Stalking ISN'T Method...

This week Jamie Dornan, the Northern Irish model-turned-actor who went from messing with Gillian Anderson’s head in “The Fall” to ‘starring’ in “Fifty Shades of Shi…er, I mean Grey” told the LA Times in an interview that, to help him prepare for his role in “The Fall”, he once spent a few moments stalking a woman who got off the Tube, “just to see what it was like”. He says he’s not proud of himself for doing it, which is a point in his favour, but does go on to add he also found it “kind of exciting, in a really sort of dirty way”.

Well guess what, Jamie Dornan, you utter muppet. It is NOT an exciting experience; for the person being followed, it can be absolutely bloody terrifying. And I know of what I speak, for some years ago I was followed by some completely random bloke and it remains one of the singularly most frightening experiences of my life. And when one of the bloggers on the Indy’s website made this exact point, out came all the anti-feminists to tell her – and, presumably, myself and every other woman who’s been followed – to “get over it”.

A selection of the comments which I personally found the most charming (complete with their original typos/misogynistic rants):

“I'm a big bloke - 6'5" and broadly built, and when I'm out at night I often see women cross the road, speed up, slow down or in one case, actually run, to get away from me. How do you think this makes me feel?!? I would never hurt a fly and yet I am constantly assumed to be a threat! I'd like to know what goes through the minds of those women - what exactly to they think I am? A mugger? A serial killer? A rapist? Even though this has been happening my entire adult life, it still hurts. And now you suggest that I should modify my behavior?”

“Some guy who finds you interesting and tries to start a conversation with you is not "following" you or "stalking" you, whether or not you welcome the attention.”

“Why are you demonising men for the simple act of walking behind someone?”

“I don't get nervous when a man just happens to be a decent close proximity to me because I don't hate all men, and I am not a delusional paranoid schizophrenic. You're article is inciting fear in women. It's not healthy. This entire article is far more worrisome and insulting than Jamie Dornan ever was following that girl for five freaking seconds.”

“'Why should ordinary law abiding men feel the need to divert themselves to assuage the largely unfounded fears of women?”

“The fact is that men make up 80% of the victims of street violence. We are far more likely to be assaulted, robbed, murdered etc. etc.”

“As a woman, I don't relate to this article because I don't assume every man that is standing next to me or walking next to or behind me, is a threat. You can't live in fear. The only time when my alert is up full throttle is when I am out in the middle of the night and alone. Because THATS when all the scary ones come out, ,ore often then in daylight. And at least in daylight, there will most likely be witnesses...”

“To me this article sounded almost like she was dictating women to assume every man that you pass on the street is going to attack you. It's opression against men.”

And my own personal “favourite”:

“Mind you, you're not that attractive so you should have appreciated the attention.”

Ah, well now I’ve had all that explained to me I clearly see I should have realised I was oppressing the poor lad who followed me and instead of being scared I should have been flattered by the attention. Thanks for that, I feel so much better.

Except, of course, I don’t.

Now obviously I’m not suggesting for one single second that every man who walks down the street is out to drag me into the nearest bush and rape me, nor do I spend my entire life darting across roads and scurrying back again to avoid any man who happens to come my way. I can even be relatively nice if someone does try and start a conversation with me. However, there is a vast and frankly terrifying gulf between a man walking along the street behind you when you’re both on your way home from work and a man who is quite clearly following – nay, stalking – you.

I was 19 when it happened to me. I have never forgotten it, especially not the sense of utter helplessness I felt while it was going on, or the fear it might escalate from simply following me to something far more heinous. To put it simply, I have never been so scared.

So, the facts:

I was staying for a few days with my parents, brother and brother’s best friend down at my step-nan’s house on the Kent coast. Been there lots of times, always loved it. Close to where she lived there’s an old ruined church called Reculver which I have always loved; it’s four miles along the sea wall from the beach and the walk is beautiful – four miles there, four miles back, all with the sea on one side of you and fields on the other. On a glorious summer’s day you literally can’t ask for anything better and so I took myself off, as I often did, to mosey along down there for a bit. I had my headphones on, the sun was shining and I practically danced along the path to Reculver. When I got there, I spent a bit of time chilling out in the sunshine and rediscovering the ruins (it was a Roman fort before it was a church) and then decided to head back again in time for tea. And that’s when it happened.

Now please bear in mind that this was the middle of the afternoon and the path to and from Reculver was pretty busy. Plenty of people were walking one way or the other – it’s a route popular with cyclists and dog walkers – so there were, to paraphrase from one of the comments above, plenty of ‘witnesses’ about. My mp3 player ran out of battery as I headed home but I kept my headphones in and just meandered along the path watching the sea, minding my own business. I remember there being a German family on the beach to my left; there were a lot of them and they seemed to be having a really good time, which made me smile. Oh, and I should also add for the record that this was in the days before I had a mobile phone (because I am *that* old), so wasn’t able to either pretend to be on the phone to someone else or ring for back up…

So.

He came up behind me on his bike. I wasn’t aware of him at first, mainly because I was too busy watching the kids from the German family attempt to throw one of their siblings into the sea, but I soon realised he wasn’t trying to get past me, he was following me. What really surprises me, looking back, is how quickly I started to feel uncomfortable by this; he was quite close to me and kept trying to talk to me – although my mp3 player wasn’t working and I could hear every word he said, it was pretty obvious I had my headphones in and so one would assume I was listening to music and therefore not paying attention. But as I say, I could hear everything he said and it quickly turned nasty. One of the things he kept saying to me, over and over again, was “what’s the matter, you don’t like black boys?”

I was really, really freaked out by this. It was intimidating, it was uncomfortable – frankly, it was harassment. This went on for about an hour; I was getting more and more distressed by it and literally had no idea what to do with myself. Part of me wanted to turn round and tell him to sod off and leave me alone, but I was scared that if I did he might retaliate. At best he might hit me. At worst…well, let’s not go there since it didn’t actually come to that. But I was genuinely terrified; I didn’t know this guy from Adam and had no idea what he was capable of doing, so I just carried on walking and hoped he’d get bored and leave me alone. When he finally did cycle off – after a few false starts when he’d go off ahead of me, slow down and wait for me to catch up and then start the whole thing over again – I had to sit on the sea wall because my legs were shaking so much. There was an overwhelming sense of helplessness, of fear and also relief because he hadn’t actually done anything to me; I had, in my mind, got away quite lightly, and I was so overwhelmed that I burst into tears.

Not one person stopped to ask me if I was all right.

Now I can appreciate people not stepping in while the harassment was actually happening. After all I had my headphones in, albeit with no sound coming from them, and was walking as briskly as I could to get rid of this guy; people may not have realised there was anything wrong, and that’s ok.

What’s not ok is that nobody, not one single person, stopped to ask a sobbing girl if she was all right. In a way that only added to my sense of apprehension; I didn’t know if the guy was going to come back, but if somebody had at least stopped and asked if I was all right it would have helped me realise I wasn’t alone, and at that particular moment in time I had never felt more alone.

As it was, I eventually managed to pull myself together enough to walk the rest of the way back to the promenade where the walk starts/finishes, although not without looking over my shoulder or ahead of me just in case he came back. When I reached the prom I went straight to the phone box, thanked my lucky stars for remembering my Brownie mantra of “always keep 10p in your purse for emergencies” and called my step-nan’s house. When my brother – my poor brother – answered, I burst into tears and was so hysterical I could barely speak; he put my mum on the phone and she came to pick me up.

I’ve never been more pleased to see her.

There was nothing to actually be done about what had happened; I wasn’t physically hurt and anyway, I hadn’t got a good enough look at him to be able to tell the police anything if we had reported it, but I’ve never forgotten how utterly helpless and scared I felt in that time. And this was in broad daylight, on a busy path; I can’t even begin to think how much worse it would have been if it had happened late at night when there are by default less people around. And it’s actually had a lasting effect: I was always relatively blasé about coming back from places late at night before then, not worrying whether I cut through the alleyway to reach our street or who was behind me, but after this incident I started following the ‘rules’ we girls have always been given. If I come back from a gig in London by myself now, I always make a point of pretending to be on my phone. I am hyper-aware of who is around me. Sometimes I walk in the road if it’s quiet, just in case someone jumps out of a darkened hedge or side street and grabs me. And I never cut through the alley, taking the long way round instead. In fact until I started writing this blog entry I genuinely didn’t realise how much I’ve modified and accommodated my usual behaviour since that moment, and that in itself is quite scary.

So for all that Jamie Dornan maintains it was “exciting”, and for all those commentators who hyperbolised the subsequent article into a “feminazi man-hating ‘all men are rapists’ puff piece of propaganda” I would like to say this.

I know – all women know – not every man is about to jump them and do unspeakable things to them. Most of you are lovely, decent human beings. But sometimes you do things, no matter how innocently, which make us nervous, even if you don’t intend to and there’s absolutely nothing untoward about your actions or intentions whatsoever. So please don’t be offended if we cross the street if you walk behind us, or look over our shoulders and speed up a bit. It’s not you personally. It’s just we live in a world where the sort of incident I described as happening to me happens to an awful lot of women, on a daily basis, and it sometimes ends horrifically; that has a psychological impact on us whether we’re aware of it or not. By asking you to please consider how your approach might feel to a woman as you walk behind her I’m not implying you’re going to attack her, or that she needs to be afraid of you; I’m not even asking you to ‘modify’ your behaviour or assume every single woman you meet is going to run screaming from you. I’m just asking you to please be aware that this happens to us and it impacts how we react to things.

As to the guy who followed me, I’m not going to lie. There is a part of me which still wonders what might have happened if I had reacted to him. Maybe if I’d screamed at him to leave me alone he might have realised he was intimidating me and backed off. He may even have apologised; perhaps he meant nothing by it. Or perhaps it would have antagonised him and what was already a scary situation could have become far, far worse.

It’s that not knowing which troubles me…

Savage Beauty: Alexander McQueen Retrospective at the V&A

The very first time I became of aware of Lee Alexander McQueen was in 1995 when he presented his Autumn/Winter collection entitled "Highland Rape", inspired by both his own Scottish roots and the Highland Clearances which followed the Jacobite Uprising in the 1700's.  It was only his fifth show since his graduate collection in 1992 and became notorious, not just among the fashionistas but by the general press, for the controversy it generated.  First there was the name; then there was the fact models were sent down the runway looking bruised and battered, staggering along in often ripped and torn outfits.  There was also, of course, the "bumster" trousers.  At just fourteen, I was spellbound.

Let's be clear: I was never the sort of teenager who read 'Vogue' or, quite frankly, gave two hoots what she looked like or what was 'in'.  (Actually, I still don't, but that's by-the-by...)  In fact I probably wouldn't have even noticed McQueen if it hadn't been for the media outrage the show produced, but when I saw the tartan-and-wool-and-leather-and-lace-clad models lurching down the runway I was mesmerised.  Everything about the clothes screamed "what-the-hell-was-he-thinking?!!" but to me it was completely and utterly fantastical.  Obviously you couldn't wear one of the "Highland Rape" outfits to pop to the shops or anything, unless you were Isabella Blow, maybe, but even so there was something so brash, so forceful about the collection that I couldn't help but sit up and take notice.  

Fast forward to 2001 and the Spring/Summer catwalk shows.  Yet again, there was controversy.  Yet again, it was Alexander McQueen.  Yet again, I was enraptured.  "Voss" was a piece of theatrical genius - sod the clothes, this, like most if not all McQueen catwalk shows, was all about the performance.  The show was set in a giant box made of two-way mirrors, forcing the audience to stare at themselves until the show started and the box lit up to reveal a lunatic asylum.  The audience could now see in but the models, such as Kate Moss and Erin O'Connor, couldn't see out.  The show ended with the sight of fetish model Michelle Olley reclining naked on a couch wearing a type of gas mask and breathing through a tube while covered in moths.  It was, quite frankly, bonkers.  This wasn't just fashion, it was performance art, theatre and the circus all rolled into one.  I couldn't actually have cared less about the clothes back then but the actual show, the sheer ballsiness of it, was just phenomenal.  For McQueen the actual theme of the catwalk shows came first and he then designed his collections around them, unlike most designers who do the frocks first and then think about how the bloody hell they're going to get the models down the runway, and it shows.  Alexander McQueen catwalk shows were legendary; more than that, they always looked bloody good fun!  God knows I'm not thin enough or striking enough to be a model but I would have chewed my own arm off to be able to walk for McQueen.  Knowing him, he'd have incorporated the arm-chewing into the actual show...

When Lee McQueen committed suicide in 2010, just a few days after the death of his mother, I was genuinely saddened.  I remain almost entirely indifferent to fashion - my stubborn fourteen year old mantra of "I'll wear what I like and I don't care if it's not trendy" has tended to become my stubborn thirty-two year old mantra as well - but there are a few designers I tend to keep an eye on every now and then.  Vivienne Westwood, because her vintage designs were so bonkers-brilliant I would quite literally kill someone to be able to have one, is one.  Alexander McQueen was the other.  It's always sad when someone commits suicide but even more so when you can see how much potential they still had, and Lee McQueen had that in spades.  I remain firmly convinced that, had he lived, he would have gone on to create even more flabbergasting and wondrous shows; with his background as a tailor his clothes were masterpieces of precision cutting and intricately-simple design, and it saddens me to ponder what might have been.  This state of mind was only affirmed today when I went with my Adored GBF to see "Savage Beauty", the Alexander McQueen 'retrospective' at London's ever-brilliant Victoria and Albert Museum.  Seeing all those fabulous, fantastical outfits in one place only made me realise what a talent he'd been and how much more he could have created...it was, in a way, deeply moving.  It also reminded me how many gorgeous pieces he created which I covet with covety...covetousness.

I highly doubt if I'll ever be able to afford an Alexander McQueen original (and even if I could I suspect I may balk at the price - fashionable couture is, quite frankly, exorbitantly and prohibitively expensive - but if there was one outfit from all of his remarkable back catalogue I could own it would be this one:

Taken from the stunning Autumn/Winter 2006 collection "The Widows of Culloden", this is McQueen at his absolute best (in my opinion.  No doubt the fashionistas will heartily disagree).  Once again drawing on his own Scottish roots and the Jacobite Rising so vividly brought to life in "Highland Rape", the clothes featured the McQueen tartan and was a deeply personal collection, one which reflected Lee McQueen's Romantic (with a capital R as in the Victorian Romantics) inspirations.  I love this dress.  It's possibly my favourite thing he has ever done ("Widows of Culloden" remains my favourite of his collections) and, what is more, is deeply and eminently wearable.  How I refrained from, um, 'borrowing' it while at the V&A remains something of a mystery now I think about it...

Savage Beauty is at the Victoria and Albert Museum until August 2nd 2015.

Revisting Mark Steven Johnson's "Daredevil"...

When 20th Century Fox announced they were to make a 'Daredevil' movie, I was ridiculously overexcited.  Matt Murdock had long been a favourite superhero of mine; I'd first discovered him through his associations with my all-time favourite Black Widow and what really endeared me towards 'The Man Without Fear' was the fact that, unlike a lot of Supers in those days, you actually saw Daredevil bleed, or go to the ER, or just generally look like he'd actually, y'know, been in a fight.  And unlike a lot of his fellow Marvel Supers, apart from his enhanced senses, there actually wasn't anything 'super' about him.  Thor's a Norse God, Cap's a Super Soldier...Matt Murdock is just some guy from a working class background who was blinded by toxic waste and as a result, like a lot of blind people, found the rest of his senses adapted.  (Although his were slightly more elevated, but this is comic books so who needs reality, right?)  Not a lot of people knew who Daredevil was - even people who don't like comic books have heard of Batman, for example - so I was thrilled to learn my guy was finally going to get his moment in the sun.  Maybe then I wouldn't have to constantly explain to people who he was and why I was reading it; people would go see the film, like they did with X-Men, and not only would comic movies be A Thing again but Matt Murdock would finally get his share of the glory.

Oh, the irony...

When the film finally came out in 2003, I was 21.  It just so happened that release day was one of my day's off from uni, so I went to the very first showing on the day of release.  At 11.30am there was me and six guys who were, without being unkind, the living embodiment of the Male Geek stereotype (seriously.  There was one guy who I'm pretty sure was the Inspiration for Captain Sweatpants in The Big Bang Theory); we sat in that screen waiting for the off and you could just feel the expectation.

Well.  One guy walked out halfway through with a loud comment of "this is shit!"  The rest of us, while in agreement, stuck it out to the bitter end.  I have never been so disappointed in my life.  I could have cried.  My beloved Matt was a laughing stock; to this day, 'Daredevil' is used as a punchline about comic book movies, an example of "what not to do".  And needless to say DD did not get the kind of recognition I thought he deserved, because after that crapfest people would look at my reading material, snort derisively and say, "oh yeah, that was that shitty Ben Affleck movie, wasn't it?"

I haven't seen the film since.  I couldn't bear to, it was too painful; having spent most of the cinema screening alternately frustrated, upset and really, really angry it just didn't seem worth the blood pressure risk.  But time is a healer, or so they say and so when I saw the film was on again last night (thanks E4), I decided to wipe all trace of 21 Year Old Me's bitter vitriolic disappointment from my mind and watch it again.  Just in case.  After all, plenty of films that were regarded as utter travesties when first released have gone onto become cult classics; who's to say 'Daredevil' can't join that select band?  And so I recorded it and watched it again this afternoon, with an open mind and an open notebook to jot my thoughts down, and this is what I discovered...

It wasn't - surprisingly - as terrible as I remembered.

Oh sure, the flaws are there, and some of them are pretty hefty flaws at that.  Like the script, for example.  (Which is, after all, a fairly substantial part of a film).  The plot itself isn't too bad; it pretty much does what it needs to for an 'origin story' movie, giving you the background to how Matt Murdock becomes Daredevil; setting up the friendship between Matt and Foggy Nelson, which was such an integral part of the stories; establishing the equally important relationship between Matt/Daredevil and reporter Ben Ulrich; and brings in two of Daredevil's key villains in the form of Bullseye and Kingpin.  Bringing in Elktra was equally useful, given the relationship she and Daredevil have had over the years; all in all, although some bits of it felt a bit rushed, like the 'romance' between Elektra and Matt, it isn't technically that terrible.  Unfortunately, the script itself is.  It's the cheesiest of cheese-fests, and for a 'comic book' movie that's saying something.  Some of the lines in it made me want to vomit (Elektra telling Matt at the ball that she wanted to look pretty for him), and others made me laugh out loud.  I know most comic book movies aren't meant to be Shakespeare and while some, like 'Guardians of the Galaxy' are meant to be funny, 'Daredevil' doesn't seem to know if it's an action film or a comedy yet tries to be completely po-faced all the way through.  And it doesn't work.  Strike One.

Then there's the acting.  Jaysus.  Now I like Ben Affleck; he's been in some of my favourite films, and usually he's eminently watchable unless you're talking about 'Gigli', but I just didn't buy him as either Matt Murdock or Daredevil.  Again, kind of a major problem for a film in which he's playing the hero/antihero.  (That being said, I don't buy Charlie 'Stardust' Cox either, so I have a horrible feeling the upcoming Netflix series isn't going to do much for my beleaguered DD's reputation either).  There were points when I actually laughed out loud, especially in the scenes where Affleck is required to do is 'blind acting' and just sort of stares vaguely into the middle distance somewhere.  This is the guy who was so awesome in all those Kevin Smith comedies, or in 'Good Will Hunting' and 'Shakespeare in Love'?!!  This is the guy who directed and starred so brilliantly in 'The Town' and ''Argo'?!!  Holy Crap on a Cracker, dude, what happened?!!  And it's not just Affleck, either.  There seemed little to no point in having Jennifer Garner in the movie; it pains me to say it, but the girl who whupped ass in 'Alias' was not present in this movie.  They could have maybe made the film better if they hadn't bothered with the whole 'Elektra' subplot...and that in turn would have spared all of us the terrible 'Elektra' movie which followed on from 'Daredevil'.  And what the hell was Colin Farrell thinking?!!  Now I bloody love Colin Farrell; I think he's a tremendous actor who has, no doubt thanks to some of his more, um, interesting choices of film (like 'Daredevil') been badly underrated.  His performance in 'Tigerland', for example, is incredible, but in this?  Fuck-a-duck, it's like the worst example of pantomime villainy ever!!  He's not even trying!!  Then again, who am I to judge - maybe it was an easy pay day for him?  But considering in the original stories Bullseye is one of the most psychotic and frankly unnerving villains there is; in the film, however, he just becomes a laughing stock.

Thank god for the smaller supporting roles, then, starting with the late lamented and sorely missed Michael Clarke Duncan as Kingpin.  Now I will hold my hands up and say when this bit of casting was announced I was one of those who immediately revolted.  Wilson Fisk, aka Kingpin, is not black in the comic books.  Now ordinarily I would say "well, does it matter?" but this is Comic Books - can you imagine if they cast a black Batman?!  But actually it was a genius, genius bit of casting; not only was MCD a phenomenal actor but he brings just the right amount of gravitas, underlying menace and sheer physical presence to the role that it doesn't matter whether he's black, white or a Purple People Eater: he was Kingpin.  Jon Favreau and Joe Pantoliano as Foggy Nelson and Ben Ulrich respectively are also great in smaller, perhaps underused, supporting roles, and Scott Terra as the young Matt Murdock is also very good.  But when the film is supposed to hang on your main characters and you actually don't believe in them, all the great supporting players in the world can't rescue it.  Strike Two.

Then we come to the fights.  There are (surprisingly) more fights than I remembered in the movie, but dear God!  For an action movie which is supposed to be based on a series of comic books the fights in this are laughable!!  The initial 'fight' between Elektra and Matt when they first meet is both pointless and stupid and they don't get much better from there.  The final Big Showdown between Bullseye and Daredevil in the church has some fairly decent parts, but overall even that is pretty appalling.  The potential was there for something really spectacular but it just becomes both predictable and, frankly, uninteresting.  Strike Three.

Then we hit a bonus Strike: the costume.  Now I know it's a 'comic book movie' and, with the best will in the world, comic book creators and the artists they use to bring the characters to life don't tend to be especially realistic.  Superman wears his lycra pants over his lycra onesie, for goodness sake, and there seems to be some sort of special discount for superheroes at the PVC and leather outfitters.  (If you're female, of course, then you just wear similar stuff but either skimpier, tighter or both).  And I also appreciate that, for a costume designer who has to try and translate what's on the page into something they can actually get an actor into, it must be a nightmare; they changed Elektra's costume for the movie and I have to say I'm glad they did because her original red outfit would just have been ridiculous.  But Daredevil's costume in this is just...lord.  Bring out the gimp.  Seriously, I was expecting someone to say that at some point and it wouldn't have felt out of place.  I'd actually forgotten how terrible it was.  Daredevil doesn't have the flashiest costume or anything, but that was just...yeuch.

All that being said, however - and believe me, "all that" does in fact reflect my overall impression of the film being utter shite - there were a few gleams of light which I'd genuinely forgotten about.  The acting of Michael Clarke Duncan, Jon Favreau and Joe Pantoliano was excellent, and the flashbacks to Matt's childhood with Scott Terra playing Matt were excellent.  The scene where he wakes up in the hospital blind and discovers his hearing has stepped in to make up the difference...he was excellent.  And, actually, the visual effects weren't completely terrible either.  The bit on the rooftop where Matt "sees" Elektra in the rain is pretty cheesy and naff, but the SFX where they show Matt being blinded and some of the other bits were pretty good.  The opening shot of Daredevil draped over the cross atop the church is a nod to the excellent artwork of Alex Maleev, whose work on Daredevil with the brilliant Brian Michael Bendis remains one of my favourite takes on the character.  I'd totally forgotten that moment, and what it represented, and so it was a real joy to see.

But the real gems were really hidden: spotting legendary 'Daredevil' comic writer Frank Miller (who is, of course, A Legend in the comic book world in his own right) had a blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo as the biker who gets his bike nicked by Bullseye, ending up with a pen through his forehead.  And the real joy for me, one I had either missed in my original "what-the-hell-have-they-done?!" rantings or had just genuinely forgotten about, was the insertion of some of the 'Daredevil' comic legends into the film.  Actor Kevin Smith (Silent Bob himself), for example, plays a forensic assistant named Kirby - a nod to the Marvel Legen that was Jack Kirby, co-creator with Stan Lee of many of the publishers famous characters.  Stan Lee himself continues the tradition he started in the first X-Men film with a cameo, playing a guy reading a newspaper whom the young Matt Murdock stops walking out into traffic.  And, most brilliantly of all, in the flashback scene to Matt's childhood we learn who some of his boxer father's opponents were during his comeback: Romita, Miller, Mack and Bendis are all some of the great writers (John Romita Senior and Junior, Frank Miller, David Mack and Brian Michael Bendis respectively) who have worked on Daredevil over the years.  I actually shrieked at that point; for a DD fangirl, it was pure win.

Sadly, not even that could save 'Daredevil' from being a letdown all over again.  It wasn't as terrible as I remembered, certainly, but it will never stand up as one of the great comic book movies and it seems Matt Murdock is destined to never get the mainstream recognition I feel he he deserves.  I won't say my hatred of this movie is as vitriolic as it was the first time I saw it - it was a reasonable enough way to spend a couple of hours on a chilly Sunday afternoon - but I definitely won't be rushing out to buy it.  Not even the directors cut, which apparently has 30 extra minutes but does nothing to sort out the major problems, and has a big focus on yet another new character played by Coolio.  Absence did not, in this case, make the heart grow fonder; 'Daredevil' is still a disappointment especially, now my initial fury has subsided and I was able to watch it more dispassionately, when you can see there are enough seeds in there for it to have been really, really good...and therein lies my frustration and my disappointment.  There are good bits, things which could have made a really great movie, but they were crowbarred aside for other, less good and more rushed, things, which is ultimately where 'Daredevil' fails.  It's such a shame.  It's such a waste.  And it's so bloody, bloody frustrating...

You Never Forget Your First (Fictional) Crush(es)...

My taste in men has always been slightly weird.  While my first 'real world' crush was Jason Donovan on 'Neighbours' I was under no illusions it was ever going to go anywhere; Jason, after all, had Kylie, and four year old me had absolutely nothing on the pint-sized pop princess.  (Come to think of it, thirty-two year old me doesn't have anything on her either).  It didn't matter, however, because by then I had discovered my first Real Love and the pattern was set: my ideal man was going to be slightly 'odd' and I was going to be a Geek because said crushes tended to be in slightly geeky things.  It's a pattern that hasn't really changed...

My first crush, at the tender age of about three, was Troy Tempest from 'Stingray'.  (Anyone who dares to mention the fact my beloved Captain Tempest is a puppet whose head is bigger than his body will be summarily executed, got it?)  I loved Troy Tempest with all my heart, and I remember to this day being filled with irrational (to me, then, because I didn't really understand it) anger and hatred towards Marina in the show.  That bloody mermaid.  She didn't even speak, for God's sake!!!  I was firmly convinced Troy needed to get over the drippy mute and marry me instead; clearly I hadn't quite sussed the logistics of such a thing, but I knew in my heart it was the right thing to do.  Other men may have come along since then but Troy will always hold a special place in my heart...

Just look at that handsome face...those big blue eyes...the square jaw...I'm sorry, what?  Were we talking...?

Now Troy might have been a puppet but at least he was human(oid).  My second crush, far more long-lasting (and perhaps slightly disturbing) was...well, I don't really know.  Half man, half cat maybe?  But I was besotted with Lion-O from 'Thundercats' - I mean really, truly, properly besotted.  Which, now I see it there in black-and-white, makes me think I perhaps need some sort of intervention, but still.  It was Love.  My best friend James had the Sword of Omens (not the real one, obviously.  That would be weird...) and we would play 'Thundercats' all the time, running up and down the road yelling "Thunder, Thunder, Thundercats - HO!!" like some demented annoying vagabond imps.  James was never allowed to be Lion-O, though (although I was always Cheetara, which is hilarious considering I never run for anything) because there was only one Lion-O and James, bless him, clearly wasn't it.  I watched the show avidly, often with James, and it was by far the greatest thing we had ever seen.  Even though Mumm-Ra scared the shit out of us.  (Seriously.  What was up with that?  That bit in the opening credits where he comes out of the coffin and his bandages go flying - jesus).

Mmmm-mmm...

Lion-O was my number-one guy for a number of years.  I flirted briefly with Real Life Crushes (had my heart broken for the first time at the age of five by Gary Clements, then again at eight by my friend Christian), and there was also a fleeting girl-crush on She-Ra: Princess of Power (although I think that was more of an "oh-my-god-I-want-to-BE-her!!!" thing), but none of the fleeting "ooh" moments I had could ever hold a candle to my Lion-O.  Not 'Captain Planet'; not 'Bucky O'Hare'; not even the whole of the 'Defenders of the Earth' gang; none of them...until we hit the 1990's and the X-Men TV show came along, that is.

'X-Men' did three things for me.  First, it made me realise comic books were cool (a fact I stand by to this day) and I was rapidly hooked on the whole shebang; secondly, I discovered that while the boys were quite handy at fighting and beating the Bad Guys, the girls were too (I wanted to be Jubilee or Rogue, I could never quite make up my mind); thirdly, and most importantly however, it made me realise I am a sucker for a Cajun-accented mutant with magic cards...

From the moment Remy LeBeau/Gambit rocked up on screen, all flirty with a shop assistant in the first ever episode 'Night of the Sentinels', and then helping save Jubilee ("with style, petite.  With style...") I was completely and utterly entranced.  Not only did my Gambit-fixation feed into my comic book love and start me off on that adventure, there was just...something about him.  Every time he called someone "chère" I melted, and the whole "on-again-off-again" thing with Rogue used to make me go all squishy.  (Tried hating her.  Couldn't.  Wanted to be her instead).  I was convinced it was the real deal between me and Gambit; we had a standing date every Saturday and Sunday morning, come rain or shine, and he never let me down.  Ever.

Plus I totally just found this on the internet (that first ever episode) and I don't care what anyone says: it's still cool and I still love it.  It's why I was so bitterly disappointed with the way they portrayed Gambit in that shitty 'Wolverine' movie (whichever one it was): my Remy deserves better than that shoddy five minute wonder he was given, even if Taylor Kitsch did make him Real-World sexy...

Gambit sustained me for several years, in between the odd flirtation with musicians (Nicky Wire in a dress.  Fucking hell...yes please...) but then along came teenager-dom and a boy who proved that, actually, there was more to life than superheroes (apparently).  At the age of fifteen, none of the 'cool' boys in school were interested in me because I was 'weird' (their loss, if you ask me) but there was one 'cool' boy who made me see I was wasting my time on them anyway because he was clearly The One.  I refer, of course, to the one and only Mr Trent Lane.

Oh. My. God.  Trent was amazing.  Not only did he look good (earrings!!  Goatee!!  Everything in a boy guaranteed to make a parent flip out!!) he was in a band, and that was just about the most exciting thing in the world to me at fifteen.  Why Mystik Spiral weren't more of a success I have no idea...But in all seriousness, Trent was it for me.  Even though at fifteen I knew crushing on a cartoon character was probably weird, I didn't care.  (Hey, one of my friends at the time had a crush on one of the 'Biker Mice from Mars', so cut me some slack here, ok?  At least Trent was human...)  I loved 'Daria'anyway - so refreshing to have a female character who was smart and funny - but Trent absolutely made it for me...

Trent Lane was my last ever 'Cartoon Crush' however.  By that time I was moving on to other 'Real World' crushes - some were still fictional characters, to be sure, from films or TV shows (hello Spike from 'Buffy'), but they also included guys in bands and people I knew at school (who shall remain nameless to preserve the author's teenage innocence.  Ahem...) - and somehow a two-dimensional drawing just didn't cut it for me any more.  Which is probably a good thing, now that I think about it...

There was still the odd graphic novel crush to contend with (Ed Brubaker-era Captain America and the Winter Soldier, for example, or  the brilliant Alex Maleev's artwork for Brian Michael Bendis' 'Daredevil' run), and the occasional literary one (the Vampire Lestat [Interview with the Vampire/The Vampire Lestat/Queen of the Damned-era] could have bitten me any night of the week), but mostly I liked my boys three-dimensional and breathing by this point.

Obviously I still do like them three-dimensional and breathing, what with necrophilia being illegal and weird and just plain wrong, but writing this has made me think back to all the slightly-weird fictional crushes I've had over the years and provoked a fair old wave of nostalgia.  My first literary-crush, for example, was John Brooke in 'Little Women'; quite what that says about me I have no idea (I have a damsel-in-distress complex?  Daddy issues?  God knows...) and I was ever-so-slightly resentful when he finally married Meg (I mean she got her shoulders out in public!!  Hussy!!!)  Going from a Civil War hero to the Vampire Lestat probably says more about my precarious hold on sanity than it does anything else, and the less said about some of my other literary/TV/film crushes the better, but I look back fondly at Troy, Lion-O, Gambit and Trent and consider myself heartily satisfied...

Please excuse me, I have some shows to watch.  Now where's that sword gone...?  THUNDERCATS HO!!!

'Non Timetus Messor': On the Passing of Sir Terry Pratchett

Confession Time.

The first time I ever read a Terry Pratchett Book, I hated it.

I was about seven or eight at the time and someone, probably my Grandad, had bought me 'Truckers' at the school book fair; after perservering with it for several chapters I quietly put it back on my bookshelf, never to be looked at again. Maybe I wasn't ready for it, or maybe 'Truckers' just didn't grab me in the way the Discworld novels would later on, but whatever the reason I'd made up my mind: thanks but no thanks, Mister Pratchett, sir, your books are not for me.

Fast forward to sixteen year old me in the library, three years into my desperate crusade to read every high-fantasy and/or vampire book in existence. Arms laden, I wandered down the shelves like a woman possessed (which, incidentally, is pretty much still the way I react in libraries or indeed book shops), eyes peeled for anything which might grab my attention. One title, ‘Carpe Jugulum’ made me giggle; picking it up, I started reading the first couple of pages. That was it. I was hooked.

Now I read an awful lot (and an awful lot of dross, I’m sure some people would point out) and, like most people, I have particular favourite authors which I return to over and over again. I also have particular books or authors which I recommend to as many people as I can, like some bizarre kind of Book Doctor dispensing Literary Prescriptions. Feeling a bit blue? Pull out William Goldman’s ‘The Princess Bride’ and I guarantee you’ll be smiling within the first chapter (this was of course Before Chapters…) In the mood for a political thriller with added dragons? Allow me to introduce Mr George R.R Martin and his 'A Song of Ice and Fire' series. Searching for a fairytale with a kick-ass female lead instead of a simpering princess? Neil Gaiman's 'The Sleeper and the Spindle' is the book for you. Like your vampires to be a bit more apocalyptic rather than Gothic or (god help us) sparkly? Justin Cronin's 'Passage' trilogy will meet your needs. I could go on and on and on; you need a book recommendation, you come to me, ok? I'll fix you up reeeeeal good...

There are only two authors I've ever recommended to people "just because". Just because they exist, I mean. The first was JRR Tolkien. The second, naturally, was Terry Pratchett...

Yes, after our slightly inauspicious start (incidentally, I never did go back to Truckers) I became slightly hooked. If a book appeared with the name "Terry Pratchett" on the spine, I was there; whether it was a Discworld novel, a collaboration with Neil Gaiman or the 'Long Earth' series with Stephen Baxter. The Discworld series, however, became my favourite of his creations, and with good reason. Only Terry Pratchett could take something serious like feminism ('Equal Rites'), Shakespeare ('Wyrd Sisters'), the music business ('Soul Music') or politics (take your pick, really) and make them side-splittingly funny. Maybe I just wasn't ready at eight to appreciate his sheer genius-ness, or maybe it's just because the 'Truckers' trilogy isn't quite the same as Discworld, but once I started reading them I couldn't stop. And not only did I find myself laughing hysterically, I learnt things as well.

Obviously my favourite character is Death, although given recent events I may have to reassess his position in my affections, but I loved the Witches too and occasionally found myself wondering if Granny Weatherwax ever fancied an apprentice. But while there may be some books I love more than others the Discworld has always been a place I found solace, laughter, tears and the occasional "say-what-now?!!" And it genuinely hurts to know there won't be any more.

Sir Terry Pratchett wasn't only a great literary light, he also seemed to be a thoroughly bloody nice bloke and was a tireless campaigner for Alzheimer's awareness. It's a truly horrible disease, robbing people of their very Self long before it takes their life, and I know I wasn't the only person rendered desperately sad when he announced he had been diagnosed with the condition. I watched the two-part documentary he made about his "embuggerance" in 2008 and was touched by both his compassion for fellow sufferers and his absolute determination to do everything he could to assist with finding a cure. Now, alas, it is too late for him, but perhaps his outspoken campaigning on the subject - not to mention the substantial financial donations he made - will one day be instrumental in finding a cure for others.

My heart breaks for his family and friends, although I rejoice somewhat in the news that he died peacefully at home, hopefully with Thomas Tallis playing in the background as he wished. It may seem odd to weep for someone you never knew but I did, just the same, when I heard the news. I wept for the loss of a great gift to the world of literature, and to the world in general, and for the death of a man who still had so much to offer before Alzheimer's and death itself intervened. And I wept, selfishly, for the fact that barring a few already-finished, to-be-posthumously-published books, there will be no more.

To quote from 'Mort': "People don't alter history any more than birds alter the sky, they just make brief patterns in it."

Thank you, Sir Terry, for the brief patterns you made in my sky, and for the many, many hours of joy your books have bought me over the years. You will be sorely missed but you will never be forgotten...

Tiptoe Forwards, Jump Back... (International Women's Day 2015)

As today is International Women's Day it seems quite appropriate that part of my "catch-up TV viewing" from being on holiday has been the excellent Amanda Vickery's 'Suffragettes Forever!  The Story of Women and Power'.  Being something of a feminist (that may be a rather obvious understatement) I wanted to watch it to see how far we'd come - in actual fact watching the series, especially in light of recent news events, only shows how depressingly far we have to go.  I mean over the past couple of days alone there's been furore over a documentary about the rape of a young woman in India; the news that a call regarding domestic abuse is made to police every minute; and Nicky Morgan, the Education Secretary, going on TV this morning to talk about how we need to educate eleven year olds about the issue of consent in relationships.  Fuck-a-duck!!  I don't know if I'm more depressed about the scolds bridle and wife sales shown in Professor Vickery's brilliant documentary or the fact I live in a world where slut-dropping is considered a fun thing for young men at university to do of a night out.  (Google it.  Actually don't.  It's not worth your raised blood pressure).

Take the documentary about the rape in India, for example.  When a female student and her male friend were attacked in Delhi in 2012, the world was horrifed.  The young woman was gang raped and brutally attacked, dying as a result of her injuries some days later.  Indian justice was swift, and the Powers-That-Be were stunned by the protests which took place across the country as a result of the attack.  Case closed, at least until a documentary was shown last week featuring an interview with one of the attackers who is currently awaiting execution, in which some serious, serious victim-blaming went on.  It was all the girl's fault, you see, because 'nice girls' don't go about after dark.  Plenty of people jumped on these comments; plenty of others immediately dismissed them as a "cultural thing" and intimated that such "backwards" thinking would never take place in the enlightened West...

Except it sort of does.  

When footballer Ched Evans raped a young woman in a hotel room, the fact she was drunk was highlighted by his 'supporters' as a reason for the whole incident - if a girl is that drunk, the rhetoric went, then she probably did say yes and then felt guilty the next morning.  If she hadn't been drinking, she wouldn't have been raped.  The same thing happened when two US college footballers had their careers "ruined" after being convicted of rape - again, the fact the girl was drinking was seen as playing a huge role in the outcome.  Every time a case of rape is reported in the media you get people (mainly men but not always) implying the victim "asked for it" or "made it up"; there will be comments about what she wore or what she'd said or what she did before saying "er, actually mate, I don't want to have sex with you".  And how many times have I sat in classrooms over the years and been told not to walk home by myself after dark, not to let my drink out of sight in case it gets spiked?  I must have sucked up all kinds of "lessons" over the years about what was "safe" to wear and where it was "safe" to go, and yet I must have missed all the classes telling the boys to, y'know, not rape people.  Oh right.  Because they don't exist.

And actually this whole thing isn't just putting pressure on girls to not get themselves raped.  I feel sorry for boys too, if we of the female species are so devastatingly, ravishingly alluring that just the mere sight of us makes you all want to drag us into the nearest hedge/bed /wherever and rape us.  Maybe the Taliban were onto something with that whole "women must wear a burka" thing after all...I mean come on, people, get a grip!  We live in a society where half the population is still objectified and dominated by the other half, where a topless girl is considered an essential part of a family "news"paper (Breaking News!!  Women Have Tits!!!") and where Fifty Shades of Grey is feted as being "mummy porn" instead of the paen to abusive relationships it actually is.  I don't get it.  It is 2015, right...?

While we're on the subject of "Things That Make Me Mad", I found out from Amanda Vickery's programme that rape in marriage was only made illegal in the UK in 1991.  1991!!!  That means it wasn't until I was nine years old that it would have been illegal for my father to rape my mother, and this in spite of us supposedly moving away from the idea of women as the 'property' of men!  Good lord, I thought such Dark Age thought had been smashed in the Sixties; just goes to show that even when you think you know stuff something can still come along to pull the metaphorical rug out from under your feet...

I sometimes wonder if the bright, brave and brilliant early feminists would take a look at our supposedly equal society and wonder if it was all actually worth it.  If the likes of Josephine Butler, Hannah More, Mary Wolstonecraft and the Pankhurst women were to pop to 2015, what would they actually find that has changed?  Yes, women now have the vote and can stand as MPs, but the vast majority of the lawmakers in this country are still men.  Yes, the Equal Pay Act has meant it's illegal for women to be paid less than men for doing the exact same role, yet statistics repeatedly show that women are still earning less.  And yes, women can now get an education - have to, in fact, what with that being the Law of the Land - but it's still a world where women mainly work in low-paid, relatively unskilled jobs and still go home to do the majority of the housework and childcare.  (Obviously I'm generalising; I know there are some men who do their fair share but they seem to be few and far between).  Women now have control of their sexuality (Breaking News!! Women Have Orgasms And It Doesn't Mean They're Hysterical!!) but that sexuality is still defined within the contexts of what men find acceptable; woe betide the girl who doesn't fit that model or refuses to conform to the archetype of female sexuality which is shoved in our faces at every opportunity.  (Girl in underwear advertises coffee.  Because coffee = sex.  What, don't you orgasm every time you drink a cup?)

I look back at these incredibly brave pioneers with immense gratitude - if it wasn't for them and the many others like them, I wouldn't be in the position I am today.  But I also look at my own generation, and the ones which follow it, and despair.  Where are the younger girls, or even the women my age, standing up and challenging the status-quo?  I know they're out there but they seem to be few and far between; feminism is still considered a dirty word and several of my younger acquaintances repeatedly tell me "we don't need feminism; it's all been sorted, yeah?"  Bloody hell, even Beyonce - who is pretty much the definition of Girl Power with her business empire and her Independent Women song and all that - says she's not a feminist.  Beyonce!  How could you?!!  We need women like you to stand up and go "RAH!" to the patriarchy, not go "I believe in equality but I'm not a feminist (because feminists are all man-hating lesbians and that's not my bag, yo).

Bloody hell.  I'm so depressed I'm going to read Caitlin Moran and play Bikini Kill at top volume...

Before I do, though, I'm going to celebrate some (deeply personal) past, present and future role-models...  

My great-great-great (and possibly one more great, I can't really remember) aunt Laura, who at a time when women generally didn't apply to the courts for a divorce decided she'd had enough of her husband's abuse and violence and did just that.  She won, too.  Reading the transcript from the Court was pretty mindblowing and incredibly painful, but she had a lot of courage and I am suitably, epically proud of that.  

My Mum, who taught me I could be anything I wanted so long as I was happy; who loves me unconditionally and who raised two kids while working full-time as a single mum.  I am incredibly proud to be your daughter and can't thank you enough for everything you've done for me.

And my god-daughter Bethany, who is not only the coolest 13-almost-14 year old I know, but who gives me hope that the future of feminism is in good hands.  She is very much her own person (sometimes a little too much!) but I have no doubt she'll succeed in life because she has the determination, grit and sheer bloody-mindedness of her mother and grandmother.  Here's to you, Button, and all the girls like you who won't take any crap from anyone.  (Just please listen to your mother when she asks you to do something, ok...?)

Why We Still Need "Women's History"...

Those of you who know me will know I am something of a history buff.  Not 'big' history, particularly, more social history.  I mean don't get me wrong, 1066 and all that is interesting, and I think it's important we continue to teach the next generation coming through about where we all came from and why the world looks the way it does (which from  the current perspective is pretty much "fucked up"), but 'big history' tends to be full of Grand Old Men Doing Grand Old Things, or a scattergun approach to 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous circa 1126' or whatever.  All of which is fine and interesting; it's just that, while I'm jolly glad old Will Shakespeare allegedly wrote some plays that one time, I'm much more interested in what life was like for the family down the road he bought his paper and quills from.  I don't relate to Grand Old Men, I relate to people who are more, well, me.  Proud as I am of my ancestors, for without them I should not be here, we weren't part of the Great and Good.  We were farmers, wheelwrights, publicans, labourers; in some cases we were workhouse inmates and transported convicts and prostitutes.  That's the kind of thing I like reading about: what life was like for the average Man-or-Woman-on-the-street.

Social history, then, is one of my great loves.  You should see my book shelves: alongside the obligatory biographies of Henry VIII et al I have loads of books about the workhouse, maidservants, ordinary people surviving the Blitz.  And while I would like to think the idea of 'women's history' will someday become obsolete, I sort of hope it never does.  It was 'women's history' which introduced me to the daring exploits of the women of the Air Transport Auxiliary during the Second World War; I'd never heard of the 'Attagirls' before and was so impressed that I promptly threw the book at my then-11 year old goddaughter and instructed "read that; you will Learn Something Important".  (To Bethany's credit she did so, and was just as upset as I was on learning of the death last of year of one of the 'Attagirls', Lettice Curtis).  It was 'women's history' which led me to a book about the courage and carnage inflicted on the Queen Alexandra nurses during that same conflict; again, I had no idea that these women had been torpedoed and bombed and, in the case of some of the girls shipped out to Hong Kong and Singapore, brutally raped and murdered or locked up in one of the Japanese POW camps.  You've seen Tenko...)  And 'women's history' is the reason I'm currently reading Sarah Helm's magnificent, pulls-no-punches, should-be-mandatory-reading-for-everyone book entitled 'If This Is A Woman: Inside Ravensbrück, Hitler's Concentration Camp for Women.'

Now I know about the concentration camps.  Heck, I've even been to one, and while I wouldn't say it was a highlight of my trip to Munich in 2011 I remain forever glad I did go to Dachau.  In fact we all know about the concentration camps, right?  Auschwitz-Birkenau, Dachau, Bergen-Belsen, Treblinka...you might also be able to name Sachsenhausen or Buchenwald if you really thought about it, am I right?  But Ravensbrück?

Well, sure, you might have heard of it.  I had, in passing, although I couldn't actually tell you where.  After all, Ravensbrück was not an extermination camp for Jews, and when we are taught the tragedy of the Holocaust it is the six million Jews whose story we are told.  Now I'm not saying we shouldn't tell that particular history; far from it - what happened to the Jewish people in the concentration camps and the ghettos was an absolute abomination and we should never, ever forget that.  All I'm saying is we should perhaps look at the bigger picture.  Those camps evolved over time, and it wasn't just Jews who were rounded up and locked inside them, to live or to die as fate or the Third Reich decreed.  

The history of Ravensbrück which Sarah Helm so vividly, painfully brings to life is a case in point.  Usually I would be devouring a book like this at a rate of knots, pausing only to exclaim breathlessly about a particular passage or to make notes on something to follow up on afterwards, but with this book...I can't do that.  It's so exquisitely written, so damning in its condemnation and so vividly, brutally alive with the detail of the history of the camp and those who lived and worked there that I can only read a chapter or two at a time before I have to put it down and go and do something else.  I have alternately wept and raged while reading it and I'm not even halfway through; so powerful and evocative is the writing, so senseless and unthinkable the cruelty, that I just can't read it in one fell swoop.  There are times when this book physically hurts me to carry on with, but now I've started I don't think I can, in all good conscience, turn aside and read something else.  I can't.  The story of Ravensbrück was hidden from the West for so long that now it's come to light there is a part of me which feels, odd as it may seem, that I owe it to the women who were held there to carry on with it.  Their story, their suffering, was hidden for so long it seems cruel to merely put the book down and pretend I'd never read any of it.

Now I'm not trying to make some grandiose gesture here or start 'comparing my suffering reading it with the suffering of the women' blah blah blah - that is both absurd and inhuman.  But when the Iron Curtain came down Ravensbrück was firmly on the Communist side of the divide and, as such, its stories were lost to those of us on the other side.  And these stories need to be told.

Ravensbrück was the only concentration camp specifically built to house women, although of course many women lived and died in the other camps.  But Ravensbrück was the only one in which only women were held, and as such it marks not just a testimony to the Nazi's cruelty but their specific cruelty towards women.  Only a tiny percentage of the women who passed through Ravensbrück's gates were Jewish; the vast majority were either political prisoners, mainly Communists from Germany and then, as the war progressed, from the other countries the Nazis annexed and invaded; 'asocials' - prostitutes, lesbians, beggars, the 'work-shy' and the homeless; and habitual criminals.  There were also a number of Jehovah's Witnesses who hadn't renounced their faith as decreed and were therefore lumped in with the rest; these good German housewives must have been completely appalled at being locked up with thieves, murderers and prostitutes, but they wouldn't swear the oath renouncing their belief Hitler was the Antichrist and so they had to go.  Basically, anyone who may have been a 'threat' to Hitler's precious Fatherland and the racial purity of the people therein were rounded up and shipped off to the camps.  Woe betide the women of Germany who didn't fit the 'Kinder, Küche, Kirche' model of Nazi femininity; they were likely to be arrested and sent off to Ravensbrück.  As the war progressed, resistance fighters from France and elsewhere were also shipped off to the camp, including English Special Operations Executive personnel.  Once there, it's a miracle any of them made it home.

Let's be completely clear about this: while the Nazis designated Ravensbrück as a 'slave labour camp', and while it was used to provide free labour for the likes of Siemens, many women died there.  All of its Jewish women were eventually shipped off to Auschwitz; women were routinely taken out to nearby woods and shot there; others were transported to the early gas chambers at places like Dessau under the '14f13' programme once, after a public outcry, Hitler had to stop euthanising 'useless mouths' (the mentally and physically disabled) in the gas chambers built at their sanatoriums.  Women died in the prison block or as a result of the beatings they endured; women died from the exhausting work they had to do or from injuries they sustained in doing so; women died at their own hand rather than endure the camp a moment longer.  Most horrifyingly of all, perhaps, women died slow, prolonged deaths as a result of the barbaric 'medical experiments' Himmler allowed his favourite doctor, Karl Gebhardt, to carry out on the women at the camp.  Most of the victims of these 'experiments' were Polish; they had gas gangrene and various other types of bacteria injected into their legs to see if the Nazis sulphonimide treatments could save soldiers lives at the front; they had bits of bone chiseled out of their legs - or the whole bone completely removed - in trials to see if more could be done to help wounded soldiers with broken bones; they had bits of muscle hacked off and grafted to other bits of bone...this was all done under anaesthetic but the anaesthetic didn't always work; sometimes they were awake.  Afterwards they were left alone to suffer the agonies of infection and mutilated limbs.  Many died.  How any of them survived these 'experiments' is something of a miracle, but survive some did, and they were able to testify at the trials which sprang up in the wake of the war's end.  Not for nothing did the women of Ravensbrück call it a death camp.

That wasn't the end of it, either.  As 'revenge' on the Czech people for the murder of one of his favourites, Hitler ordered that no stone be unturned in an attempt to catch the killers.  Entire villages were razed to the ground; men taken out and shot; children murdered in front of their mothers...and the women of one small village in particular, Lidice, were all rounded up and sent to Ravensbrück.  One of these women was part of the next round of 'experiments', when doctors at the Ravensbrück 'hospital' (I use the term lightly) were using lethal injections to kill 'mad' patients and then use their arms, legs and, in at least one case, a collarbone to attempt transplants to wounded servicemen.  She was designated as 'mad' on her arrival at the camp, although given the fact she'd just seen her entire village burnt down, her husband shot and her own house set on fire with all eight of her children inside screaming, I'm not actually surprised.  I suppose we should at least be grateful they killed these women before they hacked off their limbs...Ravensbrück may not have been designated as an extermination camp, but it was nonetheless: a painful, prolonged extermination.

The thing which has struck me the most about reading this book, besides its unflinching detail and the fact I've cried more reading this than almost any other book I possess, is the fact I didn't know about it.  I didn't know.  I could probably tell you a bit about Auschwitz and the gas chambers there, the selection of which Jewish people to kill right away and which ones to work half to death first.  I could tell you a bit about the Lodz ghetto and those like it, and how they were liquidated and their residents sent to their deaths.  I might even be able to dredge up from the old memory banks something about the Gypsies who were murdered, or the men sent to Dachau for 're-education' who were then released once Hitler was sure they posed no threat to him.  But could I have told you anything about Ravensbrück before I started this book?  No I could not, although as I said I had heard the name in passing somewhere.  But the story of Ravensbrück is not told in this country, and so I could have told you nothing.

I didn't know where it was.

I didn't know it was a women's camp.

I didn't know it was the women's camp.

I didn't know what they did there.

But the genie is out of the bottle now and my god, I am not going to let it get back in.  Sarah Helm has done a magnificent job in rescuing these women from the obscurity of history and has shone a light full force on the barbarism inflicted on them.  Between thirty and fifty thousand women were murdered at Ravensbrück - some were Jewish but most were social 'outcasts', political 'enemies', the 'useless mouths' of the sick, the mentally ill, the poor.  They could have been anyone.  They could have been me.  I'm not Jewish but I could easily see myself in one of those categories which came under suspicion from Hitler's paranoia; I may have escaped Auschwitz but - in another time, another place - who's to say I would have escaped Ravensbrück?

And this, to me, is why 'women's history' is so important.  I read about Sarah Helm's book one lunchtime on the website of the Independent.  As a woman and a feminist - hell, as a person - it intrigued me and I ordered it.  I'm so glad I did.  History is written by the victors, they say, and in all cases these victors are Great Men.  The voices of ordinary men are rarely heard, those of ordinary women even less so.  The idea of 'women's history' may grate with some, and often does, but it is this specific type of history which rescues the role of women from the shadows and brings them to light.  In the case of the Ravensbrück women in particular, hidden first by the Nazis and then by the Iron Curtain, this is especially important.

What happened in the Holocaust was intolerable.

We must remember, always, so it doesn't happen again.  

Admittedly we seem to suck at this, but still...we do our best to ensure it will never happen again.

But we must make sure we tell the whole story.

**Sarah Helm's book "If This Is A Woman: Inside Ravensbrück, Hitler's Concentration Camp for Women" is out now.  I strongly recommend it to everyone.**