There are some things in this world that we don’t really need anymore, or if we do need them, we only find a use for them once every five years or so. We don’t need cassette players because everything is either on CD or download. We don’t need telephone boxes because we all have mobile phones now, and telephone boxes always smelt like urine, anyway. We don’t need Emmanuel Adebayor because we’ve got Robin van Persie (when he’s not injured, that is), just like we don’t need feminism because we’ve got...
That’s the part that I struggle with: working out what it is that has come in and replaced feminism – because I look around me now and all I see is young women and girls shoving chicken fillets down their bras and queuing up to buy a former page 3 model’s latest novel, whose contribution to said novel probably didn’t extend past the main character’s first name. You ask these girls and young women what their aspirations are in life, and either they won’t know what ‘aspiration’ means, or they’ll tell you they want to marry a footballer or go on The X Factor.
How people choose to live their life is their own business, and not for a second would I wish a woman to sacrifice her happiness for a job with more prestige just because it’s more ‘respectable’. The problem is that I don’t believe many of these girls are happy. How can you be happy if you live your life striving towards an almost completely unobtainable goal? How can you be happy if you want to be a singer but can’t sing, if you want to marry a footballer but the only ones who will look at you play for a Championship side and already have wives, or if you want to be a model but your breasts are too small?
You can have surgery, of course. Surgery seems to solve most of the world’s problems these days. You don’t really need to be able to sing if your face and body can do the job instead (going back to what I said earlier, I guess we don’t need Aretha Franklin because we’ve got auto-tune now), and if you’re a B-cup and only attracting attention from Championship footballers, move up to a DD-cup and I’m sure John Terry or Ashley Cole at least might throw you a bone (pun not intended). But what happens when you’ve had the surgery and that’s still not good enough? Do you keep going? The breasts are bigger but the bum is still too small; you’ve fixed your nose but your chin is still a little wide; your ears have been pinned but you’ve still got that mole under your eye; your tummy has been tucked but your lips are still too thin. When you’ve finally exhausted all of the above, then you can move onto labiaplasty (if you don’t know what that is, it’s when they perform plastic surgery on your labia to make it look prettier), and then maybe go out to a club with nothing but a belt covering your nipples, and hey presto: you’ve made it! (Or at least until the next talentless nobody comes along and uses her HH-boobies to barge you to one side.)
Just because women won the right to vote doesn’t mean that we can all hang up our knickers and call it a day, but according to some, that’s it now: mission accomplished. Apparently, we now have all the rights and freedom men have. 94% of rapes go unconvicted in the UK, but that’s OK because ‘sexi ladies’ get free entry into clubs before 11pm; men earn 27% more than women, but what the hell are we complaining about? We get to dance round poles half-naked because it’s fun and empowering and we’re taking control of our sexuality!
The thing that saddens me most about my generation is that it does not know what feminism is and therefore cannot judge whether or not we need it. We’ve all heard that feminists are lesbians, have hairy legs and hate men; it’s funny, because 300 years ago, any woman who went against the status quo was accused of being a witch and burned at the stake. Obviously these days we can’t go around murdering women just because they happen to be capable of independent thought, but call her a feminist and people will automatically assume she’s nuts and disregard anything she says, so at least in that sense little has changed since the times of witch-hunting. But just for the record, let me set one thing straight:
Feminism does not care if what makes you happy is being a doctor or a model, a lawyer or a singer, future Prime Minister or stay-at-home mum, but feminism does care that you are happy, and that the decisions you make about your life are based on what you want, and not what our patriarchal society has led you to believe is important. Put ten teenage girls in front of this article and I bet you that nine out of ten of them will tell you that they know their own mind, but the reality is quite different. If you are one of those ten and you often find yourself dreaming of fame and glamour and men falling in love with you, ask yourself this: are you happy?
Now tell me we don’t need feminism anymore.
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner
I was at Elephant and Castle underground station the other day (not because I wanted to be; line closures forced me to take a massive detour), and noticed a poster advertising all the wonderful things about being a Londoner. One of them went something along the lines of “Joining the army of commuters with your cup of coffee.”
I stood there for a couple of minutes, waiting for my train, glaring at the poster like it had just said “Yo mama” to me. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think that being sandwiched between a person with bad personal hygiene and a mouth-breather first thing in the morning is something to celebrate. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things about London that I love: I love the fact that you never have to walk for more than five minutes to find an open shop (even though that shop most likely won’t stock what you need); I love the diversity, and the fact that even if 99% of people get on your nerves, there will always be that massive 1% who are completely amazing; I love that it’s home to Arsenal FC; I love the fact that you can travel across the entire city without a single person talking to you. In fact, I’m not sure I would be able to live anywhere but London.
But because I was born and bred here, it’s my right – no, it’s my duty – to talk about all the things I hate about London. It’s therapy.
1. Too many people. There are 7.5 million people in London, and sometimes it feels like all 7.5 million are on my train, in my carriage, breathing on me.
2. You could die, right in the middle of the street, and no one would stop to see if you’re OK. They might slow down and look at you with a puzzled look on their face, but help? There's probably more chance of them stealing your shoes.
3. People walk really slowly. I don’t know about you guys, but when I’ve been at work for eight and a half hours, when I’m tired and I have to be up early in the morning, I just want to go home, eat my dinner and go to bed. Some people appear not to mind stretching out their journey. They might dawdle, get in front of you and then stop to stare at the wall, or walk backwards, I kid you not.
4. Tourists. I’m sure I would be equally irritating if I went on holiday, but since I haven’t been on holiday in ten years, I cannot sympathise. Is it really necessary to wear such massive rucksacks which hit me in the face as you clamber onto the tube awkwardly? Must you take pictures of me as I eat my lunch? Believe it or not, our underground system seems to be somewhat of a tourist attraction. Come to London, where you can experience for yourself what it’s like to have your face squashed up inside a smelly stranger’s armpit. Sounds exciting.
5. If you are very old, very young, pregnant, or have a physical disability, do not expect a seat on the train, bus or underground. Everyone buries their heads in their newspapers when any one of the above climb aboard.
6. No gratitude. Last year, I tried to offer my seat to a young child. The mother of that child yelled at me for getting in her way as I stood up.
7. House prices. Apparently, I am never leaving home.
8. When I blow my nose, the stuff that comes out is black. Yummy.
9. Our mayor is Boris Johnson. If the rest of the UK thought the same way Londoners do about politics, we’d probably have The Monster Raving Looney Party in government right now... Actually, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. At least it would keep the Tories out.
10. There’s no point in having a car. I passed my test in 2006, having spent over £1,000 on lessons and tests, and now I wonder why I bothered. Not only are cars too expensive to run, but in London, there’s nowhere to park, and if you want to go anywhere exciting, you have to pay the congestion charge.
Rest assured I have more than 10 things I hate about London. I will most definitely be back later, when my anger with those 7.5 million people has gathered some more momentum.
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Series: Dreams #3
The thing that didn't occur to me when I decided to set this series up was this very (now) obvious fact: I can't control when and what I dream about, nor if I remember them - thus why this series has been very tumbleweed-ish for the last however-long. It's not that I've stopped dreaming; I simply forget the dream upon waking up.
SO. Here's what I'm gonna do today: refer to an old dream. But I can assure you that, in spite of the fact that this dream happened about two years ago, it is still entirely relevant because, well, travel in London is getting awful.
The Milking-a-Chicken-With-a-Marshmallow Dream
You should know first of all that I hated school. The fact that I am trying to get home from school in this dream would surely give Freud reason enough to twirl his beard around his fingers and make "Mmm-hmm" noises. We'll ignore Freud today, though. (And all other days, as a matter of fact.)
I used to get the bus home, but for some reason today I decide to head to the train station. Only, when I get there, I find that they've introduced a new ticketing system. Lined up next to the platform is a row of chickens, sitting on perches. I go up to one of the chickens, and find a little plaque on the perch, reading, "If you have never milked a chicken before, press here to call for assistance." I look around me at all the other commuters, happily milking their chickens as if they've been milking chickens for years, and I feel foolish.
"Well I'm not going to admit that I don't know what I'm doing," I think to myself, and I take hold of the marshmallow sitting beside my chicken, and copy what all the other commuters are doing: I position the marshmallow beneath my chicken. Only, when I do it, nothing happens. My chicken does not lay a ticket. It just sits there and blinks up at me, probably thinking how useless I am.
In spite of the fact that I had not called for assistance, a member of staff then approaches me, takes the marshmallow from my hands and says, "What you need to do is hold the marshmallow directly under its nipple." (Do chickens even have nipples? I have no idea.)
"Uh-huh," I say, as if I really plan on doing this again sometime.
"And after a few seconds," he goes on, "the ticket will come out."
We wait a few seconds, and then this pale brown foam comes out of the chicken's nipple(?), and settles on the marshmallow. For one perverse second it reminds me of trifle, and then it quickly reminds me of chicken shit.
The man passes me the marshmallow, and there I am: with my ticket, ready to travel.
Chicken poop on a marshmallow.
SO. Here's what I'm gonna do today: refer to an old dream. But I can assure you that, in spite of the fact that this dream happened about two years ago, it is still entirely relevant because, well, travel in London is getting awful.
The Milking-a-Chicken-With-a-Marshmallow Dream
You should know first of all that I hated school. The fact that I am trying to get home from school in this dream would surely give Freud reason enough to twirl his beard around his fingers and make "Mmm-hmm" noises. We'll ignore Freud today, though. (And all other days, as a matter of fact.)
I used to get the bus home, but for some reason today I decide to head to the train station. Only, when I get there, I find that they've introduced a new ticketing system. Lined up next to the platform is a row of chickens, sitting on perches. I go up to one of the chickens, and find a little plaque on the perch, reading, "If you have never milked a chicken before, press here to call for assistance." I look around me at all the other commuters, happily milking their chickens as if they've been milking chickens for years, and I feel foolish.
"Well I'm not going to admit that I don't know what I'm doing," I think to myself, and I take hold of the marshmallow sitting beside my chicken, and copy what all the other commuters are doing: I position the marshmallow beneath my chicken. Only, when I do it, nothing happens. My chicken does not lay a ticket. It just sits there and blinks up at me, probably thinking how useless I am.
In spite of the fact that I had not called for assistance, a member of staff then approaches me, takes the marshmallow from my hands and says, "What you need to do is hold the marshmallow directly under its nipple." (Do chickens even have nipples? I have no idea.)
"Uh-huh," I say, as if I really plan on doing this again sometime.
"And after a few seconds," he goes on, "the ticket will come out."
We wait a few seconds, and then this pale brown foam comes out of the chicken's nipple(?), and settles on the marshmallow. For one perverse second it reminds me of trifle, and then it quickly reminds me of chicken shit.
The man passes me the marshmallow, and there I am: with my ticket, ready to travel.
Chicken poop on a marshmallow.
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Series: Pet Peeves #4
Pet Peeve #4: Twitter
I did one for Facebook, and now I think it's time I did one for Twitter. In the blogging world at least, it's seen to be more acceptable to have a Twitter account than a Facebook account. I think bloggers like to kid themselves that it's less narcissistic to post endless status updates on a social networking site where people choose* to follow you, rather than on a social networking site where someone is only 'friends' with you because you added them a gazillion times two years ago, and on the one-gazillionth time they took pity and finally accepted your request. In my opinion, they're much the same. It doesn't matter what the social networking site is: I still don't care that you ate a cheese sandwich for lunch.
Anyway. Here are 10 things that annoy me about Twitter:
1. The get-as-many-followers-as-you-can craze. I think that your number of followers is meant to be a mark of how popular you are. Possible. But it could also be a mark of how ridiculous you are. For example, there's this one guy on Twitter (and I refuse to link to him) who promotes anorexia. Everyone thinks he's a tool, but he still has thousands of people 'following' him. Then you get people who follow you just so that you'll follow them back. Why? You don't care what I have got to say (if you did then you wouldn't 'unfollow' me the second you realise I'm not going to reciprocate), and I couldn't give a toss what you're getting up to on a Thursday afternoon. Let's not pretend otherwise.
2. Offensive 'Trending Topics'. What was the one I saw yesterday? #uknowuuglywhen. With all this fake popularity and name-calling, sometimes, Twitter really does feel like school.
3. Racist 'Trending Topics'. They usually read something like #thingsblackgirlsdo, #thingsblackmendo and #thingswhitepeoplecantdo. I've come up with one of my own: #thingstwatsontwittersay. My answer? All of the above.
4. Unoriginal relationship advice. For some reason, people like to RT (re-tweet) crap relationship advice that we've all heard a million times before. "A real man knows how to treat his woman." Please. Agony Aunts have been saying this shite for decades. Join the back of the queue.
5. One-word tweets. Context is everything. When you say "Yesss!", how is anyone supposed to know what you're referring to (that is, provided we even care)? It could mean, "Yesss! I found £20 on the bus!" or "Yesss! A cure for cancer has been found!" or "Yesss! is the opposite of 'Nooo!'"
6. Celebrities who never tweet back. Obviously they can't tweet back everyone, but sometimes it just feels personal.
7. It doesn't even work. Half the time I go on Twitter, a page comes up saying it's "over capacity". Seriously, how many fecking people are there out there tweeting about their cheese sandwiches? STOP IT. I've got real shizz to be chatting about here (sorta), but your cheese sandwich cheese tweets won't let me!!
8. Come again? I don't even understand what these people are saying. omdzzzz i cnt bleive it lyk iz syin stff n i dnt evn no wot it menz looooooool! I know you've only got 140 characters, but if these people removed a few of the o and z characters from the words omdzzzz and looooooool, they might find they're able to be less brutal with the omission of necessary vowels.
9. TMI. It stands for Too Much Information. Tweeting on the shitter? Don't do it.
10. I got followed by a salad yesterday. There's a sentence I never thought I would say (or type). This thing happens, though, where you tweet something really random, and then half an hour later you have some obscure business targeting you. If you tweet My hands are cold, half an hour later a glove company will be following you. Tweet My cat died yesterday, R.I.P. Fluffy, and within an hour, someone will be trying to sell you fluffy teddy bears. Tweet I have a sore bum, and wadya know: you've been targeted as a potential customer of haemorrhoid cream. This is capitalism, and it sucks.
* I use the word 'choose' loosely. Most of the time, they're only following you because they want an extra number of their 'followers' list. They used you. You were nothing to them but another notch on their Twitter bedpost.
I did one for Facebook, and now I think it's time I did one for Twitter. In the blogging world at least, it's seen to be more acceptable to have a Twitter account than a Facebook account. I think bloggers like to kid themselves that it's less narcissistic to post endless status updates on a social networking site where people choose* to follow you, rather than on a social networking site where someone is only 'friends' with you because you added them a gazillion times two years ago, and on the one-gazillionth time they took pity and finally accepted your request. In my opinion, they're much the same. It doesn't matter what the social networking site is: I still don't care that you ate a cheese sandwich for lunch.
Anyway. Here are 10 things that annoy me about Twitter:
1. The get-as-many-followers-as-you-can craze. I think that your number of followers is meant to be a mark of how popular you are. Possible. But it could also be a mark of how ridiculous you are. For example, there's this one guy on Twitter (and I refuse to link to him) who promotes anorexia. Everyone thinks he's a tool, but he still has thousands of people 'following' him. Then you get people who follow you just so that you'll follow them back. Why? You don't care what I have got to say (if you did then you wouldn't 'unfollow' me the second you realise I'm not going to reciprocate), and I couldn't give a toss what you're getting up to on a Thursday afternoon. Let's not pretend otherwise.
2. Offensive 'Trending Topics'. What was the one I saw yesterday? #uknowuuglywhen. With all this fake popularity and name-calling, sometimes, Twitter really does feel like school.
3. Racist 'Trending Topics'. They usually read something like #thingsblackgirlsdo, #thingsblackmendo and #thingswhitepeoplecantdo. I've come up with one of my own: #thingstwatsontwittersay. My answer? All of the above.
4. Unoriginal relationship advice. For some reason, people like to RT (re-tweet) crap relationship advice that we've all heard a million times before. "A real man knows how to treat his woman." Please. Agony Aunts have been saying this shite for decades. Join the back of the queue.
5. One-word tweets. Context is everything. When you say "Yesss!", how is anyone supposed to know what you're referring to (that is, provided we even care)? It could mean, "Yesss! I found £20 on the bus!" or "Yesss! A cure for cancer has been found!" or "Yesss! is the opposite of 'Nooo!'"
6. Celebrities who never tweet back. Obviously they can't tweet back everyone, but sometimes it just feels personal.
7. It doesn't even work. Half the time I go on Twitter, a page comes up saying it's "over capacity". Seriously, how many fecking people are there out there tweeting about their cheese sandwiches? STOP IT. I've got real shizz to be chatting about here (sorta), but your cheese sandwich cheese tweets won't let me!!
8. Come again? I don't even understand what these people are saying. omdzzzz i cnt bleive it lyk iz syin stff n i dnt evn no wot it menz looooooool! I know you've only got 140 characters, but if these people removed a few of the o and z characters from the words omdzzzz and looooooool, they might find they're able to be less brutal with the omission of necessary vowels.
9. TMI. It stands for Too Much Information. Tweeting on the shitter? Don't do it.
10. I got followed by a salad yesterday. There's a sentence I never thought I would say (or type). This thing happens, though, where you tweet something really random, and then half an hour later you have some obscure business targeting you. If you tweet My hands are cold, half an hour later a glove company will be following you. Tweet My cat died yesterday, R.I.P. Fluffy, and within an hour, someone will be trying to sell you fluffy teddy bears. Tweet I have a sore bum, and wadya know: you've been targeted as a potential customer of haemorrhoid cream. This is capitalism, and it sucks.
* I use the word 'choose' loosely. Most of the time, they're only following you because they want an extra number of their 'followers' list. They used you. You were nothing to them but another notch on their Twitter bedpost.
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
Once upon a time, in a faraway land...
How does he sleep at night? I'm guessing Nick Clegg sings him lullabies and tells him far-fetched fairytales about this magical land called 'The Big Society' - a place where those born into privilege are held up as figureheads of the community, and all the little people are more than happy to work for less than minimum wage, all the while being portrayed as 'lazy' and 'workshy'.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
International Women's Day
8th March. International Women's Day.
It's a sad state of affairs when, according to Twitter's 'Trending Topics', the day before International Women's Day (a real, 100-year-old holiday celebrating the achievements of women) becomes known as (and to quote Twitter users) #bootyappreciationday. It wouldn't be so bad if #bootyappreciationday appreciated male and female arses in equal measure, but it doesn't. I am genuinely saddened by the fact that my mother's, my grandmothers' and my great-grandmothers' generations could get excited about sisterhood and about fighting for a cause, while my generation feels that there is no longer any need for feminism, and instead adopts this "So let's go put up pictures of our bums on the internet" attitude instead. Our female ancestors died so that we could vote; they protested for equal pay and women's health and freedom rights. This was not the future that they imagined.
I could talk about the diminishing presence of 'feminism' in the world until I'm blue in the face, but frankly today is all about celebrating the achievements of women - not noting their failings. So that will have to wait for another day.
International Women's Day is not just about the Emily Dickinsons, Emmeline Pankhursts, Joan of Arcs and Virginia Woolfs this world has seen. Of course it is about them in part, but more than anything it's about all women. It's about recognising the successes and achievements of those listed above, and saying to yourself, "Alright, this is a man's world. But it bloody well shouldn't be."
Look at what these women have achieved and then look to yourself; you do not need to cater to patriarchal ideals to make something of yourself. You can be strong without being hard-faced, intelligent without being "prim", beautiful without flaunting every inch of skin, and kind without being submissive. Stop looking at our society's patriarchal model of female success (the looks, the confidence, the business-minded brain with the independence which goes far enough without stepping on any man's toes...), because she is not real. Just be you, and don't make any apologies for what that is.
It's a sad state of affairs when, according to Twitter's 'Trending Topics', the day before International Women's Day (a real, 100-year-old holiday celebrating the achievements of women) becomes known as (and to quote Twitter users) #bootyappreciationday. It wouldn't be so bad if #bootyappreciationday appreciated male and female arses in equal measure, but it doesn't. I am genuinely saddened by the fact that my mother's, my grandmothers' and my great-grandmothers' generations could get excited about sisterhood and about fighting for a cause, while my generation feels that there is no longer any need for feminism, and instead adopts this "So let's go put up pictures of our bums on the internet" attitude instead. Our female ancestors died so that we could vote; they protested for equal pay and women's health and freedom rights. This was not the future that they imagined.
I could talk about the diminishing presence of 'feminism' in the world until I'm blue in the face, but frankly today is all about celebrating the achievements of women - not noting their failings. So that will have to wait for another day.
International Women's Day is not just about the Emily Dickinsons, Emmeline Pankhursts, Joan of Arcs and Virginia Woolfs this world has seen. Of course it is about them in part, but more than anything it's about all women. It's about recognising the successes and achievements of those listed above, and saying to yourself, "Alright, this is a man's world. But it bloody well shouldn't be."
Look at what these women have achieved and then look to yourself; you do not need to cater to patriarchal ideals to make something of yourself. You can be strong without being hard-faced, intelligent without being "prim", beautiful without flaunting every inch of skin, and kind without being submissive. Stop looking at our society's patriarchal model of female success (the looks, the confidence, the business-minded brain with the independence which goes far enough without stepping on any man's toes...), because she is not real. Just be you, and don't make any apologies for what that is.
Friday, 4 March 2011
So WTF
I thought it's about time I write something, after an unexplained week-and-a-half hiatus. I could come up with some fantastic excuse about my house getting burgled, my car being driven off a cliff, and me getting flung off a moving rollercoaster 50 feet in the air and breaking every bone in my body, and though you might suspect I'm telling porkies, you would never really know. But I'm too honest to do that. I have "excessive honesty" reserved for future job interviews, when they ask me what my weaknesses are.
"I am too honest," I plan on saying, like the little goody-two-shoes that I am. "I cannot lie and I will never cheat, which means sometimes I don't always get what I want. I would rather make a fool of myself than be dishonest." And it's true. I once got 0% in a Spanish test at school, when I could have easily cheated. But whatever: c'est la vie. (Oh poop, that's French. No wonder I failed Spanish.)
My house did not get burgled. My car was not driven off a cliff. (I don't even have a car; the last time I had a car was back in 2008, which strangely happened to be the thought I woke up with this morning, causing instant panic to set in... What if I've forgotten how to drive?) I have not been flung off any rollercoasters, and if I had, I would be suing right now, rather than updating my blog. Or perhaps eating my food through a straw. My excuse for not writing? I had no thoughts.
Alright, yeah, of course I had thoughts, but unless people wanna hear about my driving anxieties, I figured there was no point in sharing them. I only choose to share now out of obligation, thus why this is turning into a very rambly post with little to no direction.
Crap. I believe this is somewhat similar to farting at a posh dinner party. Long, awkward silences... Not knowing where to look... One person sitting in the corner styling a laugh into a cough.
*Tumbleweed floats past*
(What a tumbleweed would be doing at a posh dinner party, I have no idea. Do people have dinner parties in the desert?)
"I am too honest," I plan on saying, like the little goody-two-shoes that I am. "I cannot lie and I will never cheat, which means sometimes I don't always get what I want. I would rather make a fool of myself than be dishonest." And it's true. I once got 0% in a Spanish test at school, when I could have easily cheated. But whatever: c'est la vie. (Oh poop, that's French. No wonder I failed Spanish.)
My house did not get burgled. My car was not driven off a cliff. (I don't even have a car; the last time I had a car was back in 2008, which strangely happened to be the thought I woke up with this morning, causing instant panic to set in... What if I've forgotten how to drive?) I have not been flung off any rollercoasters, and if I had, I would be suing right now, rather than updating my blog. Or perhaps eating my food through a straw. My excuse for not writing? I had no thoughts.
Alright, yeah, of course I had thoughts, but unless people wanna hear about my driving anxieties, I figured there was no point in sharing them. I only choose to share now out of obligation, thus why this is turning into a very rambly post with little to no direction.
Crap. I believe this is somewhat similar to farting at a posh dinner party. Long, awkward silences... Not knowing where to look... One person sitting in the corner styling a laugh into a cough.
*Tumbleweed floats past*
(What a tumbleweed would be doing at a posh dinner party, I have no idea. Do people have dinner parties in the desert?)
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