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...

Amanda Palmer: Musician, Poet, Heroine...

Last night I went to the lovely Roundhouse on the Chalk Farm/Camden border (it's all much of a muchness, really.  Just don't say that to anyone who lives in Chalk Farm.  Or anyone who lives in Camden, for that matter...)  Anyway, I digress.  I'm sorry.  It's because I'm still on such a happiness high from last night.  Because the reason I was at the lovely Roundhouse on the Chalk Farm/Camden border was because I was seeing the absolutely indescribably wonderful and brilliant Amanda Palmer perform with her new band, The Grand Theft Orchestra...

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I have been to a fair few gigs in my time.  I have seen some fairly spectacular bands and shows in my years on the gig scene, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous; Lordi on Halloween 2005, for example, was an event so incredibly bonkers you really had to be there to appreciate it, and Muse at Wembley, Iron Maiden at Twickenham or Rammstein at Sonisphere are definitely up there as being among the greatest gigs I have ever been to.  However, last night's extravaganza was so spectacularly wondrous I may very well never go to any other gig ever again.  (I say that, but we all know I actually will go to other gigs.  That's not the point...)

Now I have been a huge, huge, huge fan of Amanda since I first heard Coin-Operated Boy by The Dresden Dolls way back when; when the Dolls went their separate ways *sad face* and Amanda launched her solo career, I was equally besotted.  And not only is she a great artist and performer, she is also one of the most engaging and engagingly political people you could ever hope to come across.  It's weird; I don't have that great a track record when it comes to male heroes (Kurt Cobain was a junkie, Oscar Pistorius shot his girlfriend, to name but two examples of me sucking in that department) but in the lovely Sarah Jezebel Deva and the brilliant Amanda Palmer I seem to have nailed the whole "female role model" thing.  So much so that my goddaughter also thinks they're amazing and is currently seriously pissed off with me for not taking her last night.  I digress.  Again.  Where was I...?  Oh yeah...so, yes, Amanda is pretty awesome when it comes to being inspirational, her TED lecture was just mind blowingly great and she has my utmost, utmost respect in any number of ways for any number of things.

Which is why I was a bit apprehensive about last night.

Now don't get me wrong, it was nothing to do with Amanda.  While I'm a great believer in the maxim "you should never meet your idols, they will always disappoint you", on the rare occasions I have met people I really admire, like Sarah Jezebel Deva, I haven't been disappointed.  I knew Amanda would be as awesomely smart and funny and brilliant as she always is, but because I was *so* looking forward to the show there was a voice in the back of my head warning me not to get carried away, just in case it didn't live up to the hype and I ended up being disappointed (see Type O Negative or Mark Lanegan...)

All I can say to that little voice is Shut.  The Hell.  Up.

Oh my stars.  It was absolutely phenomenal, from start to finish.  I missed the first support act but caught up with the rest of them, who were all pretty good.  Bitter Ruin stand out in my mind as being the best of the night, it must be said, although I was also quite taken with Simple Pleasures as well.  Definitely need to go listening for them.  Then came what ended up being a highlight among highlights...I was introduced to Perhaps Contraption.  It was bizarre - one minute the PA system was playing some random song, the next I thought "hold on, I can hear a tuba.  What the fuck is a tuba doing in the Roundhouse?"  Then I turned round and said tuba was right behind me - attached to someone playing it, I hasten to add; there were no tubas walking around the building of their own accord - along with various other marching/brass band instruments and what looked like half the venue following along behind dancing like nutcases.  Perhaps Contraption were literally busking their way round the venue like some multi-instrumentalist Pied Piper and it was insanely brilliant.  (Serendipitously, they were also playing the Village Green festival in Chalkwell Park today and I went up and told them I saw them last night and how awesome they were.  Turns out Amanda saw them playing to half a dozen drunk people in a tent at Glastonbury the other week and immediately seized them and said "come play my show in London!!!"  So they did.  Because you don't turn down Amanda fucking Palmer).

So yeah, two intriguing support bands and a marching, busking musical extravaganza later, I was already smiling like an idiot.  I went into full Cheshire Cat mode, however, when I bagged myself a spot at the very front and off to one side of the stage.  Turns out if you tuck yourself the other side of the amp stack, you get a great view of Amanda and her keyboard, without the hassle of people jumping all over you.  So I was set for the night.  And you know what?  It was NOT a disappointment.  It was, quite simply, the greatest show I've ever been to.  Hands down.  Bar none.  Amanda being Amanda, it wasn't all about her; not only were The Grand Theft Orchestra completely fab, but she hauled several of the support acts back onstage with her at various points to join in on songs with her.  By the end of the show the whole lot of them were up there performing; it was mad.

Then there was the fact that, about two-thirds of the way through the show, Amanda brought the cast of "Limbo" onto the stage.  "Limbo" is the show Nick and I went to see a couple of weeks ago at the Southbank, which you may remember I raved about quite a lot; imagine my surprise at seeing the whole blinkin' lot of 'em suddenly come onstage to do a quick mini-performance!  I lost my voice for a bit after that because I was cheering so much. 

And finally there was the set list itself, which was perfect.  When they played "Missed Me" near the start of the set I was beside myself; by the time it got to the cover of Pulp's "Common People" I was hysterical.  "Common People" is one of my all time favourite songs ever and Jarvis Cocker, although he doesn't know it yet, is going to marry me.  (You will, Jarvis.  You will...)  It was completely bonkers to see an entire venue of glitter-bombed kids bopping along to one of the seminal tracks of my skinny indie kid, fourteen year old self's memories, but bop they did.  As did I, obviously.  While laughing hysterically, of course.

But then...ah, then came the icing on the entire goddamn cake.  We got to hear a brand new song.  Very brand new, in fact - Amanda wrote it about an hour before she came on stage.  It was set to a lovely little waltz and was entitled "Dear Daily Mail".  It.  Was.  BRILLIANT.

The reason the song came about is because a review of Amanda and the band's set at Glastonbury appeared on the Daily Mail's website.  Only it failed to mention anything about the band or Amanda singing or anything, you know, important, because the focus was on the fact that her boob popped out while she was performing.  SHOCK HORROR!!  THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!!  It was the Mail's basic misogyny shit, but Amanda being Amanda decided to address the issue head on and this is why I love her.  The song is hilarious but pointed and absolutely one of the best things I heard all night.  Sadly my own video of the song didn't come out too well - mainly because I was either laughing hysterically, whooping like a mad person or jiggling my camera all over the shop as a result of the aforementioned laughing/whooping - but thank god we have YouTube and people with decent cameras...

And THAT, ladies and gents, is why I love her... 

A Fine Line...

So last week Jeremy Forrest, the teacher accused of abducting a 15 year old pupil at his school and taking her to France, was sentenced to 5 and a half years in prison for admitting 5 counts of sexual activity with a child and after being found guilty of child abduction. So far, so ‘same old, same old’, right? I mean this happened just after disgraced broadcaster Stuart Hall was sent down for sexual offences, including those against a victim as young as 9; we’re almost USED to the news featuring someone or other getting charged with being a pervert at the moment. And yet it turns out this case, which would usually have the Daily Mail lynch mob hopping up and down brandishing their pitchforks threateningly in Forrest’s direction, is proving to be one of the most divisive I think I've ever seen. I sort of expected the victim, now 16, to be conflicted about what happened and to maintain that she still ‘loves’ him; I remember being 15 and having crushes on teachers myself (ah, Mr S, how we girls used to moon over you…), and this was her first experience of a ‘relationship’ (god, that makes me feel physically sick even typing it) so her reaction isn't really that surprising. Sad, yes, but not unexpected. The grief of her mother is also not unsurprising, especially since her daughter is now apparently blaming her for the entire court proceedings and has moved out of the family home; this mother-daughter relationship appears to have fractured beyond repair and my heart breaks for her. What HAS surprised me, and sickened me in many cases, are some of the other responses…

Now I understand that Forrest’s mother and sister would be standing by their ‘black sheep’; families are, after all, complicated things and whatever he has or hasn't done, he is still their son and brother. As the mother of Dylan Klebold, one of the perpetrators of the Columbine Massacre, says in Andrew Solomon’s seminal book ‘Far From the Tree’, no matter how horrific her son’s crime he was still her little boy, and yet she struggled with the idea her own grief at the loss of her child was somehow not as ‘legitimate’ as the grief of the mothers of the children Dylan had killed. So yes, the family are standing by him. Perversely, so is his wife. I’ll say that again. His WIFE is standing by him. This is a man who cheated on her with a 15 year old child – a child who was only 14 at the time their ‘relationship’ began – and yet she’s standing by him and isn't sure she wants a divorce, even though his family have apparently said he’ll be divorcing her to marry his victim. Excuse me while I go and throw up/punch something, would you…?

That’s better. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the bizarre reactions to this case. Not only is Forrest apparently still seeing his victim, she’s been granted permission to go and see him in prison. Excuse me, but exactly WHAT sort of message does that send out?! The law is very clear – it is ILLEGAL for a teacher to have a ‘relationship’ *vomits* with a pupil UNDER THE AGE OF EIGHTEEN; the fact she is now technically at the legal age of consent is invalid in this context because he is (was) her teacher and she his pupil. Ergo HE HAS BROKEN THE LAW!!! And yet after sending the guy to prison for this very crime, the Powers-That-Be decide it’s ok to let her visit him?!! REALLY?!! No WONDER the poor child is confused! “Hey, we think what he did to you was really bad so we’re going to send him to prison now, but hey, you can still go visit him!” That’s just…well, frankly, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at that. And THEN you get the marvellous (please note – sarcasm) response of her father, who THANKED Forrest for “taking care” of his daughter and then said the courts should let him go because “they were in love and she should take some of the blame”. That right there, ladies and gentlemen, is my candidate for Father of the Year…

I’m going to spell this out, using little words so Daddy Dearest will understand. Your daughter may very well have convinced herself she is “in love” with this man. However, this ain't Romeo and Juliet. He was in a position of authority and trust and he abused that position; your daughter was FOURTEEN when this ‘affair’ began and if you’re ok with that then frankly, sir, you need to be taken outside and beaten severely about the head with something blunt and heavy. I have a parenting book by Dr Spock that should do the trick…I can’t even begin to fathom in what universe this mindset would be considered ok.

But from looking at the online reaction (always fatal to a {reasonably} sane person’s blood pressure) I’m starting to think perhaps it’s ME who’s in the wrong about this. The general consensus seems to be that this is an outrage, a travesty of justice; that the girl doesn't see anything wrong in what happened; that they ‘ran away’ so she wouldn't self-harm; that because she loves him it was ridiculous to charge and then jail him; that to brand Mr Forrest a paedophile is absurd and wrong. Well you can argue semantics all you like, Joe Public, but while I will acknowledge that the TECHNICAL use of the term paedophile relates to pre-pubescent children (the correct term for adults with a sexual attraction to adolescents is either hebephilia or ephebophilia depending on the age of the child) the rest of this is, frankly, ridiculous. Firstly, again, the stuff which absolutely 100% cannot be ignored: the law states it is ILLEGAL for a teacher to have a ‘relationship’ with ANY PUPIL UNDER THE AGE OF EIGHTEEN!!! ‘Normal’ age of consent doesn't come into it, so regardless of anything and everything else ipso facto Forrest broke the law and was rightly charged and convicted. End of discussion, really.

As to the rest of it, well…I weep for humanity. All the people insisting she knew exactly what she was doing, that she is somehow complicit in this whole thing…well hurrah for victim-blaming! I was starting to wonder when it would rear its ugly head and lo and behold I am not disappointed! She was FOURTEEN. I know 14 year old girls like to think they’re all worldly-wise and mature – indeed, some of them are frighteningly savvy – but they are still 14 year old kids. This man was in a position of trust and he abused that trust, frighteningly so. I have my suspicions that she was going through a bit of a rough time when all this started, but even if that’s not the case Forrest still took advantage of her. His victim isn't the first young girl he tried it on with, although it seems she is the only one to actually respond to his advances; the fact he didn't use contraception when he slept with her, and that he did so in the back of his car at a crematorium car park, among other places; that he exchanged explicit photos with an underage child and kissed her in the classroom; that he had (according to the judge in his summing up) spent time “researching what would happen to him if her were caught”…this is looking less and less like a love story and more and more like a tale of child sexual exploitation. Or does that only apply when the perpetrators are gangs of Asian men rather than a lone white middle-class teacher?

Perhaps I’m doing them a disservice. Maybe they really HAVE found their soul mate and, when he gets out of prison in a couple of years time, will settle down and get married and live happily ever after. But I’m not holding my breath. I think Jeremy Forrest is a manipulative and predatory sex offender, who cynically and callously took advantage of and exploited a child he had some form of responsibility for. I think the fact he has been tried and convicted by the courts and sent to prison is not a tragedy, I think it is justice. The fact the authorities have had to place him in a segregated part of the prison away from the general population speaks volumes about the seriousness of his crime and the true nature and intent of his actions.

On Lions, London and Limbo

So let's get the boring-to-everyone-else stuff out of the way quickly, shall we?  Yesterday was the first test match between the British and Irish Lions and Australia.  I know not everyone reading this is as interested in rugby players as I am but a Lions tour is a pretty special event.  Every 4 years the best of the English, Irish (North and South combined - rugby doesn't discriminate), Welsh and Scottish players stop hacking each other to pieces and become best friends, jetting off to either Australia, New Zealand or South Africa to show that Northern Hemisphere teams are just as good as the Southern ones.  For the host nations, it only happens once every 12 years and so it's almost as special to them as it is us.  The Lions have done well in the warm-up matches, only losing one so far, and the first Test yesterday was a very, very close-run thing.  The Lions won by 2 points, although the Aussies lost three key players to injury (they should also be minus their captain for the next test after he was cited) and neither of their kickers could slot the ball over to save their lives.  It was a helluva game and the next 2 tests are going to be very, very interesting...RAWR!!

Now usually I'd be watching the match live but yesterday I was out and about all day having fun, so I had to resort to the powers of Sky+.  (What did we do before Sky+?  Oh, that's right - we recorded onto VHS tapes...blimey, VHS.  Those were the days, eh?)   I digress...so, yesterday.  Well, I met up with a really, really good friend of mine in our fair Capital and it was FABULOUS.  Nick and I always have a great time anyway when we meet up, but yesterday we spent most of the day at London Zoo which was brilliant.  We saw Penguins.  PENGUINS!!!  I'm sorry, but that calls for this video again...

You CANNOT be depressed after seeing this video, I swear...so yes, we saw penguins and various assorted other animals.  We also witnessed a small child nearly getting a monkey jump on her head (I laughed).  I don't know what it is about London Zoo but it always puts a smile on my face; the fact that the company was so good just made it even better.  It really was a fantastic day and Nick, I can't thank you enough xx

As it turns out though, the best was yet to come.  Yes, I saw something that made me smile even more than  the penguins.  I hope you were sitting down when you read that; if not, I apologise for any bruises you may have accumulated just now when you hit the floor.  The (in) famous Underbelly festival has currently hit London's Southbank, alongside the less well known but utterly bonkers-brilliantness that is the London Wonderground.  For my birthday present, Nick got us ringside seat tickets to see "Limbo", a sexier, funnier, retro Cirque du Soleil-type circus show which was INCREDIBLE.  I swear, it's the most breathtaking, exhilarating thing I've ever seen.  I'm still smiling about it now.  It's only a small venue, and a small cast, but it was utterly, utterly WONDROUS.  To see the acts that close, every bead of sweat on every rippling muscle...wow.  Just wow.  I'm going to go see it again.  I may very well try and drag some of you with me.  It won't be a disappointment, I promise.  I have seen a man balancing on metal poles, I have seen a woman swallow swords and eat fire, I have seen a man curl his body round a pole and drop like a stone, I have seen a woman do a striptease hanging by her neck and feet on chains above my head.  Most thrillingly of all, I have had a man strap himself to a bendy pole directly in front of me and sway above my head.  It. Was. INCREDIBLE.  I genuinely don't have the words to do it justice, nor does the trailer have the impact the live show does, but it might give you an idea of it's insane brilliance...

Amazing.  Absolutely, utterly, wonderfully bonkers brilliant.  I want to see it again.  Please excuse me, I'm off to strap myself to a bendy pole so I can run away and join the circus...

When Is A Tiff Not A Tiff?

How about "when it looks like this"...?

For those of you living under an electrical blackout for the past 24 hours, the photos show Charles Saatchi involved in a row with his wife Nigella Lawson.  The images are incredibly upsetting.  At one point he has both hands around her throat and she clearly looks distressed - not surprisingly, given that her supposedly loving husband appears to be attempting to strangle her in public.  Today Saatchi spoke out about the incident, admitting that the images were "horrific" but going on to state they actually show nothing more than a "playful tiff"; the reason he had his hands round her throat was to "emphasise his point".

I don't about the rest of you, Blogverse, but I would be incredibly wary of a man who felt he had to "emphasise a point" by throttling me in public.  Don't get me wrong, I'm under no illusions of the ups and downs of relationships, and I'm always a teeny bit suspicious of any couple who insist that they never ever row or have even the teensiest disagreement about anything ever, but while I'm happy to have a good old-fashioned squabble about whose turn it is to put the rubbish out (hint - yours) I draw the line at strangulation. Call me strange, but it seems less like a "married couple row" and more like "domestic abuse" that way...

Now I don't profess to know the ins and outs of the Saatchi-Lawson marriage; for all I know the man is a total saint and this was a totally out-of-character, out-of-the-blue, one-time thing for them.  Looking at those photos though...well, lets just say my DV radar started bleeping in a BIG way.  Having a row in public is one thing; ranting at your wife until you reduce her to tears and then grabbing her throat is, actually, quite another.  That's bullying.  That's abuse.  That is not, in any way, shape or form, a "playful tiff".

I don't know what horrifies me more: the images themselves, Saatchi's attempt to "explain" himself, or the fact that not one single person - not a passerby, not another patron at the restaurant, not the tabloid hack taking the photos - stepped in to help.  I wouldn't necessarily intervene in any old argument, but seeing a man with his hands around the throat of a clearly-distressed woman...maybe my moral compass is broken but I'd like to think I would at least go and ask if she was ok.  And yet nobody did.  Not one person checked to see if Nigella Lawson needed help, or intervened to let Charles Saatchi know his behaviour was waaaaay inappropriate.  Not one.  And you know what the very worst thing is?  I'm actually not surprised.

Violence against women has become normalised in our society, to the point where something like this can happen and no one bats an eyelid.  How many prime-time TV shows show the brutal (mis)treatment of women?  I know I like a good crime story as much as the next person, but even I'm starting to frankly get a little bit nauseous at the sheer level of bloodthirsty violence meted out to my gender in the name of entertainment.  The opening of Ripper Street.  Vast swathes of The Fall.  That particularly hideous anal rape scene in The Politician's Husband.  And that's just off the top of my head, without even thinking about it.  (This from the woman who adores Criminal Minds and has a library of books about the psychology of serial killers...)  Seeing women as objects, treating them with violence both physical and sexual...this is normal now.  And these scenarios play themselves out every single day in this country, and it never changes.  2 women a week are still murdered by their partners or ex-partners.  No one knows the true statistics about rape and sexual assault, but I would stake my life on the fact that somewhere in Britain, as you're reading these words, a woman is being raped by her partner.  (And it IS rape, despite what certain sections of the media and Parliament would have you believe...)  Schools and colleges up and down the country still spend time offering rape alarms to their female students and cautioning them not to walk home alone by themselves after a night out; police forces spend time and money putting together campaigns warning women not to let their drinks out of sight for fear of them being drugged and date-raped, and yet no one bothers to say to the boys "hey fellas, here's a thought - keep it in your pants and don't rape anyone tonight, yeah?"  Violence towards women is normalised and it's women who constantly have to adapt their behaviour to deal with the consequences; a recent campaign DID attempt to point out to young men that forcing themselves on their girlfriend after she'd said she didn't want sex was - duh! - rape, but the norm seems to be to remind the girls to be careful.  The norm is not to tell the boys not to rape, not to belittle, not to hurt.

Charles Saatchi probably doesn't think of himself as an abuser, and why would he?  Someone with his money, with his power and influence...he wouldn't do something like that.  And besides, it's not like he hit her or anything.  It was just a row.  A tiff.  No big deal.

Except actually, Charles, it sort of is.  It's a very big deal.  It's a prime example of both the normalisation of violence and the way some men are so easily able to play down their actions.  Society lets them do so.  And it's disgusting.

I don't want to tar everyone with the same brush here.  I know not every man is an abuser and I know there are many who were horrified by the images released this weekend, and by Saatchi's pathetic "explanation".  But there are also a good percentage of males in this country who wouldn't think twice about it, who would nod and shrug and go "yeah, sounds about right".  And these young men are going to produce children who will be brought up to believe the same thing, and so on and so on ad infinitum.  For goodness sake, we're living in a world where schools are seriously having to consider teaching primary school children that porn isn't the same as sex - how in the name of good stuff did we reach THAT point?!!  How has this attitude become normal?!

I don't have the answers.  If I did, would I still be on my soapbox banging my anti-DV drum?  Unlikely - I'd be dancing through sprinklers or something.  But my point is that 'society' needs to sit up and pay attention, to realise that this is NOT ok.  In my idealised utopian vision of the world these pictures would make people realise this attitude and behaviour is unacceptable; people would start agitating for change and then maybe we could start making a dent in those statistics and stop these awful crimes, but with my 'realistic' head on I know it's not going to happen.  Something else will happen in the next few days and this will be old news very quickly, just like every time some awful act of violence is committed against women.  I don't want to be a pessimist, but sometimes I truly despair at the rest of the world.

I want to end this on an upbeat note but, somehow, I can't find the words and so I'll leave it at that...

Friends Forever...

So I'm going to start blogging again because this week I met up with two of my gorgeous and clever friends, Lorraine and Sarah, and was told in no uncertain terms that I need to carry on with it.  What can I say, I just do as I'm told...

Although actually, it seems quite apt to start this thing again with a bit of a paean to friendship because before I met with the girls on Wednesday I was at a memorial service for someone I loved very much, someone I would have walked barefoot over hot coals for...being at the service and talking about things with other people who also loved him made me realise several things and got me musing on the topic of friendship as a whole...that is perhaps for another day, however, because I want this blog entry to be about a very special human being...

So, the basics.  Two year ago my friend Jamie committed suicide.  I'd known him since we were at secondary school together and he was one of the sweetest, funniest, warmest people I've ever met.  If ever I was upset about something, Jamie was the one person guaranteed to bring me out of my funk by doing or saying something so completely ridiculous you couldn't help but laugh.  When we were 14, however, he began exhibiting some fairly odd behaviours; we didn't know it then, but this was the start of an ongoing 15 year battle with paranoid schizophrenia, the condition which would eventually and indirectly claim his life.  Schizophrenia turned my sweet, caring friend into a stranger; someone who was either drugged up to the eyeballs on every anti-psychotic drug going or who had stopped taking his meds and was either hospitalised or - to put it bluntly - raving.  Sometimes this was funny or endearing - he once rang me in a flurry of urgency to tell me Marilyn Monroe had stopped singing halfway through Diamonds Are A Girls Best Friend and told him to ring me at once to tell me I was beautiful - but sometimes his episodes made him nasty and, in the very worst cases, violent.  When he was taking his medication we were able to maintain some form of friendship but, as can often happen, after six months or a year he would believe the medication had cured him because he no longer heard voices or saw hallucinations - and he'd stop taking them.  This sent him into a downward spiral again and he'd end up back in a psychiatric hospital.  It was awful for all of us who knew him, especially his family, but what was also horrific was the number of times Jamie himself realised he'd said or done something to upset or hurt someone whilst in one of his 'episodes'.  It devastated him to think he could have physically or emotionally hurt the people he cared about, who cared about him; in the end, the battle with his schizophrenia became too much for him and he killed himself.  The funeral, two years ago, was a bit of a blur; all of us were, I think, relieved for him because he'd been so miserable and exhausted trying to fight it all the time.  If I'm honest, I think we were also a little relieved for ourselves, which is a horrible thing to admit.  The last two years or so of his life were particularly awful for his family especially, and so when the funeral happened it was all a bit raw and...well, it wasn't 'normal'.  That's why his parents wanted to do something to celebrate all the good things we remembered about him, rather than reflecting on all the trauma of his illness, and so we all got together and had a really lovely service followed by a damn good chat in the pub.  Jamie would have approved wholeheartedly, although I'm pretty sure he would have gone mad at some of the stories we were telling each other!

Every one of us at that memorial had our own very personal stories and memories about Jamie, but the one thing that really stood out for me was just how many people's lives he had touched in the stupidly-short time he was on this planet for.  We came from all backgrounds, from all walks of life and yet this one person had, in his own unique and very special way, imprinted himself on all our hearts.  It saddens me desperately to think of all the things Jamie never got to do and will never get to experience; it saddens me even more to think he'll never truly know how many people he meant something to or how much we all loved him.  I realised on Wednesday that I never told Jamie enough times how much I loved him; how much I valued his friendship; what he meant to me and how he made me a better person.  I miss him every single day.  

So I guess that's sort of the point of this blog entry.  I'm not good at telling people how I feel about them, not even my closest friends and family, but it doesn't mean I don't care.  I've been incredibly fortunate to get to know some truly amazing people over the years; astonishingly, some of them consider me friends in spite of my weirdness and my antisocial attitude and my general "not very good at this stuff" stuff.  Some of us have been through some really tough times together and come out the other side stronger than ever.  Some of us have done nothing but laugh until we're almost sick.  The main thing is I know I can count on each and every single one of you, and that is what Jamie taught me.  You're not on your own.  You're never on your own.  There is always someone, somewhere, who cares about you and who can be called on to come help you out when you need it, no matter how big or small the issue is.  I may never be the type of girl who has deep and meaningful conversations with you about things, but I want you all to know it doesn't mean I don't love you any less.  I may be terrible at taking my own advice (something Jamie pointed out to me so often I considered getting it tattooed at one point) but I like to think I'm good at listening.  And being a shoulder to cry on.  And dancing wildly in inappropriate places.  And laughing like a fool over something which no other person on the planet except you and me would find even remotely amusing.

Someone once said to have good friends you have to be a good friend, but sometimes I wonder if that shouldn't be the other way round.  I am a better friend, and a better person, because people are good friends to me.  That is a rare and precious gift and I honestly thank each and every single one of you for it.  I only hope I can return the favour one day...