Some things stick for life, not just for Christmas

To those who leave the house - in fact even those who don't, thanks to the likes of Channel 4 - the following exchange won't come as the shock that it really should.

The other day, on the bus, I overhead - impossible not to, they were shouting so proudly - a conversation a teenaged lad was having on the phone with his girlfriend, during which he repeated that well-worn loving phrase; "Do you want to get punched up? Six times, no less. Whilst he ejaculated such insults, his cronies - one of them female - cheered him on, giggling hysterically and gesticulating wildly with pleasure, like chimps.

Who's worse? They boy? The girl who stays with him? Or the society that produced them both?

Such disrespect, such unhealthy relationships, are certainly not something new, but the increasingly aggressive 'front' that I see young boys and men displaying proudly today really is concerning to this girl. Unfortunately, I overhear such verbal abuse daily, working as I do in education, and the mindless, go-to phrases - of which 'do you want to get punched' up is comparatively friendly - often seem to me like a knee-jerk response to the angry culture that has sprung up in our entertainment industry. It's like life has become one long rap video, in which we women really are 'hos'. It's madness - but, maddeningly, a reality.

Maybe I'm overreacting and this routine verbal assault is just another mode, in a long historical line, of exaggerated teenaged expression; for whom it is all or nothing. The thing is though, it's not just words that are exuberantly exchanged in our classrooms and on our streets - what gets me are those slogan / graphic t shirts that seem to be a staple of every young man's wardrobe now. You know the kind I mean. Half (or often, a lot more than half) naked women touching themselves, bending over etc etc. Basically, people are just going about in public with pornography on their chests. The majority of it is especially insulting, considering the woman tend to have their eyes blocked or are wearing sunglasses. It's just breasts. Great message to send out - thanks. And it's not even like we're talking about discerning young men hunting this stuff out in specialist or joke shops either. The following images are taken from products on offer at River Island and Republic, for God's sake. (Apologies for this onslaught - or you're welcome, depending on what side of the sexism line you're on.)

I think I've made my point. I mean really - would  you want your son to turn up to college displaying one of those dismissive, patronising messages? Would you want to be served in a shop by someone wearing an aggressive image of sexual objectification? It's a really quite sinister form of sexism that is being unapologetically shoved in our faces under the apparently harmless guise of fashion.

Of course, at the end of the day this is no different a sexism to subtle inequality, still inherent, exhibited quietly by those more 'civilised' members of society dressed in suits and sitting at desks, rather than in their offensive t shirt on the bus.

I can't decide what's worse.

As feminism campaigns enjoy a media moment of sorts, and the battle for equality reaches more of us, it seems such a cruel and unnecessary affront that, at the same time, our high streets seem intent on pushing more and more of these angry and downright aggressive sexual messages onto our bodies. Our young men have become walking mouthpieces for outdated sexual stereotypes. Worse still, they are actually shelling out money to be ambassadors for this sexism. Are high street designers fuelling the desire for these messages by producing them ? Or are they sating a demand for them from our young people?

This problem was put into a new context last week when Dr Matt Taylor, of the Rosetta space project, caused a media furore by appearing on a video livestream of the European Space Agency's mission to land on a comet sporting an inappropriate - and frankly, ugly - shirt. Covered in a bevy of half-naked buxom cartoon blondes, it looked like something from 1980s Blackpool. There was an immediate Twitter backlash, where the scientist was accused of being sexist. I mean, what was he thinking? Typically, Boris Johnson later waded in with an outdated opinion, claiming that 'if you are an extrovert space scientist, that is the kind of shirt that you are allowed to wear.' Even more alarmingly, he went on to compare the attacks on Dr Taylor to 'a scene from Mao's cultural revolution', where weeping individuals were forced to confess to their crimes against the people...

The thing is, Boris - and other fellow dinosaurs - you must have had your eyes closed, because there is a revolution happening. People are fed up. And if we are determined to tackle casual sexism, one shirt at a time. Women are always being judged on their looks, what they're wearing. It's hilarious to see the  defensive storm that rises after, God forbid, a man is brought to account for his appearance.

No wonder there aren't enough women in science - it's hardly surprising with such a culture of casual sexism - reading, as I did researching this post, about what Dr Taylor said when talking about the mission during his presentation, never mind the offensive shirt, is toe-curlingly cringey and blood-boilingly frustrating; "the sexiest mission there's ever been. She's sexy, but I never said she was easy.

Ugh. Who's at fault? Those who make these things, or those who choose to wear them? I can't decide but, I implore you - give our young men a chance. Don't buy them one of these t shirts as a festive gift. Their message could have an impact for life, not just for Christmas.

A Batman for polite society

We all have embarrassing habits, don't we? Googling yourself regularly. Slathering on antibacterial hand gel every time you touch someone for fear of their likely germs. Secretly listening to One Direction every morning (the latter not one of mine).

Is there anything worse than admitting an embarrassing habit? Yes - not noticing said habit in the first place, and carrying on doing it obliviously. Which is what I've been doing, subconsciously, for years. Forever. Only last week did I finally notice this particular habit - my saving grace being that at least it wasn't pointed out to me by my boss, my mother, a member of One Direction.

I mimic people. I just can't seem to help it. Not in a comic way - I'm no actress and, anyone will tell you, I can't do an accent to save my life. No, it's more of a social reflex. Something we all probably do to some extent - to demonstrate our apparent attentiveness, to make other people feel special, comfortable (or uncomfortable) - reflecting others back to themselves during conversation. Mimicking their body language, intonations of voice and facial expressions in our own body, voice and face. I know this isn't exactly some kind of breakthrough observation; most of us are capable of doing this when we want to, or when social convention dictates we have to. But the somewhat embarrassing difference with me is that I can't seem to control mine. I wish I could switch it off! But no, I'm mimicking in every conversation I have. If the girl at the supermarket counter happens to be from Yorkshire, my response will slip out in a Yorkshire accent without me even realising I'm doing it. The worst is crying - people are always setting me off.

I've talked before about my attachment to women's magazines. Perhaps being under their influence for so long has affected me. All those articles you read about how your body language betrays your innermost feelings - about men, mainly. Mimicking a potential mate by stroking your face when he strokes his reveals that you fancy him. Cringe! It's as if I've not read these articles properly and have extended this behaviour to all of society...what an indiscriminate hussy I am.

Even now that I'm aware of it, and riddled with embarrassment by it, my face-matching continues. In fact, if anything it's stepped up it's game. I'm watching people even more closely now, as though I've got my own social interaction survey going on - only no-one knows they're being surveyed. Ethics of this survey aside, it is revealing. Because the thing is, when other people do the mimicking thing I'm noticing that they are usually incredibly insincere with it. You can see their face working in a calculated effort to get what they want out of people. Whether that's getting them onside, extracting information, testing out difficult waters. It is embarrassing to watch. Painful, even. I really hope I am not such a ham actor.

I'm considering another little experiment, actually. Using my mimicry as a superpower for social good by tackling the everyday rudeness we all endure from total strangers in our lives, and throwing it back in their faces. A gentle Batman for polite society, if you will. 

Not giving an inch on the pavement when a stubborn individual enters my path, demonstrating just what chaos will ensue should one of us not budge.

Storming, literally, through the bus queue and sending all and sundry flying like bowling balls in my wake.

Hmmm...another embarrassing habit seems to have revealed its ugly head. Getting too angry at things...

In her shoes

Blog post - Walking in Heels

I've never been able to walk in high heels. Rarely does the powerful click clack of sex and glamour resonate in my wake. I can't even cope with a kitten.

Of course I tried that kind of femininity on for size for a period in my youth, as most of us do. There's that right of passage, the first time we sneak into our mother's wardrobe and trial our little feet in those giant, cartoonish courts. We realise right then how uncomfortable they are, but for some reason we persevere. I gave heels another go in my late teens - I'd managed to conquer a pair of sky-high bright white trainer-wedges, a la The Spice Girls, the previous year. So, I had high hopes. But of course, we all know wedges don't count as a true heel, and my trainers were certainly not a true test of my walking ability. After wearing a pair of not-even-that-high sandals from Select for my 18th birthday jaunt to Pizza Hut, the next morning I vowed never to wear heels again.

I just can't seem to physically master them. I read a hilarious piece in The Telegraph about a journalist - struck with the same affliction - who was sent to some terrifying woman's class on how to walk in heels. I mean, there's a class in everything isn't there. This woman apparently wore high (high) heels all the time. Everywhere. Well, obviously she's insane. And no doubt now riddled with back problems. Anyway, it made me wonder if a class of that ilk would have any impact on me. But I fear it would be futile.

In theory I should have the genetic equipment to walk in heels quite competently. My sister owns more than 200 pair of shoes. Yes, 200. They consumed our verandah in a slow painful suffocation, before spreading their chaos throughout the rest of the house. She used to go to work in them. The library. The dentist. She'd never consider going on a night out in a pair of flats. Heels are just in her psyche. And she didn't need any pricey training sessions to show her how to walk. Here's a flesh and blood relative who can function normally - glamorously - in a pair of stilettos. Surely I can follow in her footsteps?

But whenever I try I just look like Tina Turner gone wrong. And nothing works - plasters, gel cushions, only walking on carpets, being drunk - I've tried them all. Unfortunately I can't afford to pay someone to walk around with a carpet in front of me all the time. So I have to ask myself, is it that I can't walk in high heels? Or that I won't?

I was reminded of this little failure of mine the other week, when I started reading a book said sister lent me: How to be Parisian. There was a line in it that touched a nerve, "What you won't find in the Parisienne's closet - three-inch heels. Why live life halfway?"

Well - what's wrong with being comfortable? And not just in shoes - in your own skin?

It pains me to admit that I'm actually bothered that I can't strut to the shops - how ridiculous, it's just a pair of shoes after all. But that's the thing, it's not about the actual shoes - a heel represents much more. Sex! Power! Glamour! That's what a pair of heels screams. Then there's me, plodding along in my Clarkes boots and coming up short (literally). All in all it makes me feel rather inadequate, like I'm missing a major string in my bow. Killer heels are weaponry in a girl's arsenal. -whether that's power in attracting a mate (because that's what heels are designed to do when it comes down to it - display your childbearing hips). Or whether it's power in securing a high-flying job (assuming most high-flying jobs are male dominated and you've got to try and attract one with your childbearing hips...)

And then of course there are the rest of us, apparently not in high-flying jobs or a bearer of children, jealous spinsters unable to master the skill of walking. And we think, well actually it's all very well looking especially lengthy-of-leg and being tall enough to look boardroom suits in the eye, but - aren't you a bit of a slave to that shoe? That's a friendly torture device you're strapped into there. And you're endorsing it. Suffering. You are in actual pain.

Of course, I'm being way too serious here (that's flat heel wearers for you). I agree, I could accurately be accused of taking the fun right out of shoes. Because I can see that they are a bit of fun for a lot of people. They make us look good. They give us confidence, even if that confidence is based around men and hurts us in the process.

I'd much rather be comfortable. As long as I'm not getting too comfortable... Maybe I'll sneak into my sister's wardrobe the next time I see her, try walking in her shoes for a moment or two.

TV kills

Blog post - Television kills

Despite myself, I seem to be crying more than one should - at the television. I'm not much of a crier away from the screen. Yet there I am, wailing at the sight of an abandoned dog in one of those harrowing fundraising adverts. Sobbing during a local news item about an elderly war veteran robbed by thugs.

Why is it that I am so ready to open the floodgates in front of strangers I neither know nor care about on the television, but run a mile at the thought of exhibiting an uncomfortable emotion, admitting a vulnerability, to the actual people in my life? Well of course, I'm certainly not unique in this unhealthy behaviour, the roots of which aren't exactly rocket science. It's dramatically less hassle unleashing your inner emotions via some (seemingly) unrelated incident involving a small child and a rare disease on the news, rather than admitting your fears directly to a loved one. This is why counselling is so effective. Well, that and counsellors are trained professionals... your tv isn't exactly going to pipe up with some coping techniques to offer you. 

At home, the tv is always on. Critiquing what we're watching takes on a real importance and, as the years go on, I find I'm over-relating with tv in general. It's like I actually know the characters in The Big Bang Theory, that they really exist. I'll have full-blown conversations about them - sometimes, when I visit my parents, we will speak more about what's happened on the tv than we do about events in our own lives. And with real seriousness.

I consider myself a member of a generation for whom it is still considered a little anti-social, embarrassing - downright ridiculous - to talk so much about something as trivial as the television. It's an admission that you don't have enough to say for yourself, about yourself. Times have obviously changed - look at the Gogglebox phenomenon. And while I maintain that too much tv is prone to make us lazy and insular I would also argue that, contrarily, tv does have a valid role to play in today's society - encouraging connections in its own, very modern, way. 

When an episode of The Apprentice finishes, and we all rush to Twitter to de-brief, we're brought together as part of a (weird) virtual community. And when we say nothing to our partner/parent/sibling in a whole evening other than 'what did you think of Eastenders?', well - it might seem to sad to the older generation (and to me, a bit), but at least it is keeping some lines of communication open!

So really, tv is a way of building bridges that perhaps wouldn't otherwise be crossed, virtual ones and actual ones. Just as it's easier to cry about something you see on the telly when it reminds you of something you hold quietly inside you, it's easier for some people to talk to others in those displaced terms too - an easy, ready-made medium to communicate through, in which we can all contribute. Something we can all use to relate to each other with because, come on, who doesn't watch the tv? (Well, I do know two people who don't have one...) I can't see the situation changing either - judging by the constant chatter of the young people that come into my workplace, it's apparent that tv - well, YouTube actually - is the focus of their days.

I Googled before writing this post and - surprise, surprise - too much television is resoundedly considered bad.

It can shorten your life. 

It can change the structure of a child's brain (?!)

It means DEATH! 

Apparently sitting sedentary in front of a screen for more than two hours a day doubles (yes, doubles) your chance of a premature death. a) I feel genuinely anxious about this alarming statistic. Should i alert my GP? I think I'd need to join a queue, and b) if this is in fact the case, work is definitely killing me.

Of course, there's distinctions to be made between the kind of tv where you sit glass eyed unquestionably watching pointless drivel for three hours straight, the content of which is seemingly made up of repeating what's just happened because, presumably, it assumes its viewers have been rendered stupid by merely watching it. (Perhaps death is preferable here...) But it seems unfair with so many screens in our lives now to blame the biggest, oldest one. Surely some idiot glued to their mobile phone screen whilst driving is much more deadly.

Answering back

You have to answer a great deal more questions as you get older, don't you agree? Of the personal kind. By complete and total strangers.

Of course, they're not being nosy - it's for your own good... For example, over the last few weeks I've been learning much more than I ever thought I would about Mortgage Lending Customer Services (my friend has just become a Mortgage Adviser). I - at a blissful distance from all things mortgage having never been anywhere near getting one - was plain shocked to hear of the really quite intimate, some might argue intrusive, questions they are obliged to ask of customers.

I cannot imagine anything more tortuous than being locked into a 3-hour telephone conversation (or worse, in a room with) one of these dry buffoons (my friend excluded - she really does work with buffoons), having to discuss the many levels of possibilities of me having children over the course of my lifetime. Are we planning on getting married, Dear? Or are we going to split up, do you think that's a high likelihood? What holidays are we considering? a) I think I'd feel like saying it's none of your business, and b) I don't actually know the answers myself!

The niche subject of Mortgages aside, has it always been this way - this weird level of intimacy in customer services? Or is it a new development? It seems like all service staff go through some kind of bizarre programme where they are trained to be overly personal with you whilst managing to maintain a total lack of personality. As a result, any hope of genuine interaction stands no chance, as they are too busy reciting their spiel jargon for the customer to actually get a word in edgeways. At best it's uncomfortable and at worst, creepy line-crossing and it actually ends up being hard work for you the customer, as well as the automaton at the till.

No longer can you just swan up to a cashier with your music still playing in your earphones, smile a hello and pay for your newspaper, say thanks too loudly on account of the music and have the entire achieved with limited verbal communication. Now, we have to constantly be on hand to answer a range of unexpected and always-differing questions depending on the establishment you happen to be in. It's most noticeable in coffee shops, and it is also in these places that the forced level of intimacy gets ridiculous. No, I don't actually want to give you my name - I just want to take my drink in anonymity and get out of here!

Overall I feel slightly tense whenever going to pay for things. It's pot luck whether I'll actually be able to hear what they're saying on account of them reeling their script off so fast without actually engaging with me, plus there is often much-too-loud music playing for no apparent reason, so that most of the time I am literally guessing what I've been asked and attempting responses accordingly.

But the worst form of all this has got to be charity street hawking which for me, provides a loosely professional premise for people to impress their obnoxious, overbearing personalities on unsuspecting, innocent town folk. Under the guise of charity, no less.

I am of the generation for whom shaking the change bucket is a breach of the law. For me, charitable support and giving is a very personal thing. I don't want to talk about it out on the street. I certainly don't just want to pot luck it, depending on what charity happens to be represented that day. So you can imagine how well I (do not) cope with the hawkers. A someone who does actually work in the charitable sector, I am at ease with my charitable giving and do not expect to be hauled to account for it - in public, multiple days a week like I've accidentally found myself in Groundhog Day - by some arrogant squirt working on commission. It's just one more assault on city dewllers trying to get about their day and instead find they have to navigate the gauntlet of forced friendliness. The tactics of these people seem to be clowning and flirting with you - waving manically from across the street. Their palms outwardly spread as if to say oh, come on!

Neither of the above is a meaningful, genuine way to communicate with a grown adult but I suppose it is harmless overall. What is totally unacceptable is the abuse that I and everyone I know has experienced at the hands of these buffoons. I've had f**k you muttered, loudly, behind my back as I've waked away from one of them. My sister even had one follow her down the street after she refused, politely, to interact with them.

I mean, how bloody dare they?

So - questions from my money lender? Yes, I'll answer them begrudgingly, even if I'm having to make up the answers. But questions from jumped-up charity charlatans? Think I'll keep my earphones in, thanks.

Too old for gigs

I did something I haven't done in a long, long time on Friday. I went to a gig. (For a second there, I was tempted to call it a concert.)

I don't know about you, but I've certainly noticed that I have a changing relationship with music the older I get. When I was younger, music was everything. I was totally consumed by it. I defined myself through it - I don't know how I'd have got to be the person I am today without music in my life. I'm not talking about actually making music here - I'm much too lazy for that, even as my younger more energised self. Just listening was enough.

But then you grow up. You work out who you are (ish), come to some kind of resolution. You find yourself settled, stabilised. And in this new, more adult existence, music isn't so central - in fact, it's veritably on the sidelines. Relegated to muzak. Something that gets rolled out only when it's needed, for grown-up social occasions, times when you need to make an impression. Impress on others - and yourself - that you've still got it. I suppose it's maybe easier if you have children - you can live through their music, press them for trendy bands in an emergency. No longer is music the provider of heady relief as it was in your youth. Well, not for me at least.

And it makes me feel very sad. I've still got the tinnitus at least but I mourn those days, that me. I would lie in bed into the small hours with a pair of headphones plugged into my (much-loved) hi-system. It had a multiple CD selector system, so I could load it up with 5 albums, pre-set which tracks I wanted to listen to, and just lay back in the dark and live out a life in my head to these very personal soundtracks.

When it was time for me to go to work (humph) I always had my portable radio with me for the bus rides. Then my cassette player. Then my (wholly unreliable) Sony disc-man. Before long (although a lot later than the rest of the world, I'm stubborn with technology) the iPod made it's way into my life - and has never left, still getting me through my daily commute.

It was all so much effort back then. But it never felt like it. I was at gigs all the time, sometimes more than once a week. And on weeknights. It meant I spent a large chunk of my life holed up inside a massive concrete dive of a building - split over three floors, the old Carling Academy in Birmingham's Dale End (the street even sounds seedy) looked and felt very much like the multi-storey car park opposite, but that was all part of its charm. Many a happy hot, sticky evening has been spent in that dark cave (sadly now closed), and there will always be a special place in my heart devoted to its memory. I've kept all my old gig tickets, pointlessly. I absolutely cannot throw them out.

All the things that would prevent you from actually going to a gig now were not a problem then;  standing for hours, holding your coat, not being able to see anything, sticky floors, pushy people, too loud, too hot, too late. Of course you occasionally toy with the idea, now, of going to see a band when one you really, really, definitely like comes on tour...but you know deep down you're never really going to go. You tentatively suggest it to friends regardless, pretending to yourself, but you know what response is coming - exactly the same thing you'd say if they had suggested it to you. Hmmm, it's a bit expensive, especially with the booking fee too. Oh, it's on a Thursday night?!

But although the flame is somewhat diminished, I hope it never dies out. Recent gig attendance would suggest not. By the way, if you haven't heard of Lucius you should check them out (I've done some of the work there for you, you're welcome). They are amazing. But what made you go to see them, I hear you ask? The clincher - it was on a Friday. That's an acceptable non-school night. And it was in Liverpool - who'd turn down an excuse to visit Liverpool?

Oh the horror

Is it me or are horror films more, well, horrific these days? There's no denying that classics of the horror canon such as The Exorcist and The Shining are, obviously, disturbing. The teen slashers from my own era, Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer etc, might be a little on the light side but they don't exactly shy away from blood and terror either. But now, something's changed.

I used to love all this stuff, practically growing up on a diet of horror. I couldn't get enough of the Goosebumps books, quickly graduating to Point Horror and then on to Stephen King in my early teens. I'd loiter in the deathly quiet of the (surprisingly well-stocked) Adult Horror aisle of my little local library after school, sometimes for hours. It was a day of pure joy when a new book arrived on the shelves. I remember a particularly gruesome tome about a trucker who turned into a massive human-eating hog who terrorised a small town (note to self - must Google this...).

They were all American, these novels (well, it was the 90s). Big blockbusters of books in a world of highways, dusty towns and malls. And I totally immersed myself in it. I even wrote my own horror stories for a time. Then we got cable TV - hurray! - and I suddenly had access to hundreds of horror films, and that's when my journey became audio visual. Silence of the Lambs, The Blair Witch Project, Rosemary's Baby, Alien, The Poltergeist. My relationship with the genre endured for many happy years.

But then I made the mistake of watching Saw. I'm pretty sure my mother recommended it to me as well (alarming in itself). It was 2004, we had a pirate copy (I know, sorry) - the picture so grainy and the sound so poor that I had to sit on the floor right in front of the TV to watch it. There I was, numb-limbed on the carpet, in the house on my own (classic schoolgirl error, almost as bad as me running upstairs) in a total, stunned, crumpled mess. 

I remained in that position for a good long while after the credits stopped rolling - but I've never fully recovered. I haven't watched a horror film since. Really*. I've tried. I gave The Descent a go (on another recommendation from my mother - you'd think I'd learn), but had to give up ten minutes in.

Of course total avoidance is impossible - sometimes I'll catch bits of films when I'm channel surfing, and immediately wish I hadn't. Unexpected trailers are a struggle. And now horror has started filtering through to my relationship with television, too. I love a good TV drama, especially ones based around crime. But as they too become increasingly more violent, I find I am unable to watch. I literally sit there with my hands over my eyes. Press mute. More recently, just change the channel. It's meant I've had to give up on some series which I have loved for years - Silent Witness and Luther have both bitten the dust.

Is it just me? Have I become a highly sensitive, over-emotional bag of nerves? Or is it the horror? Has horror gone too far? Can horror go too far? Isn't that kind of it's point? I accept that, as with most things, you have to keep upping the game in order to keep things fresh. But to what limits does horror have to go to?

I suppose when I was on my own horror journey I was forever upping the stakes as well - young adult vampire fiction progressed to Stephen King, which in turn progressed to teen slashers, to 70s porn horror, and then somewhere along the line I just reached my limit whilst the industry churned on. Now, as an outsider, I feel the culture of the genre has changed beyond all recognition. What once was niche is now the norm. Human torture games, rape - it's a new kind of horror. Less about giving you chills, making you jump - innocent thrills, almost - more about turning your stomach, throwing you into the cesspit of the human condition. Total depravity on a whole new scale and, for me, beyond the point of watchable.

Although people evidently do go and see them - but who? And why? I know tastes change as you get older - like I never used to like avocados, and now I do. I used to like being scared, but now I don't. Have I just forgotten what it's like?

I understand that within all of us there is a grim fascination with horror, if not an actual enjoyment of it. But I have neither the equipment nor the will to face up to horror any longer - there is enough of it in the real world to deal with, never mind having it confronting you in full-on 3D surround sound after a hard day's work.

As an aside: I accept not all contemporary horror fils are in this violent vein. If anyone has any suggestions of something they recommend, let me know

*I haven't watched a pirated film since either - gold star for me