Be Kind (Rewind)...

I like to think of myself as a kind person.  It's the one thing I pride myself on, actually, even though my granny always told me pride goes before a fall and all that.  Now obviously I'm not perfect; I know there are times when I could do more to be a better friend and a better person, and I obviously have days where I hate the world and think other people are stupid and wish they would go away and die in a hole, but so does everyone.  (Note: Anyone who maintains they never think badly of anyone ever is a liar, and anyone who never has nice thoughts towards others is a psychopath with probable embryonic serial killer tendencies - run away!!)  All in all, however, I think the scale tips far more in the direction of "I am a kind person" than not.

And it's not just being kind by buying stuff.  I mean obviously if I win megabucks on the lottery the first thing I'm going to do is spend it on my nearest and dearest...well, ok - if I win megabucks on the lottery the first thing I'm going to do is jump up and down screaming with excitement before running around like a demented chicken imagining all the fancy vintage clothes and Vivienne Westwood stuff I can buy (also hell-loooo, Laboutins!)  But yeah, then I'm going to get slapped by someone and will calm down, then I will start divvying up the dosh.  After I pay off my debts (so long, student loan and overdraft facility!) and find myself a home of my own to live in with the cat (I want a maisonette or a bungalow,she'll get what she's given), I'll donate a sizeable wedge to the four charities closest to my heart (Women's Aid, Macmillan Nurses, Amnesty International and Help for Heroes, since you ask) and then I'm going to go to town.  Parents mortgage paid off?  Done!  Money set aside to make sure my Nan is comfortable in her old age?  Sorted!  Brother and sister-in-law treated? Not a problem!  Private One Direction concert for my wee niecelet and her bestest friends?  Here's your cash, Harry Styles; now start singing!  And that's before I even get started on my friends.  Pack your bags, girls - we're going on an all-expenses-paid trip somewhere fabulous!!!  (I won't leave you out, boys, don't worry, but this one's just for us...)

Now that's all well and good, but it is kind of contingent upon me winning said megabucks on said lottery.  Since that is yet to happen, I have try and manifest my kindness in other, smaller acts.  Yes, sometimes that is about spending money, like buying a bar of chocolate for a friend because you know she had to go through something horrid earlier in the day; and sometimes it's about spending time, like going to an appointment with your bestie because you know she's scared about going by herself, or handwriting a letter every month to your cousin because she's away on the other side of the world for a year and you don't want her to feel she's missing out on anything.  Mostly, however, it's about not being a dick (thank you Adam Hills) and actually thinking about other people instead of yourself.  It's not always easy - Man is inherently selfish, it seems, and these days we very much live in a "me me me!!" culture, never mind the fact we all have our own problems - but when you do something, some small random act of kindness for someone, it not only makes them feel better, you feel pretty darned good too.  

But this isn't just about me and how uber-awesome I am with my writing stories for friends and buying people cake, because a) I'm not that awesome and b) I have modesty.  Or self-deprecation.  Whatever.  I too have been fortunate in having kindness shown to me, both by my friends (the very act of being my friend is a kindness, I often think) and by total strangers.  Two examples that stick in my mind:

1) When I was sixteen, I went on holiday with my mum, stepdad, younger brother and his friend to stay with my step-nan in Kent.  My favourite place near to her house was - and is - the ruins of Reculver, a four-mile walk along the sea wall (and then four miles back; I had stamina in those days!!)  On this particular occasion, I went for my usual stroll along to the ruins and then, on the way home, I was followed by some creepy guy on a bike who harassed me for the entire four miles.  In those days I didn't have a mobile phone, so by the time I reached the seafront near my step-nan's house I was shaking and nearly in tears; I have genuinely never been so frightened in my life.  It was horrible.  I found a payphone and called my mum to pick me up; I was so shaken I couldn't even walk the last ten minutes up the road to the house.  My brother, bless him, answered the phone and immediately came with my mum to get me - we may have had our squabbles over the years, but I know I can always, always depend on him to look out for me (an vice versa, I hope).  The next day, I wanted to go back to Reculver because I didn't want my love for the place to be tainted by the memory of what happened, but I was still pretty freaked out by it.  That was when my brother's friend, a 12 year old boy for gods sake, said he'd come with me.  He walked the entire eight miles with me so I wouldn't have to do it alone and, in the process, restored my sense of peace about going.  I have never, ever forgotten it.

2) Eleven years ago, my Arhoo - my dad's dad - became very, very ill after suffering years of ill-health.  I went to visit him in Southend Hospital and, as I came out, I knew that he was going to die.  I was fine as I left the ward, fine as I walked out of the hospital and out of the car park, but by the time I'd walked five minutes round the corner to walk home, I was sobbing.  I only live about a fifteen minute walk from the hospital but I could barely put one foot in front of the other; seeing him like that, knowing what was going to happen...it was the worst thing in the world and I felt completely destroyed.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a voice was asking if I was all right and an elderly lady was handing me a tissue.  There I was, a blubbering, snotty wreck in the middle of the pavement, and she took one look and decided not to run screaming in the opposite direction but to stop and ask if I was all right and could she do anything.  To this day I have no idea who the woman was but her small act of kindness when I was most in need of it has stayed with me ever since.

And it's not just people I know.  This blog post was inspired by something that happened on my way home from work tonight.  An elderly man got on the bus in town, looking very smart and wearing his Forces beret and medals.  Some oiky college student got up to give him a seat - which is rare enough - but, when the man thanked him, said oiky college student said "no - thank you for what you did".

Well.  Just...well..  I was stunned and, actually, incredibly touched.  I mean the whole Remembrance Day thing is very dear to my heart anyway; my Arhoo served in the Second World War, I have family who served until recently and, of course, Rob was in the Army until just over a year ago, but it was only today that I was talking with colleagues at work and saying that most of the "younger generation" seem to have no bloody clue about what it's actually about and don't give a toss either which way.  And yet here on the bus was one of this younger generation defying the convention.  I have no idea who you are, young man, but I hope your family are very, very proud of you...

So, there you have it.  Kindness.  It doesn't have to take much, and it doesn't have to be an extravagant gesture, but I firmly believe you have to have it.  Where kindness is concerned, I try and follow the mantras of two of my favourite movies: "nothing is trivial" (from The Crow) and "be excellent to each other" (from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure / Bogus Journey).  I may not always succeed, but I fully intend to keep trying...

P.S November 13th is World Kindness Day.  Do something lovely for someone.  Even if it's just asking "how are you?" and then, when they say "oh, fine," asking "no, how are you really?!" and then actually listening to the response.  Believe me, it will mean a lot...

One Child, One Teacher, One Book, One Pen...

One year and one day ago, a fifteen year old girl travelling home with her friends on their school bus was shot in the head.  Much like the assassinations of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austro-Hungary and  the two elder Kennedy brothers, it became a "shot heard 'round the world": Western media seized on the story and ran with it in a flurry of both shock and outrage; photos of a then-predominantly unknown Malala Yousafzai were beamed from the distant heartland of Pakistan's Swat Valley into living rooms from Los Angeles to London and on across Europe as the news, and the outrage, spread.  Eventually, it was announced that Malala had been shot by the Taliban, although to this day there are still conflicting 'reasons' for the attempt on her life: some say it was because she spoke up for the education of girls in her country, others because she was a vocal opponent of the Taliban and their efforts to assert their dominance in the region.  Whatever the Taliban's own personal justification for the shooting Malala and the two other girls injured in the incident, Shazia Ramzan and Kainat Riaz, remain resolutely alive and well.  Shazia is attending school in Britain; Malala and her family are also in this country, trying to rebuild their lives and come to terms with a way of life very different from the one they are used to. Malala says she dreams of being able to return to her homeland, to her home and her friends in the Swat Valley, yet even now the Taliban say they would shoot her again if she was to return.  She has become a symbol, a passionate advocate of the right for every girl across the world to receive an education and be treated equally to her brothers, yet she is still only sixteen years of age.  It is a terrible, wonderful burden to bear and yet, having read her memoir which was released this week, I can't help but feel that no one is more equal to the task than Malala Yousafzai.

The firstborn child of a poor Pashtun family in the town of Mingora in the once-beautiful Swat Valley, Malala's father was commiserated with after her birth for having a daughter instead of a son.  Fortunately for Malala, and probably the world, her father Ziauddin is an enlightened man in an oft-unenlightened place; he named his daughter for one of the great heroines of the Pashtun and, as a young man from a poor family with no money to pay for his education, he worked hard to be able to fulfil his dream of going to university, getting his degree and coming home to open a school for the children of his local area - the same school Malala and her friends attended.  I'm not going to delve too deeply into the family's story; no words of mine could ever do it justice when Malala and her co-writer Christina Lamb do so perfectly eloquently, and besides I think everyone should read and discover Malala's story for themselves (seriously, read this book.  If you consider yourself a functioning member of the human race you need to read this book...actually, make that ALL races.  Malala doesn't discriminate and neither do I, so be you Human, Martian, Android, Time Lord or any other, you *need* to read this book...)  All you need to know is this young woman and her father were speaking out against the Taliban and fighting for girls to receive an education for years before the attempt on her life, something I didn't know and a fact I feel curiously ashamed of...

Contrasting Malala's inspiring advocacy for girl's education with the news this week that both England and Northern Ireland have among the worse levels of numeracy and literacy in the developed world is enough to make my blood run cold.  Now I'm not saying I was an angel at school, far from it, and there were times I hated having to go with an all-consuming passion, but at least I live in a country where I am not only given the opportunity to receive some form of an education, it is a given that I will do so.  It both bewilders and terrifies me, doing the job I currently do, to see how many young people point blank refuse to go to school, or do everything they possibly can to disrupt things when they can be strong-armed into the building, and how many parents seem quite prepared to go along with that.  These are the future movers and shakers of the world, people; if you aren't afraid you bloody well should be!  I left 'compulsory' education at 16 way back in 1998; while there were unquestionably 'naughty' children in my classes throughout school and we could be a wee bit cheeky, it was nothing compared to some of the shocking stuff which goes on in classrooms today.  I don't remember a single case of ADHD among my peers in all the time I was in school, yet nowadays it seems there are more children in our classrooms with this label - and the accompanying medication - than ever.  Now I don't want to get into the whole "is it a real condition or is it just bad parenting?" debate, mainly because I don't have any definitive answers and sometimes think it's six of one and half a dozen of the other, but still I find it a frightening statistic.  We are drugging more kids than ever before, have more children with behaviourial problems than ever before, and seem to be failing dismally at meeting even the most basic skills with these kids.  How on earth do we expect these children and young people to go on to becoming fully-functioning members of society, especially with the Tory Government's sweeping welfare reform changes and its insistence that everybody goes out and works, dammit, when frankly there's a hell of a lot of these people who won't be fit to do anything?!!

I genuinely don't think young people in this country realise how incredibly lucky they are.  You know what, we all hated school at one point or another; there is absolutely nothing 'revolutionary' in their insistent whining that they hate it and it's boring and too hard and why can't we just play on our computers/stay in bed all day/go out and get hammered in the park on cheap cider/whatever the current 'thing' is for not going to school these days.  Tough shit.  Doing things you don't like is part of life.  I hate paying taxes but if I don't, I get a nasty visit from the Inland Revenue and a sudden lack of hospitals/schools/policemen, all things I actually need and which we all take for granted.  Would I like to not go into work every day if I could be paid for staying at home watching telly?  Well duh!  And yet I go into work, pay my taxes and the world keeps spinning.  Yet apparently we think it's a good idea to reward a child who hasn't been going into school by taking them on a day out if they manage to go in all day every day for a fortnight!  How is this sensible?!  On the one hand, it gives these kids a ridiculous sense of power and entitlement, and I'm sorry but they are still kids and actually we are the grown-ups; and on the other hand, that is obscenely unfair to all those other kids who manage to get themselves into school all day every day for an entire academic year (barring the odd sick day or whatever) without getting so much as a pat on the head!!  WHAT IS ALL THAT ABOUT?!!  You're not telling me that Little Johnny likes going into school any more than Little Bobby does; given the chance Little Johnny would quite happily sit at home all day and play on his PlayStation (other games consoles are available...) and yet he turns up each and every day, moaning about his teachers and the blatant unfairness of maths homework on a Friday which has to be in on the Monday, and gets nothing.  Little Bobby, meanwhile, makes an appearance for all of a week and is suddenly whisked off for a day on the seafront for his achievement.  How the Little Johnnies of this world haven't yet led an armed uprising against Little Bobby and his ilk is beyond me, frankly...So yes.  School sucks.  Homework sucks more.  And teachers and authority figures exist only to make your life a misery.  You know what?  Study hard, become a teacher and voila!  The power to make other people's lives a misery by handing out triple algebra on the last day of term is yours!!

To be less facetious, however, I do think some young people in this country have no frigging clue how lucky they are.  If you are educated you can do anything, be anything, go anywhere....the world and all its infinite wonders are yours, and that's not something to be sniffed at.  Across the world millions of children, the majority of them girls, remain uneducated, puppets and pawns of a world they can't possibly comprehend because they weren't given the dignity of being able to ask "why?" or "how?" or "what for?"  There are girls married off at ridiculously-young ages to men old enough to be their fathers and grandfathers, having children when they are no more than children themselves.  There are girls whose only education is how to cook, to keep house, to look after a husband and family; who have no aspirations beyond that because they are not taught and not encouraged to think that they could have a life beyond that.  (This is not to belittle those in the developed world who choose to stay at home and raise a family, but that's kind of the key word right there: choose.  They at least were able to make an informed choice, something denied to their sisters elsewhere in the world).  We speak of the next great political leader, the next great scientist or economist; the person who might discover a cure for cancer or AIDS...any one of them could be one of those children denied an education, yet because of that very fact we will never know.  More importantly they will never know, either what they could be capable of or what their worth may be - something we in the developed world seem to all to easily take for granted.

Malala Yousafzai's campaign to speak up for education and for the rights of women and girls is something which should be shouted from the rooftops.  In the body of this courageous, unassuming, self-confident young woman there burns an absolute conviction that everyone - everyone - is entitled to an education and, with that education, to make free and informed decisions about themselves and the world they live in.  And she believes this because it is the absolute right of each and every one of us to be able to do so.  If I had my way, a copy of Malala's book would be given to each and every child in this country, along with the video of the speech she made on her sixteenth birthday at the UN Headquarters in New York, to try and make them realise just how incredibly fortunate they really are.  If it changes only a handful of minds then it will have been a worthwhile endeavour...

Malala wants to be a politician like one of her heroines, Benazir Bhutto; to go back to Pakistan and be a force for change, for good, in that oft-troubled country.  I for one wouldn't bet against her.  As she said in her speech at the UN, and again in her memoir, books and pens are the most powerful weapons we have to change things, to bring light to the darkness.  One child, one teacher, one book and one pen can change the world.  In this child, this teacher, we have an instrument which might do just that...

Anyone wishing to support the Malala Fund in its aim to empower girls by providing them with an education can do so here.  It may be a small step, but from such small steps epic journeys are begun...

Beyond Broadmoor...?

Over the past two weeks that bastion of bonkers television, Channel 5, has surprisingly proved itself to be almost worthy of its existence by showing a two-part series which was both well made, informative, and not about a Z-list celebrity-turned-benefit-scrounger with a failed gastric band trying to get into the Big Brother house while guest-starring as the corpse in a re-run of CSI/Law and Order.  (Think I covered all their usual bases there...)  Instead, "Inside Broadmoor" had exclusive access to the archives of possibly the most notorious of Britain's maximum security secure psychiatric hospitals (bonus points to you if you have actually heard of both Rampton and Ashworth, the two other secure psychiatric hospitals for England and Wales.  Extra-special double bonus points if you were aware of the existence of Carstairs State Hospital in Scotland, which performs the same function for patients for Scotland and Northern Ireland), and spoke to those who have previously worked in the hospital.  (Extra gold star triple bonus points if you remembered Broadmoor actually IS a hospital and not a prison...some people tend to forget it actually has a therapeutic function given the notoriety of some of its patients...)

Now those of you who know me well will be fully aware of my somewhat perverse fascination with the mind of the "criminal lunatic", as the original inhabitants of the 150 year old hospital were oft referred to.  As my friend Lee has pointed out to me on more than one occasion, I do like a good psychopathic murderer every now and then; not on a personal level, obviously - never going to go and have tea and cake with Peter Sutcliffe, for example - but from a professional psychological point of view.  A programme about Broadmoor was going to draw me like a moth to the proverbial flame and, for once, I was not disappointed with a Channel 5 show.  (I'm sorry, C5, but when you dropped Prison Break and let it go to Sky when I didn't actually have Sky it caused a huge rift between us which I've never fully gotten over...)  Not only was it interesting from a professional psychological angle but from a social historical angle as well; some of the stuff in those archives is amazing, especially concerning Broadmoor's role in some real pioneering "treatments", and I would quite happily lose myself among its treasures for hours at a time.  There were also real nuggets of gold in some of the information about the patients as well, and not just some of the more historical ones.  I was beyond intrigued to learn for example, that the Medical Superintendent in charge of the hospital at the time of the Moors Murders - a rather excellent chap from Glasgow named Pat McGrath, who brought his wife and two kids to live with him in the hospital and instituted a rather compassionate regime (his son, who was seven at the time they moved in, recalls walking the grounds with his father one evening when they heard a terrible scream coming from Block 6, where the most disturbed male patients were kept; Dr McGrath glanced up and said "poor John, having a bad night tonight", which reinforced in the boy that these people were in fact sick and needed treatment).  I've digressed...oh yes, so the excellent Dr McGrath was in charge of the hospital at the time of the Moors Murders and was a jolly sensible and compassionate man, in charge of a large population of schizophrenics (about two-thirds of the hospital patients have schizophrenia) and those with severe personality disorders such as psychopaths.  Some of the most notorious inmates of that hospital have been incredibly challenging men, who have committed the most dreadful crimes imaginable, and yet the estimable doctor believed fully in caring for his patients and apparently lost the plot whenever anyone called Broadmoor a prison instead of a hospital.  However, not even the remarkable Pat McGrath felt anything could be done to treat Ian Brady; he refused point blank to bring him into the hospital, sensing no humanity in the man with which he could build a therapeutic relationship, and stated that Broadmoor had nothing to offer him as he was "beyond psychiatric help".  I'll leave you to insert your own comments on that one; suffice to say Brady was sent to the maximum security prison at Durham until 1985, when he was sent to Ashworth.  (Interestingly - to me, anyway - this sentiment reminds me of the one expressed by one of my personal heroes, former FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit Chief and pioneer in the 'profiling' field John Douglas, who stated that in order to rehabilitate an offender, any offender, you have to have something to rehabilitate to, which many of these individuals seem not to possess).

However, the reason for this blog post is something which was said at the end of the programme and has left me pondering.  Professor Tony Maden, former head of the now-closed Dangerous Severe Personality Disorder (DSPD) unit at the Berkshire hospital, stated that thanks to the anti-psychotic medication he's on to control his schizophrenia symptoms, serial murderer Peter Sutcliffe is no longer acutely mentally ill and, since the Broadmoor Hospital would appear to have achieved its aim of stabilising the patient's condition, he should be released back to prison.  Now this throws up all kinds of interesting discussion points: exactly how stable is is "stable"; can we rely on the overstretched prison system to continue doling out the medication to Sutcliffe to keep him "stable", or will he relapse and have to be moved back to hospital; and how expensive will it be to send him to a prison where, for his own safety, he's going to have to be held in isolation?  Now I'm not suggesting for one single second Peter Sutcliffe is some delicate little flower who has to be protected from all those nasty criminals in prison - the crimes he committed were, after all, completely and utterly reprehensible - but actually there is something in that.  Those of you who know my little rants will be fully aware of my anti-death penalty stance (State-sanctioned murder is still murder, after all, and how can we say to people "killing is bad, m'kay?" when we, um, kill them...?) and this extends to this sort of situation as well.  Now my emotional gut-response instinct is to be really pissed off when I hear that child sex offenders, for example, have to be segregated from the rest of the prison population 'for their own safety'; "let the gen. pop. lot have at them", I cry,  "for surely they'll be doing us a favour!" However, I can't exactly claim to be a humanist/reasonably decent Human Bean if I'm prepared to turn a blind eye to the murder of an individual, no matter how morally repulsive they are to me on a personal level.  (And please don't think I'm going for Joan of Arc-style sainthood here; my emotions run as pure and white-hot as anyone else's do, and there are people like Ian Huntley who really would be no great loss to the world if they died suddenly, but on a philosophical basis I have to stand by my belief that murder is murder is murder and therefore wrong, no matter who the victim is).

With someone like Sutcliffe, however, and this particular situation, I find myself concluding that, actually, somewhere like Broadmoor probably IS the best place for him no matter how stable his condition has now become.  Think about it: this is a man who committed one of the most notorious crimes this country has ever had the misfortune to witness; whether for their own notoriety or out of some twisted form of justice, there are probably plenty of people in the prison system who'd like to get their hands on Peter Sutcliffe (he was attacked while in prison before his removal to Broadmoor).  He has been diagnosed with a severe psychiatric condition which requires ongoing medication and treatment and has been held in Broadmoor since 1984; there is no doubt in my mind that he is going to be severely institutionalised as a result.  Our prison system is already full of people suffering from mental health disorders who really shouldn't be there; I really don't think any prison, with the best will in the world, would be able to cope with the level of Sutcliffe's needs if he was removed there (and, thanks to a ruling in 2010, he will never be released).  Bizarrely, even though he's actually considered stable enough to leave Broadmoor for the prison system, the secure hospital is probably the safest place for him.  Many of the patients treated at the secure psychiatric hospitals will eventually be returned to prison once their condition has stabilised (although I'd be very interested to see any data relating to whether they are subsequently sent back to the hospitals for further treatment), but it seems some are destined to stay there even though they could, theoretically, be moved on.

And it's not just Sutcliffe.  He at least has a treatable condition; you cannot cure schizophrenia, but at least you can provide medication to keep the symptoms under control.  For psychopaths and others with severe personality disorders (such as Michael Stone, who in 1996 murdered Lin Russell and her daughter Megan, severely injuring her other daughter Josie), no amount of medication in the world is going to make the blindest bit of difference; since you cannot keep people in prison beyond their tariff - and especially since the Court of Human Rights has ruled the use of the "whole life" tariff (with no set time scale for reviews and the possibility of parole) as illegal - what do you do with these incredibly-dangerous individuals who can never, for the safety of everyone else, ever be allowed back on the streets?

The answer, it seems, has become Broadmoor and its sister-hospitals.  This goes right to the heart of the dilemma of Broadmoor: originally conceived as a hospital, for a select group of individuals it has become the prison it was never intended to be.  Believe me when I say I don't know what the answer is, and really, truly believe me when I say I'm extremely glad these most dangerous of individuals are securely held somewhere they can't be a danger to the public or commit further horrendous crimes, but also believe me when I say that this is a symptom of how we as a society view both mental health and those who commit crimes.  Psychiatric-disordered offending isn't going to go away; people like Sutcliffe are merely the tip of the iceberg, especially when recent estimates from the Centre for Mental Health suggest approximately 60% of prisoners have some form of personality disorder and receive no help while in prison, and perhaps now, with the 150th anniversary of Broadmoor's founding upon us, we need to take a long hard look at how we treat them...

Soup, Socialising and Seriously Good Ideas

I have just returned from the first ever Southend Soup event!  For those of you not in the know, the idea came from Detroit Soup (see here) and is a chance for communities to come together, share experiences (and soup!) and pitch ideas for all sorts of projects which the community then vote for; the winning pitch receives the money donated by the people attending the event.  It really was such a fantastically inspiring evening; people came from all different areas of life and yet there was a real sense of community and goodwill in the air by the end of the evening, it was marvellous.  Credit has to go to the lovely Sherry for organising the entire shebang; she truly is one of life's genuinely beautiful Human Beans and I consider myself incredibly fortunate to know her.

So yes.  Simple idea, really.  You turn up at the venue, pay your donation/entry 'fee' and settle down for an evening of creative community spirit.  With delicious soup thrown in.  Seriously, people, what's not to love?  In an age where it all seems to be about "me, me, me" it's kind of nice to see that actually community spirit is still alive and well, and that people care enough to make the effort to come together and support one another.  Tonight, for example, I went along initially because I was curious and thought it sounded like a great idea, but then at the eleventh hour (well, yesterday afternoon) people were dropping out of pitching their ideas, so I 'volunteered' and made a pitch for funds to go towards buying presents for the kids at SHARE so Santa could give them out at our Christmas party.  The other project, which was absolutely brilliant and involved helping with the running and further development of a community allotment in a particularly-deprived area of Southend, bringing people together and giving them skills and a sense of wellbeing, was the victor on the evening (and thoroughly well-deserved, I have to say), but because I turned up to raise awareness of the SHARE project and our plans I was fortunate to receive some extra donations from people and made some potentially useful connections to help the cause.  All this from one evening chatting to people I did and didn't know!  It just goes to show you that, in spite of a vast swathe of evidence to the contrary sometimes, most people are in fact Thoroughly Good Eggs who are kind and lovely and want to come together for good, not bad.  One of the most important things I took away from tonight's gathering was that, actually, it's not all about growing people as individuals but growing them as a community, something which can often seem sadly lacking in this day and age.  The creative energy in that room as people mixed and mingled and exchanged information and ideas was remarkable; I feel genuinely blessed to have been a part of it.

For more info on Southend Soup, go here

Time To Unblur The Lines

So I've attempted to steer well clear of the whole "Blurred Lines" thing this summer; I heard the song once and was so repulsed by what I managed to decipher (and what I saw on the video - because of course every song needs a topless girl crawling around on a leash in it, this is 2013 after all!) that I basically refused to even acknowledge its existence.  It's the most vile and basic misogyny and quite frankly I've now lost all respect for Pharrell Williams after his association with it. I heard all the furor about it being basically a Hymn to Rape but hadn't examined it closely enough to really get to the bottom of it.  Until now.  Since autumn is almost upon us and the utter repulsiveness of the song is once more in the headlines thanks to this utterly wonderful article, I thought I'd examine it in a little more detail...

Well.  Quite frankly I wish I hadn't bothered as it's even more vile than I'd first thought.  How, in the name of all that is right and good in the world, can radio stations which bleep out the word "fuck" in rock songs and refuse to play gangsta rap because of its violence and misogyny (and violent misogyny) seriously give this song airplay?!!  "Oh no, we couldn't possibly let Slipknot say 'fuck' in a song but let's play the Rapist Anthem because it's catchy and summery, yo!"  Odin on a popsicle stick, the normalisation of sexual violence and the objectification of women is further gone than I thought; abandon hope, all feminists who enter here, because quite frankly we're never going to get out of this bloody mess!!

If you examine the song on a line by line/verse by verse basis, the full horror becomes glaringly apparent.  I can deal with the initial "hey, hey, hey" thing because, sure, it's catchy and summery and has been used in about a million songs before, so although you could suppose it acts as some catcall requiring a Hollaback! we'll let that one slide.  If only the rest was so easily explained away...

"If you can't hear what I'm trying to say

If you can't read from the same page

Maybe I'm going deaf
Maybe I'm going blind
Maybe I'm out of my mind"

Or maybe the woman you're trying to talk to here is actually just not interested in you, Robin.  I'm not sure your ego could handle such a thought but still, it needs to be said.  You aren't God's Gift to women, mate; it is possible that the female of the species isn't going to fall at your feet and let you do whatever you want.  Date Rapist Score Number One: Unable to handle being ignored/rejected by the object of your desire.

"Ok, now he was close
Tried to domesticate you
But you're an animal
Baby, it's in your nature
Just let me liberate you
You don't need no papers
That man is not your maker"

So the fact this girl maybe has a boyfriend is no obstacle either?  Wow, Robin, you're quite the considerate lover, aren't you?  "Boyfriend - pffft!  Let me drag you away from your clearly humdrum cozy little existence with your current boyfriend and show you just how wild you could be if you were with a real man!  He doesn't own you; we're only animals, after all, so let's unleash our wild side!"  Date Rapist Score Number Two: not giving a flying fuck about the wants/desires/situation of your intended victim and projecting your own wants/desires onto her instead.  Classy.  Oh, not to mention the fact that this is the 21st Century and so most girls are actually quite capable of 'liberating' themselves, thanks.

And so to the bridge/chorus.  God help us...

"And that's why I'm gon' take a

Good girl"

Oh look, the Madonna/Whore dichotomy!  How depressingly familiar...

"I know you want it

I know you want it
I know you want it"

...said every single Power Rapist ever.

"You're a good girl

Can't let it past me"

Because of course it's all about what you want, Robin...

"You're far from plastic"

Actually, this line is just plain weird.  It could be construed as the fact the woman in question hasn't had a boob job or whatever, but is completely and utterly irrelevant either way.  Maybe this is Thicke's "MacArthur Park" moment...?  (Incidentally, it's taking all the maturity I have as a writer to not point out the connotations of this guys surname.  Be impressed at my restraint...)

"Talk about getting blasted
I hate these blurred lines
I know you want it
I know you want it
I know you want it
But you're a good girl
The way you grab me
Must wanna get nasty
Go ahead, get at me"

Dear god, where to even begin?  Saying "no, fuck off and leave me alone, you creepy pervert; I don't want to have sex with you" is 'getting blasted' is it?  Rather than, say, a woman's right to assert control over her own sexuality?  Well, thank god you cleared that one up for us, Robin; we women would have spent the rest of our lives thinking we had the right to say "no" to sex otherwise!  Then there's the whole "blurred lines" thing, which is just misogynistic code for "she was dressed in a mini-skirt/had been drinking/kissed me in the club and then refused to fuck me because she's a goddam slutty tease", also known as Bullshit, Victim Blaming, and The Rapists Excuse List.  And finally, after the whole "I know what you're thinking" Power Rapist thing again, we have another stab at the Madonna/Whore dichotomy coupled with an assumption that the girl clearly wants to "get nasty".  Only if it involves castrating you with a pair of blunt nail scissors, Robin.  Otherwise I'm fine with ignoring you.

And so to verse two!

"What do they make dreams for

When you got them jeans on
What do we need steam for
You the hottest bitch in this place
I feel so lucky, you wanna hug me
What rhymes with hug me?"

Firstly, the use of the word "bitch".  *shudders*  Unless he's referring to the fact his female dog is suffering in the extreme heat of the summer we just had then this is nothing more than a drearily-familiar pejorative attempt at debasing the female population.  Jay-Z and Snoop-Dogg were doing this 15 years ago and it wasn't big or clever then, so get a bloody grip on yourself and refer to women as, er, women why don't you?  Moron.  I'm ignoring the first three 'masturbation-fantasy' lines of this verse because there isn't enough hot water in the world to scrub me clean of the feeling that conjures up, but then we hit the piece-de-resistance: I feel so lucky, you wanna hug me.  What rhymes with hug me?  'Bug me', actually, which is what you do, Robin.  'Fuck' doesn't rhyme with 'hug', which is what you were clearly insinuating.  Maybe you'd have more luck with the ladies if you could write poems that rhyme; it seemed to work for that Lord Byron, after all...But inept rhyming aside, these two lines make me want to vomit.  It's that whole Victim Blaming thing again: "she hugged me therefore she must have wanted me therefore it wasn't rape even though she was screaming at me stop".  Yeah, obviously.

Luckily for you, Dear Reader, you are spared having to go through an analysis of the bridge/chorus again because, after all, it's just "same bullshit, different place in the song".  Unluckily for you, and indeed for all of us, we come to the 'rap'.  Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night...

"Hustle Gang Homie
One thing I ask of you
Lemme be the one you back that ass up to"

On the plus side, he is at least asking if he can have anal sex with us...

"From Malibu to Paris boo

Had a bitch, but she ain't bad as you
So, hit me up when you pass through
I'll give you something big enough to tear your ass in two"

Wow.  Just...wow.  Yet again the implication the girl is 'bad' and therefore must like rough sex.  Also make your mind up - earlier it was all "good girl" and now no one's as "bad" as her?  Jesus wept...oh, and let's not forget the graphic implication of that last line.  Because nothing says "I love you" quite like anal rape.  (Also spot the typical bragging about how big he is.  Classy again).

"Swag on 'em even when you dress casual"

Yes, he means your tits.  No, he will not be "swagging" on them, casually dressed or otherwise.

"I mean, it's almost unbearable
In a hundred years not dare would I
Pull a Pharcyde, let you pass me by"

Face it, girls; what we want doesn't matter.  he's gonna have us anyway.  Oh look, that makes him *gasp* A Rapist...

"Nothin' like your last guy, he too square for you

He don't smack that ass and pull your hair like that"

No, that's because a) he's a gentleman and b) he gives enough of a damn about me to make sure when we have sex he's not raping me.  I'm all for people expressing themselves with a bit of rough sex if that's what turns them on; it's the implication here that any guy who doesn't do that automatically isn't a "real" man because that's what all women want which annoys the fuck out of me.

"So I'm just watching and waitin'
For you to salute the true big pimpin'
Not many women can refuse this pimping
I'm a nice guy, but don't get confused, this pimpin'"

So, you're a pimp?  You know that's illegal, right?  Also again with the ego - "not many women can refuse this pimping".  Right, because most women want nothing more than a man who treats them like a whore and forces them to have sex with strangers for money.  Who in their right mind would rather be with a guy who treats them with respect and dignity?!  All women are ho's, yo! *facepalms*

"Shake your rump
Get down, get up-a
Do it like it hurt, like it hurt
What you don't like work"

This is just inane babbling with a vicious streak of misogyny and sexual violence thrown in for good measure.  Oh, and apparently during this vicious sexual assault, girls, we are going to have to "work", presumably to get him off because otherwise we haven't done our "job" properly.  At least we know, right?

And so to the last verse where, after all those implications that you're a whore who likes it rough and is going to have sex with him whether you want to or not, Robin Thicke attempts to drug you with some date-rape drug he got from Jamaica so you can enjoy the start of a beautiful relationship together...

"Baby, can you breathe
I got this from Jamaica
It always works for me
Dakota to Decatur
No more pretending
Cause now you're winning
Here's our beginning
I always wanted a..."

(repeat inane rape-y bridge/chorus and fade out until the end)

Oh well, now that I've looked at it line by line I can completely see it's not a Rapist Anthem at all...for the love of...how the fuck did this get passed for release?!!  I feel sick just reading it; my skin's crawling and I feel like I want to go shower in bleach.  Now I know there have been plenty of gangsta rap songs, and songs in other genres (maybe not easy listening...), which debase women and glorify sexual and physical violence towards them, but you sort of know what you're getting with those.  I mean for gods sake, no one is going to listen to "She Swallowed It" by N.W.A and be surprised by the content, right?  But that sort of violent bullshit seems to a) have fallen out of favour and b) not get airplay these days, on mainstream stations at least, whereas this summer you literally couldn't move for radio stations and TV music channels placing "Blurred Lines" on heavy rotation.  Did they just not listen to it?  Not see the video?  or do they just genuinely not give a damn about the glorification of sexual violence towards women?  

Now I've analysed this song, I'm never having anything to do with it ever again.  It's disgusting.  If it ever comes on my radio, I'm turning it off.  I will not talk about it.  I will not have it played in my hearing.  I will walk out of any shop which plays it.  It's abhorrent and should never, ever have been released...

Faith and Trust and Pixie-Dust...

On Facebook yesterday I made the observation that I truly love the sense of wonder children seem to have; how we, as adults, tend to look beyond the smoke and mirrors to find the mechanics of a thing or the man behind the mask, whereas a child believes absolutely and irrefutably in the sheer magic of the moment.  It's a thought which always comes to me - as it did yesterday - when watching the Doctor Who Prom; as much as I love the absurdity of the event and the absolutely brilliant and beautiful music, (yes, all right, and Matt Smith), for me the Doctor Who Prom is worth watching for one reason and one reason alone: to see the faces of the children when the monsters suddenly appear.

Now I don't doubt for one second that, were I to be lucky enough to attend said Prom one year, I too would be ecstatic with glee at the sight of a Cyberman or Dalek coming towards me; I'm a big geek/kid when it comes to that stuff and I don't deny it, but deep down inside I know at the end of the Prom the Cybermen et al take off their masks and their costumes and go back to being normal people with a really cool day job playing Cybermen.  The joy I get from seeing them is always tempered with that knowledge; it's the fundamentally sucky part of being a grown up.  I'm also reasonably convinced that every single kid in that auditorium knows, deep down inside, that the Cybermen and Sontarans and Daleks and Silurians and what-not are really people-in-costume, but for one shining moment all disbelief is suspended and you can see it on every single face of every single child: oh my god, that's a Cyberman.  Right there in front of me is a real live Cyberman...

It's the singularly most magical thing about the entire event for me.

It saddens me to see how fast children grow up these days.  Childhood seems such a fleeting, momentary thing; gone before you even really grasped its existence or celebrated its sheer, lyrical potential.  Some kids have to grow up fast of course, forced by circumstances beyond their control, but the vast majority just seem to reach a point where they just aren't kids any more.  My niece only turned eleven last week but already she's putting away her soft toys and her Sylvanian Family collection because shes 'too old' for them; something I find incredibly depressing.  Where's the law that says you have to 'put away childish things' once you reach some arbitrary age limit, even if you still really love them?  Why is having her favourite Build-a-Bear bear on her bed suddenly seen as some crime?  I know they can't stay kids forever but these days they seem to be getting older at a much younger age...

Now the sociologist in me wants to do some study here of the correlation between kids growing up too fast and the teenage pregnancy rate or something, but since this is a blog rather than a journal I'll control my inner researcher and refrain from doing so.  (Still, there's gotta be something in it somewhere along the line, right...?)  But working in the fields I do/have done, I've seen an awful lot of kids 'old before their time'; kids who, for whatever reason, have had the magic disappear.  So I want to make a plea here.  Firstly, if you're a parent or an auntie or an uncle or have any contact with little kids at all (legally, obviously) then I want to ask you to do whatever you can to keep the magic and innocence of childhood going for as long as possible.  Write them letters from Santa.  Sprinkle pixie-dust on the pillow when the Tooth Fairy pays a visit.  Believe in the monster living under their bed or in their wardrobe, and make sure they see you giving it a stern talking-to every night so they won't be afraid.  Childhood is a magical time and it should be nurtured, cherished and celebrated, so run with it for as long as you can and let the children in your life be children.

My other plea is to you.  Yes you, the grown-up-type person reading this very blog right now.  I want you to do me a favour.  The next time you see the mechanics behind the smoke and mirrors, or catch sight of the man behind the mask, I want you to close your eyes and count to three before opening them again.  When you do, I want you to see, even for a moment, what a child would see and to enjoy that fleeting moment of wonder.  Life is far too full of stresses and strains and waaaaaay short on wonder for the most part; take it where you can find it, my friends, and never be afraid of it.  Unless it actually IS a Cyberman...

As one of my heroes J.M Barrie once said, "if growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up!!"

20 Fun Facts About Kate

I saw this headline in the sidebar of a page on the Independent’s website and was bitterly disappointed when it turned out to be about Kate Middleton or whatever we’re supposed to call her these days. Since the Indy refuses to acknowledge my all-round wonderful quirkiness, I figured I’d do it myself…so here are 20 fun facts about me...*

*Please note the use of the terms “fun” and “facts” may not be strictly literal...

1. I once owned a goldfish called Kelly.
2. When she died and I got a new goldfish, I named her “Kelly 2”.
3. Clearly names are not my forte...
4. I dance whenever and wherever I please. In my front room, walking down the road, on public transport...I don't care. I just dance.
5. I get giddy with glee over the most ridiculously childlike things.
6. For example, feeding the ducks is THE best thing in the world. Ever.
7. I can't grow anything. Not even weeds.
8. I know what happened to Jeffery Dahmer's brain and can identify serial killers and their victims from the oddest snippets of information.
9. I sometimes sense dead people. Not Jeffery Dahmer though; that would be weird even for me.
10. I collect old books.
11. I still own the pink-and-white mouse toy Father Christmas gave me at playgroup when I was 3.
12. He's called Pinkie.
13. I told you names were not my forte.
14. I love dressing up for things, like 30's film nights or Medieval Re-enactments.
15. My vintage Ducky Dress is the most cherished item in my wardrobe.
16. I scribble things occasionally.
17. I invented the all-singing, all-dancing Ringwraiths in a Lord of the Rings fanfic.
18. I apologise to anyone who read said fanfic and is now traumatised by the experience of the Ringwraith's Smile-Time Variety Show.
19. I co-invented online/virtual shoe-throwing as a sport.
20. I am weird and quirky and celebrate this by saying and doing really random things...

Feminist Fight-back!

Today I learnt of two things to make my little Inner Feminist jump up and down with glee. (Except she wouldn’t actually do that. Externally I am a bastion of uncoolness but my Inner Feminist is far too cool to actually jump and down with glee, or with anything else for that matter. She despairs of the rest of me, as you can imagine…)

First was the news, long awaited and almost virtually unexpected, that Saudi Arabia’s government has passed laws making domestic abuse a crime in the Kingdom. As of now it is against the law to use physical or sexual violence against women, and law enforcement agencies are now beholden to actually investigate, prosecute and punish those who carry out domestic abuse. The law also makes provision for refuges and support for women suffering domestic abuse, and places an onus on all its citizens to report such abuse if they become aware of it happening to a colleague.

Now I’m sure there are plenty of cynics out there muttering “too little, too late” and wondering why on earth I, whose pet cause and passion is the eradication of domestic abuse in all its forms once and for all, would be jumping for joy at this news. And to be fair to you, O Cynics, there is a fairly substantial part of me which simply states “duh!” After all, it’s not exactly rocket science to expect that any and all human beings, regardless of gender, sexuality, race, religion, colour, creed and love-or-not of ‘Dogtanian and the Muskehounds’ should be treated with respect and kindness; that any show of violence and abuse is resolutely declared intolerable and stamped out like the plague and pestilence it actually is. To be even fairer to you, O Cynics-Who-Might-Not-Love-Dogtanian-But-Whom-I-Still-Consider-Friends, there is also a part of me which wants to berate the Saudi Government for a) stating the bleeding obvious; b) taking so long about it and c) not going far enough. But you know what? I am going to jump for joy on this one because as far as I’m concerned this is progress. Baby steps, yes, but none of us could run before we could walk, crawl or shuffle on our bums, and if this is the Saudi equivalent of bum-shuffling then we should all immediately start on the praise-and-reward-and-encouraging-them-to-try-crawling-for-a-bit-now side of things. (And yes, I’m using the Country-As-Recalcitrant-Child Analogy. I went there…)

For a country like Saudi Arabia, which has a particularly, um, interesting view of women and their rights, this is actually a fairly major cultural shift. Whether or not it’s because the Kingdom is a Islamic country is something I’m not going to speculate on; I’m eminently under-qualified to make such judgements and am only a teeny-weeny way through my reading of the Qur’an, but whatever the root causes and cultural beliefs up to this point, the new laws and focus on domestic abuse is a fairly spectacular change. The issue of domestic abuse has always been legally considered a private matter in the country; until this year, there were no campaigns to highlight the problem or raise awareness amongst the population. Earlier this year posters appeared depicting a woman wearing the niqab with only her eyes showing, one of which appeared to be blackened and bruised; the slogan “some things can’t be covered up” became the campaign strap line. It’s quite an arresting image, actually, and if it helps even one person escape the cycle of domestic abuse then more power to Saudi Arabia’s elbow, says I…

The other thing making my Inner Feminist punch the air with glee and do a little jig, metaphorically speaking, was my/our discovery of the Hollaback! Campaign. Hollaback! began in the United States and has now made its way to us here in Blighty; the campaign aims to highlight, combat and abolish the ‘cultural norm’ of street sexual harassment in all its forms. Its message is simple and clear: if it makes you feel uncomfortable, it’s not a ‘compliment’ and it’s not ok. End of story. It’s a straightforward enough message, but one which definitely needs pointing out if you ask me; I know several people who’ve been on the receiving end of said unwanted attention, have been on the receiving end of it myself in fact, and knowing how to deal with it at the time would have been extremely useful.

I tend to have two reactions to this street harassment malarkey. After the initial yell of “oi, darling, nice legs/tits/arse/whichever body part has taken my fancy!” my initial, culturally-and-socially-ingrained response tends to be “wheee! Clearly I am considered attractive; this therefore validates me as a person in the eyes of the world!” and induces a warm and fuzzy glow of feel-good-about-myself vibes. The second reaction, usually when I’ve got home and had time to process things, is one of violent, bitter and futile rage: “Oi, White Van Man I’ve Never Met Before In My Life, how dare you pass judgement and comment upon my person!! Just because my body type is female doesn’t make it public property, nor does it give you the right to sexualise it any old way you fancy, you blimmin’ pervert!” That’s the inner monologue I tend to direct psychically to the perpetrator, along with muttered threats of doing unspeakable things to them with pointed objects. In fact now that I think about it, I’d quite like to get my hands on the doctor who told his student that I had a “lovely anatomy” – I’m not sure what’s worse: being seen as a sexual object or a piece of meat, but either which way I’d quite like to insert scalpels where the sun don’t shine…

Now clearly there are worse things happening on the streets to the sisterhood and the population at large. The whole ‘stranger rape’ thing is very rare but it does happen, not to mention the levels of assault and general violence which seem to go on at chucking-out-of-pubs-and-clubs time, but it’s this sort of low-level insidious sexism which becomes the ‘cultural norm’ and passes without comment. I’m not saying every time someone yells “nice tits!” or whistles at a woman she should turn round and administer a swift punch up the bracket or fire off a witty retort – safety and self-preservation at all times, after all – but keeping your head down and doing nothing just reinforces the message that it’s perfectly ok to carry on doing this sort of thing when it actually bloody well isn’t. And this has got nothing to do with any form of self-loathing where my body’s concerned; we’ve reached a pretty amicable consensus these days in that I acknowledge its flaws and faults and it points out its fabulousness and that’s that, but the point is it’s my body. I can slag it off or sing its praises to all and sundry but I’m buggered if I’m going to let anyone else objectify it or pass comment on it out of context. It’s one thing for your boyfriend to say he thinks you’re sexy; it’s quite another for some random loser in a van to yell things at you out of his window. Hollaback! aims to be a place for people to come together to record these incidents without feeling like victims; it might only be a tiny drop in the ocean chipping away at the massive rock bed of culturally normative sexism but it’s a start, and if it makes even one person more aware of the issue then it counts as a Good Thing in my book.  

And the next time some random idiot in a white van (why oh why is it always White Van Man who does this?!) yells something at me, I’m going to have one hell of an arsenal of comebacks to fire at him.   

Sometimes There Are No Words...

So it looks like ‘Professional Atheist’ Richard Dawkins has reverted to the “open mouth and insert foot” school of communication recently, after one of his Tweets asserted “all the world’s Muslims have fewer Nobel Prizes than Trinity College, Cambridge. They did great things in the Middle Ages though.”

There are so many things wrong with that statement – and that train of thought – that I can’t even begin to get my head around the utter wrongness of it. First of all, you aren’t comparing like with like, Richard, and as any half-decent scientist worth their PhD knows, if you’re doing that sort of experiment then you have to find comparable groups. Islam is a religion, millions of people strong, which mostly exists in the poor and deprived countries of the world (although there are exceptions, such as the large Muslim population of Britain – although one could argue Britain is getting more and more deprived, but that’s another story). Trinity College Cambridge is an academic institution, less advanced in years and numbers, which mostly exists among rich and middle-class white males (although there are exceptions, for surely even in the hallowed halls of Trinity there must be the odd token woman on a scholarship or ethnic minority student…) No, no, no; if you’re going to use this type of argument you need to make more of a comparison. You could use another religion, for example – try claiming “all the world’s Muslims have fewer Nobel Prizes than the Jews”, for example, and see how long you last on the Twitterverse…

Perhaps religion is too inflammatory, however. Plus, as a Professional Atheist, it probably isn’t Dawkins’ strong point…ok, so let’s change it to a group which bears a relatively similar number of people to Islam: all the world’s Muslims have fewer Nobel Prizes than black people…Yeah, not quite such comfortable reading, is it? Smacks ever-so-slightly of racism; inverted racism, maybe, since that does kind of go against the Daily Mail’s sacred belief that anyone who isn’t white is barely human and literate, but still – it’s racism just the same. You wouldn’t come out and say it in public, after all, would you? (Unless of course you read the Daily Mail, in which case why are you reading my blog? Go away before I set the Metaphorical Hounds on you!) Hell, you could use any group of people you like and this is still a stupidly obvious case of Rampant Islamophobia Disguised As Scientific Genius. Go on, try it. Take out the Trinity College part and switch it for any other randomly selected group which takes your fancy. Cyclists. Left-handed people. People who’ve had laser eye surgery. Women. Hell, you could even go the whole Twitterverse winning hog and state “all the world’s Muslims have fewer Noble Prizes than feminists”. Except then the Daily Mail will revoke your membership, because “the Muslims” might be hated and feared, but “the Feminists” are far, far worse…

Secondly, the overall assertion of this statement borders on the vile. So because only 10 people who have won a Nobel Prize of some description have been Muslim (take a bow Peace Prize-winners Anwar al-Sedat of Egypt, Yasser Arafat of Palestine, Shirin Ebadi of Iran [a woman too, no less…double whammy]; Mohamed El Baradei of Egypt; Muhammad Yunus of Bangladesh; and Tawakel Karmen of Yemen [another woman…]; Literature Prize winners Naguib Mahfouz of Egypt and Orhan Pamuk of Turkey; and Science Prize winners Abdus Salam of Pakistan (physics) and Ahmed Zewail of Egypt (chemistry), the entire religion is deemed as having done nothing of note in the world since the Middle Ages – the inference being that it’s their gosh-darned slavish adherence to their silly old religion which has held them back in the first place.

I have a huge problem with this inference. Not just because it smacks of right-wing, white-man superiority (oh hello, haven’t we been here before…?) but because its sheer stupidity discredits someone of Dawkins’ intellect. I wasn’t aware the proportion of Nobel Prizes any particular sub-section of humanity had won was the thing we were supposed to value most, for one thing; clearly I missed that memo…But honestly, the man is just so full of hatred and intolerance towards anyone of a religious belief – especially Muslims, it seems, since this isn’t the first time he’s hurled brick-bats in their general direction – it’s like he can’t even think straight any more. And I say this as someone without a religious bone in her body! And that’s even leaving aside the fact two of the above-mentioned Nobel Laureates actually won awards for – duh! – science! It’s imperialist, jingoistic trash and it makes me sick to my stomach.

I understand he is a fervent atheist. Bloody hell, he goes on about it enough; you’d have had to be living in a small shack on Mars waiting for the Curiosity rover to find you not to know that Richard Dawkins Is An Atheist. I’m starting to think he believes he’s THE Atheist, and some of his rhetoric draws uncomfortable parallels with some of the most fundamentalist and evangelical religious speakers (of any religion). But bloody hell, there’s being an atheist and then there’s being a hate-filled, bigoted, intolerant twat…

His attack on Harry Potter, for example, was a master stroke of monumental stupidity and arrogance; children should not read these stories, he raged, because of the pernicious and corrosive effect they had on children – they were unscientific and taught kids to believe in magic, spells and wizards. To Dawkins, this is A Very Bad Thing. It matters not a jot that said books are works of children’s fiction (apologies to all my readers who one day dreamed of getting that elusive Owl Post…); oh no, for they are Against Science and therefore must be banned at all costs. There was also the ‘charming’ comment he made in December 2012 about the child abuse scandals rocking the Catholic Church: whilst the abuse was, he said, “horrible”, it was nowhere near as damaging to the child victims than being raised in the Catholic faith in the first place because of its mental torment and the psychological damage the religion caused people.

I’ll repeat that for those of you not paying attention at the back of the class. According to Richard Dawkins, it is worse for you to be raised as a Catholic child than it is for you to be sexually abused.

Oh, and let’s not forget the statement he made drawing parallels between the Qu’ran and Mein Kampf – you don’t have to read the Qu’ran to have an opinion about Islam, just like you don’t have to read Mein Kampf to have an opinion about the Nazis.

Now I’ve read some of Dawkins’ work and, while some of it makes sense to me, an awful lot of it a) feels like he’s trying to be wordy and clever just to show how superior he is (his intellect up until this point has never been in doubt); b) feels like he’s SHOUTING VERY LOUDLY SO YOU AGREE HE’S RIGHT!!! and c) has the effect of feeling like you’ve been beaten over the head with something heavy and blunt. Nuance, it seems, is lost on him, as is moderation and tact.

I get the atheist stance; really I do. I even sympathise with it a little; I don’t follow any religion either, although I suppose I could most truthfully be described as agnostic rather than atheist because the honest, hand-on-my-heart truth is I just don’t know if there’s anything out there, but as a dedicated human-loving individual I like to advocate tolerance and harmony in the world. You believe in God, I do not. You believe in Allah, I do not. You believe in the Great Pink Llama in the Sky, I…am open to convincing on this front. Ok, seriously. The point is, if we all believed the same thing the world would be terribly dull and a bit too much like 1984 for my liking. You can believe in God and be a horrible person (hello Westboro Baptist Church); you can believe in God and be a nice person (hello many of the people I work at SHARE with); you can believe in Allah and be a horrible person (hello all you fundamentalist nutjobs who blow people up and stone your women to death for wearing a bit of lip gloss); you can believe in Allah and be a nice person (hello a very good friend of mine who shall remain nameless). Similarly, you can believe in nothing at all and be either lovely or horrible. It isn’t the be-all and end-all of things. I mean, I like to think I’m a reasonably decent specimen of humanity, even though I don’t believe in any religious convention of any kind. The fact that two people recently have been utterly surprised that I’m not a Christian in spite of all the “good work” and “nice things” I do bears that out, in a way; it’s great that the tenets of your religion match up with my own personal world view, but I’d humbly suggest that that’s a requirement to joining the human race rather than joining any religious faction.

I feel very disappointed that Richard Dawkins is slowly revealing himself to be nothing more than yet another superficial, hate-filled, bigoted individual with seemingly no capacity to develop a shared understanding or find mutual ground with the rest of society. There are always going to be people who use religion to oppress and promote hatred, just like there are always going to be people like him who use religion to oppress and promote hatred in a different way. I have no time for any of them, no matter what their colour, creed, belief or lack thereof: I subscribe to the Philosophy of Bill S. Preston, Esq. and Ted Theodore Logan, and I plan to stick to it.

Be excellent to each other.

And party on, dudes.

There are worse ways to live, after all…

"There Are Lessons To Be Learned..."

Ten years ago, Lord Lamming published his report into the murder of Victoria Climbié after her death in the year 2000. The cruel torture meted out to the eight year old girl by her great-aunt and the great-aunt's boyfriend before they finally murdered her sent sickening shockwaves throughout the country; nobody who read or heard anything about that case could ever forget the litany of injuries inflicted upon this child, or the anger they felt as failing after failing was uncovered in the investigation; something the Lamming Report highlighted extensively. Victoria was let down, the report concluded, by the very people who should have protected her from this abuse: Haringey Social Services and the police, in particular, were singled out as being particularly ineffective, perhaps backing up the assertion of the judge during the trial of Victoria's killers  that all those involved in her case were "blindingly incompetent". Heads, quite rightly, rolled.

Never again, they said...

Fast forward to 2009 and another report by Lord Lamming is released after another child is systematically abused and murdered. The 'Baby P' case - the death of 17 month old Peter Connelly at the hands of his mother and step-father in 2007 - once again sent sickened shockwaves throughout the country; the fact he had lived in the London Borough of Haringey - the self-same Borough whose social services had been identified as failing Victoria Climbié - meant that this time round the anger seemed even more forceful. There was yet another gut-wrenching litany of cruelty reported during the trial in 2008; yet another internal Serious Case Review - albeit one which was condemned by both local and national MP's for being little more than a cover-up job - and once again external reports were commissioned by the Government to look into the competence of Haringey Children's Services. Once again, heads rolled.

Never, ever again, they said...

Fast forward once again to last week, when it was announced that Coventry's Safeguarding Children Board are completing a review into the systematic abuse and murder of four year old Daniel Pelka by his mother and step-father, which is due to report back in six weeks time.

Don't bother, Coventry. Seriously, save yourselves the bother of reinventing the wheel and just take either of the previously mentioned Safeguarding Reviews, change the names and dates and Robert is, in fact, your mother's brother. Because from the sounds of it I don't think there are going to be any surprises in there. In fact I would pretty much lay money on where your report will highlight the failings were: Children's Social Services. Police. The school. Healthcare officials. It will be almost exactly the same fault-finding and recommendations which were first highlighted after the death of Victoria Climbié thirteen years ago.

Have we learnt nothing in thirteen years? Nothing at all?

Now I work alongside people who work with 'troubled' children and families; indeed, I work with said children and families myself. It's a huge responsibility and, if I'm completely honest, half the time I live in a state of utter paranoia that I might be missing something, that something might happen in one of these families which causes irrevocable harm...and the families we work with are not as complex as the families social services have to work with. I sometimes work alongside our social workers; I know how stretched they are, how pressured their workload is; how under-staffed they can be. That's not their fault; it is the fault of Councils for not employing more social workers to carry the load. But it is their fault if they suspect something is happening in a family and they don't at least report it; if they have to ask their superior whether something is or is not abuse then might I tactfully suggest that, passionate though you may be, you're in the wrong damn job, kid.

It isn't easy working with some of these families. I know that and I don't have to work with the most acute and complex cases, and yet there are days when I might as well bash my head against the nearest wall as it will be more productive. But that's the nature of the beast; that - surely - is why we choose to go into this field: to help people and do what we can to ensure these children and families have every chance to have a half-decent life? When I read about the horrific abuse meted out to Daniel Pelka I cried; not just because it was so horrific - which of course it was - but because he could so easily have been one of the children I come across in the course of my work. It haunts me that, maybe, there were chances to save this little boy at an earlier stage; before the abuse escalated, before it became so severe that social services had to become involved. And it made me think that maybe, just maybe, there are children I work with right now who could potentially - only potentially mind you, but that potential is enough - to become the next Daniel, the next Peter, the next Victoria...

I do my job because I love it. Not because it's easy, not because I earn mega-bucks or get medals for it or am likely to win awards for it, but because I love it. It was exactly the same when I worked for Victim Liaison or when I worked for Women's Aid; it was hard work and exacted an emotional toll, but I loved it. And I don't doubt that all those people who worked on Daniel Pelka's case, or Peter Connelly's, or Victoria Climbié's loved their jobs too; after all, it isn't really the sort of thing you go into if you don't have a passion for it as it will just eat you alive otherwise. But thirteen years on from Victoria's death we are still having exactly the same conversations around the water-cooler over what should be done, who should be blamed...nothing, it seems, has really changed. In two or three years time I expect we'll be waiting for the result of yet another Serious Case Review, after yet another child is abused and murdered by those expected to nurture and care for them; wondering who will get the sack for failing to protect said child; shaking our heads sorrowfully at yet another life lost...

I hope I'm wrong. I really, really hope I'm wrong. I hope this time the anger will be so white-hot and righteous that when we say never, ever, ever again we don't just mean it, we do something about it; something more than just enact legislation or carry out reviews or give people the sack. But, realistically, there will always be people prepared to torture, abuse and murder the children they are supposed to have been put on this earth to protect, and there will always be over-stretched and under-resourced services battling to keep up with the never-ending stream of cases coming their way. We are, after all, a society which founded an organisation for the protection of animals long before we founded one for the protection of children, and with the current programme of Government budget cuts with the best will in the world it's not going to magically improve overnight.

I don't have the answers, or any real conclusions. I just have a deep sense of foreboding and a terrible, terrible sadness...

A Right To Die...?

Today the Court of Appeal ruled on two "right to die" cases and came down on very different sides of each argument.  Paul Lamb and the family of the late Tony Nicklinson lost their case, which centered on whether the High Court, in its original decision, was right to rule that only Parliament can decide whether the law on assisted dying should change rather than asking judges to make that decision.  The other case, brought by a man known only as "Martin", was seeking clearer guidance on whether a doctor or nurse travelling with him to the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland would be prosecuted; the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP) had previously issued guidance that if a friend or family member escorted a person to Switzerland they would not be prosecuted - "Martin" wants similar explicit clarification relating to medical staff and he won his case today when the Court ruled that the DPP does need to issue this guidance.  Needless to say, both the DPP, Paul Lamb and Tony Nicklinson's family have all decided to appeal...

This is a heck of an emotive issue and I don't profess to be any sort of expert in any of this.  That said, I really do think it's high time we as a country - Joe Public, politicians and courts alike - faced up to the fact this issue is not going anywhere anytime soon.  Terry Pratchett made an absolutely stunning documentary about it, which I thought might give people the kick up the arse they needed, but alas no.  We are still burying our collective heads in the sand and willing it to go away because frankly it's too horrible a thought to contemplate.

Actually I agree with that.  It is a horrible thought to contemplate, whichever side of the fence you're sitting on.  I agree with the Care Not Killing Alliance - in spite of their ridiculous hyperboles and terminal bleating about the subject - that we don't want to end up in a place where you can kill people willy-nilly with bugger-all consequences.  I find it more than a little ridiculous that they immediately equate the idea of a change in the law with the sudden mass extinction of the old, the sick and the disabled - frankly I think that says a lot more about their prejudices and convictions than anyone else's - and having just seen the glory of the Paralympics last summer and listening to some of the hilarious conversations of the old dears on the buses every morning, I strongly and categorically refuse to live in a world where these people are not allowed to exist.  That smacks of eugenics and Nazism and all sort of horrible things which must not be allowed to happen ever ever EVER.

On the other side of the fence, my heart breaks for people like Paul Lamb and Tony Nicklinson and "Martin", whose brains are totally functional but whose bodies are breaking down like pieces of meat left out in the sun. I can't imagine how horrendous it must be to be in so much pain and so desperate to escape it that contemplating suicide is seen as your best option, if only your wretched body would actually allow you to pull the damn trigger or tie the damn noose or smother yourself in that bloody pillow just above your head.  At least people whose bodies allow them to move can overdose themselves on asprin should they so desire; it must be hideous to be so desperate to die, to be in so much pain and know it's never going to get better, but be completely physically unable to do anything about it.

I don't know what the answer is, if I'm honest.  I imagine it would be ridiculously difficult to police, to ensure unscrupulous medical "professionals" or adult children desperate to get their hands on a long-living elderly parent's cash, for example, don't just start bumping people off left, right and centre, but at the same time I feel like if someone is in this position - people like Diane Pretty, for example, who also campaigned for the right to die - and they have the mental capacity to say "you know what?  This is NOT a life; I'm in constant pain and barely existing and, actually, if you could just help me shove those pills down my throat that would be marvellous", then I think we have to respect that decision and that choice.  If you're not in that situation then who the bloody hell are you to decide whether someone can or cannot make the decision to end their own life?!  I think there are plenty of people on the planet who should never, ever have children because they're fucking useless at parenting - do I go around telling them that?  No sir, I do not.  I just help pick up the pieces when it all goes tits-up.  That's beside the point and I'm digressing...

Basically, it's about time we fronted up to this issue and started having a proper grown-up discussion about it in the appropriate places.  Yes, Parliament, this means you.  And, actually, I DO think the courts have a part to play in this too, by way of advising and supporting the Government on the issue.  They have committees for the most bonkers and pathetic things in Westminster (amongst all the good stuff) so why not a committee to look at this issue?  It's not going away any time soon; isn't time we started being grown up about it and trying to get some sort of clarity on the issue...?

Got Ink...?

I've been thinking a lot about the whole tattoo issue recently, and not just because I'm going for lucky number seven in a couple of weeks time (excited?  me?  Nooooo, whatever gave you that idea...?)  There are a number of reasons for this; one is due to a friend of mine, who insists he would "never" date a woman who had tattoos because "you know what that sort of girl is like".  (Um, actually no I didn't.  Although as I fit into the category of "that sort" of girl I feel like I should know this stuff - do we get badges?)  Another is the reaction of the old dear I sat next to on the bus this morning, who complimented me on my "very pretty" dress (it was - all butterflies and girlie and shiz) and then visibly recoiled when she clocked my ink work, as if I'd smiled brightly, said thank you, and then admitted to eating babies for breakfast.

Now perhaps the old lady's reaction is a wee bit understandable; after all, women of her generation are not exactly inked up to the nines and maybe when she was a girl the only people who had tats were sailors, dockers and prostitutes.  Heck, my own grandmother is not exactly enamoured of my ink, but she tends to keep her opinions to herself and doesn't try to change my mind or call them hideous (rock on, Nan!)  My friend's reaction, however, gave me pause for thought.  Firstly I thought what a narrow-minded twat he was and how could we possibly be friends if that was what he thought of me; secondly I questioned what "that sort of girl" was and whether I fitted the stereotype, in which case how do I get membership of this club; and lastly I felt sorry for him because if he's that strict on it, he could be missing out on the true love of his life just because she has a tattoo somewhere.  For example, this girl has tattoos and is she hideous and deformed and beyond love?  Erm, I highly doubt it, unless of course she barbecues babies in her spare time, in which case I say burn the witch...

However, since I started getting inked up I've probably experienced the full range of reactions.  Gotta say the visible recoil is a new one on me, but still...when you have tattoos, especially in 'visible' places, people are going to notice them, comment on them and - rightly or wrongly - make judgements about you because of them.  I've had people ask me how I could possibly mutilate my body in such a way, other people ask where I had them done because they are 'cool' (yay me - I'm with the cool kids for once!) and other people just want to know what the heck they all mean.  Although apparently I'm never getting into Heaven because God disapproves of people mutilating their bodies; must have skipped that part of the Bible in Sunday School but oh well, what the hey?  Oh, and I also will apparently never get married or have children because "girls like you (i.e. tattooed ones) are not the marrying kind".  Ha.  Thanks for the heads-up there, Romeo...

To be completely honest I genuinely don't give a monkeys what other people think; love 'em or loathe 'em, my tattoos are part of me and mean something, so if you cant get your head around that jog on.  I like them and that's all that matters, after all; it's my body and I'll do what I like with it, thank you very much.

But it did get me thinking about the way people react to tattoos on women in particular, hence why I conducted my incredibly unscientific straw poll among my friends on Facebook.  It might not have been very illuminating - different strokes for different folks and all that; I, for example, love tattoos on guys but don't consider it a requirement or anything, and I would never date a guy who had facial tattoos because they make me feel physically sick (sorry, Bloke Who Thinks He's A Tiger, I am destined never to be your Catwoman...) - but it's always interesting to get different perspectives on things.  And, actually, to realise I'm not a total leper just because I'm inked up.  : P  But I genuinely don't understand why people can mostly let the issue of men with tattoos pass without too much comment, whereas women who get tattoos are either 'sluts' (all hail the "tramp stamp"!) or "mutilating their bodies" as if it's some form of self harm and we all need to be carted off to the lunatic asylum for our own self-preservation.  

I'm all for people wanting to know what my tattoos mean or who did them; heck, I'm not averse to chasing complete strangers down the street to find out who did a particularly gorgeous piece of artwork, but I resent those people who think they can judge me for having them, or try to second-guess the type of person I am just because I happen to be tattooed.  (Hey, I have tattoos and I also cry at the bit in The Lion King where Simba's dad dies - are you confused enough yet?)  If you're genuinely interested then great, but don't try and make grandiose claims about how I must be mentally ill/deeply insecure/obviously not girlfriend or marriage material as a result; it's a) bullshit and b) none of your business.  Our bodies, our rules, so back off and stop trying to judge us - any of us - just because we happen to have tattoos.  It doesn't make us any less human, after all.

People who don't cry at that bit in The Lion King, however...