2012, I leave you as I left the years that preceded you.
I have not ticked every item on the list I drew up so optimistically 365 days earlier; my life is not full and vibrant, and the things that didn't make sense in 2011 still don't make a lot of sense now. I am not as successful as I had hoped, or as happy as I had promised I would be. 2012, like every other year, ends like this: Mission Unaccomplished.
But I have endured lessons I did not expect to encounter, and I have moved from one place in time to another. I am not the person I was a year ago. I am stronger, wiser and better equipped for the lessons that 2013 has to offer. I am more determined than ever.
So for that, I guess I haven't failed 2012 after all... (Oh, and I survived the Apocalypse.)
Monday 31 December 2012
Friday 14 December 2012
Defending Feminism... Why??
A few days ago, I wrote a poem with an anti-patriarchy theme. It would probably help for me to share the poem to demonstrate just how, exactly, it argues against patriarchy, but when you want to get your work published, sometimes, you have to hold off giving it away for free. Just sometimes. But take my word for it.
I shared the poem with a few of my friends (some male), and only a handful of (female) readers seemed to get where I was coming from. Perhaps the poem didn't make its point as strongly as I had hoped it did, but what did become evident as I was talking to people was how much men, usually, struggle to distinguish between an attack on men and an attack on patriarchy, and when arguing my point, I felt as though I was having to defend feminism.
I am not anti-men. You will probably find that most women who proudly identify themselves as "feminist" have fathers, sons, husbands, boyfriends, brothers, uncles and nephews whom they love and want to see looked after by the world; they see how feminism benefits men.
Yes, feminism benefits men.
If we lived in a truly post-feminist world, men could stay at home to raise the children. It would not be expected that it is their duty or role to win the bread, or that they must be the "protector". They could cry when they feel sad without being called a pansy or told that they are gay, as if being gay were somehow a bad thing. They would be entitled to longer paternity leave, and would not be expected to pay for meals when they go out with their girlfriends or wives, or always be the one to hold open doors. They'd probably have better sex, as numerous studies have shown that men with "feminist" partners report that they find sex more enjoyable than men whose partners aren't. They would be able to go into careers usually looked down upon or seen as "women's work", such as nursing or midwifery, and if their wives were earning more money, there would be a greater household income overall. Feminism benefits the world.
This is as close as I will come to defending feminism. Yes, sometimes I will have to make my point rudely and aggressively, and if someone says or does something fucking idiotic, I have no problem telling them that they are fucking idiotic. When our society is being dictated by powerful rich white men, I will challenge the views that are being filtered down, if those views are detrimental to every single person's right to freedom and equality.
I will not apologise for being a feminist.
I shared the poem with a few of my friends (some male), and only a handful of (female) readers seemed to get where I was coming from. Perhaps the poem didn't make its point as strongly as I had hoped it did, but what did become evident as I was talking to people was how much men, usually, struggle to distinguish between an attack on men and an attack on patriarchy, and when arguing my point, I felt as though I was having to defend feminism.
I am not anti-men. You will probably find that most women who proudly identify themselves as "feminist" have fathers, sons, husbands, boyfriends, brothers, uncles and nephews whom they love and want to see looked after by the world; they see how feminism benefits men.
Yes, feminism benefits men.
If we lived in a truly post-feminist world, men could stay at home to raise the children. It would not be expected that it is their duty or role to win the bread, or that they must be the "protector". They could cry when they feel sad without being called a pansy or told that they are gay, as if being gay were somehow a bad thing. They would be entitled to longer paternity leave, and would not be expected to pay for meals when they go out with their girlfriends or wives, or always be the one to hold open doors. They'd probably have better sex, as numerous studies have shown that men with "feminist" partners report that they find sex more enjoyable than men whose partners aren't. They would be able to go into careers usually looked down upon or seen as "women's work", such as nursing or midwifery, and if their wives were earning more money, there would be a greater household income overall. Feminism benefits the world.
This is as close as I will come to defending feminism. Yes, sometimes I will have to make my point rudely and aggressively, and if someone says or does something fucking idiotic, I have no problem telling them that they are fucking idiotic. When our society is being dictated by powerful rich white men, I will challenge the views that are being filtered down, if those views are detrimental to every single person's right to freedom and equality.
I will not apologise for being a feminist.
Sunday 9 December 2012
My Feminism, Your Feminism
One thing that anyone with an opinion (which is pretty much everyone) is guilty of doing, is trying to force that opinion onto other people. It's natural. We think we are right; we want to be recognised as right; we want to operate in a world where things happen our way, and the only way to achieve that (besides running a dictatorship) is in getting people to agree with us. And so we state our argument as best as we can and hope people's minds are changed.
I have been trying to force my political opinions upon the wider world since I was a child (been telling people they're sexist since 1996), but I know that there will always be a group of people who will never hear me. Our views tend to come from our own experiences, hence why the majority of people who classify themselves as "feminist" are women; these are people who experience on a daily basis gender-based discrimination. Until a man is regularly wolf-whistled at in the street, physically violated by strangers (and non-strangers), feels that his access to healthcare is under threat or that he is, for some unfathomable reason, not being given the same pay, respect and opportunities as his female counterpart, he will never really know, just like I can never really know some of the struggles other women face.
Earlier on this year, I was approached by a theatre company who wanted me to write a short play on the theme of "international protest", and I had only a couple of short weeks to write it, in-between working full-time and working on a BBC project. Due to time constraints, I went with what type of protest I thought I knew best: women's protest; feminism; exploring the discrimination and fight women face internationally. So I did some research on female genital cutting, and it was only then that it really occurred to me just how little I know and understand.
In the years that I have been reading feminist literature, writing feminist columns and engaging in feminist protest, it has always covered the same topics: female objectification, largely in the media; UK-based crime where women are usually victims; lack of positive female role models; "the glass ceiling"... And while these are all very valid issues and we should certainly be fighting our corner against them, I do wonder if we, as feminists, are isolating our sisters; I wonder if we are only presenting one "type" of feminism, a feminism which occupies the thoughts of your white middle-class, educated feminist. Yes, we should care about the numbers of women in the boardroom, but we should care equally as much about women who cannot afford childcare, women whose health and freedom is threatened every day in other countries.
Feminism is not just for me and women like me. It's for every woman and girl alive; it's for every man and boy who doesn't yet realise that freeing women means freeing all of humanity.
The trouble is, I can't tell people this. I have not been subjected to genital cutting, have not been told I am not allowed to vote, or that I have no right to an education. I have not been denied access to contraception or healthcare, have not had my body sold, or used for profit. I have not had to choose between family and career, or been criticised for that choice. The women who have need to be given as great a platform to speak as we have taken for ourselves.
I have been trying to force my political opinions upon the wider world since I was a child (been telling people they're sexist since 1996), but I know that there will always be a group of people who will never hear me. Our views tend to come from our own experiences, hence why the majority of people who classify themselves as "feminist" are women; these are people who experience on a daily basis gender-based discrimination. Until a man is regularly wolf-whistled at in the street, physically violated by strangers (and non-strangers), feels that his access to healthcare is under threat or that he is, for some unfathomable reason, not being given the same pay, respect and opportunities as his female counterpart, he will never really know, just like I can never really know some of the struggles other women face.
Earlier on this year, I was approached by a theatre company who wanted me to write a short play on the theme of "international protest", and I had only a couple of short weeks to write it, in-between working full-time and working on a BBC project. Due to time constraints, I went with what type of protest I thought I knew best: women's protest; feminism; exploring the discrimination and fight women face internationally. So I did some research on female genital cutting, and it was only then that it really occurred to me just how little I know and understand.
In the years that I have been reading feminist literature, writing feminist columns and engaging in feminist protest, it has always covered the same topics: female objectification, largely in the media; UK-based crime where women are usually victims; lack of positive female role models; "the glass ceiling"... And while these are all very valid issues and we should certainly be fighting our corner against them, I do wonder if we, as feminists, are isolating our sisters; I wonder if we are only presenting one "type" of feminism, a feminism which occupies the thoughts of your white middle-class, educated feminist. Yes, we should care about the numbers of women in the boardroom, but we should care equally as much about women who cannot afford childcare, women whose health and freedom is threatened every day in other countries.
Feminism is not just for me and women like me. It's for every woman and girl alive; it's for every man and boy who doesn't yet realise that freeing women means freeing all of humanity.
The trouble is, I can't tell people this. I have not been subjected to genital cutting, have not been told I am not allowed to vote, or that I have no right to an education. I have not been denied access to contraception or healthcare, have not had my body sold, or used for profit. I have not had to choose between family and career, or been criticised for that choice. The women who have need to be given as great a platform to speak as we have taken for ourselves.
Friday 30 November 2012
The Grinch who tried to give back Christmas
Tomorrow we open the first window in our advent calendars. (Not me, though. I decided some years ago that if I want chocolate before breakfast, I will sodding have chocolate before breakfast. I don't need any excuses.) If we're not already, we start panicking about how little time we have left to buy our Christmas presents, send our Christmas cards, put up our decorations and start feeling festive. If we're lucky enough to have fond memories of Christmas from our childhoods, we try desperately (but always fail) to recapture the magic we once felt, and resign ourselves instead to getting slightly merry and falling asleep in front of the Christmas edition of The Royle Family/ Gavin and Stacey/ Only Fools and Horses/ EastEnders/ Coronation Street (delete as appropriate).
I know this year will be different.
I had a dream a few weeks ago that I was bearing witness to a battle between France and Germany. It was pre-1900, and my British perspective was not stained with "Oh but they're Nazis! Evil ones, die!!!" The French were throwing grenades at the unprotected and unprepared Germans. German soldiers were being burned alive, and their skeletons were dying slowly, painfully. It was painful to witness.
Flash-forward to the year 2012, and I was back at Church (I haven't attended regular old Mass since I was about 11, and my religious beliefs are far from bible-bound, but for some reason I still think of myself as Catholic). I was standing in front of a woman, a regular parishioner, serving rice to homeless people. She looked at me and I instantly recognised her as Jesus. She said to me, "Now you know, you know what you have to do."
I'm not sure that I do know what I have to do, but I know that something has to be done.
This Christmas, thousands of Britons will go without a roof over their heads. Thousands will go without a turkey (and I'm excluding non-Christians and vegetarians like myself from this total); millions are unemployed this Christmas, unable to afford the cheerful and lavish displays you see depicted on TV. We teach our children to believe in a selfless, giving superhero called Father Christmas (or Santa Claus, St. Nick, whatever you wanna call him; and yeah, he is a superhero - flies through the sky and can travel all the way around the world in one night? Not even Fly Emirates can do that), but his distribution of Christmas cheer is far from equal. Tom gets a bike and a Wii and a trampoline and a puppy from Father Christmas; Stacey gets a second-hand doll.
I want to ask you all a question - especially those of you who consider yourself Christian: What is Christmas, really? What does it celebrate? We put a tree up inside our living room, throw tinsel over it and we think we know what it means. We indebt ourselves to massive corporate organisations which exploit underpaid workers so that they can make a fat profit, so that our great-aunt can have a bar of soap which apparently smells like lavendar. We eat so much that we are in pain by the end of the day. We pull crackers, wear stupid hats and tell stupid jokes which make us laugh, not because they're funny, but because they don't even make any sense. Maybe some of us go to church, praise God and then shuffle back home again, back to our brand spanking new laptop or iPod. Do we listen to a single word said at church? Do we understand, not only what Christmas means, but what Jesus means?
Like I said before, it's been a long time since I last attended Mass - more than a decade, in fact - so I don't want to sit about preaching about something I don't even do myself. I don't ask you to take down the tree before it's even been put up, to not give out presents or cards, to deprive your children of the magic you perhaps once experienced. But what I do ask is this: Consider your beliefs; consider your conscience; consider those who have no one else to consider them.
I know this year will be different.
I had a dream a few weeks ago that I was bearing witness to a battle between France and Germany. It was pre-1900, and my British perspective was not stained with "Oh but they're Nazis! Evil ones, die!!!" The French were throwing grenades at the unprotected and unprepared Germans. German soldiers were being burned alive, and their skeletons were dying slowly, painfully. It was painful to witness.
Flash-forward to the year 2012, and I was back at Church (I haven't attended regular old Mass since I was about 11, and my religious beliefs are far from bible-bound, but for some reason I still think of myself as Catholic). I was standing in front of a woman, a regular parishioner, serving rice to homeless people. She looked at me and I instantly recognised her as Jesus. She said to me, "Now you know, you know what you have to do."
I'm not sure that I do know what I have to do, but I know that something has to be done.
This Christmas, thousands of Britons will go without a roof over their heads. Thousands will go without a turkey (and I'm excluding non-Christians and vegetarians like myself from this total); millions are unemployed this Christmas, unable to afford the cheerful and lavish displays you see depicted on TV. We teach our children to believe in a selfless, giving superhero called Father Christmas (or Santa Claus, St. Nick, whatever you wanna call him; and yeah, he is a superhero - flies through the sky and can travel all the way around the world in one night? Not even Fly Emirates can do that), but his distribution of Christmas cheer is far from equal. Tom gets a bike and a Wii and a trampoline and a puppy from Father Christmas; Stacey gets a second-hand doll.
I want to ask you all a question - especially those of you who consider yourself Christian: What is Christmas, really? What does it celebrate? We put a tree up inside our living room, throw tinsel over it and we think we know what it means. We indebt ourselves to massive corporate organisations which exploit underpaid workers so that they can make a fat profit, so that our great-aunt can have a bar of soap which apparently smells like lavendar. We eat so much that we are in pain by the end of the day. We pull crackers, wear stupid hats and tell stupid jokes which make us laugh, not because they're funny, but because they don't even make any sense. Maybe some of us go to church, praise God and then shuffle back home again, back to our brand spanking new laptop or iPod. Do we listen to a single word said at church? Do we understand, not only what Christmas means, but what Jesus means?
Like I said before, it's been a long time since I last attended Mass - more than a decade, in fact - so I don't want to sit about preaching about something I don't even do myself. I don't ask you to take down the tree before it's even been put up, to not give out presents or cards, to deprive your children of the magic you perhaps once experienced. But what I do ask is this: Consider your beliefs; consider your conscience; consider those who have no one else to consider them.
Tuesday 27 November 2012
Ambition
I struggle with the term "ambition". I'm wary of job advertisements which seek "ambitious" applicants, and uncomfortable with what this term tends to mean to wider society. It's a dissatisfaction with what you've already got, and a strive for more; more money, more materialism, more for yourself. It's apparently a positive quality in a person. It's what we should all be, and it qualifies our worth to the rest of society, all the while disempowering those who lack it.
"Ambition" is not available to all. It's not a personality trait you're born with; it's genetically inherited in the same way that wealth is, and becomes persistently more obvious the older you get. It's drummed into you, or drummed out of you, as you develop. When you're a child, they ask you what you want to be when you grow up. If children were handed out application forms, some forms would have a list of 500 careers available to choose from; other forms would have a list of 10. Tick the appropriate box.
Those fortunate enough to have "ambition" bestowed upon them at birth are told the age-old lie that you can do anything if you set your mind to it. Some people can. Some people can dig and climb their way out of the deepest slums and become Sir Alan Sugar, and we are told that "If I can do it, why can't you?" - but not everyone can win the lottery. If we were all astronauts, popstars, actors, scientists and laywers, who would sweep the streets? Who would collect your rubbish? Who would unblock your toilet? Who would stack the shelves of your local supermarket? Who would teach your children, and look after you when you're too sick or too old to do it yourself?
"Ambition" is a lie. "Privilege" is the truth.
If you have the privilege to touch whichever dream your mind dares conjure up, be bold enough to look upon those who don't with the same respect given to you, the same respect you feel you have "earned". Do not blame, disempower, chastise or divide those you consider beneath you. Look upon ambition as a strive not for money, materialism or personal gain, but as a strive for happiness - however that might be gained.
And once you do, maybe then we can all have ambition.
"Ambition" is not available to all. It's not a personality trait you're born with; it's genetically inherited in the same way that wealth is, and becomes persistently more obvious the older you get. It's drummed into you, or drummed out of you, as you develop. When you're a child, they ask you what you want to be when you grow up. If children were handed out application forms, some forms would have a list of 500 careers available to choose from; other forms would have a list of 10. Tick the appropriate box.
Those fortunate enough to have "ambition" bestowed upon them at birth are told the age-old lie that you can do anything if you set your mind to it. Some people can. Some people can dig and climb their way out of the deepest slums and become Sir Alan Sugar, and we are told that "If I can do it, why can't you?" - but not everyone can win the lottery. If we were all astronauts, popstars, actors, scientists and laywers, who would sweep the streets? Who would collect your rubbish? Who would unblock your toilet? Who would stack the shelves of your local supermarket? Who would teach your children, and look after you when you're too sick or too old to do it yourself?
"Ambition" is a lie. "Privilege" is the truth.
If you have the privilege to touch whichever dream your mind dares conjure up, be bold enough to look upon those who don't with the same respect given to you, the same respect you feel you have "earned". Do not blame, disempower, chastise or divide those you consider beneath you. Look upon ambition as a strive not for money, materialism or personal gain, but as a strive for happiness - however that might be gained.
And once you do, maybe then we can all have ambition.
Keep It Going
The Earth is finely tuned.
Temperature.
The air's composition.
Diet.
Lifespan.
Love.
Everything is put on Earth for precisely one reason: to keep it going. Keep it ticking. Preserve what we have, nourish life and watch it blossom.
You are here for that very reason.
Keep it going.
Keep it ticking.
Preserve what we have, nourish life and watch it blossom.
I'm not talking about your own life; I'm talking about the life of the world.
Temperature.
The air's composition.
Diet.
Lifespan.
Love.
Everything is put on Earth for precisely one reason: to keep it going. Keep it ticking. Preserve what we have, nourish life and watch it blossom.
You are here for that very reason.
Keep it going.
Keep it ticking.
Preserve what we have, nourish life and watch it blossom.
I'm not talking about your own life; I'm talking about the life of the world.
Monday 26 November 2012
Hiatus?
I think. A lot. The term "overthink" is often bandied about where I'm concerned, and while this can often be a negative thing (in fact, it usually is a negative thing; my thoughts tend not to be: "The world is good. I can smell flowers. Life is beautiful. I want to go and run naked and free in a meadow."), it is also the thing that keeps me moving. It's the thing that leaves me unsatisfied and wanting more of a good thing, less of a bad thing or something different entirely. It is the thing that makes me understand people, helps me see the other side of the story (and the other side, and the other side, and the other side). It's the thing that frees me to write. Thoughts come to me in a jumble of words which don't necessarily form a coherent sentence, but form a coherent expression (as evidenced by this, probably).
My problem at the moment is that I have too many thoughts, and I don't know where to put them all. I don't have one batch of jumbled words; I have about 50.
But I'm working on it, so please excuse my absence from the blog lately...
My problem at the moment is that I have too many thoughts, and I don't know where to put them all. I don't have one batch of jumbled words; I have about 50.
But I'm working on it, so please excuse my absence from the blog lately...
Wednesday 17 October 2012
"Guys, it's my body."
For the last year, I have been writing a play about a young woman’s decision either to keep or abort a pregnancy. About a month ago, I wrote my final scene, pulled everything together, stayed up till the early hours of the morning and read through it, from start to end.
When I reached the end, I realised that I was far from finished.
The thing I had overlooked all year long when I had been writing the play was the very message I wanted to put across at the start. I had spent so long deliberating whether the character should or shouldn’t terminate this unplanned pregnancy that it began to feel like it was me, and not Gemma (my main protagonist), making the decision. Kind of ironic given my standpoint on this issue.
I have never been pregnant, let alone experienced an unplanned pregnancy. You get some pro-lifers who concede that “Yeah, I guess if she’s raped then that’s different, maybe abortion is okay then”, but I consider that argument irrelevant. There are near-infinite reasons why a woman might want to terminate a pregnancy: it was conceived through rape; she can’t afford it; she considers herself too young or too old; she doesn’t think she’s ready; she’s afraid for hers or the baby’s physical or mental wellbeing; she does not want children... The reasoning does not alter the effect. If a woman does not want to donate her body to another being for nine months (and then some; the effects of pregnancy don’t cease entirely after birth), is that not all there is to it?
Very often in life, you try to see things from another’s point of view by saying to yourself, “What would I do if I was in that situation?” I am sure there are plenty of women who would or who have continued with a pregnancy which was conceived through rape, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with those who choose to do that. That is their choice. I have known women who have fallen pregnant accidentally and gone on to have a baby, and there is nothing wrong with that choice. But what is right for those women might not necessarily be right for every other woman on the face of the earth. Do I know what I would do if I fell pregnant tomorrow? I know what I might do, but how do you ever truly know what you would do until you are in that situation? You only have to look at history and at places where abortion is illegal to see the damaging effects this has on women’s health; spend any length of time on the web and you will find countless personal stories of women who have suffered or even died as the result of the unavailability of abortion clinics. In fact, I’ll start you off with this one.
I don’t agree that men shouldn’t have opinions on abortion – after all, I have opinions on all kinds of stuff that don’t directly affect me – but there’s a difference between opinion and dictating. I might think that my friend painting her bathroom pea green is a poor choice, but I’m not going to march into her home with a pot of paint and a roller and paint over it blue. (Weird analogy, but you get my point.) Ultimately, abortion is an issue that will never directly affect men. Men do not have wombs, nor vaginas, nor breasts (well, not the kind that lactate, anyway), and yet more than three-quarters of MPs are male. These are currently the people making decisions about women’s reproductive rights, and that, if anything, is wrong.
When I reached the end, I realised that I was far from finished.
The thing I had overlooked all year long when I had been writing the play was the very message I wanted to put across at the start. I had spent so long deliberating whether the character should or shouldn’t terminate this unplanned pregnancy that it began to feel like it was me, and not Gemma (my main protagonist), making the decision. Kind of ironic given my standpoint on this issue.
I have never been pregnant, let alone experienced an unplanned pregnancy. You get some pro-lifers who concede that “Yeah, I guess if she’s raped then that’s different, maybe abortion is okay then”, but I consider that argument irrelevant. There are near-infinite reasons why a woman might want to terminate a pregnancy: it was conceived through rape; she can’t afford it; she considers herself too young or too old; she doesn’t think she’s ready; she’s afraid for hers or the baby’s physical or mental wellbeing; she does not want children... The reasoning does not alter the effect. If a woman does not want to donate her body to another being for nine months (and then some; the effects of pregnancy don’t cease entirely after birth), is that not all there is to it?
Very often in life, you try to see things from another’s point of view by saying to yourself, “What would I do if I was in that situation?” I am sure there are plenty of women who would or who have continued with a pregnancy which was conceived through rape, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with those who choose to do that. That is their choice. I have known women who have fallen pregnant accidentally and gone on to have a baby, and there is nothing wrong with that choice. But what is right for those women might not necessarily be right for every other woman on the face of the earth. Do I know what I would do if I fell pregnant tomorrow? I know what I might do, but how do you ever truly know what you would do until you are in that situation? You only have to look at history and at places where abortion is illegal to see the damaging effects this has on women’s health; spend any length of time on the web and you will find countless personal stories of women who have suffered or even died as the result of the unavailability of abortion clinics. In fact, I’ll start you off with this one.
I don’t agree that men shouldn’t have opinions on abortion – after all, I have opinions on all kinds of stuff that don’t directly affect me – but there’s a difference between opinion and dictating. I might think that my friend painting her bathroom pea green is a poor choice, but I’m not going to march into her home with a pot of paint and a roller and paint over it blue. (Weird analogy, but you get my point.) Ultimately, abortion is an issue that will never directly affect men. Men do not have wombs, nor vaginas, nor breasts (well, not the kind that lactate, anyway), and yet more than three-quarters of MPs are male. These are currently the people making decisions about women’s reproductive rights, and that, if anything, is wrong.
Sunday 14 October 2012
A Poem
A Poem
A poem is the rainbow you see within greyscale,
The beat in every silence.
It reaches into a realm unrealised and
Chokes it to the surface.
It cries in the desert,
And smiles when you’ve forgotten how;
It pains where there are no nerves.
It knows no nerves.
It runs when you can’t go on,
And swims with a hole in the sail,
Binding you with me
And me with him
And him with her
And her with you,
Joining us together like a constellation in vast darkness.
It hears the tears dissolving into your pillow
And sees the beams that prop up your smile;
It evaporates your tears, holds them in a cloud over your head
And pronounces your pain to the world.
It dreams in consciousness and unconsciously dreams,
Inhabiting your inhibitions until it bursts through the roof,
Smashes all the windows and falls through the floor,
Leaving you to climb out from the rubble,
Shake the dust from your hair and
Wait for the wounds to heal.
It exposes you:
Fraudster,
Liar,
Cheat,
Coward.
It wraps itself around you, strong arms raising the hairs on your neck.
It tells you, “Me too”
And you entrust yourself to it,
Fingers licking at the pages,
Hungry for more of
This bittersweet truth.
By Martha Everitt
October 2012
A poem is the rainbow you see within greyscale,
The beat in every silence.
It reaches into a realm unrealised and
Chokes it to the surface.
It cries in the desert,
And smiles when you’ve forgotten how;
It pains where there are no nerves.
It knows no nerves.
It runs when you can’t go on,
And swims with a hole in the sail,
Binding you with me
And me with him
And him with her
And her with you,
Joining us together like a constellation in vast darkness.
It hears the tears dissolving into your pillow
And sees the beams that prop up your smile;
It evaporates your tears, holds them in a cloud over your head
And pronounces your pain to the world.
It dreams in consciousness and unconsciously dreams,
Inhabiting your inhibitions until it bursts through the roof,
Smashes all the windows and falls through the floor,
Leaving you to climb out from the rubble,
Shake the dust from your hair and
Wait for the wounds to heal.
It exposes you:
Fraudster,
Liar,
Cheat,
Coward.
It wraps itself around you, strong arms raising the hairs on your neck.
It tells you, “Me too”
And you entrust yourself to it,
Fingers licking at the pages,
Hungry for more of
This bittersweet truth.
By Martha Everitt
October 2012
Sunday 7 October 2012
Surplus To Requirements
No one is superior nor inferior.
We are equally different, good at some things and bad at others.
We all came into the world with the same proporties of promise, but our behaviour and the choices we make from thereon separate us.
Do not disregard this. Do not see yourself as more or less, better or worse. Do not consider others disposable unless you consider yourself on par.
We are equally different, good at some things and bad at others.
We all came into the world with the same proporties of promise, but our behaviour and the choices we make from thereon separate us.
Do not disregard this. Do not see yourself as more or less, better or worse. Do not consider others disposable unless you consider yourself on par.
Thursday 4 October 2012
Your leading lady represents women; represent them well.
Been super busy these last few weeks. I'm delirious with busyness, hence my careless and dorky use of the word "super". Yesterday morning, I actually had to give myself a pep talk before I could get up. My alarm went off at 7am, and these were my first thoughts: "What in Santa's name is that noise? Aliens? What are they doing here? ...Oh wait. Alarm. Oh dear. OK, come on, girl. You can do it. You are strong. You are a strong woman. You can do this, YEAH!!!!!"
And then the little bitch inside me reached out, hit snooze, rolled over and went back to sleep.
That's just the way it's been lately.
But I've discovered a lot, writing-wise, lately. I've learned to be disciplined, for one. I actually have a timetable now, would you believe. When you work full-time and still want to pursue other stuff and have a social life, sometimes you just have to walk the dorky green mile and set yourself limits. Monday to Friday 9-5 is when I make money; Saturdays, Friday evenings and one other weekday evening is mine to go out, chill out or slob out, and all the other weekday evenings and Sunday are writing time. So far, it's working. I "finished" my play, then read it back, gave an inward sigh, proclaimed "No" and decided to rewrite half of the thing entirely. Perhaps that sounds like the only direction I'm headed in is backwards, but I prefer to look at this thing as glass half-full. This play is going to be epic. I spent lunchtime today writing a monologue for "Adam", an underachieving 37-year-old single father to one 17-year-old superbrain girl. I used to think that it was crazy - me, a 23-year-old, well-educated woman, trying to put myself into the mindset of someone my polar opposite - but it's not, really. We're all people. We all feel stuff, we all get happy and sad and angry and insecure. We all fart, we all shit - to put it pleasantly.
One thing that has become evident is that my writing is always going to slant towards bigging up women. I am never going to write something exclusively sympathetic to men. There are enough men in positions of authority and enough women still being regarded for solely their sexuality, that I think it's important that those who can should do their bit to change that. And as well as working on my own play, I've also been dabbling about on my brother's upcoming feature film, Goodnight Gloria, and acted as a bit of a "scriptwriter consultant" on occasion. Here's a film with a leading female character with so much potential to make a statement on behalf of women: we make stuff happen; we make our own happiness.
And so, I have formed my writer's motto: "Your leading lady represents women; represent them well."
And on that note, I went to the pub yesterday evening, which means that Thursday evening belongs to the notebook and biro.
And then the little bitch inside me reached out, hit snooze, rolled over and went back to sleep.
That's just the way it's been lately.
But I've discovered a lot, writing-wise, lately. I've learned to be disciplined, for one. I actually have a timetable now, would you believe. When you work full-time and still want to pursue other stuff and have a social life, sometimes you just have to walk the dorky green mile and set yourself limits. Monday to Friday 9-5 is when I make money; Saturdays, Friday evenings and one other weekday evening is mine to go out, chill out or slob out, and all the other weekday evenings and Sunday are writing time. So far, it's working. I "finished" my play, then read it back, gave an inward sigh, proclaimed "No" and decided to rewrite half of the thing entirely. Perhaps that sounds like the only direction I'm headed in is backwards, but I prefer to look at this thing as glass half-full. This play is going to be epic. I spent lunchtime today writing a monologue for "Adam", an underachieving 37-year-old single father to one 17-year-old superbrain girl. I used to think that it was crazy - me, a 23-year-old, well-educated woman, trying to put myself into the mindset of someone my polar opposite - but it's not, really. We're all people. We all feel stuff, we all get happy and sad and angry and insecure. We all fart, we all shit - to put it pleasantly.
One thing that has become evident is that my writing is always going to slant towards bigging up women. I am never going to write something exclusively sympathetic to men. There are enough men in positions of authority and enough women still being regarded for solely their sexuality, that I think it's important that those who can should do their bit to change that. And as well as working on my own play, I've also been dabbling about on my brother's upcoming feature film, Goodnight Gloria, and acted as a bit of a "scriptwriter consultant" on occasion. Here's a film with a leading female character with so much potential to make a statement on behalf of women: we make stuff happen; we make our own happiness.
And so, I have formed my writer's motto: "Your leading lady represents women; represent them well."
And on that note, I went to the pub yesterday evening, which means that Thursday evening belongs to the notebook and biro.
Friday 24 August 2012
She's too fat, she's too thin.
A trend has developed in recent years to oppose the onslaught of size zero supermodels, celebrity diets and tummy-tucked c-section patients: the trend of “She’s too thin.”
I understand it, I do. Most women – not all women, but most – are made to have extra padding. Hips, bums, breasts and stomachs are normal, and why shouldn’t we encourage women with womanly proportions to embrace their curves, to hold up two fingers to the unhealthy perceptions of the female physique and accept that they are the way they are meant to be? I support that. What I do not support is slamming “thin” women.
I’m a size 8 on bottom and a size 6 on top. When I was a teenager, when I had what I ironically refer to now as “puppy fat”, I had an exceptionally large bum which had to be squeezed into a size 10. And I know what you’re thinking: “Size 10 is small!” And yes, size 10 is small to someone who is supposed to be a size 14 or 16, but I am not built to be a 14 or 16. I am narrow-shouldered, with thin wrists and tiny hands – hence why I am often mistaken for being just out of school. I know what I am and I know how I am meant to be; I have lived in this body for 23 years, I have grown up with it and I know it far better than any random stranger who chooses to pass off their “concerns” to me as I peruse the shops for my lunch.
“Is that all you’re eating?”
“Why don’t you eat?”
“Eat!”
I wonder if it would be so appropriate to ask a curvy woman why she eats so much, or to order her to stop eating. I wonder if it would be so appropriate to part some comment like, “You’re too fat. There must be something wrong with you”, as apparently it is appropriate for people who barely – if at all – know me to tell me, “You’re too thin. You must have an eating disorder.”
Ironically, being on the receiving end of comments such as these does eventually begin to instil in people like me an unhealthy perception of our bodies. I often pass by the mirror and glare at the way my top falls off my shoulders, too loose around the bust, or look at my legs poking out from under my skirt and wish they didn’t look so frail. I am aware of people watching me as I eat, and it makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable, as if every bite, every chew and every crumb on my plate is being analysed. I remember being 18 and in college; I had a chest infection, and I was in a toilet cubicle coughing up my lungs, dribbling phlegm everywhere. (It was sexy, trust me.) As I emerged from the cubicle a couple of minutes later, two glassy female stares met mine – judging, critical, assuming. I washed my hands and left.
I find myself facing increasing interrogation the older I get. I cannot have a bad day and be off my food without “concerned” individuals slamming my physical appearance. I understand that people’s intentions are good, but whatever the intention, it is demeaning to tell someone that the way they are supposed to be is “not right”. And if I wasn’t so used to it, it would probably be pretty hurtful, too...
I’m a size 8 on bottom and a size 6 on top. When I was a teenager, when I had what I ironically refer to now as “puppy fat”, I had an exceptionally large bum which had to be squeezed into a size 10. And I know what you’re thinking: “Size 10 is small!” And yes, size 10 is small to someone who is supposed to be a size 14 or 16, but I am not built to be a 14 or 16. I am narrow-shouldered, with thin wrists and tiny hands – hence why I am often mistaken for being just out of school. I know what I am and I know how I am meant to be; I have lived in this body for 23 years, I have grown up with it and I know it far better than any random stranger who chooses to pass off their “concerns” to me as I peruse the shops for my lunch.
“Is that all you’re eating?”
“Why don’t you eat?”
“Eat!”
I wonder if it would be so appropriate to ask a curvy woman why she eats so much, or to order her to stop eating. I wonder if it would be so appropriate to part some comment like, “You’re too fat. There must be something wrong with you”, as apparently it is appropriate for people who barely – if at all – know me to tell me, “You’re too thin. You must have an eating disorder.”
Ironically, being on the receiving end of comments such as these does eventually begin to instil in people like me an unhealthy perception of our bodies. I often pass by the mirror and glare at the way my top falls off my shoulders, too loose around the bust, or look at my legs poking out from under my skirt and wish they didn’t look so frail. I am aware of people watching me as I eat, and it makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable, as if every bite, every chew and every crumb on my plate is being analysed. I remember being 18 and in college; I had a chest infection, and I was in a toilet cubicle coughing up my lungs, dribbling phlegm everywhere. (It was sexy, trust me.) As I emerged from the cubicle a couple of minutes later, two glassy female stares met mine – judging, critical, assuming. I washed my hands and left.
I find myself facing increasing interrogation the older I get. I cannot have a bad day and be off my food without “concerned” individuals slamming my physical appearance. I understand that people’s intentions are good, but whatever the intention, it is demeaning to tell someone that the way they are supposed to be is “not right”. And if I wasn’t so used to it, it would probably be pretty hurtful, too...
Saturday 18 August 2012
Breathing
Breathing
Living with an incurable illness is like breathing with a wire in your throat.
What should come easily must instead be pushed,
But push too hard and risk hearing that tearing of flesh,
The warm metallic blood rising to your mouth,
Sticky on your tongue, dribbling venom down your chin
Like the vampire that sucked away your life and left you with this
Nonentity.
There is no coffin that seals this illness shut,
Or shovel that pats it on the top of its head
And renders it tragic.
They don’t talk about how young you were or
The life stolen by waste.
You persist in the world, wasting away an existence you feel you stole,
Constantly waiting for the heavy hand on your shoulder
To come and take you away,
To make you stand trial for your sufferance.
Explain why.
Why?
Stand before judgement in the box they have classed as ‘wrong’
And tell them you don’t know why,
Or how,
Or how to stop.
You are a menace to yourself and to those who have no say in whether to love you,
Who somehow hear a heart beating in that hollow chest,
Who look into your eyes each day and see the child who promised
They would grow up to be happy.
I have stared through the cracked skin and weary eyes
And found a spirit buried so deep in sadness that it no longer knows
It is there.
I have touched it, felt the shock of it at my fingertips and
Snatched my hand away fiercely,
Shamefully offended by its presence.
I have known him,
Comforted her,
Clamped my arms around them and
Hoped to suffocate their suffering.
I have loosened my hold on their pain
(as they do from time-to-time)
But forever remain hanging by a thread of barbed wire
Tearing at our throats,
Blood bubbling to the surface,
Making it harder to breathe.
Living with an incurable illness is like breathing with a wire in your throat.
What should come easily must instead be pushed,
But push too hard and risk hearing that tearing of flesh,
The warm metallic blood rising to your mouth,
Sticky on your tongue, dribbling venom down your chin
Like the vampire that sucked away your life and left you with this
Nonentity.
There is no coffin that seals this illness shut,
Or shovel that pats it on the top of its head
And renders it tragic.
They don’t talk about how young you were or
The life stolen by waste.
You persist in the world, wasting away an existence you feel you stole,
Constantly waiting for the heavy hand on your shoulder
To come and take you away,
To make you stand trial for your sufferance.
Explain why.
Why?
Stand before judgement in the box they have classed as ‘wrong’
And tell them you don’t know why,
Or how,
Or how to stop.
You are a menace to yourself and to those who have no say in whether to love you,
Who somehow hear a heart beating in that hollow chest,
Who look into your eyes each day and see the child who promised
They would grow up to be happy.
I have stared through the cracked skin and weary eyes
And found a spirit buried so deep in sadness that it no longer knows
It is there.
I have touched it, felt the shock of it at my fingertips and
Snatched my hand away fiercely,
Shamefully offended by its presence.
I have known him,
Comforted her,
Clamped my arms around them and
Hoped to suffocate their suffering.
I have loosened my hold on their pain
(as they do from time-to-time)
But forever remain hanging by a thread of barbed wire
Tearing at our throats,
Blood bubbling to the surface,
Making it harder to breathe.
Thursday 16 August 2012
Just... write.
Write a line.
Stare at it,
At the blinking, expectant cursor.
Backspace.
Keep going,
Keep typing.
You’re Blake,
Folded beneath a tree in Peckham Rye,
And the bark is imprinting its age into your skin.
You see angels – real angels,
Like the one you felt resting its chin on your left shoulder
The same week Nan died,
Or the one who slapped its tiny hand across your forehead when you were sleeping, and not living.
No one else sees them, but no one else needs to as much as you do.
You dream of Fear.
He’s always hiding at the top of a tower block.
You drag your feet toward him,
A slow slog, shoulders always slumped because the lift never works,
And what good is going anywhere if you’re not moving?
He waits for you: the storm that tears the sky in two and ripples through your bones,
The rain that bursts through the opening and drenches your consciousness –
Soaked, cold and panting,
Gasping for air like the Piscean whose fins were clipped at birth.
The angel must have woken you when she saw the tears on your face and
Inhaled the perspiration on your perpetually frozen palms
As you inhaled the hail.
Breathe,
She wants you to breathe,
To loosen your grip on Fear and climb higher,
Beyond him,
Toward the gaping hole in the sky.
Stare at it,
At the blinking, expectant cursor.
Backspace.
Keep going,
Keep typing.
You’re Blake,
Folded beneath a tree in Peckham Rye,
And the bark is imprinting its age into your skin.
You see angels – real angels,
Like the one you felt resting its chin on your left shoulder
The same week Nan died,
Or the one who slapped its tiny hand across your forehead when you were sleeping, and not living.
No one else sees them, but no one else needs to as much as you do.
You dream of Fear.
He’s always hiding at the top of a tower block.
You drag your feet toward him,
A slow slog, shoulders always slumped because the lift never works,
And what good is going anywhere if you’re not moving?
He waits for you: the storm that tears the sky in two and ripples through your bones,
The rain that bursts through the opening and drenches your consciousness –
Soaked, cold and panting,
Gasping for air like the Piscean whose fins were clipped at birth.
The angel must have woken you when she saw the tears on your face and
Inhaled the perspiration on your perpetually frozen palms
As you inhaled the hail.
Breathe,
She wants you to breathe,
To loosen your grip on Fear and climb higher,
Beyond him,
Toward the gaping hole in the sky.
Sunday 8 July 2012
The Power of Lies
The Power of Lies
I hear you got a promotion:
Crack open the champagne.
And yes, you worked so very hard –
That nine-to-five’s a pain.
You’ll send your kids to private school;
They’ll get the very best.
You’ll have to pay high taxes – though
Who cares about the rest?
Just ignore those small boys and girls;
Failure is in their genes.
At twenty he’ll be inside; she’ll
Be pregnant by fourteen.
You must blame their low-life parents,
Who can’t be arsed to work.
But you do nothing but: always
With your hands in the dirt.
Those immigrants are coming in,
Trying to steal your job.
But if they can’t, they’ll make do in
The luxe life of a slob.
Of course, they’re a threat to your world;
Let’s send out our forces.
They just want to blow us all up;
You want their resources.
Your profit’s smashing through the roof;
Your kids are going blind.
Your life is so very perfect,
And should I tell you why?
Debbie works at the factory, and
Night shifts at a café:
Working hard to feed her kids; you
Pay her minimum wage.
Her kids are at the local comp,
Classes of thirty-five.
Another teacher has walked out;
There are no more supplies.
They come home and their mum’s not there;
Dad’s nowhere to be seen.
They don’t understand their homework,
So they just watch TV.
And what about that man Nasir,
Who’s living on the streets?
Trying to sell the Big Issue,
But whose glance you can’t meet.
After work in some seedy bar
Your drink’s spiked with your shame.
Is table-dancing really the
Liberty you proclaimed?
It’s not as bad as where they’re from:
A land not scarce of debt.
Your ancestors screwed over theirs;
You continue the quest.
While you stand on their shoulders, they
Line your pockets with gold.
And as long as you’ve power, we’ll
Believe the lies we’re told.
By Martha Everitt
April 2009
I hear you got a promotion:
Crack open the champagne.
And yes, you worked so very hard –
That nine-to-five’s a pain.
You’ll send your kids to private school;
They’ll get the very best.
You’ll have to pay high taxes – though
Who cares about the rest?
Just ignore those small boys and girls;
Failure is in their genes.
At twenty he’ll be inside; she’ll
Be pregnant by fourteen.
You must blame their low-life parents,
Who can’t be arsed to work.
But you do nothing but: always
With your hands in the dirt.
Those immigrants are coming in,
Trying to steal your job.
But if they can’t, they’ll make do in
The luxe life of a slob.
Of course, they’re a threat to your world;
Let’s send out our forces.
They just want to blow us all up;
You want their resources.
Your profit’s smashing through the roof;
Your kids are going blind.
Your life is so very perfect,
And should I tell you why?
Debbie works at the factory, and
Night shifts at a café:
Working hard to feed her kids; you
Pay her minimum wage.
Her kids are at the local comp,
Classes of thirty-five.
Another teacher has walked out;
There are no more supplies.
They come home and their mum’s not there;
Dad’s nowhere to be seen.
They don’t understand their homework,
So they just watch TV.
And what about that man Nasir,
Who’s living on the streets?
Trying to sell the Big Issue,
But whose glance you can’t meet.
After work in some seedy bar
Your drink’s spiked with your shame.
Is table-dancing really the
Liberty you proclaimed?
It’s not as bad as where they’re from:
A land not scarce of debt.
Your ancestors screwed over theirs;
You continue the quest.
While you stand on their shoulders, they
Line your pockets with gold.
And as long as you’ve power, we’ll
Believe the lies we’re told.
By Martha Everitt
April 2009
Saturday 30 June 2012
Series: Pet Peeves #6
Pet Peeve #6: Rekindling Kindle Hate
Kindles. I fucking hate 'em.
I know I shouldn't, but every time I see someone on the bus, train or tube with a Kindle, or with one peeking deliberately from their bag, I judge them. (Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...) I know I shouldn't; I know there are perfectly valid reasons to own a Kindle, for example: you want to read an epic novel like War and Peace, but have arthritis in your hands, or you stole a Kindle last year while you were out looting, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste - but everyone else? Be ashamed of yourselves. Would it hurt you to buy a bloody book?
If the answer to that question is "Yes, yes it would. I hate books", then you, sir/madam, are everything wrong with this world. You don't feel about books the same way I do. You don't sit in a candle-lit room and gently caress the cover with your gaze; you don't fondle the spine lightly with your fingertips; you don't lean in and smell those oh-so-sweet pages the first time you get close enough to. You can't treat a book the way I treat it, and you will never love it as much as I do. All you do is simply carry your 'precious' Kindle around with you like some kind of trophy, to show off at your pretentious little Christmas office parties. "Look how smooth it is," you tell your colleagues. "I turn it on every night. Ooh yeah." They don't know what you really do. They don't know that you leave it all alone in the kitchen all night, like the chauvinist bastard you really are.
My main gripe with Kindles lies in the people they are marketed at. See for yourself:
In this advert, we are shown 17 instances of people using a Kindle (if you include the shot of someone throwing a Kindle across a table - cos throwing a book is the first thing I think to do as I come out of Waterstones with my newest purchase); in only 6 of these are the people with the Kindle actually bothering to read from it (I don't include the kid cos, let's face it, at his age he's not gonna read anything unless it's got pictures in). The other 11 instances are as followed:
1. Person picks Kindle up. Well, alright. I suppose the first step in learning to read is in picking a book up. Well done.
2. Person takes Kindle out of a drawer full of jewellery. This is just a fancy variation of the previous shot. Not impressed.
3. Person puts Kindle on passenger seat in car. Yes, because that is what we do with books. We put them on car seats. We read two sentences at a time at the traffic lights, and hope that by the end of our life we have managed to finish chapter one.
4. Person lets dog lick Kindle. Like a book, only tastes better. I see where the marketing team were going here.
5. Man gives Kindle to woman. "I don't want it anymore! You have it!" Alternatively: "What does this say? C-H-A-P-T-E-R-O-N-E. Hmmm."
6. Child randomly presses buttons on Kindle. Probably deliberately breaking it because his parents aren't paying him any attention anymore - not since they started taking their Kindle on long, romantic car rides through the countryside.
7. Person throws Kindle across table. As you do.
8. Man gives Kindle to woman as a Christmas present. She looks happy and hugs him. "Oh darling, just what I never knew I always wanted until I saw everyone else with one!"
9. Person puts Kindle in back pocket. Right. Well.
10. Person throws their breakfast over Kindle. We must feed our Kindles, make sure they never go hungry. Y'see, Kindles aren't just for Christmas - they're for life.
11. Woman takes Kindle on quiet bike ride on a hot summer's day. I only hope she remembered to put some sunblock on the Kindle!
All this is played along to a chirpy little happy tune, and everyone looks like they're having a really good time. But the thing is, folks, we're not being sold a product here, we're being sold a lifestyle. That's why it annoys the crap out of me when I see people brandishing their Kindles all over public transport. I see them as someone who was never that keen on reading, who was taken in by a simple capitalist marketing scam; they were told that if they bought a Kindle, they would enjoy a chirpy little happy life, with sunshine and flowers and smiles all round. The reality for most of them (note, I said most), as they sit there on the train reading some generic novel about some war veteran having an affair with the general's wife (don't they all seem to do that?), is they're bored out of their fucking skulls.
You know I'm right.
Kindles. I fucking hate 'em.
I know I shouldn't, but every time I see someone on the bus, train or tube with a Kindle, or with one peeking deliberately from their bag, I judge them. (Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...) I know I shouldn't; I know there are perfectly valid reasons to own a Kindle, for example: you want to read an epic novel like War and Peace, but have arthritis in your hands, or you stole a Kindle last year while you were out looting, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste - but everyone else? Be ashamed of yourselves. Would it hurt you to buy a bloody book?
If the answer to that question is "Yes, yes it would. I hate books", then you, sir/madam, are everything wrong with this world. You don't feel about books the same way I do. You don't sit in a candle-lit room and gently caress the cover with your gaze; you don't fondle the spine lightly with your fingertips; you don't lean in and smell those oh-so-sweet pages the first time you get close enough to. You can't treat a book the way I treat it, and you will never love it as much as I do. All you do is simply carry your 'precious' Kindle around with you like some kind of trophy, to show off at your pretentious little Christmas office parties. "Look how smooth it is," you tell your colleagues. "I turn it on every night. Ooh yeah." They don't know what you really do. They don't know that you leave it all alone in the kitchen all night, like the chauvinist bastard you really are.
My main gripe with Kindles lies in the people they are marketed at. See for yourself:
In this advert, we are shown 17 instances of people using a Kindle (if you include the shot of someone throwing a Kindle across a table - cos throwing a book is the first thing I think to do as I come out of Waterstones with my newest purchase); in only 6 of these are the people with the Kindle actually bothering to read from it (I don't include the kid cos, let's face it, at his age he's not gonna read anything unless it's got pictures in). The other 11 instances are as followed:
1. Person picks Kindle up. Well, alright. I suppose the first step in learning to read is in picking a book up. Well done.
2. Person takes Kindle out of a drawer full of jewellery. This is just a fancy variation of the previous shot. Not impressed.
3. Person puts Kindle on passenger seat in car. Yes, because that is what we do with books. We put them on car seats. We read two sentences at a time at the traffic lights, and hope that by the end of our life we have managed to finish chapter one.
4. Person lets dog lick Kindle. Like a book, only tastes better. I see where the marketing team were going here.
5. Man gives Kindle to woman. "I don't want it anymore! You have it!" Alternatively: "What does this say? C-H-A-P-T-E-R-O-N-E. Hmmm."
6. Child randomly presses buttons on Kindle. Probably deliberately breaking it because his parents aren't paying him any attention anymore - not since they started taking their Kindle on long, romantic car rides through the countryside.
7. Person throws Kindle across table. As you do.
8. Man gives Kindle to woman as a Christmas present. She looks happy and hugs him. "Oh darling, just what I never knew I always wanted until I saw everyone else with one!"
9. Person puts Kindle in back pocket. Right. Well.
10. Person throws their breakfast over Kindle. We must feed our Kindles, make sure they never go hungry. Y'see, Kindles aren't just for Christmas - they're for life.
11. Woman takes Kindle on quiet bike ride on a hot summer's day. I only hope she remembered to put some sunblock on the Kindle!
All this is played along to a chirpy little happy tune, and everyone looks like they're having a really good time. But the thing is, folks, we're not being sold a product here, we're being sold a lifestyle. That's why it annoys the crap out of me when I see people brandishing their Kindles all over public transport. I see them as someone who was never that keen on reading, who was taken in by a simple capitalist marketing scam; they were told that if they bought a Kindle, they would enjoy a chirpy little happy life, with sunshine and flowers and smiles all round. The reality for most of them (note, I said most), as they sit there on the train reading some generic novel about some war veteran having an affair with the general's wife (don't they all seem to do that?), is they're bored out of their fucking skulls.
You know I'm right.
Sunday 24 June 2012
A Case For "Ms"
I am going to give the world the benefit of the doubt, and go on the assumption that, like the woman I was speaking to a few days ago, the majority of people don't really know what Ms means. The alternative is to put everyone down as misogynistic bastards with values in line with that of a prehistoric dinosaur. No offence to dinosaurs.
The way I see it, Master and Miss are for boys and girls under the age of 18, respectively; Mr and Ms are for men and women over the age of 18, respectively. I don't see why we need to start defining women by their marital status, as if, somehow, being a Mrs makes you more or less important. I imagine that back in the day it was a way of branding women, of saying to other men, "She's mine, assholes. Back off." Much like the engagement ring, it's like whipping out your piece and taking a piss on someone, just so everyone knows "Bob woz ere" - and if a dude is gonna piss on you ladies, then you need to piss back. When he gives you an engagement ring, give him one back. When you change your title to Mrs, he should be changing his to Msr (or something more phonetically feasible; I dunno, I haven't really given the technicalities a huge amount of thought yet).
A few weeks ago, I was filling in a CRB application and, as I always do, I checked the box Ms. When I got to the end of the application and tried submitting it, it wouldn't let me - not until I had filled in the box Previous surname. Of course, I couldn't do this, because I have only ever had the one surname. Reluctantly, I had to check the box Miss instead.
Even when, bureaucratically, a system allows you to choose between Miss and Ms or Mrs and Ms, very often the reality is that you can only be a Ms if you are married, divorced or widowed - in which case, we are still defining women by their marital status. In what world is that OK? In what world are men men, and women simply accessories to men?
In this world, apparently.
The way I see it, Master and Miss are for boys and girls under the age of 18, respectively; Mr and Ms are for men and women over the age of 18, respectively. I don't see why we need to start defining women by their marital status, as if, somehow, being a Mrs makes you more or less important. I imagine that back in the day it was a way of branding women, of saying to other men, "She's mine, assholes. Back off." Much like the engagement ring, it's like whipping out your piece and taking a piss on someone, just so everyone knows "Bob woz ere" - and if a dude is gonna piss on you ladies, then you need to piss back. When he gives you an engagement ring, give him one back. When you change your title to Mrs, he should be changing his to Msr (or something more phonetically feasible; I dunno, I haven't really given the technicalities a huge amount of thought yet).
A few weeks ago, I was filling in a CRB application and, as I always do, I checked the box Ms. When I got to the end of the application and tried submitting it, it wouldn't let me - not until I had filled in the box Previous surname. Of course, I couldn't do this, because I have only ever had the one surname. Reluctantly, I had to check the box Miss instead.
Even when, bureaucratically, a system allows you to choose between Miss and Ms or Mrs and Ms, very often the reality is that you can only be a Ms if you are married, divorced or widowed - in which case, we are still defining women by their marital status. In what world is that OK? In what world are men men, and women simply accessories to men?
In this world, apparently.
Monday 4 June 2012
LOL
Politicians are out of touch with the youth of today. They've tried to bridge the gap with their Hug A Hoodie campaign, but if they knew anything at all about hoodies, they would know that hoodies don't like to be hugged, and especially not by David Cameron. I suspect David Cameron has absolutely no intention of trying to get intimate with a hoodie, and until he appears on Prime Minister's Questions with a black eye and a bunch of missing teeth, I will continue to presume this to be the case... and actually, even if he does turn up with a black eye and a bunch of missing teeth, there's every possibility Rebekah Brooks just got a little slap-happy again.
David Cameron's sordid (yes, it is sordid; two Tories talking to one another is always sordid) little text messages to Rebekah Brooks are only further evidence that he doesn't have a clue. LOL? No, David. Just no. And Rebekah Brooks doesn't know much better, either. LOL does not mean "laugh out loud". Perhaps it did, once upon a time, in a faraway land full of leprechauns and skipping bunnies, where everyone was happy all the time and laughed just because the sun shone and the rainbows emitted Skittles, but no longer is this the case in the real world. Now, LOL serves five primary functions:
1. To communicate that you are joking, even if what you happen to be saying isn't very funny. E.g. Yes, I did my homework as soon as I got home on Friday lol.
2. To soften the blow when you insult someone, because actually you're a little wuss who can dish it out but can't take it back. E.g. You're fat and ugly lol.
3. To indicate that you have a low IQ. E.g. Hi bb lol.
4. To communicate that what you just read was mildly amusing. This is the nearest variant of 'lol' to the original 'lol'. E.g. Wow, what you just said almost made the corners of my mouth turn up lol.
5. To indicate that the conversation is over, go away and leave me alone now. E.g. Person 1: Yeah. Person 2: Lol.
David Cameron, if you are reading this now, I suggest you think very long and hard before using LOL again. And if you do choose to use it again, I suspect it will be for the second function, when you are making your next speech on all these 'necessary' cuts: "We're all in this together. That's why I'm using taxpayer money to pay for my second home while you rot away in your crummy little council estates, you useless working-class bastards lol." Come to think of it, "Mwahaha" works just as well.
David Cameron's sordid (yes, it is sordid; two Tories talking to one another is always sordid) little text messages to Rebekah Brooks are only further evidence that he doesn't have a clue. LOL? No, David. Just no. And Rebekah Brooks doesn't know much better, either. LOL does not mean "laugh out loud". Perhaps it did, once upon a time, in a faraway land full of leprechauns and skipping bunnies, where everyone was happy all the time and laughed just because the sun shone and the rainbows emitted Skittles, but no longer is this the case in the real world. Now, LOL serves five primary functions:
1. To communicate that you are joking, even if what you happen to be saying isn't very funny. E.g. Yes, I did my homework as soon as I got home on Friday lol.
2. To soften the blow when you insult someone, because actually you're a little wuss who can dish it out but can't take it back. E.g. You're fat and ugly lol.
3. To indicate that you have a low IQ. E.g. Hi bb lol.
4. To communicate that what you just read was mildly amusing. This is the nearest variant of 'lol' to the original 'lol'. E.g. Wow, what you just said almost made the corners of my mouth turn up lol.
5. To indicate that the conversation is over, go away and leave me alone now. E.g. Person 1: Yeah. Person 2: Lol.
David Cameron, if you are reading this now, I suggest you think very long and hard before using LOL again. And if you do choose to use it again, I suspect it will be for the second function, when you are making your next speech on all these 'necessary' cuts: "We're all in this together. That's why I'm using taxpayer money to pay for my second home while you rot away in your crummy little council estates, you useless working-class bastards lol." Come to think of it, "Mwahaha" works just as well.
Saturday 2 June 2012
A-Z of Emotions
A-Z of Emotions I Have Felt Since I Last Blogged
I did one of these awhile ago, and now I think it's time to do another. Are you keen to find out whether I found actual emotions beginning X and Z? Here we go...
A - Awkward. You know when you need to say something to someone, but you don't know how to go about it? Usually when I need to say something difficult to someone, I start off with, "Um, I've been thinking er, that er..." and I finish with, "If that makes any sense."
B - Brave. But I overcame the awkwardness and came out with it in the end, as followed: "Um, I've been thinking er, that er... hi. If that makes any sense."
C - Childish. I was watching one of my favourite videos yesterday, as found below:
D - Disgusted. Yesterday I was in the Disney Store (feeling childish again, yes), telling my friend that it's OK for me to be seen in the Disney Store because I only look about 15. Then she says to me, "You know that old man standing behind you was just checking you out." I know I am a legal adult, but he doesn't know that!
E - Earthly. I was standing next to some hippie white dude with blond dreads yesterday in the supermarket, checking out the vegetarian food in the freezer section. We both reached for a packet of quorn "chicken" burgers at the same time. Saving the world, one burger at a time.
F - Fantastic. I really did. Honestly.
G - Growly. Rather, my belly was feeling growly. I woke up yesterday morning, grabbed a banana (not the same banana in the video - a different banana) and left the house, and didn't consider re-filling my stomach until about 3 o'clock. The belly was not very happy.
H - Hopeful. I hoped that it would not rain, as I did not take an umbrella out with me. My hopes were answered.
I - Irritated. A couple of days ago I got FRIGGING BITTEN BY A SODDING MOSQUITO ON MY LEG! It itched, so I went to go get my Witch Hazel cream from where I usually keep it. It was not there. So I looked in the baskets of skin cream I keep under my bed, thinking maybe I put it there when I was tidying up the day before. Nope, not there. I looked in every drawer. NOT. SODDING. THERE. In the end I put up with an itchy bite for the rest of the day.
J - Jealous. Last weekend I went to the park. I was, literally, the whitest person there. I don't get it.
K - Kung-fu-ish. Alright, alright: I suck at thinking of words beginning with K. But at least it's better than Kit-Kat-ish, which is what I was originally considering putting down.
L - Lethargic. The sun makes me sleepy.
M - Moody. Piss off.
N - Naked. Yes, this is an emotion; it's similar to feeling exposed and vulnerable. I had a dream last night that I got naked and looked at myself in the mirror, and realised I had grown a petticoat made out of flesh around my hips, and that it made me look somewhat like an Elizabethan dinosaur (I know you didn't get dinosaurs in the Elizabethan era, but just go with me on this one). Thankfully, it was a removable petticoat. My jeans fit a lot better once I'd taken it off, and made me look less like MC Hammer.
O - Optimistic. The world is at my feet, it truly is.
P - Proud. I did three kick-ups on Wednesday. Three.
Q - Quixotic. I still only have one emotion beginning with Q. However, I now know what quixotic means, and I was feeling quioxtic the other day when I set my alarm clock for 6:30. Ha.
R - Relaxed. There I was: chillin' out, maxin', relaxin' all cool, and all shooting some b-ball outside of the school... Oh wait. I think this happened to someone else.
S - Serene. A day spent in the sun without nothing else to do can make you feel serene. The migraine that soon follows it? Not so much.
T - Tender. I am a tender individual.
U - Understanding. I am also very understanding.
V - VIP-y. Now I'm just bullshitting, clearly.
W - Weird. I am always weird, though. My friend said "You're a weirdo" to me so many times yesterday that I lost count.
X - X-treme. Hell yeah.
Y - Young. In spite of the fact that I don't particularly identify with all these songs out at the moment about being young (i.e. Tulisa and that Indie band), I do still look about 15. I need to slap on more makeup, obviously.
Z - Zumba-y. I might, y'know. I just might.
I did one of these awhile ago, and now I think it's time to do another. Are you keen to find out whether I found actual emotions beginning X and Z? Here we go...
A - Awkward. You know when you need to say something to someone, but you don't know how to go about it? Usually when I need to say something difficult to someone, I start off with, "Um, I've been thinking er, that er..." and I finish with, "If that makes any sense."
B - Brave. But I overcame the awkwardness and came out with it in the end, as followed: "Um, I've been thinking er, that er... hi. If that makes any sense."
C - Childish. I was watching one of my favourite videos yesterday, as found below:
D - Disgusted. Yesterday I was in the Disney Store (feeling childish again, yes), telling my friend that it's OK for me to be seen in the Disney Store because I only look about 15. Then she says to me, "You know that old man standing behind you was just checking you out." I know I am a legal adult, but he doesn't know that!
E - Earthly. I was standing next to some hippie white dude with blond dreads yesterday in the supermarket, checking out the vegetarian food in the freezer section. We both reached for a packet of quorn "chicken" burgers at the same time. Saving the world, one burger at a time.
F - Fantastic. I really did. Honestly.
G - Growly. Rather, my belly was feeling growly. I woke up yesterday morning, grabbed a banana (not the same banana in the video - a different banana) and left the house, and didn't consider re-filling my stomach until about 3 o'clock. The belly was not very happy.
H - Hopeful. I hoped that it would not rain, as I did not take an umbrella out with me. My hopes were answered.
I - Irritated. A couple of days ago I got FRIGGING BITTEN BY A SODDING MOSQUITO ON MY LEG! It itched, so I went to go get my Witch Hazel cream from where I usually keep it. It was not there. So I looked in the baskets of skin cream I keep under my bed, thinking maybe I put it there when I was tidying up the day before. Nope, not there. I looked in every drawer. NOT. SODDING. THERE. In the end I put up with an itchy bite for the rest of the day.
J - Jealous. Last weekend I went to the park. I was, literally, the whitest person there. I don't get it.
K - Kung-fu-ish. Alright, alright: I suck at thinking of words beginning with K. But at least it's better than Kit-Kat-ish, which is what I was originally considering putting down.
L - Lethargic. The sun makes me sleepy.
M - Moody. Piss off.
N - Naked. Yes, this is an emotion; it's similar to feeling exposed and vulnerable. I had a dream last night that I got naked and looked at myself in the mirror, and realised I had grown a petticoat made out of flesh around my hips, and that it made me look somewhat like an Elizabethan dinosaur (I know you didn't get dinosaurs in the Elizabethan era, but just go with me on this one). Thankfully, it was a removable petticoat. My jeans fit a lot better once I'd taken it off, and made me look less like MC Hammer.
O - Optimistic. The world is at my feet, it truly is.
P - Proud. I did three kick-ups on Wednesday. Three.
Q - Quixotic. I still only have one emotion beginning with Q. However, I now know what quixotic means, and I was feeling quioxtic the other day when I set my alarm clock for 6:30. Ha.
R - Relaxed. There I was: chillin' out, maxin', relaxin' all cool, and all shooting some b-ball outside of the school... Oh wait. I think this happened to someone else.
S - Serene. A day spent in the sun without nothing else to do can make you feel serene. The migraine that soon follows it? Not so much.
T - Tender. I am a tender individual.
U - Understanding. I am also very understanding.
V - VIP-y. Now I'm just bullshitting, clearly.
W - Weird. I am always weird, though. My friend said "You're a weirdo" to me so many times yesterday that I lost count.
X - X-treme. Hell yeah.
Y - Young. In spite of the fact that I don't particularly identify with all these songs out at the moment about being young (i.e. Tulisa and that Indie band), I do still look about 15. I need to slap on more makeup, obviously.
Z - Zumba-y. I might, y'know. I just might.
Wednesday 23 May 2012
I think there was a film about this once. It had a happy ending.
Being a woman is hard.
That isn't to say that I think men have it easy. I would hate to live life knowing that if I were to have a bad day and as a result broke down crying in the middle of the office at work, that everyone's level of respect for me would hit the ground and never get back up. I would hate to live life knowing that if I ever had a child, I would be assumed to be the secondary caregiver, and that the school would always contact "Mum" before "Dad", regardless of the fact that "Mum" might be out of town on a business meeting, and "Dad" might be at home making the beds and fixing dinner. I would hate to live life knowing that if I took time out to be a dad, when people asked me what I did and I answered, "I'm a stay-at-home dad", the looks I would receive would be different to if a woman answered the same question with, "I'm a stay-at-home mum." I would hate to live life knowing that I must shave my face every morning or else risk looking like sasquatch, though I suspect I might have to anyway once the menopause hits. I would hate to live life with testicles. Those things look like they get in the way.
But I do think that women have it harder. Just sayin'.
There's biology, for a start: hormonal rollercoasters every month, blood gushing out from between the legs, doctors shoving things inside you every few years to check for pre-cancerous cells, childbirth, saggy stretch-mark ridden skin that will never be the same ever again, swollen milky boobs that are destined to wind up pointing south, the capacity to be a parent having a time limit, hot flushes, to-HRT or to-not-HRT... From the onset of puberty until we leave the world, we put up with regular shit, and that's just biology. There's also society, and society is, if anything, the biggest bastard of them all.
We live in a world where women are all of the above, and yet we are told to be something else entirely different, or at least to pretend to be. We are hormonal and suffer from occasional (and sometimes constant) low self-esteem, yet we are told to be confident and beautiful, or else we are crazy and high-maintenance. We have periods every month (sometimes more frequently), which more often than not come equipped with debilitating pain, yet we are told to get on and go to work, look yummy and not speak about it - and don't let anyone see your tampons! Our bodies are put through massive rapid changes during and after pregnancy, and yet we are told that we are meant to "glow" when pregnant, and are expected to look like these celebrity mums who personal-trainer their way to anorexia six weeks after giving birth. We are told breast is best, and yet the length of maternity leave in this country doesn't really allow for the government's current recommendation of two years, nor do people feel comfortable seeing a woman breastfeed in public, because apparently breasts are not breasts, they are tits. We are told we can achieve the same high-paid professions as men, and yet can we? Or do we have to choose between babies and career? Or do we wait, and run the risk of finding out that our eggs have gone bad and it's now too little, too late? We are expected, as "sexi ladiez", to fill the bars and clubs while filling our stomachs with cheap promotion alcohol, and yet are told not to travel home late at night by ourselves because we might get raped - and if we do then it's actually kinda our fault because we shouldn't have been wearing that dress, and really - what do we expect? When we hit 40, we have to choose to become either "past it" or "a MILF", because for some reason the option to be a "silver fox" or "distinguished" is reserved solely for men.
The world wants us to be confident, beautiful, intelligent, classy... and up for it. There is something intrinsically wrong with us if we're not. Apparently.
Every time I walk into a newsagents these days I see women's magazines with eye-catching headlines like "HOW TO GET THE PERFECT SUMMER BODY" and "HOW TO TURN HIM ON" and "HOW TO GET FLAWLESS SKIN". You know what I would really love? I would really love it if we stopped asking ourselves the question "How do I do this?" and instead start asking ourselves "Why the hell should I?"
That isn't to say that I think men have it easy. I would hate to live life knowing that if I were to have a bad day and as a result broke down crying in the middle of the office at work, that everyone's level of respect for me would hit the ground and never get back up. I would hate to live life knowing that if I ever had a child, I would be assumed to be the secondary caregiver, and that the school would always contact "Mum" before "Dad", regardless of the fact that "Mum" might be out of town on a business meeting, and "Dad" might be at home making the beds and fixing dinner. I would hate to live life knowing that if I took time out to be a dad, when people asked me what I did and I answered, "I'm a stay-at-home dad", the looks I would receive would be different to if a woman answered the same question with, "I'm a stay-at-home mum." I would hate to live life knowing that I must shave my face every morning or else risk looking like sasquatch, though I suspect I might have to anyway once the menopause hits. I would hate to live life with testicles. Those things look like they get in the way.
But I do think that women have it harder. Just sayin'.
There's biology, for a start: hormonal rollercoasters every month, blood gushing out from between the legs, doctors shoving things inside you every few years to check for pre-cancerous cells, childbirth, saggy stretch-mark ridden skin that will never be the same ever again, swollen milky boobs that are destined to wind up pointing south, the capacity to be a parent having a time limit, hot flushes, to-HRT or to-not-HRT... From the onset of puberty until we leave the world, we put up with regular shit, and that's just biology. There's also society, and society is, if anything, the biggest bastard of them all.
We live in a world where women are all of the above, and yet we are told to be something else entirely different, or at least to pretend to be. We are hormonal and suffer from occasional (and sometimes constant) low self-esteem, yet we are told to be confident and beautiful, or else we are crazy and high-maintenance. We have periods every month (sometimes more frequently), which more often than not come equipped with debilitating pain, yet we are told to get on and go to work, look yummy and not speak about it - and don't let anyone see your tampons! Our bodies are put through massive rapid changes during and after pregnancy, and yet we are told that we are meant to "glow" when pregnant, and are expected to look like these celebrity mums who personal-trainer their way to anorexia six weeks after giving birth. We are told breast is best, and yet the length of maternity leave in this country doesn't really allow for the government's current recommendation of two years, nor do people feel comfortable seeing a woman breastfeed in public, because apparently breasts are not breasts, they are tits. We are told we can achieve the same high-paid professions as men, and yet can we? Or do we have to choose between babies and career? Or do we wait, and run the risk of finding out that our eggs have gone bad and it's now too little, too late? We are expected, as "sexi ladiez", to fill the bars and clubs while filling our stomachs with cheap promotion alcohol, and yet are told not to travel home late at night by ourselves because we might get raped - and if we do then it's actually kinda our fault because we shouldn't have been wearing that dress, and really - what do we expect? When we hit 40, we have to choose to become either "past it" or "a MILF", because for some reason the option to be a "silver fox" or "distinguished" is reserved solely for men.
The world wants us to be confident, beautiful, intelligent, classy... and up for it. There is something intrinsically wrong with us if we're not. Apparently.
Every time I walk into a newsagents these days I see women's magazines with eye-catching headlines like "HOW TO GET THE PERFECT SUMMER BODY" and "HOW TO TURN HIM ON" and "HOW TO GET FLAWLESS SKIN". You know what I would really love? I would really love it if we stopped asking ourselves the question "How do I do this?" and instead start asking ourselves "Why the hell should I?"
Saturday 12 May 2012
Welcome back.
When I was younger, like a lot of kids, I had a debilitating fear of death. I know you're probably thinking that a fear of death can't debilitate a nine-year-old, and that perhaps the only person it can debilitate is maybe a funeral director, or the person who puts makeup on dead people to make them look less... well, dead. But it debilitated me. I stopped going to church, I ducked out on a few funerals (I know, I know) and I used to lie in bed at night staring up at the ceiling, thinking to myself, "It's gonna happen. One day, it's gonna happen."
Around this time, I was taken on a family outing to Highgate Cemetery (if you're not familiar, it's a pretty famous burial spot, where the likes of Karl Marx and George Eliot have taken their final resting place). Confronting a fear head-on? Maybe. The thunderstorm didn't particularly help, though - nor did the fact that as we ran towards the gates of the cemetery, our shoes slipping on the wet ground and the thunder crashing in the dark grey sky above us, we found that the gates were shut. And thus ensued my first ever panic attack.
I was remembering this moment yesterday, and wondering what it is, exactly, that makes cemeteries and all things relating to death so terrifying. No one really wants to die, and if they do then either they have lived a full life and feel their time is now, or something is very, very wrong. If we did all want to die, we'd be jumping off cliffs left, right and centre and our species as we know it now would simply cease to exist - so of course a fear of death and a fear of the unknown is perfectly normal, and I accept that now. I just don't understand the tingling sensation that creeps up and down your spine when you walk into a cemetery or a morgue, and why that is feared by so many. Why don't we feel the same way about the remote control when the batteries run out? Just imagine the scenario:
John lounges on his sofa late at night, flicking through the channels. As he reaches E4, he notices the volume button becomes unresponsive, but he assumes it's a problem over at 4, and nothing to do with him, and so he keeps flicking.
He reaches the music channels and stumbles upon his favourite band, Steps (yes, John like Steps). He happily watches their old hit 'Tragedy', even joining in on the dance moves he remembers - but then the song ends and the video fades into darkness, and the presenter introduces the next video: 'Oops I Did It Again', by Britney Spears. Ugh (John doesn't think much of Britney; he prefers Christina)! He goes to change the channel.
Nothing happens.
He presses the button again.
Still nothing.
He tries different buttons, even the eject button even though he hasn't watched a DVD in months, but nothing, no matter how hard he pushes and no matter how he angles the remote control, works. It is then that he realises that the remote control has died. The thing inside it that makes the remote control work has stopped, it's reached the end of its life. He glances up at the clock: Time of death, 20:34. He lays the remote control down on the sofa, takes one final glance at it and exits the room, closing the door behind him.
He goes to the kitchen. He sits down, thinks. Then he stands up again, paces to the cupboard and pulls out a glass, filling it high with whiskey. He downs it at once and slams the empty glass down on the counter, wincing and glancing back towards the living room, where lies the dead remote control. He suddenly feels a sense of panic rising over his spine. What if...?
No. He musn't think those things! The remote control is dead - remote controls cannot rise from the dead. And even if they could, what would they do, exactly? Float into the room in an eerie fashion, making "Wooo" noises, and try to eat his brain? No. No, that simply does not happen. It can't happen.
Two hours later, John's flatmate Sylvia arrives home, back late from a crap date. She slams the door behind her, fuming at her date's sheer audacity in trying to kiss her. How very dare he! She walks into the kitchen and finds John sitting there at the table, dark circles under his eyes, cradling himself and rocking backwards and forwards in his chair.
"John?"
John can't look at her. He opens his mouth, and the stench of alcohol creeps out.
"John, have you been crying?"
John's head hurt. He can't even concentrate on the tiled pattern on the floor. Sylvia touches the nape of his neck with her cold hand, and he jumps a mile.
"What the..." Sylvia says. "What's wrong?"
John stands on the other side of the room, still holding himself. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet Sylvia's eye.
"The remote control..." He begins. "It... I was just... I don't know what happened. It just..."
"John?"
"It died, Sylvia. It's in there now, dead. I can't even... What if..."
Sylvia takes one good, long look at John, and then asks him to kindly pack his bags and leave. Quite frankly, he's starting to give her the creeps. Then she fetches a pair of batteries out of the cupboard and inserts them into the remote control, which lives again.
Around this time, I was taken on a family outing to Highgate Cemetery (if you're not familiar, it's a pretty famous burial spot, where the likes of Karl Marx and George Eliot have taken their final resting place). Confronting a fear head-on? Maybe. The thunderstorm didn't particularly help, though - nor did the fact that as we ran towards the gates of the cemetery, our shoes slipping on the wet ground and the thunder crashing in the dark grey sky above us, we found that the gates were shut. And thus ensued my first ever panic attack.
I was remembering this moment yesterday, and wondering what it is, exactly, that makes cemeteries and all things relating to death so terrifying. No one really wants to die, and if they do then either they have lived a full life and feel their time is now, or something is very, very wrong. If we did all want to die, we'd be jumping off cliffs left, right and centre and our species as we know it now would simply cease to exist - so of course a fear of death and a fear of the unknown is perfectly normal, and I accept that now. I just don't understand the tingling sensation that creeps up and down your spine when you walk into a cemetery or a morgue, and why that is feared by so many. Why don't we feel the same way about the remote control when the batteries run out? Just imagine the scenario:
John lounges on his sofa late at night, flicking through the channels. As he reaches E4, he notices the volume button becomes unresponsive, but he assumes it's a problem over at 4, and nothing to do with him, and so he keeps flicking.
He reaches the music channels and stumbles upon his favourite band, Steps (yes, John like Steps). He happily watches their old hit 'Tragedy', even joining in on the dance moves he remembers - but then the song ends and the video fades into darkness, and the presenter introduces the next video: 'Oops I Did It Again', by Britney Spears. Ugh (John doesn't think much of Britney; he prefers Christina)! He goes to change the channel.
Nothing happens.
He presses the button again.
Still nothing.
He tries different buttons, even the eject button even though he hasn't watched a DVD in months, but nothing, no matter how hard he pushes and no matter how he angles the remote control, works. It is then that he realises that the remote control has died. The thing inside it that makes the remote control work has stopped, it's reached the end of its life. He glances up at the clock: Time of death, 20:34. He lays the remote control down on the sofa, takes one final glance at it and exits the room, closing the door behind him.
He goes to the kitchen. He sits down, thinks. Then he stands up again, paces to the cupboard and pulls out a glass, filling it high with whiskey. He downs it at once and slams the empty glass down on the counter, wincing and glancing back towards the living room, where lies the dead remote control. He suddenly feels a sense of panic rising over his spine. What if...?
No. He musn't think those things! The remote control is dead - remote controls cannot rise from the dead. And even if they could, what would they do, exactly? Float into the room in an eerie fashion, making "Wooo" noises, and try to eat his brain? No. No, that simply does not happen. It can't happen.
Two hours later, John's flatmate Sylvia arrives home, back late from a crap date. She slams the door behind her, fuming at her date's sheer audacity in trying to kiss her. How very dare he! She walks into the kitchen and finds John sitting there at the table, dark circles under his eyes, cradling himself and rocking backwards and forwards in his chair.
"John?"
John can't look at her. He opens his mouth, and the stench of alcohol creeps out.
"John, have you been crying?"
John's head hurt. He can't even concentrate on the tiled pattern on the floor. Sylvia touches the nape of his neck with her cold hand, and he jumps a mile.
"What the..." Sylvia says. "What's wrong?"
John stands on the other side of the room, still holding himself. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet Sylvia's eye.
"The remote control..." He begins. "It... I was just... I don't know what happened. It just..."
"John?"
"It died, Sylvia. It's in there now, dead. I can't even... What if..."
Sylvia takes one good, long look at John, and then asks him to kindly pack his bags and leave. Quite frankly, he's starting to give her the creeps. Then she fetches a pair of batteries out of the cupboard and inserts them into the remote control, which lives again.
Saturday 3 March 2012
Yes, there WERE 29 days in February
It took only two months into 2012 before I became ABSOLUTELY COMPLETELY RIGHT about one of my 2012 predictions: there were indeed 29 days in February. So put that in your pipe and don't smoke it, because smoking is gross and, let's face it: it kills.
At the time of writing the above blog post, I suggested that perhaps I might propose to some lucky fella this year. Cos, y'know, us women are allowed to do that on 29th February. We've been given permission. The mighty men at the top of the hierarchy have decided that damage will be minimal and we deserve a treat for being such good women the last four years. So I did it, guys and gals. I decided to propose to someone.*
Unfortunately, quite a few ladies got there before me, and while Mr Afobe did not accept any of these proposals (as far as I am aware), I am not one to be overshadowed, and so I chose not to propose to the young Arsenal player the following day, after all. Sorry, matey. So close, yet so far.
* This was following @Afobe's request that a bunch of people propose to him on Twitter. I think he was bored.
At the time of writing the above blog post, I suggested that perhaps I might propose to some lucky fella this year. Cos, y'know, us women are allowed to do that on 29th February. We've been given permission. The mighty men at the top of the hierarchy have decided that damage will be minimal and we deserve a treat for being such good women the last four years. So I did it, guys and gals. I decided to propose to someone.*
@Afobe I will propose to you TOMORROW. Not today. I do things in my own sweet time.
— Martha Everitt (@Maaarfer) February 29, 2012
Unfortunately, quite a few ladies got there before me, and while Mr Afobe did not accept any of these proposals (as far as I am aware), I am not one to be overshadowed, and so I chose not to propose to the young Arsenal player the following day, after all. Sorry, matey. So close, yet so far.
* This was following @Afobe's request that a bunch of people propose to him on Twitter. I think he was bored.
Saturday 11 February 2012
Where the hell have you been!?!?
I guess it's about time I explain my notable absence from the blog for the last month. Trust me, this time, I have a valid excuse (unlike that time last year when I tried arguing that maybe, just maybe, my house had been burgled, my car had been driven off a cliff, and I had been thrown off a moving rollercoaster 50 feet in the air and had broken every bone in my body... incidentally, none of which actually happened), and when I tell you, you will jump up and down and squee, before glancing around awkwardly in the realisation that what you just did was so not cool.
For the last month and a half I've been working on a play - my third "finished" play and my first play ever to get performed. I know, I know: how exciting. Scriptwriting itself is nothing new to me; while I've hardly been doing it for 30 years (two and a half years and counting, actually), I feel completely at home writing dialogue. I always play down the Hollywood idea that everything happens for a reason - fate, kismet, destiny, hocus-pocus and all that crap - but I feel now as though I finally have an explanation for why I had to endure a good 16 or 17 years of my life living with a crippling shyness: because I talked so little, I listened instead. So yeah, while you lot were sitting around chatting about your friendship bracelets and your first snog and how "Oh my god, my mum totally doesn't get it!" (and yes, I'm stereotyping here), I was eavesdropping on you interesting lot and, subconsciously, finding out how conversation works. Oh, and FYI, if you want royalties, then pfft, feck off. You lot wouldn't let me play with you, so you get NOTHING. Suckerrrrrrs.
The play is on in under two weeks!!!! (...Wait, hold on. I think we need another exclamation mark...)! (...There.) I still actually have no idea what is in store, so watch this space.
Another thing that has been taking up vast quantities of my time is being part of the BBC EastEnders: E20 Writers School. You all know EastEnders, right? *Polishes nails off on blazer.* (I am actually not wearing a blazer, but I don't think an image of me polishing my nails off on my faded, misshapen pyjamas would quite get the image of me being a cool dude across as well.) I'm almost a month in and, as stressful as the workload can be at times (especially when juggling it with the play and my paid employment), it's been one truly amazing experience. Like I said, I'm not particularly new to scriptwriting, but so far all my experience has been with writing for theatre; writing for television is something entirely different. Add to the fact that I've been watching EastEnders for as long as I can remember. To use a cliche, it's a dream come true.
So there you have it. That's why I've been gone for more than a month. Yeah, it may not be burgalry or cliff-diving cars or flying off rollercoasters, but it's a close second.
For the last month and a half I've been working on a play - my third "finished" play and my first play ever to get performed. I know, I know: how exciting. Scriptwriting itself is nothing new to me; while I've hardly been doing it for 30 years (two and a half years and counting, actually), I feel completely at home writing dialogue. I always play down the Hollywood idea that everything happens for a reason - fate, kismet, destiny, hocus-pocus and all that crap - but I feel now as though I finally have an explanation for why I had to endure a good 16 or 17 years of my life living with a crippling shyness: because I talked so little, I listened instead. So yeah, while you lot were sitting around chatting about your friendship bracelets and your first snog and how "Oh my god, my mum totally doesn't get it!" (and yes, I'm stereotyping here), I was eavesdropping on you interesting lot and, subconsciously, finding out how conversation works. Oh, and FYI, if you want royalties, then pfft, feck off. You lot wouldn't let me play with you, so you get NOTHING. Suckerrrrrrs.
The play is on in under two weeks!!!! (...Wait, hold on. I think we need another exclamation mark...)! (...There.) I still actually have no idea what is in store, so watch this space.
Another thing that has been taking up vast quantities of my time is being part of the BBC EastEnders: E20 Writers School. You all know EastEnders, right? *Polishes nails off on blazer.* (I am actually not wearing a blazer, but I don't think an image of me polishing my nails off on my faded, misshapen pyjamas would quite get the image of me being a cool dude across as well.) I'm almost a month in and, as stressful as the workload can be at times (especially when juggling it with the play and my paid employment), it's been one truly amazing experience. Like I said, I'm not particularly new to scriptwriting, but so far all my experience has been with writing for theatre; writing for television is something entirely different. Add to the fact that I've been watching EastEnders for as long as I can remember. To use a cliche, it's a dream come true.
So there you have it. That's why I've been gone for more than a month. Yeah, it may not be burgalry or cliff-diving cars or flying off rollercoasters, but it's a close second.
Thursday 12 January 2012
Series: Video of the Week
If you're not an Arsenal fan, look away now. The following images may cause you to bury your head in shame and cry profusely at the thought that you never had someone so incessantly amazing play for your club.
If you are an Arsenal fan, well done, I say. Well done.
That's 227 club goals, and let's hope he can add more to that tally in the remaining six or seven weeks he has left with us.
If you are an Arsenal fan, well done, I say. Well done.
That's 227 club goals, and let's hope he can add more to that tally in the remaining six or seven weeks he has left with us.
Friday 6 January 2012
Series: Video of the Week
This should probably be the bit where I make clear that the Video of the Week series isn't always necessarily going to be promoting a video that I wish to celebrate. Last week it was; this week it is not. This week's video is, nevertheless, still important.
The video below is taken from Russell Howard's hit TV show Good News. Throughout the week, Russell scours newspapers and the internet for interesting - and moreso funny - news stories. In this particular episode, he presents us with a story in the Canadian press about men with ginger hair being turned down for sperm donation. That is, they're being told that their sperm is no good because no one wants a ginger baby. And if the news story wasn't bad enough, then the moment when the studio audience's audible collective gasp is followed by a round of applause is, quite frankly, disgusting. They know it's bad and discriminatory, and yet they still applaud it.
This video is wrong on so many levels that I find it hard to know where to begin, but I may as well start with the actual news report itself.
The second we start to label certain characteristics as "unattractive" or "undesirable", we run the risk of discrimination. Sperm donation already discriminates against disabled people and those with other health problems, and of course I understand why it does, but it is incredibly presumptious to say that what is "undesirable" for one person should be "undesirable" for everyone else. The second you start to pick-and-choose who is allowed to spread their seed and who isn't, is the second you fall into very dangerous territory. Where sperm donation is used by women who can't find or don't want a partner, or by women whose partner is infertile, or for whatever reason they may have, what you are ultimately doing is attempting to weedle out one type of gene. The decision for whose sperm winds up in her body should belong entirely to the woman, and not an institution which "doesn't like" people with ginger hair.
What shocked me more than anything about this video is the audience's response to it. I thought that we British prided ourselves on our liberal attitudes, for our social inclusiveness (or most of us do, anyway) - so how can an entire audience of Russell Howard fans sit in a room and cheer for discrimination against ginger-haired people? And more than anything, how can there be no backlash, besides Russell saying, "Don't applaud!" before making a gag about ginger-haired people being pale-skinned? I'm a big Russell Howard fan and I even went to one of his shows last year, but I really don't know what he was doing here.
Ultimately, people need to stop looking at having ginger hair as a being negative thing - and that includes people with ginger hair. Nothing says "I'm ashamed of my roots!" (excuse the cheesy pun) more than someone with jet black hair, orange skin and ginger eyebrows. Take Nicola Roberts (former member of Girls Aloud), for example: here's someone who dyed their hair all kinds of shades of WTF and coated their skin in gallons of fake tan before finally deciding to embrace their ginger gene - and doesn't she look all the more better for it! But while that responsibility lies with them, the biggest responsibility falls on the shoulders of the rest of us: stop making ginger jokes, and stop pretending that it's acceptable. Because it's just not.
The video below is taken from Russell Howard's hit TV show Good News. Throughout the week, Russell scours newspapers and the internet for interesting - and moreso funny - news stories. In this particular episode, he presents us with a story in the Canadian press about men with ginger hair being turned down for sperm donation. That is, they're being told that their sperm is no good because no one wants a ginger baby. And if the news story wasn't bad enough, then the moment when the studio audience's audible collective gasp is followed by a round of applause is, quite frankly, disgusting. They know it's bad and discriminatory, and yet they still applaud it.
This video is wrong on so many levels that I find it hard to know where to begin, but I may as well start with the actual news report itself.
The second we start to label certain characteristics as "unattractive" or "undesirable", we run the risk of discrimination. Sperm donation already discriminates against disabled people and those with other health problems, and of course I understand why it does, but it is incredibly presumptious to say that what is "undesirable" for one person should be "undesirable" for everyone else. The second you start to pick-and-choose who is allowed to spread their seed and who isn't, is the second you fall into very dangerous territory. Where sperm donation is used by women who can't find or don't want a partner, or by women whose partner is infertile, or for whatever reason they may have, what you are ultimately doing is attempting to weedle out one type of gene. The decision for whose sperm winds up in her body should belong entirely to the woman, and not an institution which "doesn't like" people with ginger hair.
What shocked me more than anything about this video is the audience's response to it. I thought that we British prided ourselves on our liberal attitudes, for our social inclusiveness (or most of us do, anyway) - so how can an entire audience of Russell Howard fans sit in a room and cheer for discrimination against ginger-haired people? And more than anything, how can there be no backlash, besides Russell saying, "Don't applaud!" before making a gag about ginger-haired people being pale-skinned? I'm a big Russell Howard fan and I even went to one of his shows last year, but I really don't know what he was doing here.
Ultimately, people need to stop looking at having ginger hair as a being negative thing - and that includes people with ginger hair. Nothing says "I'm ashamed of my roots!" (excuse the cheesy pun) more than someone with jet black hair, orange skin and ginger eyebrows. Take Nicola Roberts (former member of Girls Aloud), for example: here's someone who dyed their hair all kinds of shades of WTF and coated their skin in gallons of fake tan before finally deciding to embrace their ginger gene - and doesn't she look all the more better for it! But while that responsibility lies with them, the biggest responsibility falls on the shoulders of the rest of us: stop making ginger jokes, and stop pretending that it's acceptable. Because it's just not.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)