and abuse has many different guises. If your partner ever tells you who you can and can’t talk to, or what you can and can’t wear, leave immediately. I’ll be ready with an open door, a cup of tea and a pillow to scream into. That last one is for me.


Sexism

Unfortunately this is the most pervasive and inevitable of all these problems. And that’s because it’s at the very heart of bad sex and bad relationships. Sexism looks like many things and you often won’t know when it’s there and when it’s not. You may end up like your mother, where you can sniff it out when it’s probably imaginary, then you walk face-first into it when you were blissfully meandering. It’s the slipperiest, slimiest, stickiest thing: sexism is a slug that crawls across almost everything you’ll ever know or do. Sucks to be us, eh.

When you turn on the television and you see a male pop star in a music video looking pensive while watching a sunset, driving a car – that will seem normal. The next music video will be of a woman wearing a bikini washing a car, sponging her bulging breasts with suds and licking her lips – and that’ll seem normal too. We all accept that men and women look certain ways when they’re portrayed in the media, but this isn’t the way it should be. This is sexism. This shows that women’s bodies are more valuable than their talents, while men don’t have to live up to the same standards. And this will haunt you constantly; you’ll open a newspaper and a topless woman will greet you; you’ll go shopping and the magazine rack will taunt you with gaudy titillation; you’ll walk down the street and a man will wind down his window and harass you. And when you complain about this, people will call you 'over-sensitive' or a 'whiny bitch' or a 'feminazi' and that will be an attempt to silence you.

 

But this is where my lesson is coming together; this idea of you being silent, subdued or suppressed – sexually, romantically or politically. Even when you feel like it’s quivering or unsure, your voice is your most powerful asset. You must build friendships, relationships and a career around your ideas and your beliefs. Thoughts are incredibly valuable, especially women’s thoughts – those can move mountains when they’ve wanted to. Solidarity and collectivism are the best things ever; I know I’ve been a bit doom and gloom, but knowing that you’re not the only one and that there’s a movement of people supporting, loving and helping each other will lift your spirits when you’re feeling low. Find those people and hold onto them. Plus, things will be a lot better for you than they were for me, and much better than they were for your grandmother; these things take time and constant belligerence, don't forget that. 

And of course, my dear, if you’re horribly bored and uninspired by feminism and politics and the like, I won’t blame you. I’ll still adore you, even if you turn out to be a Conservative – or worse, apathetic – accountant. Just don’t expect the crispy roast potatoes; they’ll be going to your revolutionary brother.

Language is a weapon

So as my last blog explained, I recently attended a course called Writing for Advertising. I was worried it'd be super wanky wisdom like "There's one thing you need to know about copywriting. And that is that there's nothing to know about copywriting" or similar. But in fact, it was a day packed with creative exercises and exploration and I left feeling surprisingly inspired.

One of our tasks during the day was to write 200 words about something that concerned us. Everything concerns me: that made this task tricky. But since we'd been discussing the very intricate nuances of language, I settled on how words, or the misuse of them, keep me up at night.

I'm concerned about how words silence people.

Words are slaps and smacks and bites. They just don't look like them and the bruises aren't visible.

Words we hear on streets, in classrooms, at dinner parties cement our stereotypes, while autonomy crumbles. We burden each other with a baggage we haven’t consented to carry.

Call someone a 'chav' and you affirm their social worth: destitute, frightening, useless and conveniently categorised by the arbitrary sum of money they possess, or their accent.

Call a woman a 'slut' and you affirm her social worth. Her choices warrant scrutiny, her decisions are humiliating, her agency is compromised; she’s conveniently categorised by the arbitrary sum of people she's been intimate with, or the inches of her heels.

And call a man a 'fag', regardless of his sexuality, and you affirm his social worth: repulsive, laughable, shameful, devoid of the acceptable dose of masculinity and conveniently categorised by the arbitrary preference of his partner, or what he wore that day.

I'm concerned that words oppress people: keep them packaged, downtrodden, and silent.

Because words were made to liberate, unify, civilise. To articulate what looking and feeling cannot alone. To lock lips.

So let’s choose them wisely.

... Boom, 200 words precisely. With not a single word to spare, I trail off a little at the end: I would've preferred a suitably rousing call to action but I only had five words and I'm not that imaginative.

The more I think about language, the more I see how the foxy stuff tries to pull a fast one on many of us. And all too often this is directed at women. Quelle surprise. For example, how frequently do we hear in our offices a senior female staff member be called a 'bitch'? The same assertive behaviour or seniority exhibited by a man in the same position, however, wouldn't even induce the bat of an eyelid. We expect men to be in charge: when a woman is in control, we're uncomfortable and we project those feelings onto her. Ergo, she's a bossy bitch.

That gets me on to 'bossy'. Oh 'bossy', how I loathe you. I was completely overjoyed to see Sheryl Sandberg and the USA Girl Scouts' #BanBossy campaign, because that seemingly innocuous word has been plaguing me all my life. For a few of the guys in my office who didn't understand why it was such a big deal (and to any male dissenters), I'd ask you this: When you were growing up, did you enjoy taking on leadership roles? Were you encouraged and praised for doing so? Did you ever get called bossy for taking the lead on a task or activity? I'm imaging the answers will be yes/yes/hell no, which is a completely different story for little girls.

Girls are largely socialised to be compliant and quiet, and we see this in the aggressively gendered nature of toy marketing. Girls get pretty dollies to nurture, boys get cool trucks to smash. And helicopters to craft. And Lego to build. Girls are carers. Boys are doers. Girls get used to putting others first and boys get used to standing up and getting shit done. There’s a ton of interesting research behind this, I’m just paraphrasing. Language like ‘bossy’ works in collusion with media and marketing because it punishes and chides girls for stepping outside of their prescribed gender roles. And that’s seriously hefty cultural practise to overcome as a child, or indeed as an adult. 

While I hate to be a killjoy, I think it’s time we all rethink some of the language we use. ‘Bitch’ and ‘slut’ and ‘chav’ don’t have the same historical weight as racially motivated terms like n*gger of course, but any language that seeks to make a person subordinate, ashamed or marginalised is unacceptable. Plus it’s lazy and narrow-minded and that’s not sexy. So the next time your friend calls a bloke in a tracksuit a ‘chav’, ask them why they felt the need to denigrate a working class person. That’s sure to be an awkward conversation.

Move over, Saatchi; there are new kids on the block.

Today I attended a day-long course called ‘Writing for Advertising’. Now there’s nothing I look forward to more than a day of learning (and a day out of the office), but in the last few days my excitement has been marred by a burning discomfort: I hate advertising.

Advertising is an industry that, minus a few notable exceptions, brazenly profits from peoples’ insecurities. An industry that is institutionally sexist, racist, ableist, classist, homophobic and offensive in any other way imaginable. A bit like politics or religion, but with a bigger budget and, worryingly, a bigger audience. It’s run by people who insist on clutching an old, safe, familiar idea about how things should be in the world and then aggressively and intrusively reproduce that idea over and over again until we all blindly accept our place in life and affirm this with our wallets. Fast cars are for men. Fairy liquid is for women.

But I work in advertising: I’m a copywriter for a cancer charity. Sure, I’m advertising great stuff – Think about the needs of others over your own pathetic pain threshold! Spit into a tube and you could cure cancer! If you donate your stem cells you’re the best person, like, EVER!”1! – but I’m in advertising nonetheless. I leap a mile from the association ‘copywriter’ brings with it thanks to Mad Men, because I’m a socialist. I abhor private wealth bound up by a few of the super-rich at the top and anchored off a boat in Morocco, private business that’s exclusively for profit and bereft of social benefit or goodness. The thought of turning my hand to write for Barclays, let’s imagine, makes me cringe. Why would I pour my energy and passion into copy that, if successful, would convince even more people to give their hard-earned money to Barclays, an organisation so deplorable I can only imagine it’s run by pantomime villains who snatch bags of loot and laugh derisively as they speed off in their yachts driven by moustachioed British butlers? And since I’m neither willing nor capable of shutting up about the deep wounds of social inequality that private finance induces, working there would be pretty #awks anyway.

But as I listened to what the bright young things around me on the course were saying, I realised that there were clearly people in advertising that thought a bit like me. In fact, they didn’t reflect what I perceived to be the “advertiser” trope at all; they were just witty and articulate people who started writing stories when they were six and want to write more. One woman worked for a Pharmaceutical company and when we were tasked with writing 200 words on something that concerned us, she chose the unfair distribution of wealth within America’s healthcare system. Another spoke of how she worried that social media was brimming with cats, gifs and Ed Balls, allowing stories like the kidnap of schoolgirls in Nigeria to be relegated as unsexy and irrelevant. Right on, sisters. If these are the sorts of thoughts that fresh faces in advertising harbour, maybe we’re not all quite as effed as I’d thought. If those same people, benefiting from the hard-won and ever-increasing opportunities of women’s liberation, get themselves into positions of power perhaps the sound of our media’s rhetoric will shift. I don’t doubt that the pressure to stick to the status quo will be oppressive, but small steps by the right people are a lot better than strides in the opposite direction. A gay couple here, a boy with a doll there – I’m not fussy. I should embrace the diversity of those going into the field, not simply mourn potential talent lost from the public sector. If a smart-talking socialist got themselves to the top of Barclays, they’d have to compromise during their ascent, sure, but perhaps our nation’s economic landscape would make for a prettier view from the top.

So while private sector work may not be on my horizons any time soon, it’s reassuring to know it’s not an industry entirely filled with mindless arrogant armpits. Hurrah! This celebration may seem premature but since I’m almost constantly filled with despair, it’s nice to get the optimistic moments on paper so I’m less likely to forget them. 

Easy PC

Greetings once more, my five glorious readers! Our numbers have almost doubled since my last blog post - what a triumph! - though I'm afraid to say that such late to the party readers will be sorely disappointed with my future offerings and we are sure to dwindle once more. To those who expressed their delight over my Chinese take-away based quips last time and are expecting more where that came from, do note that such references to my oily past will be sporadic from here on in, if not entirely non-existent. I'm a serious person with serious things to say about serious issues; I will not be reduced to a one trick lemon chicken. Number 80, £4.60.

I won't bother apologising over my abominable efforts to regulate my blogging. I am wholly irregular. One must accept these things in life, much as I have come to accept (though by no means approve of) menstrual cramps, suede, people who breath loudly and queue jumpers. But you are in for a treat: I have been storing up this rant for a very long time. I'll make a 'bold' statement to get us started: I love political correctness. And I shall tell you for why.

I work in a popular pub in Southampton, frequented predominantly by locals but with the odd spattering of students during prime nacho/pre-drink hours. I have become hardened to the racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic rhetoric I so often have the displeasure of overhearing from those that sit at the bar, but every once in a while I hear something so vile a glare of contempt simply won't suffice. The "enraged feminist psychopath" in me was beyond all realms of riled when I was conversing with one such regular punter, a middle aged white fellow with a penchant for Stella Artois. On requesting his drink of choice, I kindly complied. He took a sip and muttered "Mmm, I love a good wife beater". Now I'm not so far removed from mainstream culture to be unaware of Stella's unfortunate colloquial re-branding, so I casually shared my disapproval (of the name generally, not his specific usage) with the drinker:

Chloe: What an unfortunate nickname for a beer, eh?
Punter: Why is it unfortunate?
Chloe: (pause) Because 'wife beater' is hardly an image you'd want your brand to be aligned with, surely?
Punter: (looks confused) Why not?
Chloe: (slightly perplexed) Because domestic violence is ... really unpleasant, isn't it?
Punter: (starts to smirk) Is it? I've got no problem with it. (laughs)
Chloe: Domestic violence is appalling, I think you're being rather insensitive.
Punter: Oh heeeeere we go, am I not allowed to say anything 'politically incorrect' in here?
Chloe: (dumbfounded) Excuse me? I think it's a fair request that you don't mock domestic violence. It's certainly not funny.
Punter: What's it to you?

This absurd conversation has since been playing heavily on my mind. Who was the bad guy here? Of course I'm biased, but I have to say that all my observations point me to the conclusion that I reacted as a perfectly normal human being in this scenario, while he was a complete f*ckwit. The evidence is conclusive and undeniable for an abundance of reasons, but his pejorative reference to 'political correctness' has to be the most convincing and represents a prevailing and infuriating trend in the usage of the phrase.

The concept of political correctness came into public consciousness throughout the backlash of America's New Left against the staunchly traditional, conservative values of the Republican party during the second half of the twentieth century. Though often ironically used within leftist communities, the notion was that language and ideas and behaviours should concern itself with equal opportunities. Political correctness was an instant way of calling bullshit on someone's bigotry and a way of trying to cope and tackle that bigotry: a giant umbrella protecting people from a never ending shit storm of discrimination. Thus, political correctness is inherently excellent. However, it was adopted, reappropriated and warped by the political right in the 1990s due to the perceived Culture Wars, a societal dance-off between the two groups of ideologically opposed citizens and their collective senses of morality. The argument from here can get pretty academic and since I've now finished my degree, I must let go of such discourse. However, in simple terms: it makes bugger all sense that when somebody makes a discriminatory statement and somebody else is offended by that statement, 'political correctness' becomes the scapegoat. Somehow it is not the offender's ignorance, insensitivity or reckless cruelty that is to blame, but the very existence of the offended themselves. Those selfish bastards. Rather than the offender being held to account for outdated ideas of women, black people, homosexuals et al, they can instantly trump the oncoming outrage by playing the card of "political correctness gone mad". This mind-numbingly stupid phrase therefore renders the offended as someone who "can't take a joke" or "takes themselves too seriously": it silences people who are already alienated and sublimated within society. Make a heartless joke about domestic abuse towards women after centuries of fighting for equality and safety within our own homes and funnily enough, I refuse to be apologetic for taking that seriously. It's no coincidence that the most infamously bigoted and slanderous newspaper around, The Daily Mail, is actually responsible for the catchphrase 'political correctness gone mad'.

I recognise that some people will occasionally get a little overworked about not offending people and the results can be rather silly. People not being allowed to wear religious garb, or Cbeebies' Rasta Mouse coming under attack from a lot of whiny white mums, spring to mind. But that shouldn't be deemed the work of political correctness: that's just outright fear. Fear has gone mad. Being terrified of offending women, black people, homosexuals et al and therefore treating them as awkward aliens, I'd argue, illustrates just as much ignorance as shameless hate speech. I champion social sensitivity and that is what political correctness, by definition, is. Unfortunately, just like Stella Artois, political correctness requires a dramatic re-brand.

If you're not convinced, feel free to take me on. But I warn you: I am right. I wrote part of a novel dedicated to fictionalising this rant and did my dissertation on homophobia, and while they may have been inane, self-indulgent undergraduate ramblings, I am super well versed in this argument. Alternatively, trust in the wise words of Stewart Lee. I don't think he wrote a blog about it, but I'm pretty sure he's legit.

Chandler's Victory Dance

Well, dear readership, it would appear that I didn't keep my New Year's Resolution that I pledged in my last blog. The one about blogging regularly, not the other one. That one I certainly kept. All I can say is that I must have slipped into some sort of time/space vacuum on posting my last offering and have only just now been returned to the living, breathing blogosphere that is normality... or something. I think aforementioned vacuum is locally known as 'third year'. Diabolical lapse in efforts, I realise; I can only apologise and rather than promise to keep you posted on all future inane thoughts, tell you all now that I'm horribly unreliable and any commitment to this blog is commitment best committed elsewhere. I hear challenging and pleasurable reading can be had on various internet sources and point you in the direction of those, namely 'Wikipedia' and 'Jezebel'.

Many a metaphorical bomb has been dropped since my last post, all the way back in 2011. Ah, the good old days. That was before my dissertation was a tangible brain-munching shitstorm and existed to me only conceptually, like DisneyWorld Florida - I refuse to believe that's a real place, it's too perfect and simultaneously too appalling. That was before KONY 2012 reared its morally questionable head and then promptly retreated, tail between suspiciously attractive legs. That was before the American presidential race really kicked off, before I knew what 'Santorum' really meant. I advise you google it if you remain in the dark. And speaking of political races - if I really have the gall to call it that - that was before the SUSU elections, the annual churning out of six top notch soon-to-be-graduates who will attempt to handle the wild beast that is 22,000 unruly students. Who would be stupid enough to take on that responsibility, eh? ... I'm guessing that 99% of readers (Harri, Mike Fisher, my Ma) know the punchline, but just in case you have stumbled across this blog by mistake while searching for reviews of Britney Spears' latest album: I would be that stupid. Old muggins over here. The one wearing the daft grin with the ridiculous hair and absurd mole count. And in case anybody was wondering, that album was dire. 

I'm still in a state of perpetual shock, confusion and incredulousness. Though with a vocabulary that allows for atrocities like "incredulousness", it's no wonder I'm not relying upon my English Literature degree to find me work. Of course I'm terribly chuffed; I actually get to do a job I'll enjoy next year. If I didn't get elected my other option was to head back to Dorsetshire to reclaim my job alongside a dozen fourteen year old girls working in my local Chinese take-away for £4 an hour. You may laugh but that's what got me to university and that's what would have been greeting me on my somewhat dismal return. Forget a street party with a massive paper dragon, I would have been given a packet of prawn crackers and a slap on the arse: it would have been like I'd never left. For that alone, I thank those who voted for me. From the bottom of my chow mein ridden heart. Number 9, £4.80.

But seriously, I'm not quite sure how this has happened. When I retrace my footsteps, I can only feel like some mistake has been made. Year one was spent being praised and condemned - in equal measure, I may add - for my rather unprepared and inarticulate run-in with PM-to-be DC; off to a good start with the liberal voters but despised by the majority of Southampton students. Go figure. Year two was full of KitKat bashing and feminist ranting; my potential voters must have been quartered, the haters thoroughly and justifiably now running amok with scorn. Year three was quiet, I was biding my time, behaving myself and now this? What madness. I have no idea how a hairy-legged socialist feminist with a penchant for ethical tirades and ovaries has won what is essentially a popularity contest. I feel like that day was a good day: for me, for feminism and for the world I hope to one day live in. There is hope for us yet. The apathetic masses - and various others - will disagree I'm sure but the voters have spoken. Cue Chandler's victory dance.

Life goes on: books need a'reading, essays need a'writing, gay porn needs a'watching. All for academic purposes, of course. Currently Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things is keeping me up well into the wee hours, that and the thought of the representation of queer identity in AIDS narratives from 1988-1995 ... It's a long story.

Woman on Woman

I'm a little embarrassed at how long it's been. Not because I feel like I've left you all (mother, Mike Fisher and Harri Notton) bereft of exciting and challenging blog updates, but because I despair to think of how many hours I've wasted on facebook/twitter/wikipedia/eating/watching Sex and the City when I could have been writing exciting and challenging blog updates. New Years' Resolution #1: Write FAR more regularly. As in at least twice a month. None of this three month dry spell shit. Nobody likes a dry spell.

The myriad issues which have riled me over the past three months are enough to fill several hundred blogs and so I must accept that I have very much 'missed the boat' on things like the Occupy movement, My Transsexual Summer, Berlusconi, Florence and her racist Machine, My Tram Experience et al. Do note that I have been feeling wildly and passionately about all above issues however. While the blog has died, my zeal for justice lives on. I'd hate for you to think that I have shut up about anything; I have merely channelled my anger into modes of communication which take less time ie. twitter and The Other F Word, the radio show Rhiannon and I wail on. Following me on twitter is like a quick slap in the face; reading my blog is like me tugging your earlobe for an hour. The latter just seems to NEVER END. And speaking of never ending, we have arrived at my topic of choice for this reunion blog. *Clears throat*: sexism. I am a master of subverting your expectations, I know.

But this isn't sexism in its most traditional sense. This isn't patriarchy and the glass ceiling and objectification. This is a specific kind of sexism which has wound me up beyond belief during this festive season. Possibly the worst type of sexism. The sexism which almost doesn't look like sexism. The sexism which gets branded as "bitchiness" or "gossip" so it slips under your sexism radar and it's only when you're home in bed that it suddenly dawns on you that you were divulging in sexism. Good grief, you think to yourself. This sexism is what I call 'woman on woman' and I find it to be the most abhorrent form of sexism there is.

Have you ever been chatting to a female friend and found the conversation slipping into the realms of cruelty? Of course, you're only human. But have you ever been chatting to a female friend and found the conversation turning to a mutual female peer/acquaintance/friends' provocative outfit she was wearing last night? Or how many men she's slept with? Or how 'slutty' she acts? Or how unattractive she is? Over the years, I have found myself in what must be hundreds of these conversations. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, of course, but I feel ashamed and repulsed at how for the longest time I bought into woman on woman hatred. And actually enjoyed it.

Woman on woman is when a woman or women verbally attacks, judges, hates on a fellow woman or women. This kind of hatred usually manifests as judgement on sexuality, identity and other life choices. I am fully aware that we are innately judgemental creatures: some judgements can be good and helpful and necessary but some judgements are products of our society's crippling attitudes and inequalities. I mean, is it really helpful or necessary to judge how many men a woman has slept with? Is that in any way significant to your friendship or who she is as a human being? As Jenna Marbles, youtube extraordinaire, once said when responding to similar issues: "Has she got your boyfriend's cock in her mouth? If the answer is no, you have no reason to hate her." Ms Marbles says a lot of questionable shit  but here, in her own crass fashion, she is entirely right. What does a woman's outfit have to do with the rest of us? If she wants to wear provocative clothing and show off the illegal part of her tights, then why on earth not? It has absolutely nothing to do with any of us and is simply a matter of taste. Some women feel comfortable expressing their bodies and their sexuality, while others don't. My anger at woman on woman hate reached a gargantuan peak recently when I discovered that according to a survey done by Amnesty International , 1 out of 4 people believe that a rape victim is partially to blame if they were wearing "sexy" clothing. 1 out of 4 people have some seriously twisted views on rape and sexuality.  Rape is caused by a rapist; flesh does not equate to a thumbs up. Why this is even still being debated is beyond me, it seems as simple as rapists being prosecuted and punished. Oh wait. However, when the hatred for sexually provocative or explicit women is so high and so fierce, we can hardly hope for better statistics.

This needs to be tackled right here and right now. The global movement 'SlutWalk' is tackling the law and the stigma (thank fuck) but it needs to be tackled in the girls' bathrooms at Jesters, where I routinely overhear women hating on the sexual endeavours of other women. It needs to be tackled on television, where "slut" or "whore" are acceptable ways in which to describe a woman and aren't deemed offensive alongside oppressive terms like "faggot" or "mong". It needs to be talked about and questioned and challenged and we need to stop accepting our fate as women. I have been called it all: a slut, frigid, a dyke, a prostitute. Every term used to sexually stigmatise under the sun. And what am I? I am whatever the hell I want to be and I am the only person that can define that. I am the only party to consistently attend all the times I've had sex so how could someone else possibly judge? And I can assure you, it's really not that interesting. The whole 'whore/virgin' dichotomy unfortunately lives on and as an English student who has done countless essays on this pair of opposites throughout history, I can tell you now - it's getting seriously dull. And at the end of each essay, I always wrap it up with the same thing: "'Whore' and 'virgin', the prevailing terminology to sexually categorise women, don't actually mean anything". It makes the last three thousand words seem pretty futile but it is the conclusion I will stubbornly continue to come to. Of course, clinically, we can say what a virgin physically is. But what is a slut? Someone who has slept with lots of men, perhaps. But what is 'lots'? It's a context specific word and therefore 'slut' has no inherent value. Slut only exists in relation to its opposite (virgin, frigid, prude etc): a woman who has had ten sexual partners is a 'slut' when in a community of women who have slept with none while a woman who has slept with ten sexual partners isn't when compared to women who have slept with fifty. So even the biggest 'slut' is only so in certain circles. She is a fair-weather slut, at best.

Have we learnt nothing from Mean Girls? In my opinion, Mean Girls is one of the best feminist films to come out of the 21st century and certainly one of the best to have ever been produced in Hollywood. This is all down to the goddess that is Tina Fey. Tina, how I love thee. Her immortal line to a gym full of angsty teenage girls is perfect: "You all have got to stop calling each other sluts and whores. It just makes it ok for guys to call you sluts and whores". TRUE DAT. We have got to stick together in this. And if we all stopped worrying about other womens' sex lives and concentrated on our own, maybe we'd get better at masturbating? Men seem to have perfected this over the centuries - it's probably because they don't think about what men are wearing and doing and sleeping with every ten seconds. Challenge on, ladies. New Years' Resolution #2 (this one's for all of us): Worry less about how many men other women are sleeping with and what they're wearing/Masturbate more.

If you're looking for last minute Christmas presents for women (or open-minded men OR evil bastards who need a good talking to), I'd recommend Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman. It's utterly brilliant and articulates my feelings wonderfully, with far more wit and impressive metaphor. I can't help resenting her though; I was going to write that book. Time to rethink my life plan, I guess. In the meantime, I know what I can spend more time doing...

... Blogging, obviously! Have a fabulous Christmas, my three lovely readers.

A Rather Large Issue

Another human plight that gets my heart racing and my moral compass spinning is homelessness in the UK. It seems so utterly absurd that with all the resources, houses and people power we have in this country, fundamental human rights deeming one should have a home are so thoroughly and constantly in breach. And how can we ever hope to cap it? Numbers seem to be continually on the rise, with almost two thousand rough sleepers estimated on any one given evening last year in England, a staggering 42% increase from 2009 alone. However, more disturbingly, this number is misleading as it only counts the local authorities who chose to look into the issue within their constituency. The actual number of rough sleepers could be anything; in London alone, 3,674 people were counted on the streets in 2010, offering a grave reminder of how this problem is so flippantly overlooked by many areas of the UK, radically skewing the statistics.  Not to mention all those who were sheltered out of eyesight.

There seems to be a grave misunderstanding on the part of some individuals as to how people become homeless. I once heard one of my friends' dads say that homelessness was completely avoidable and that 'these people' were good for nothing scavengers with drug addictions. This stuck with me. As a young teenager walking through my small and provincial Dorset streets, the resident street sleeper who I'd come to recognise actually scared me. I was afraid of a person who was sitting on the floor, devoid of possessions, cupping their hands for money. Terrified, in fact. I joined the apathetic and awkward masses who would avidly gaze at the other side of the road, become obsessed with a crease in their top, become immersed at a text on their mobile phone. Of course, I am embarrassed but I wasn't to know any better. This is the kind of shit that was being pumped into me by the adults I looked to for guidance. I'm sure he wasn't aware that addiction is a serious and complex affliction that often stems from appalling neglect, abuse, depression or even a genetic tendency. I'm sure he wasn't aware that around 30% of homeless people have mental health problems and 21% don't have a substance addiction problem at all. I'm sure if someone alleviated him from his ignorance, he'd have felt awful for making such derogatory comments. Or not.

At the SUSU Environmental and Ethical Fair on Thursday, the local Big Issue representatives had a stall opposite our Back the Boycott one. As a friendly neighbour would, I moseyed on over for a natter and was so humbled and in awe from what they had to say. I've always known that the Big Issue is a fantastic publication and have bought several in my time - my favourite vendor is the Asian lady near International Foods in Portswood - but I had no idea how completely it could change peoples' lives. If like me you don't know how it works, I beg you indulge in a spot of research. For those who can't be arsed, I had no idea that when you bought the magazine, a pound goes to the vendor and a pound goes back into the production. I didn't know that the vendors are self employed. I didn't know that the Big Issue was a business just like any other. I didn't know that some vendors actually feel safer and more comfortable on the streets and wish to live a simple life without financial headaches. I couldn't have imagined how liberating the Big Issue is for homeless and home-vulnerable people. I didn't know that we are only ever two pay packets away from being on the streets ourselves. All I knew was that it was a great magazine with an ethos I could get on board with. One article I read recently was a vendor profile, detailing how the gentleman had found his way to the kerb. He had been a wealthy stockbroker with a big house and family. Your average middle-class 2.4 children jobby. When his business went bust, he felt like he had to protect his family from financial strife so he didn't tell anyone he was suffering. He went into work 5 days a week to maintain the appearance of normality, when really he didn't have anywhere to be or any work to do. The money frittered away as they continued to spend unaware, until the bailiffs knocked on their door. His wife was so horrified by their fairytale existence that she left, taking the children. The man grew depressed and desperate and when he lost his home he felt that he had nowhere to turn, terrified of losing his social footing by admitting his situation. He was homeless. It really can happen to anyone and at any time.

The next time you walk past someone selling Big Issues, if you don't already, maybe stop and buy one. They're only two pounds. It's not charity, it's not pity, it's not begging. You would be slowly but actively and constructively helping to resolve one of the biggest issues in our modern society, just by buying a magazine. While greed and snobbery breed - and now with government trying to make squatting illegal - homelessness is also going to plague a huge amount of people: we're all vulnerably housed. Plus, they're a bloody good read.

Troy Davis

It's twenty-two minutes past midnight and I sit and wait. Does an angel contemplate Troy Davis' fate? Robbie Williams lyrics aside, this is purgatory. I heard about the Troy Davis case a few days ago and have been hooked ever since. I am obsessed by the grotesque, usually manifesting as historical obscenities, but this stretches to the grotesque injustice of the American legal system. Soon to be a historical obscenity. For those of you who have missed the scandal, get educated here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Troy_Davis_case
http://www.amnestyusa.org/our-work/cases/usa-troy-davis
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/sep/21/troy-davis-10-reasons

Hyperbole is all I have right now. The state of this "developed" world really doesn't bear thinking about at this moment. I am utterly flabbergasted: a man who claims to be innocent, has had 7 out of 9 witnesses go back on their word and imply police coersian and has no DNA evidence holding him to the crime is going to be put to death. The Supreme Court is so narrow-minded, they won't even consider seeing these facts as casting reasonable doubt upon the case. This isn't reasonable doubt: this doubt is beyond reason. This is unswerving, insatiable, infallible and irrefutable doubt. If I had this amount of doubt concerning a hair cut, I wouldn't get it. I simply wouldn't fancy my odds.

Tonight, Troy Davis was due to die at 7pm, USA time. Throughout the day, what can only be described as a deluge of opposition has flooded all mediums of social networking. My preferred form of protest has been twitter. To give you an idea of the sheer amount of global revolt, I refresh the page of the hashtag #troydavis and minimise it. In the bottom bar of my screen, the page's name remains with a bracketed number. This number is the amount of new tweets since I last checked. In the time it took me to write that sentence, the number has grown to 200. Had I been writing this two hours ago, in the unbearable run-up to 7pm, that number would be double or triple that. And that's just one hashtag. #thewholeworldiswatching has been trending across the oceans; it makes the hairs on the back of my neck electrify to think I sit here, annexed in my room, square-eyed and tingle-fingered pressing refresh and I am united with hundreds of thousands of civilians. This is the face of modern horror, the one that stares aghast at its computer screen.

The crux of it is this: a potentially innocent man is going to be put to death. To me, it doesn't even matter any more as to his innocence or guilt: that has ceased to be the issue. What is so significant is that we cannot possibly know the answer to that question. That's why I'm horrified. Georgia, America is not a united state. Right now, it is dividing its nation and unifying the world. It is simply absurd how proud the system is, it is a petulant child with the coldest of shoulders against reason and truth and justice. I will admit, I used to have mixed feelings about the death penalty. Part of my mind thought it was potentially a good idea but I think my justification was purely emotive: if you killed my mother, I'd like nothing better than to kill you. I naively attempted to fit this model to the justice system, not realising or caring how flawed and barbaric it was. I can blame such thoughts upon nothing but ignorance; it is situations just like these that reaffirm what I have learnt in the last few years of my intellectual and personal growth. That a life is a life, be that taken from a criminal or a victim and there is not a single person on this planet that could possibly claim to have authority over such untimely ends. I am all for life imprisonment because I think that is worse than death. To kill a guilty person would be to free them: they must be tortured by boundaries and their consciences until their pathetic existence is snuffed out.

It is forty-six minutes past one in the morning. Everything has changed but nothing has. No news. I will be forced to function in six hours but I can't imagine sleeping. If I was a religious person, I'd spend the night praying. Instead, I shall quietly contemplate my faith in justice. I fear it will reap as few results as the former. My faith in mass, outraged and obstinate human tenacity however, is burning and yearns for the powers that be to lend us an ear.

The Woman Booker

For all those who find my wild raving feminist values a little too much (I'm looking at you, Stephen), I've just started a new blog called The Woman Booker. Now, I know what you're thinking - it has the word 'woman' in it so it's bound to be another fanny-based endeavour, but I promise I am merely referencing the Man Booker Prize and the fact that I myself am a woman. It's actually about the Man Booker Prize, funnily enough. I'm trying to blast my way through as many winners as possible, then keep a diary type blog on my reactions to each of them. So far I've written a post on Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children and it was rubbish because despite it being my favourite book on the planet, I haven't read it in a year and have managed to forget just about everything that happens in it. A dedicated fan, as ever. Fingers crossed my other posts will be slightly better informed and won't suffer from the inefficiency of faded, but nevertheless treasured, memories.

If you fancy a gander, you can find it here: http://womanbooker.blogspot.com/

Nadine Dorries: A Few Words

So, Nadine. Here we are again. After you attempted to pass the atrocity that can only be described as a repulsively sexist bill introducing "just say no" sex education to girls while boys get away scot-free - because we all know getting pregnant is entirely the woman's fault (those bloody sluts) - you're back to your old abortion high jinks. Because the last fifty odd years of feminist sexual campaigning really was just a bunch of silly saucy women trying to convince womankind to kill their children and indulge in witchcraft or something else woefully liberal. It's not like they were merely demanding human rights or the opportunity to be worth more than their wombs. It's a perfectly justified fear that all pregnant women are going to start aborting their babies because by law they are allowed to which, if we're thinking logically, is practically encouragement.

Or is it, Nadine? Your latest bright idea is to ban pro-choice charities like the British Pregnancy Advisory Service or Marie Stopes from offering counselling to pregnant women because you believe they are not able to advise women without bias due to their financial dependency on abortions. You think that charities such as these seek to lead women into abortions for their own selfish gains. Nadine, can you hear yourself? As Zoe Williams aptly states in The Guardian, you are using classically liberal anti-capitalist rhetoric in the vain attempt to convince people that charities are capable of persuading women to abort their children for their own financial gains. I know that you are offensively ignorant but I'm sure it's not news to you that charities are non-profit - that's a charity by definition. Your hideous untruths are not only hugely disrespectful to such groups' exceptional expertise and the priceless help they offer to thousands of struggling females but such wild misinformation is also irreparably harmful to their prestige and the public's perception of them, resulting in a lack of faith in those who really are out to protect us. We don't trust MPs - I cannot fathom why - and now apparently we can't even trust charities. And you wonder why we riot.

Have you ever had an abortion, Nadine? Have you ever been given advice by any of these charities? If such charities were giving women unequally weighted advice or misinforming them, do you not think it would have been flagged up by now? Of course you wouldn't assume such a thing: women seeking abortions are probably unable to decipher such a slant, as foolish and 'vulnerable' as they are. In your eyes, such misled women's eyes probably glaze over with all the pro-abortion propaganda and blindly and in comatose state sign an 'X' on the irreversible contract of death. Or something equally sensational and morbid. But perhaps there are one or two sensible women out there who have had an abortion - maybe even other female MPs? - who you could have consulted on the issue before bringing forward such a shamefully uneducated motion? According to both Marie Stopes and the BPAS, you have not made any attempt at contacting them and you have not once stepped into one of their atheist femi-Nazi brainwashing labs, commonly known as 'clinics'. I hate to say it Nadine but I really don't know if you're the type of woman who should be making such life-altering decisions on behalf of 31 million women in the UK. You just haven't done your research and quite frankly, that is just sloppy.

I really cannot comprehend how or why you have found yourself to be in a position of power and trust, Nadine. You logic is that by removing pro-choice charity advice and care from womens' options, the country will see a decline in abortion figures. If less women are getting abortions but the only variable is the advice, that would surely indicate that there are a number of women keeping children from a lack of expert counselling. The motion did not appear to have any strategy or contingency plan: the charities would be barred but there would be offered no immediate replacement. Perhaps after several weeks of personal research and waiting lists, a hypothetical pregnant woman would have found her own counsellor and would have come to the decision that an abortion is the appropriate decision. But of course, you want to change the legal limit to 22 weeks, or 20 if you're lucky, so maybe by that time it will be too late. Is that the definition of pro-life? The baby lives but the mother's life choice has been ultimately taken from her because she has remained confused, marooned and ignorant to her options? I'm all for 'life', personally; I certainly cherish mine. It would appear however that you do not share my sentiments. You are willing to see me make an uniformed decision that would potentially ruin it, because of your own ungrounded, under-researched, crude, dense, unscientific, irrational and vacuous inexperience. Not to mention your religious leanings. I think that is classed as negligence, Nadine.

The press have been all over this issue in a far more eloquent though no less emotive fashion, peruse their thoughts:

Pro-Choice leanings http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/aug/29/are-abortion-laws-under-threat?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/aug/31/abortion-advice-poundland-nadine-dorries
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/commentators/christina-patterson/christina-patterson-lets-keep-faith-out-of-politics-2346343.html
Anti-Abortion leanings
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/8727344/The-pregnant-pause.html
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-2031958/Abortions-Nadine-Dorries-wants-guidance-available-women.html
... and has David Cameron made a correct decision? GOOD GRIEF. Looks like I'll have to eat my hat.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/aug/31/downing-street-uturn-abortion-proposals

Post Ed Blues

Hello again, she says in morose tones. I am home after the most marvellous three week Scottish adventure and feeling somewhat flat. After 22 days of early mornings, late nights, mingling with attractive actors ("mingling with" = stalking and giggling over), daily shows, countless warm ups and the occasional funky chicken, it is rather bizarre to plop back into a schedule which holds very little. Wake up, usually mid-morning. Read Lolita a bit - this is usually the highlight of my day. Chat on the phone a bit. Eat whatever tinned good I may happen upon in my larder (yes, my ridiculously old fashioned house has a larder). Do a bit of SUSU stuff. Email a few people. Re-live the glory days, sniffing haggis and crying into my novelty Loch Ness Monster toy. Drink tea. You know the drill. It's exhausting but equally dull. I'm actually looking forward to going back to lectures, merely to give my brain something else to dwell upon. How awful.

In typical and frustrating fashion, we've had a whole host of positive reviews now that our Edinburgh show is all over. Each time I read one - re-reading it eight or so times - my chest gets all fluttery and my arms go all goose-pimply and I feel like bursting with pride and joy and nostalgia. It's rather emotionally draining, I must say. You see, we weren't expecting good reviews. Of course I knew the play was bloody brill but I co-wrote and directed the damned thing so that's to be taken for granted. Student productions seem to so infrequently succeed at the Fringe however, bigger budgets, bigger production teams, better preparation and the like always ousting us from recognition or recommendation. We slip below public eyesight and float in medium appreciation, enjoyed by those who see it but ultimately seen by too few. The latter bore true for us again this time, with our audiences dropping to as few as 7. Though this is the average audience size and is not to be sniffed at, when you're playing to a 150 capacity crowd it seems like an appalling meagre amount, most of the laughs provided by myself and the producers to fill the painful silences. If only such reviews had come out sooner! Alas, it wasn't to be, but I am still incredibly overjoyed to receive such praise for our lovely wee spectacle. Better late than never, eh?
To be horribly self-indulgent and smug, I shall post the review links here so you can all revel in our success with us. Or something. And my mother will appreciate the consolidation if nothing else.

http://www.broadwaybaby.com/edinburgh-fringe/10481-the-spectacular-tales-of-grinburrell
http://www.thenewcurrent.com/2011/08/18/13540/
http://www.threeweeks.co.uk/article/ed2011-theatre-review-the-spectacular-tales-of-grinburrell-southampton-university-students%E2%80%99-union-theatre-group/
http://www.the-u-review.co.uk/The_U-Review/Reviews/Entries/2011/8/20_The_Spectacular_Tales_Of_Grinburrell.html
http://edfringereview.com/reviews/event/TkYv1fcgRRekHxNzwwOIBg
... and of course, I must chuck in a crap one for good measure - my favourite bit is when she calls the characters "faintly irritating". That made me chuckle.
http://www.edinburgh-festivals.com/viewreview.aspx?id=2818
Farewell Edinburgh, I shall attempt to stop obsessing now. See you next year hopefully, if my brother's wedding doesn't collide too terribly. Bloody brothers scheduling weddings to coincide with the Fringe... what madness.

For now though, life is hopefully getting a kick start as I've just managed to blag myself a job. How exciting! I had my first shift at The Crown last night and cripes, was I exhausted by the end of it. I've never worked in a pub before and was left to my own devices within half an hour, having never pulled a pint before in the life. It was disastrous, as you can imagine. I tried to do it like how they do it on television but like a lot of things on television, it wasn't that straightforward. An hour in, I was being hailed as a Boddington's pro. I don't know what Boddington's is or what makes me a pro but I shan't ask questions. Another shift tonight then off to Bali's 21st tomorrow with a trip to Notting Hill carnival on Monday to see me through the weekend. I'm terribly excited. Onwards!

Week Two (and three) up North

It is a rare sunny Sunday in Edinburgh and we have found ourselves coming to the end of week two of our Scottish stint. In just seven days' time we'll be mourning the loss of our play, having put it to bed for the last time the previous day. And we'll definitely be hungover.

It's been another mad week, performing every day to crowds ranging from seven to thirty odd (just to give an indication of the success of such numbers, the average Fringe audience is 4) and every single show has been a good'un. Nobody has walked out before the end (phew) and on their appropriate exit, we've had only positive comments. Not that they'd tell us they hated it, but you know, such comments were offered so we shall take them gratefully and say thank you very much. Flyering has been somewhat gnarly as the driving rain makes giving away pieces of paper to wandering people almost impossible: the flyers are sodden and there aren't any wanderers for miles anyway, only locals grumbling to work with their faces impenetrable to our hopeful approaches. Spirits have been less than high, it's safe to say.

(19.08.11) Bloody poor show, Green. After intending to blog several times a week during the Fringe, as something resembling a diary, I have blogged but once and it's our final show tomorrow. Nightmare. Life is just so busy here, it's unreal. I was even offered a job while here and due to business completely neglected to accept it. Massive oops. I have also become completely desensitized to celebrity sightings and apparently I am now unable to even spot a star when he is sitting right next to me on a cushion in a theatre of ten people, watching a one man physical dramatisation of Bombay life. I shall explain and perhaps you can help: tall, sandy-haired male in mid to late 50s, suited with expensive watch was in the queue for said show I was attending and I thought the man next to me was having a small fit, he was so excited by this apparently rather famous man. People were taking sly pictures of him from across the road (I say sly - they were squealing and jumping and pointing), his autograph was asked for twice and the chap on the door did some kind of absurd bow to him as he walked through the door. But who the hell is he?! I couldn't for the life of me think, so asked a gentleman standing next to me. He was Italian, completely misconstrued my frantic whisper in his ear and gave me his card. Leonardo, a 'visual artist'. So I am none the wiser, though I have a saucy Italian backup plan if it all goes tits up with Bali. Winner. I suppose I will never know who the handsome stranger was - I didn't have the breasts (balls equivalent) to ask him who he was, that would have been highly embarrassing and utterly preposterous.

Last show tomorrow! Madness. I can't believe 16 shows have passed me by. And I still laugh every time. We have had two four star reviews, two (cough cough) two (cough cough) star reviews, and yesterday we were named The New Current's Best Original Student Production 2011 and awarded 5 stars. Bloody hell! Their review is somewhat rushed but it's rather flattering - I will struggle to get through the door of this internet cafe at this rate - so well worth a gander.
http://www.thenewcurrent.com/2011/08/18/13540/

This has been a terrible update, apologies to my two readers. Harri, Mother, I am sorry for such poor content. Better update to come. Promise. For now though, I am off to The Hot Mikado, the jazz years... or some shit. Goodnight.

Burgeoning Love for the ‘Burgh

So here we are again, back in the copse of culture that is the Scottish capital. I so sorely missed the frivolous and giddy lifestyle that I lived for all of three glorious weeks last August: my return is sweet and I feel as though I have flown the nest but arrived resolutely back home. The disinfected gummy smell of Cowgate, our trusty hostel, submerged me with dormant memories on entering but I have had little time to reflect, fresh mental entries attempting to lay claim to the Edinburgh-shaped cavity in my mind. In Edinburgh I long to be a writer, a director, an actor, a playwright, a producer, a poet, a comedian, a mime, an artist, a star. And for a few brief moments (seventeen performances to be exact, plus the minutes I find myself mid-shmooze), I am able to almost replicate such an existence, the Fringe nonexclusive to amateur fantasizers. For this I owe it everything.

The play officially began its run yesterday: it went tremendously. After a somewhat jolted start – our dress rehearsal the previous day was going swimmingly until a freak health and safety check at the venue forced us into a pregnant pause which lasted a good ten minutes – the cast have found their theatrical feet once more and make me prouder than a new mum. Well, maybe not that much but so proud it makes me inarticulately swear under my breath in an outward pant of “fuuuuuuuck me”. Luckily there were several seats between myself and our underage audience, to whom I merely offered an excitable grin. It was returned. Sixteen punters witnessed the popping of our festival cherry, the number decreasing to twelve after a wailing child and her entourage fled just twenty minutes in. She was definitely too young to see our “suitable for all ages” spectacle. Oops. I think it was the moment where Sophia emits a skin-crawling shriek at being swallowed by a cursed dress that pushed her over the edge, unsurprisingly. During the manic get-in where we have to set up our entire show in a meagre and ungenerous five minutes, Emma, our lovely producer, rushed over to tell me that we were to expect a reviewer. Our first nerve-wrecking, knee-trembling show. Yikes, was I shitting a proverbial brick. In the moments I wasn’t in rapture at our sensational tales – if I do say so myself – I was intently staring at the side of the guy’ head, willing him to laugh and smile and think to himself “this is excellent”. And laugh and smile and think to himself “this is excellent” he did! The latter was confirmed post-play when he shared such sentiments with myself and Emma, to our utter glee. Of course, he may have been lying and could have hated it, his hoots of laughter actually derisive and mocking. But I shall remain optimistic. A positive three star review from the renowned Three Weeks would go down an absolute treat right about now. Baited breath and all that.

The Fringe is in full swing finally and in only two days I have seen something astonishing and something atrocious. Ah, the ups and downs! I love it. The something astonishing was A Clockwork Orange at C +1, a fleshy and indigestible horror show that appalled me beyond repair. My jaw remained on the floor as I watched a smutty sensual homosexual banquet of limbs, sweat and wide eyes, all to a soundtrack of twenty-first century indie anthems. It was flawless. I'd have given it 5* even before they all took their shirts off. In light of such a terrific performance, we stuck around to see the same troupe's production of Titus Andronicus. Our expectations were high, to say the least and they certainly didn't let us down. The only thing that did however was the slightly embarrassing dagger incident that occurred twenty minutes before the end when the misplaced implement accidentally stabbed its possessor and we were all evacuated to let in a crew of paramedics. What a faux pas. The atrocious was Pleasance Dome's Fresher: The Musical, a clichéd and vapid account of first year university life. Being a fresher just a year ago I expected the script to be rammed with in-jokes that I would relate to and would cringe to collectively with my peers, but no such jokes occurred. All I was presented with were unbelievably two-dimensional characters and uninteresting tunes which I cannot now remember a single one of. Perhaps my personal fresher experience was anomalous but, as Holden Caulfield would say, I found the whole thing horribly corny. It killed me, it did. 

(cont. 7.8.11) The next few days see us meandering to shows including Some Small Love Story at C Eca (tissues at the ready), Potted Potter, Scary Gorgeous (cannot wait) and I'll probably attempt to see Titus again - I know how it ends but I hate to leave a show unfinished. As for the Grinburrell crew, it's our fourth show today. Wish us luck!

Sunburnt

I have had a month of adventures. It has been a very special time indeed. First and foremost, I am the horribly proud director of a fantastic show that had its first performance just the other day. After two weeks of frantic rehearsals which saw us all descend into the murky depths of insanity, we have somehow managed to pull a pretty brilliant show together. 'The Spectacular Tales of Grinburrell' was all but an idealistic pipe-dream just a few wee months ago and now it is a living breathing spectacle. And a spectacle which people actually enjoyed, to my humbled relief. Bring on Edinburgh: 22 days, 18 members of cast and crew, 17 performances, 12 hours in a minibus (x2), 3 hostel rooms, infinite hangovers and 1 glorious city. My excitement is boundless.

I also finished the second year of my degree this month; I thought that this would mean my workload would decrease significantly but alas no, I seem to be busier than ever. Further proof that I don't do much in my degree? Possibly. I actually rather enjoyed revising for my exam, as horribly nerdy and eager as that sounds. Though when your exam is on Ulysses, The Great Gatsby, The Waste Land and Mrs. Dalloway, you're hardly likely of becoming submerged by boredom. Come on now, it's not like I study Chemistry. Anyway, my keenness obviously paid off as I have been awarded a juicy 2:1 for the year, despite a certain one Kos Ring attempting to sabotage me with a rogue 57. YOU WILL NOT BE MY DOWNFALL, OH MIGHTY OPPRESSOR! And breath.

As a special treat before the "hard work" of Edinburgh commences (ahem), I thought I should like to take a wee holiday. This manifested as a week of various National Express bus journeys and general debauchery in the shape of Amy's 21st in Aylesbury which lead to four days in Cornwall with the EngSoc massive which seamlessly carried me into Canterbury's festival of delights Lounge on the Farm. I say 'seamlessly' - it actually transpired that I spent approximately 12 hours travelling to the other side of the country, but on arriving at aforementioned festival the sun was shining and the tent had been erected (ooh err) so I could just continue to bloody well enjoy myself. And that I certainly did. What a week! Cornwall was absolutely glorious: the eight of us were staying in a beautiful house 120 seconds away from Polzeath's lovely beach and between those two locations, we were entirely satisfied for the best part of a week. I tried my hand - and strained lymph nodes - at surfing, much to my amusement. I know the object of the endeavour is to stand upon your eponymous board but after several hours over two days and uncountable flailings later, I felt very proud to have achieved this all of about twice for all of about seven seconds in all. Small victories, eh. Apart from being thrown about at sea in gale force winds on a piece of yellow polystyrene, I did nothing remotely strenuous for the entire time: I read To Kill a Mocking Bird, I drank copious amounts of cider, I laughed until I thought I might have an accident at a Chinese lantern based incident... What bliss.

The festival allowed me to continue such a week of relaxation: the food was incredible and the atmosphere was like no other festival I've ever been to. Despite a few 14 year old Lary Larrys who clearly came only to see The Vaccines and Ellie Goulding and who occasionally disturbed the peace, the 'lounging' on said farm was actually very easy to achieve. I spent my days pottering between the Playhouse where one could expect to hear poetry, see the odd pint-sized Shakespearean tragedy, watch some cracking stand-up, partake in a belly dancing workshop or experience the Lord of Lobsters (don't ask); the Tea Teepee for a cheeky chai; the falafel tent and various low-key folk stages where it was the done thing to listen while laying down. What a bizarre experience for a musician to walk onto stage at a festival and be greeted not by throngs of bopping individuals but a sea of lethargically lolling loungers. I wasn't complaining - my lymph nodes by this point, having been forced to endure belly dancing, had well and truly thrown in the towel and I found it almost impossible to lift my arms, rendering me somewhat static. I fit in a treat. Speaking of treats, I discovered some complete gems while reclining at the festival - if you're looking for some excellent new tunes, I point you in the direction of: Kyla La Grange, Daughter, Bucket Boyz (though you really have to be there to appreciate their brilliance), Boot Lagoon, Chad Valley ... Aaron, have I forgotten any?

Had I not written a complete dissertation of a blog, I'd spend a moment or two to reflect on all these Murdoch shenanigans that went on around me during the week. Not that there's much to be said but you know, I usually feel the need to express a liberal-bordering-socialist/ often under-researched opinion on such matters. So here goes: C*nts, the lot of them. Let them rot in jail. And don't even allow them a gym or an X Box. ... Done.

A Month of Sundays

Before I forget what has happened during the past four weeks, I should probably purge myself of it. Is it neurotic to live in constant fear of forgetting all the best bits of one's life? I guess if those precious moments were as precious as I perceived at the time, I wouldn't forget them. And yet my mind seems rife with trifling details about people and places I don't know or care about or particularly like: I have impeccable recollection of my grocery shopping excursion to International Foods from two Tuesdays ago. I bought a green pepper and 6 eggs and one of them was white and all the rest brown and I had to ask directions to curry powder and I was in fact standing in front of it. A trip down 'Memory Lane' sees me stumbling upon somewhere resembling a foggy cul-de-sac slightly North of Lincolnshire. Most uninspired, I can assure you.


So, here is catharsis. What have I done in the last 28 days? Something vaguely blog-worthy, surely? Deep breath: Black Comedy/petitioning/seven million essays/AGM/(partial)Nestle boycott success/revision/rehearsals/one small nervous breakdown/FemSoc's Women's Aid gig (which lead to...)/Many a jig and jape and good time. Oh and I received one letter from BBC Scotland inviting me on the Weakest Link. See, when put like that, I realise I do actually lead a rather exciting life. Thank goodness for my two marvellous methods of memory jogging: Facebook photo tagging and freakishly anal weekly planning. Looks like I can cancel that abundant order of cod-liver oil. Perhaps a Dictaphone would be a worthy purchase? On hearing/witnessing/experiencing something significant, I've always been tempted to tilt my head towards the imaginary camera which documents my life, raise an eyebrow and in a conspirator's voice mutter into my trusty Dictaphone "Note to self: today you discovered the heavenly joy of peanut butter and mushed banana on toast" or something of equal importance. I'd look like a tool but I'd be smug in my mad memory skill'z'. What a conflict of interests. 


In true broken record style, I'm going to attempt to shoehorn in feminism. Quelle surprise. This month has been an interesting one for fighting gender inequality. Locally, our fund-raiser for the wonderful Southampton Women's Aid was a massive success - many a weep was wept - and pulled in over £700. With government cuts leaving the domestic abuse refuge and service on its knees, FemSoc couldn't resist getting our jape on for such a crucial cause. The fact that fundraising was even necessary for a service which provides relief to hundreds of women and children a year is despicable but one must act as well as gripe and act we did. And gripe we will continue to do. The ConDemed reign of terror also continues nationally, with Nadine Dorries attempting to provide me with ample reason to feel afraid and ashamed of my clitoris and anti-abortion "pro-life" groups infiltrating sexual education in schools. Get the bunting out, ladies, let's enjoy life while we're still allowed to.


Back at FemSoc HQ, we were visited by two fantastic females in the last two weeks. The first was a lady working at a Southampton based day centre for street sex workers and those who are victim of addiction or homelessness. They provide sexual health advice and paraphernalia, food, human contact. It is so humbling to have someone come into our group and talk so frankly about the underbelly of society which many women find themselves ensconced by. Not everyone is born into a family who seek to protect them: love is a luxury. Love is a commodity. During the talk, we learned of women whose own mothers had sold them into paedophile circles at the age of four, and who now, unsurprisingly, have no option but prostitution. And what do you see when you look at a sex worker on the street? Something filthy, unladylike, shameful. We don't see the desperate need for love, the vulnerability, the emotional and economical corruption. Living in England, where human suffering often seems inane in comparison to the atrocities that go on elsewhere, it is easy to forget that poverty comes under many guises, poverty of respect and emotional support being as inhumane as that of financial insecurity. The organisation - and other similar ones - are always looking for volunteers. Fancy helping to shift some hard-set attitudes? Me too. Get on board. 
http://www.twosaints.org.uk/
http://www.catch-22.org.uk/Services/Detail/3D---Southampton


The other lovely lass was dear Valerie Goodwin, playwright extraordinaire and feminist raconteur. Her award-winning play 'The Magdalen Whitewash' tells the harrowing and formidably realistic tales of women under lock and key in the Irish Catholic laundries throughout the 20th century. This scene, so frequently overlooked in history and yet worthy of mass public outrage and horror, was one of grave reality for women who found themselves pregnant or even those with learning difficulties or those suspected of "succumbing to lust". Their families would shun them, dump them in the huge prison-like chambers, and almost never return to collect them post-baby. They were lost property, fated to spend the rest of their lives scrubbing dirty laundry: their brains were washed as they washed clothes. The play is beautifully crafted and has received theatrical recognition from all across the globe, including Ireland itself. Have a wee perusal, friend: http://www.playsandmusicals.co.uk/plays/twoact/drama/magdalen.htm


FemSoc are getting excited about the prospect of reworking parts of the play into a potential production of 'The Vagina Monologues' next year. I'll be attempting to frog-march inequality out of SUSU by reggae nights, Korean film screenings and vaginas. A good place to start, if ever there was one.


Post Script: Rhino kindly reminded me that I had made a gaping omission to this post, so I shall rectify this now. FEMSOC WON AN EVA! Hurrah and yippee and oh baby. We were given the Highly Commended Cup for Innovation for our services to students and SUSU - apparently we tackled some "controversial topics" and made gender equality "something all students could partake in". Because otherwise students wouldn't have been up for retaining equality... They needed Rhiannon and I screaming at them on the concourse before they realised men and women being equal was a good shout. As horrifying as that sounds, we got a shiny glass thing out of it so that's that innit. Fuck yeah, feminism.