It's the end of an era. This week, Darcey Bussell hangs up her pointe shoes for good. One of the THE ballerina's of her age, she's done what Tony Blair should have gone ages ago and retired at the top of her game with the public wanting more. A mother of 2 and now ages 38, it's unsurprising that she's calling it a day even though, by all accounts, she is at the peak of her powers and dancing supremely well.
This somehow misses the point. Ballet is all about the art of the impossible. It's about defying gravity (in most cases) and about making the most strenuous, difficult movements look impossibly easy and graceful. But the effort that goes into this feat of deception that is a performance is enormous. I gave up at the age of about 14 even though I still love watching it - and even though I am growing middle aged and binty, if there was a ballet class for binties like me nearby I would definitely join. I cannot imagine what it must take to carry on doing this torture until you are nearly 40. And I think that our Darcey's longevity probably has had a lot to do with the improvements in sports science and the care of the body - and the dancing public owes them a huge debt of gratitude.
I hope that Ms Bussell enjoys a happy life post ballet. She's given countless people a lot of pleasure and probably inspired a whole generation of girls to give it a go. I'll be watching her farewell performances this week, just wanting to see her defy gravity and her ageing body once more.
Thanks, Darcey and have a great life.
Tuesday 5 June 2007
Tuesday 29 May 2007
Messing with the muff…
You might recall that a few blogs ago, I mentioned a UK TV programme called ‘How to Look Good Naked’. Following a (now tired) format, it focuses on an individual woman’s dislike of an aspect of her body. Sometimes it can even be a detestation of the whole shooting match. The aim is simply to get her to feel so confident and different about her body that she is prepared to have her photo taken naked and to walk down a catwalk in Manchester’s Trafford Centre in her undies.
All well and good, and its presented by the usual camp as Christmas stylist (male, of course) who becomes the best friend of the woman concerned. However, there is one issue I am sick and tired of hearing about and that concerns the need for us ladies to keep our muff in good condition. There is only one response to this piece of advice.
Fuck off.
What is wrong with a rampaging muff? Why are women expected to look like pre-pubescent girls with no body hair and no pubes? Why are we increasingly being exhorted to exfoliate within an inch of our lives ‘down there’? Clearly there is some frightful conspiracy going on with the makers of thongs (now they really make your cellulite look classy I can tell you) the purveyors of exfoliators and all these stylists. One highly unpleasant idea that I harbour from time to time is that the person pulling all these strings, some kind of global Karl Largerfeld, is actually wanting to groom women so that they look like children – stick thin and hairless. Its’ revolting. And what makes it worse, teenage girls think that they need to have this ‘perfect porno pussy’. It all gets me very Germaine Greer so it does. When I was a teenager in the 1970s we used to have sassy women who used to campaign against this kind of nonsense. Where have they all gone? And why are we so compliant with this kind of bullshit?
My advice on how to look good naked is actually fairly simple. Eat chocolate, have hot bath with something nice in it (like more chocolate), haul ass out, pick up great book, flop on bed with cuppa tea and immerse yourself…with full on bush, natch.
All well and good, and its presented by the usual camp as Christmas stylist (male, of course) who becomes the best friend of the woman concerned. However, there is one issue I am sick and tired of hearing about and that concerns the need for us ladies to keep our muff in good condition. There is only one response to this piece of advice.
Fuck off.
What is wrong with a rampaging muff? Why are women expected to look like pre-pubescent girls with no body hair and no pubes? Why are we increasingly being exhorted to exfoliate within an inch of our lives ‘down there’? Clearly there is some frightful conspiracy going on with the makers of thongs (now they really make your cellulite look classy I can tell you) the purveyors of exfoliators and all these stylists. One highly unpleasant idea that I harbour from time to time is that the person pulling all these strings, some kind of global Karl Largerfeld, is actually wanting to groom women so that they look like children – stick thin and hairless. Its’ revolting. And what makes it worse, teenage girls think that they need to have this ‘perfect porno pussy’. It all gets me very Germaine Greer so it does. When I was a teenager in the 1970s we used to have sassy women who used to campaign against this kind of nonsense. Where have they all gone? And why are we so compliant with this kind of bullshit?
My advice on how to look good naked is actually fairly simple. Eat chocolate, have hot bath with something nice in it (like more chocolate), haul ass out, pick up great book, flop on bed with cuppa tea and immerse yourself…with full on bush, natch.
Monday 28 May 2007
Mummy
It was on Bank Holiday Monday six years ago that my mother had a severe stroke. She was 85, healthy, fit and strong for a woman of those years. She never recovered - she was completely paralysed down the right hand side of her body, she couldn't speak, eat or move to any great degree. A fighter all her life, this was the one battle she lost and she died a month later with complications arising from the stroke and her reduced capacity to fight off infection.
She was the most wonderful woman and I am so proud that she was my mother. I loved seeing her with children, especially small infants and babies because she was just so warm and knew exactly what it was that they needed. Hugely generous, it was always a source of chagrin to her that she never was a woman of funds, but I think that what she gave was more important than mere money. I miss her and would give everything I possess and will accrue just to have one minute with her - even if it were just to be able to dial up the old phone number and simply hear her say 'hello'.
Night night mummy. I'll see you in the morning.
She was the most wonderful woman and I am so proud that she was my mother. I loved seeing her with children, especially small infants and babies because she was just so warm and knew exactly what it was that they needed. Hugely generous, it was always a source of chagrin to her that she never was a woman of funds, but I think that what she gave was more important than mere money. I miss her and would give everything I possess and will accrue just to have one minute with her - even if it were just to be able to dial up the old phone number and simply hear her say 'hello'.
Night night mummy. I'll see you in the morning.
Sunday 27 May 2007
Today I be mostly menopausal
I don’t know if you’ve ever had this experience where you wake up one morning and realise that one of life’s ‘big events’ is occurring to you, but that’s the main headline of my day.
I woke up this morning and realised that the menopause was a reality. Not a full on, hit by a truck type reality, but a major life change that is going to be with me for a while to come. I’m a couple of weeks shy of 46 and I started my periods when I was about 11 so I’ve had my fair share of all this monthly cycle shit for more than enuf time. I’m glad to see it starting to diminish and a very large part of me is actually excited about what the next tranche of life will bring. Having seen my older sister go through this, I know that it’s not all thrills and spills. I am aware of the delights that are hot flushes and I’ve had a small precursor of those this week. Most odd. The only thing that troubles me is the mad old lady syndrome. My sis had this rather badly at times and it used to manifest itself with regard to the cleanliness – or otherwise – of the kitchen work surfaces. Suffice to say, I think that if this obsession had continued much longer, her daughter would have made her wear one of them. My only concern is that I am so mad and eccentric – will I go even further over the top or will nobody notice the difference? Worrying.
But, overall, I’m in good shape. The best is yet to come.
I woke up this morning and realised that the menopause was a reality. Not a full on, hit by a truck type reality, but a major life change that is going to be with me for a while to come. I’m a couple of weeks shy of 46 and I started my periods when I was about 11 so I’ve had my fair share of all this monthly cycle shit for more than enuf time. I’m glad to see it starting to diminish and a very large part of me is actually excited about what the next tranche of life will bring. Having seen my older sister go through this, I know that it’s not all thrills and spills. I am aware of the delights that are hot flushes and I’ve had a small precursor of those this week. Most odd. The only thing that troubles me is the mad old lady syndrome. My sis had this rather badly at times and it used to manifest itself with regard to the cleanliness – or otherwise – of the kitchen work surfaces. Suffice to say, I think that if this obsession had continued much longer, her daughter would have made her wear one of them. My only concern is that I am so mad and eccentric – will I go even further over the top or will nobody notice the difference? Worrying.
But, overall, I’m in good shape. The best is yet to come.
Saturday 12 May 2007
Things your friends always wanted to tell you...
It's been one of those weeks where, for some reason, I am starting to feel aged. My bones are creaking and (shockingly) I want to kick off my high heels and crawl into my scruffiest, nastiest paint-covered trews. Permanently. Make up? Do I have to? Straightening my hair? It's curly, it always was curly and I cannot battle any longer with nature. And as for my weight and little belly...well, the idea of 'crunches' and all the effort required to flatten it out makes me shudder. I've watched programmes on 'How to look good naked' and been quite intruiged. The basic premise of it seems absolutely spot on - we are being misled by pernicious advertising to think that the desired female state should be that of a stick. But some of the women on it actually did need to lose weight. It's right, I think, that we should be kinder and more forgiving to ourselves - especially where our bodies are concerned, but sometimes you do need a gentle prompt that actually, for your own health, you need to just lose a few pounds. Just a few. And don't stress it.
Of course one of the things that they do on these programmes is to accentuate all the good features that someone possesses and effectively disregard the bits that aren't quite so hot. And I like that. I like the idea of someone picking out great aspects of someone and making them prominent - it's what I like about the teaching bit of my job. But what I think that I've always felt is that people hide things from you that it would be helpful for you to know. Now, some of that can be the positive stuff that you just don't consider (for whatever reason). Other bits of it could actually be quite important and relate to aspects of your behaviour and so on that really let you down. But...do we want to hear it? It's hard to hear someone's take on what you do, your relationships and so on and just as hard to tell it as it is. I like to think that I'm upfront, but I know that I duck for cover when really I should be truthful. And, of course, we all tend to hear the negative and eliminate the positive - unless you're a complete narcissist.
What I fear is that I'm doing loads of things wrong and that no-one wants to tell me or knows how to. The human dilemma.
Of course one of the things that they do on these programmes is to accentuate all the good features that someone possesses and effectively disregard the bits that aren't quite so hot. And I like that. I like the idea of someone picking out great aspects of someone and making them prominent - it's what I like about the teaching bit of my job. But what I think that I've always felt is that people hide things from you that it would be helpful for you to know. Now, some of that can be the positive stuff that you just don't consider (for whatever reason). Other bits of it could actually be quite important and relate to aspects of your behaviour and so on that really let you down. But...do we want to hear it? It's hard to hear someone's take on what you do, your relationships and so on and just as hard to tell it as it is. I like to think that I'm upfront, but I know that I duck for cover when really I should be truthful. And, of course, we all tend to hear the negative and eliminate the positive - unless you're a complete narcissist.
What I fear is that I'm doing loads of things wrong and that no-one wants to tell me or knows how to. The human dilemma.
Saturday 5 May 2007
The end of an era
Today Bolton Wanderers face West Ham, but they do so without the leadership of my Sam. There’s little to add to the commentary that has unfolded over the past week, all I can add are my experiences of him and my summation of his achievements.
When he started work at the Trotters, they had nothing apart from a state of the art stadium. Their training ground was a joke, there were no medical records, no proper medical or other facilities for the players at the Reebok, so sense as to how performance would be leveraged in order to get the club back into the Premier League…with no money. Through his focus on sports science and use of Peak Performance when he left the club they are now seen as top of the table finishers and genuine contenders for European football. They have managed to attract top players who have fallen out of favour with their clubs and to keep them. The effort that goes into achieving and maintaining this is awesome and is built on one of the best-qualified staffs you will ever see. But it’s not just their possession of a vast array of professional and technical skills, it’s the ways in which they interact with each other to create new knowledge, new ways of working that has given them the competitive edge. And that has come from the top.
The appointment of Sammy Lee is therefore a sensible one because he’s been introduced to and immersed in these ways of working. I hope he can take the club even further – the fact that he is one of the warmest, passionate people you can find can surely only help.
But I will miss my gaffer, the man who told me I was ‘family’. To someone who has lost both parents and has a somewhat odd family, this has meant more than I can express. I hope that he’s enjoying his holiday in Spain, and I look forward to the next chapter.
But come on you whites!
When he started work at the Trotters, they had nothing apart from a state of the art stadium. Their training ground was a joke, there were no medical records, no proper medical or other facilities for the players at the Reebok, so sense as to how performance would be leveraged in order to get the club back into the Premier League…with no money. Through his focus on sports science and use of Peak Performance when he left the club they are now seen as top of the table finishers and genuine contenders for European football. They have managed to attract top players who have fallen out of favour with their clubs and to keep them. The effort that goes into achieving and maintaining this is awesome and is built on one of the best-qualified staffs you will ever see. But it’s not just their possession of a vast array of professional and technical skills, it’s the ways in which they interact with each other to create new knowledge, new ways of working that has given them the competitive edge. And that has come from the top.
The appointment of Sammy Lee is therefore a sensible one because he’s been introduced to and immersed in these ways of working. I hope he can take the club even further – the fact that he is one of the warmest, passionate people you can find can surely only help.
But I will miss my gaffer, the man who told me I was ‘family’. To someone who has lost both parents and has a somewhat odd family, this has meant more than I can express. I hope that he’s enjoying his holiday in Spain, and I look forward to the next chapter.
But come on you whites!
Friday 6 April 2007
The spring is sprung – or why I am not a glamazon
Today the sun is cracking the flags again. I have successfully negotiated two pieces of DIY and the advent of dinner out at Sleepy’s has caused me to see if I can achieve a similar transformation with my own body that I managed with the bathroom door and the patio…
Such optimism inevitably leads to some re-learning that I am not one of life’s natural glamazons. The face mask makes me look like something out of Halloween and although the legs have been done, the texture of them (i.e. big white and flabby) does not lead me to gasp in admiration.
Fortunately this learning came before I was inexorably drawn to doing Chanel feet.
A kind friend sent me this nail polish (the one Irma Thurman wore in Pulp Fiction) and whilst it is the most glamorous thing on the plant it is murderous to get on and off. It requires utter perfection of nails, of application with absolutely no mistakes. These are costly and end up with nails that look like they’ve spent too long doing interesting things with liver.
So I opted for Rimmel instead and the realisation that I am not one of life’s natural glamazons. I am that woman who just about gets away with what ever she gets away with and is thankful for that. How the true glamazons do it is something I would like to observe before I die but it looks like a lot more work than painting doors.
Such optimism inevitably leads to some re-learning that I am not one of life’s natural glamazons. The face mask makes me look like something out of Halloween and although the legs have been done, the texture of them (i.e. big white and flabby) does not lead me to gasp in admiration.
Fortunately this learning came before I was inexorably drawn to doing Chanel feet.
A kind friend sent me this nail polish (the one Irma Thurman wore in Pulp Fiction) and whilst it is the most glamorous thing on the plant it is murderous to get on and off. It requires utter perfection of nails, of application with absolutely no mistakes. These are costly and end up with nails that look like they’ve spent too long doing interesting things with liver.
So I opted for Rimmel instead and the realisation that I am not one of life’s natural glamazons. I am that woman who just about gets away with what ever she gets away with and is thankful for that. How the true glamazons do it is something I would like to observe before I die but it looks like a lot more work than painting doors.
Wednesday 14 March 2007
Mario, Dario or Pete?
Today is the day I will discover the name of the man in the van. I already know that he's married. Now, don't get ideas, I am not (to use a phrase loved by my nana) a fast piece. I found this out when purchasing my 99 yesterday and he volunteered the information that a bomb scare was in process not too far from where we were all enjoying the afternoon sunshine.
My money is on Pete.
But whilst the costs of this little piece of primary research are starting to stack up - with an additional impact on my thickening girth - to sit in the B School forecourt licking a cone and bask in the sun as students campaign for their sabbatical candidates is extremely pleasant. It's nice to see gaggles of young people enthusiastically engage in all kinds of marketing ploys and to see them enjoying themselves so much whilst doing it. Over the past few years, the SU elections have seen a growth spurt of campaign activity and for a short space of time the place is transformed into a vibrant hotbed of rhetoric. And whilst some might bemoan the absence of political orientation and debate, I am at least cheered by the sight of people so keen on spending a year essentially working for an electorate and putting forward a view as to what that work should consist of. Now if you could translate THAT into academic study you'd be on to a winner...
My money is on Pete.
But whilst the costs of this little piece of primary research are starting to stack up - with an additional impact on my thickening girth - to sit in the B School forecourt licking a cone and bask in the sun as students campaign for their sabbatical candidates is extremely pleasant. It's nice to see gaggles of young people enthusiastically engage in all kinds of marketing ploys and to see them enjoying themselves so much whilst doing it. Over the past few years, the SU elections have seen a growth spurt of campaign activity and for a short space of time the place is transformed into a vibrant hotbed of rhetoric. And whilst some might bemoan the absence of political orientation and debate, I am at least cheered by the sight of people so keen on spending a year essentially working for an electorate and putting forward a view as to what that work should consist of. Now if you could translate THAT into academic study you'd be on to a winner...
Monday 12 March 2007
The man with the van
Coming out of the Business School this pm, and on my way to the library, I saw an ice cream van. What is it about spring weather (at its best) that has you smiling at daffs and making a dash for the 99? And what is it about the really rather ‘inferior’ ice cream and the not quite a flake flake that combine together so wonderfully? The van man had lollies too. It is almost enuf to make you want to go into work, safe in the knowledge that he will be back, his sole mission to entice your tongue around the whirls of soft ice cream and feel the cloying sweetness slip down your throat. Sauce and nuts optional.
Sunday 4 March 2007
let's hear it for the gril...
Being a gril involves having a different mindset from that of a girl. We all know what girls are and jolly nice they are too – I won’t have a word said against them because they do a damn good job and they’re fabberlus.
Grils are a special variant. My problematic prof at work is a gril, so are my two cats, Anne Widdicome, Shirley Williams (just), the sadly missed Mo Mowlam and Diane Abbot. Sleepy is definitely a gril and so, I suspect, is Schnee...
Being a gril involves large amounts of eccentric behaviour and a resolute refusal to toe the party line if it is truly against your principles and beliefs. Grils are often prepared to endure substantial ridicule – not only for their beliefs and stance but for aspects of their life such as their sexuality, their weight, their personal appearance and their personality. Grils are often involved in breaking new ground; taking on jobs in traditionally masculine occupations or in very macho cultures. In this sense they often break glass ceilings and can, if they so wish and have big enough hearts, encourage other women to follow them.
One emergent gril in a hugely male dominated profession is American orchestral conductor, Marin Alsop. Her occupation is one of the last bastions of hegemonic masculinity – you think of all the conductors you can name and I will lay a wager that they are all male. This does not mean that good women conductors do not exist, far from it. But for whatever reason (and this is not my field) they do not necessarily either emerge or go the distance as their male equivalents of similar capability might.
I was lucky enough to see Ms Alsop conduct the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra two weeks ago. A friend of mine who is a Mahler fan (they did the first symphony) was clearly moved by the performance, stating that it was probably the best or certainly up there with the best he had ever experienced. I don’t have the same musical knowledge to make an informed judgement but I thought it was wonderful too.
So let’s hear it for the gril, a woman who clearly doesn’t wear heels (ever), walks a bit like a navvy but exudes huge personal warmth and conducts like a beast. She had her own website and you can download her doing Mahler’s 5th live with the LSO and cheer, ‘more grils, please, more grils’!
Grils are a special variant. My problematic prof at work is a gril, so are my two cats, Anne Widdicome, Shirley Williams (just), the sadly missed Mo Mowlam and Diane Abbot. Sleepy is definitely a gril and so, I suspect, is Schnee...
Being a gril involves large amounts of eccentric behaviour and a resolute refusal to toe the party line if it is truly against your principles and beliefs. Grils are often prepared to endure substantial ridicule – not only for their beliefs and stance but for aspects of their life such as their sexuality, their weight, their personal appearance and their personality. Grils are often involved in breaking new ground; taking on jobs in traditionally masculine occupations or in very macho cultures. In this sense they often break glass ceilings and can, if they so wish and have big enough hearts, encourage other women to follow them.
One emergent gril in a hugely male dominated profession is American orchestral conductor, Marin Alsop. Her occupation is one of the last bastions of hegemonic masculinity – you think of all the conductors you can name and I will lay a wager that they are all male. This does not mean that good women conductors do not exist, far from it. But for whatever reason (and this is not my field) they do not necessarily either emerge or go the distance as their male equivalents of similar capability might.
I was lucky enough to see Ms Alsop conduct the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra two weeks ago. A friend of mine who is a Mahler fan (they did the first symphony) was clearly moved by the performance, stating that it was probably the best or certainly up there with the best he had ever experienced. I don’t have the same musical knowledge to make an informed judgement but I thought it was wonderful too.
So let’s hear it for the gril, a woman who clearly doesn’t wear heels (ever), walks a bit like a navvy but exudes huge personal warmth and conducts like a beast. She had her own website and you can download her doing Mahler’s 5th live with the LSO and cheer, ‘more grils, please, more grils’!
Wednesday 28 February 2007
Learnings (II)
The last 24 hours has brought me profound and helpful learnings which I will share with you, dear readers, in the hope that my insights provoke reflection and action whenever you experience what I term GOCS (Grouchy Old Cunt Syndrome).
I realised that this state was upon me late last night when my hunnee, as is his wont, did his drama queeny bit. Sadly my hunnee does this to me and his latest piece of queenery was the second in less than 24 hours. The GOC creaked into action but lo! I had a learning! And lo the learning was this! He does the queening because I give him an audience and he gets a response. It actually doesn’t really matter what the response is, be it nice or nasty, caring or a kick in the rubber parts, he gets my attention and my interaction. I promptly turned off the mobile and disconnected the PC.
In this age of connectivity, it seems important that we learn the importance of disconnecting. An old student of mine and I have been having lengthy on and offline discussions about the uses of social networking and the ways in which people use media like MySpace, Facebook and so on. Doing some research on the issue, it seems that prospective employers are increasingly surveying these sites to see what their prospective hire REALLY gets up to in his/her downtime. Not that I think it’s any of their business, but be aware, comrades, what you put up is on open access and it is perfectly possible that my musings on GOCS could one day be surveyed by either a gross little fart of a student or a larger faculty fart with the power to shape my future in quite profound ways.
This has left me wondering about the power and beauty of discretion. I love discrete people – not being terribly well endowed with that faculty myself, I do totally respect it in others – and think that this behavioural trait is much overlooked. In a world of constant connection and interaction, maybe we need to reconsider the value of holding back, or at least switching off and disconnecting.
I realised that this state was upon me late last night when my hunnee, as is his wont, did his drama queeny bit. Sadly my hunnee does this to me and his latest piece of queenery was the second in less than 24 hours. The GOC creaked into action but lo! I had a learning! And lo the learning was this! He does the queening because I give him an audience and he gets a response. It actually doesn’t really matter what the response is, be it nice or nasty, caring or a kick in the rubber parts, he gets my attention and my interaction. I promptly turned off the mobile and disconnected the PC.
In this age of connectivity, it seems important that we learn the importance of disconnecting. An old student of mine and I have been having lengthy on and offline discussions about the uses of social networking and the ways in which people use media like MySpace, Facebook and so on. Doing some research on the issue, it seems that prospective employers are increasingly surveying these sites to see what their prospective hire REALLY gets up to in his/her downtime. Not that I think it’s any of their business, but be aware, comrades, what you put up is on open access and it is perfectly possible that my musings on GOCS could one day be surveyed by either a gross little fart of a student or a larger faculty fart with the power to shape my future in quite profound ways.
This has left me wondering about the power and beauty of discretion. I love discrete people – not being terribly well endowed with that faculty myself, I do totally respect it in others – and think that this behavioural trait is much overlooked. In a world of constant connection and interaction, maybe we need to reconsider the value of holding back, or at least switching off and disconnecting.
Sunday 25 February 2007
Learnings
One of the things that I do every now and again, usually before I go to bed, is to ask myself what my recent learnings have been. A lot of them have related to my failed marriage, a few to my work and colleague, quite a few have been focused on my family. I don’t necessarily reach astounding conclusions or provoke new ideas or ways of seeing intractable problems, but occasionally my musings let me see things in different ways. Which I usually then forget.
Today’s learnings were odd ones. I realise that I would have made a poor judge in the case of OJ Simpson because I would have lynched OJ’s defence team and personally issued invective after the high profile (and undoubtedly highly paid) forensic science experts that were hired to demolish the prosecution case. These eminent gentlemen went on the found the much vaunted ‘innocence project’ which has now been given the BBC treatment in one of their worst offerings in living history.
The other learning du jour concerned the ways in which those who are often cast or celebrated for their emotional intelligence and humanitarianism are actually capable of breathtaking acts of insensitivity. But, these acts often go relatively unremarked because the individual concerned has been very adept at promoting their emotional literacy and their caring. The rest of us mere mortals who bungle around desperately trying not to hurt people’s feelings but who fail to engage in the open display of caring often miss a trick. And there is absolutely no market any longer for straight shooters – even when those people also actively work to be careful in the ways in which they treat people.
The department I work in has a real problem that could cost us dearly in the longer term because my Head of Department cannot deal with conflict. Last week I asked for a different member of staff to do my appraisal. What would be the first question you would ask in such a situation? Think about it. Well, it was never asked. So I am given a new appraisor but the reasons for my request were not asked for and I felt somewhat uncomfortable in stating them without being asked because that would place me in an awkward light when as far as I am concerned, the professor concerned is inept. This is pretty much evident to all who have eyes to see and ears to hear, but there is great reluctance for her incompetence to be raised. Now, this is partly to do with the nature of academia and the long standing problem of performance and the ways in which poor performance is managed. The other, possibly more pertinent reason could lie in the professor’s research area, which is bullying and harassment. Given that these terms are often seen as being self-defined and therefore not always open to reliance rational conceptualisation or range of definitions, you can see the problem. How easy it is for faculty claims of quite frustrating performance to be turned back on the person(s) who issue them or raise the problem as being an instance of bullying.
And, of course, if you work in this area, you are almost deemed to be dwelling amongst the emotionally literate. Well, that might be possible, but it hasn’t stopped this wretched woman wasting my time and intellectual energy for hours on end. One day I shall say, one day…probably the day I leave!
Today’s learnings were odd ones. I realise that I would have made a poor judge in the case of OJ Simpson because I would have lynched OJ’s defence team and personally issued invective after the high profile (and undoubtedly highly paid) forensic science experts that were hired to demolish the prosecution case. These eminent gentlemen went on the found the much vaunted ‘innocence project’ which has now been given the BBC treatment in one of their worst offerings in living history.
The other learning du jour concerned the ways in which those who are often cast or celebrated for their emotional intelligence and humanitarianism are actually capable of breathtaking acts of insensitivity. But, these acts often go relatively unremarked because the individual concerned has been very adept at promoting their emotional literacy and their caring. The rest of us mere mortals who bungle around desperately trying not to hurt people’s feelings but who fail to engage in the open display of caring often miss a trick. And there is absolutely no market any longer for straight shooters – even when those people also actively work to be careful in the ways in which they treat people.
The department I work in has a real problem that could cost us dearly in the longer term because my Head of Department cannot deal with conflict. Last week I asked for a different member of staff to do my appraisal. What would be the first question you would ask in such a situation? Think about it. Well, it was never asked. So I am given a new appraisor but the reasons for my request were not asked for and I felt somewhat uncomfortable in stating them without being asked because that would place me in an awkward light when as far as I am concerned, the professor concerned is inept. This is pretty much evident to all who have eyes to see and ears to hear, but there is great reluctance for her incompetence to be raised. Now, this is partly to do with the nature of academia and the long standing problem of performance and the ways in which poor performance is managed. The other, possibly more pertinent reason could lie in the professor’s research area, which is bullying and harassment. Given that these terms are often seen as being self-defined and therefore not always open to reliance rational conceptualisation or range of definitions, you can see the problem. How easy it is for faculty claims of quite frustrating performance to be turned back on the person(s) who issue them or raise the problem as being an instance of bullying.
And, of course, if you work in this area, you are almost deemed to be dwelling amongst the emotionally literate. Well, that might be possible, but it hasn’t stopped this wretched woman wasting my time and intellectual energy for hours on end. One day I shall say, one day…probably the day I leave!
Saturday 24 February 2007
Son of Star Wars
I am grateful to Sleepy and to Darcus Howe for prompting this one.
I had a really dispiriting experience this week. One of the units I run this semester is for final year undergraduate students and is concerned with the impact of virtual technologies on markets, marketing, work and organizations. I do the front end of this generally popular but challenging pantomime horse and cover philosophical questions like ‘what is virtuality?’ ‘Is it anything new?’ as well as the historical context such as the rise of the Internet and the forces that gave rise to it and allied technologies.
Of course, one of the things you come across when you investigate why the Internet was formed was the existence of the cold war and the rhetoric and realities associated with it. I understand that this might be slightly challenging for kids born in the early 1980s to get their heads around, I also understand that they might only dimly be aware of the existence of Ronald Reagan and the Star Wars initiative…but to be honest, I am getting a bit sick and tired of being understanding because they should have a sense of history – their history, their family history, their society’s history as well as those of others – but it seems to me that for them, history is what occurred last year. The sense of disconnect with the past is actually quite profound and therefore quite worrying. I am of the belief that if you do not understand history you will almost inevitably repeat it – you’ll probably repeat history anyway for other reasons, but at least an historical perspective allied to some form of self and societal awareness might give pause when the big questions are being asked.
So after talking about Star Wars to blank faces, I was so glad to see it resurface.
I so totally rule.
But my sense of triumph is a bitter one and I have concern for the generation of young adults whose sense of time and context is so weak and whose curiosity about their world is almost non-existent. At some point, my fear is that we will reap the national curriculum whirlwind and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
I had a really dispiriting experience this week. One of the units I run this semester is for final year undergraduate students and is concerned with the impact of virtual technologies on markets, marketing, work and organizations. I do the front end of this generally popular but challenging pantomime horse and cover philosophical questions like ‘what is virtuality?’ ‘Is it anything new?’ as well as the historical context such as the rise of the Internet and the forces that gave rise to it and allied technologies.
Of course, one of the things you come across when you investigate why the Internet was formed was the existence of the cold war and the rhetoric and realities associated with it. I understand that this might be slightly challenging for kids born in the early 1980s to get their heads around, I also understand that they might only dimly be aware of the existence of Ronald Reagan and the Star Wars initiative…but to be honest, I am getting a bit sick and tired of being understanding because they should have a sense of history – their history, their family history, their society’s history as well as those of others – but it seems to me that for them, history is what occurred last year. The sense of disconnect with the past is actually quite profound and therefore quite worrying. I am of the belief that if you do not understand history you will almost inevitably repeat it – you’ll probably repeat history anyway for other reasons, but at least an historical perspective allied to some form of self and societal awareness might give pause when the big questions are being asked.
So after talking about Star Wars to blank faces, I was so glad to see it resurface.
I so totally rule.
But my sense of triumph is a bitter one and I have concern for the generation of young adults whose sense of time and context is so weak and whose curiosity about their world is almost non-existent. At some point, my fear is that we will reap the national curriculum whirlwind and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
Skippy the butch kangaroo (and other dudes)
One of the delights of DIY is the skip. For me, there a few things more satisfying than the arrival of this item in an empty, pristine state and its eventual departure full of your life’s detritus. It’s as good as therapy and a lot less expensive. And whilst is might piss off the neighbours because they can’t park in front of your house, my environmentally correct decision to eschew a car helps me maintain a lofty stance against their muted plaints…
This week a fresh new skip arrived and I keenly await the coming of butch guys with big drills - as you do. I have already spent a couple of hours slashing and devastating the current crop of vegetation that has sprung up in the concrete patch that is my back garden. Today I will progress a little further knowing that by this time next week both unwanted veg and concrete will all be gone. OK, Sleepy I know that it might equally be replaced by police tape sealing off the place as a burial site, but I remain rigidly optimistic.
However, one thing has intrigued me – and I warn readers with a delicate disposition to avoid this paragraph – is the existence of a pile of excrement that seems to have come from a truly large beast. This is not your run of the mill cat poop. I know my cats’ turds (sadly) and these are not their handiwork. And whilst we do now have two rather large tom cats next door, they must have got substantial intestines to produce this sample…Euuuw.
Finally, yesterday ended on a high. I had spent the day battling intellectual demons and a profound sense of failure and depression. This goes with academia I think – I’m not the only one to get like this by a long shot. However, this was substantially lifted by a recital of baroque music at the cathedral which was absolutely stunning. Upon my return I had an email from pugilistic Jimmy and one from my hunnee telling me that Mark L (the sexiest man on the planet, I swear) had commented that I was ‘perfectly formed’. At this rate I might even set some nookie before I die.
Yeehah and on with the rubber gloves.
This week a fresh new skip arrived and I keenly await the coming of butch guys with big drills - as you do. I have already spent a couple of hours slashing and devastating the current crop of vegetation that has sprung up in the concrete patch that is my back garden. Today I will progress a little further knowing that by this time next week both unwanted veg and concrete will all be gone. OK, Sleepy I know that it might equally be replaced by police tape sealing off the place as a burial site, but I remain rigidly optimistic.
However, one thing has intrigued me – and I warn readers with a delicate disposition to avoid this paragraph – is the existence of a pile of excrement that seems to have come from a truly large beast. This is not your run of the mill cat poop. I know my cats’ turds (sadly) and these are not their handiwork. And whilst we do now have two rather large tom cats next door, they must have got substantial intestines to produce this sample…Euuuw.
Finally, yesterday ended on a high. I had spent the day battling intellectual demons and a profound sense of failure and depression. This goes with academia I think – I’m not the only one to get like this by a long shot. However, this was substantially lifted by a recital of baroque music at the cathedral which was absolutely stunning. Upon my return I had an email from pugilistic Jimmy and one from my hunnee telling me that Mark L (the sexiest man on the planet, I swear) had commented that I was ‘perfectly formed’. At this rate I might even set some nookie before I die.
Yeehah and on with the rubber gloves.
Sunday 18 February 2007
Britney
I feel bound to comment (albeit briefly) on the conduct of Ms Spears. As those close to me know, I have a little penchant for early Britney - well one track when pissed - but this is sufficient for me to have been given the tag of a Britney fan. Well, sometimes you just have to go with the public perception of your tendencies and, as is inevitable, you end up actually engaging with the person you are mistakenly taken to like. So here are my thoughts on the subject of our Brit.
Whilst I have no clue as to the detailed ins and outs of our Brit’s career, one cannot but know some of it because even if you don’t read the tabloids, don’t read the goss mags or any of the lower order shite that is mass produced in the UK every week that focuses on celebrity culture, the broadsheets pick up on it and add their 2 penny-worth anyway – along with yer mates sending you the uncensored version of the ‘commando’ photos (thanks for that Sleepy) to accompany your tea and Cheerios in the morning. There is no escape! Britney is a truly wealthy woman, but consider this, the media she has fed so assiduously over the past decade and her record company have undoubtedly made more money out of her than she will ever make for herself. She also has to deal with the downside of the fame she has sought which is a complete panopticon-style surveillance of her life which seeks to discipline her behaviour in such a way that whatever options she chooses are all wrong. Consider, she focuses on the kids – boring, where is the mileage in that? She does the party circuit, she’s bad Britney, and asked to consider her kids and the example she sets to her young fans. The woman cannot win. Even if she retires and does a Brigit Bardot, it’s difficult to see how she could ever fully escape the telephoto lens because she sells.
One of the reasons why she sells is because her life resembles a car crash and we all know the fascination we have with people whose lives are such. You can’t leave it alone – every aspect, every nuance is scrutinised and discussed; everyone has an angle, a view of the wreckage. It’s actually quite obscene in a way. But if you add her class background into the mix then the heady combination just simply becomes irresistible. And if she falls into the category of ‘trailer trash’ well, you’ve just achieved a state of nirvana.
Arguably one of the features of Britney’s life that seems to get the most exposure is her working class roots. And I have a big problem with that. Not that she is working class, but that her class is used against her. I hate the term ‘trailer trash’ with a vengeance because it is such an easy, savage comment to make about people who – for whatever reason – are enduring a pretty rough life. Think for a while how people might come to live in a trailer park and ask yourself this. How many bad decisions, poor investments, changes to circumstances are you away from the trailer park? Think about how you would cope without all the creature comforts and support you now enjoy, how you would deal with your neighbours who might not be teachers, public servants, self employed entrepreneurs and such…then shut the fuck up and never use the term again.
Whilst I have no clue as to the detailed ins and outs of our Brit’s career, one cannot but know some of it because even if you don’t read the tabloids, don’t read the goss mags or any of the lower order shite that is mass produced in the UK every week that focuses on celebrity culture, the broadsheets pick up on it and add their 2 penny-worth anyway – along with yer mates sending you the uncensored version of the ‘commando’ photos (thanks for that Sleepy) to accompany your tea and Cheerios in the morning. There is no escape! Britney is a truly wealthy woman, but consider this, the media she has fed so assiduously over the past decade and her record company have undoubtedly made more money out of her than she will ever make for herself. She also has to deal with the downside of the fame she has sought which is a complete panopticon-style surveillance of her life which seeks to discipline her behaviour in such a way that whatever options she chooses are all wrong. Consider, she focuses on the kids – boring, where is the mileage in that? She does the party circuit, she’s bad Britney, and asked to consider her kids and the example she sets to her young fans. The woman cannot win. Even if she retires and does a Brigit Bardot, it’s difficult to see how she could ever fully escape the telephoto lens because she sells.
One of the reasons why she sells is because her life resembles a car crash and we all know the fascination we have with people whose lives are such. You can’t leave it alone – every aspect, every nuance is scrutinised and discussed; everyone has an angle, a view of the wreckage. It’s actually quite obscene in a way. But if you add her class background into the mix then the heady combination just simply becomes irresistible. And if she falls into the category of ‘trailer trash’ well, you’ve just achieved a state of nirvana.
Arguably one of the features of Britney’s life that seems to get the most exposure is her working class roots. And I have a big problem with that. Not that she is working class, but that her class is used against her. I hate the term ‘trailer trash’ with a vengeance because it is such an easy, savage comment to make about people who – for whatever reason – are enduring a pretty rough life. Think for a while how people might come to live in a trailer park and ask yourself this. How many bad decisions, poor investments, changes to circumstances are you away from the trailer park? Think about how you would cope without all the creature comforts and support you now enjoy, how you would deal with your neighbours who might not be teachers, public servants, self employed entrepreneurs and such…then shut the fuck up and never use the term again.
Wednesday 14 February 2007
The magic of the cup
Today my loverly Bolton boys play Arsenal for a place in the next round of the FA Cup. When the old Wembley Stadium was opened in 1923, it was in time for that year’s FA Cup Final and over 100,000 people were estimated to have attended by fair means or by cramming. One of the iconic images of football originates from that Final and shows a big white police horse and its mount trying to nudge the crowds back behind the line markings of the pitch.
It was a game Bolton won and given that this coming FA Cup Final will be played at the new Wembley, I feel that history needs repeating and that the Whites need to be one of the teams in contention on the day. And whilst commercial factors determine so many of the outcomes of the Premier League these days (as well as the Champions League), there are still spaces where there is a possibility for the underdog to bark its presence and the FA Cup is one of them.
West Ham did it last year and although they did not win, they gave such a good account of their prowess that many people noted it was the best Final for many years. I have watched my boys grow for over 3 years now and have been privileged to see their progress at very close quarters. They are my family and I am part of theirs (so they tell me) nudging their way into a highly guarded heart.
Go Bolton!
It was a game Bolton won and given that this coming FA Cup Final will be played at the new Wembley, I feel that history needs repeating and that the Whites need to be one of the teams in contention on the day. And whilst commercial factors determine so many of the outcomes of the Premier League these days (as well as the Champions League), there are still spaces where there is a possibility for the underdog to bark its presence and the FA Cup is one of them.
West Ham did it last year and although they did not win, they gave such a good account of their prowess that many people noted it was the best Final for many years. I have watched my boys grow for over 3 years now and have been privileged to see their progress at very close quarters. They are my family and I am part of theirs (so they tell me) nudging their way into a highly guarded heart.
Go Bolton!
Tuesday 13 February 2007
People say…
‘No pain no gain’
‘Better to have lost in love than never to have loved at all’
‘That which does not kill me makes me strong’
‘You learn from your mistakes’
And I have said them too, although today I am looking at myself (metaphorically) and these old saws and shaking my head in disbelief for being had. This is a temporary state of affairs. I am someone who has been strongly influenced by Freudian theories and by what’s often termed ‘The British School’ of psychoanalysis which would accept the importance of disappointment in terms of the structuring of the psyche – and I am in agreement.
But just not today. I’ll be back to my old self tomorrow or even later on this evening, but right now a pox on all this bollocks. I am sick and tired of the struggle life is. I am bored rigid with my job and cannot cope with the silliness of it and the small-mindedness of many of the people I work with. People who think that a strategic plan is a list of things to do over a certain period but who never open their eyes to look at the big environmental picture, the competition, the changing basis upon which we work, the challenges posed by funding changes and so on.
I am fed up with builders, sick of DIY and the ways in which my house has sucked up the resources I don’t have be they mental, physical or financial. And I am totally bored with being in this strange state where I’m not really broke, but I have a very large mortgage, some credit card owings and an overdraft. That which does not kill me isn’t making me strong right now, it’s making me very tired and depressed.
Which makes for a decidedly cheery blog!
One of the things I have noticed, tho’, is that when I say no and stick by it (especially at work) people get rather agitated and then often see my point of view (I’m always nice when I do this…) and then resolve whatever it was that led to the ‘no’. Interestingly, I am one of the few people I know who does this and I think this probably means that I have a ‘reputation’ – which is fair enuf as far as I am concerned. If I was a bloke saying this, I’d be heralded as a great and glorious leader, being female, saying ‘no’ makes me scary and troublesome. Maybe we should eschew the ‘hard’ road for once, refuse the unreasonable, the stupid (or troublesome or plain inconvenient). I don’t want my life and its learnings to be a summation of hard knocks, difficulties and failures I trenchantly (and allegedly) learn from.
Let’s hear it for learning from pleasure, sensuality, mystery and beauty.
‘Better to have lost in love than never to have loved at all’
‘That which does not kill me makes me strong’
‘You learn from your mistakes’
And I have said them too, although today I am looking at myself (metaphorically) and these old saws and shaking my head in disbelief for being had. This is a temporary state of affairs. I am someone who has been strongly influenced by Freudian theories and by what’s often termed ‘The British School’ of psychoanalysis which would accept the importance of disappointment in terms of the structuring of the psyche – and I am in agreement.
But just not today. I’ll be back to my old self tomorrow or even later on this evening, but right now a pox on all this bollocks. I am sick and tired of the struggle life is. I am bored rigid with my job and cannot cope with the silliness of it and the small-mindedness of many of the people I work with. People who think that a strategic plan is a list of things to do over a certain period but who never open their eyes to look at the big environmental picture, the competition, the changing basis upon which we work, the challenges posed by funding changes and so on.
I am fed up with builders, sick of DIY and the ways in which my house has sucked up the resources I don’t have be they mental, physical or financial. And I am totally bored with being in this strange state where I’m not really broke, but I have a very large mortgage, some credit card owings and an overdraft. That which does not kill me isn’t making me strong right now, it’s making me very tired and depressed.
Which makes for a decidedly cheery blog!
One of the things I have noticed, tho’, is that when I say no and stick by it (especially at work) people get rather agitated and then often see my point of view (I’m always nice when I do this…) and then resolve whatever it was that led to the ‘no’. Interestingly, I am one of the few people I know who does this and I think this probably means that I have a ‘reputation’ – which is fair enuf as far as I am concerned. If I was a bloke saying this, I’d be heralded as a great and glorious leader, being female, saying ‘no’ makes me scary and troublesome. Maybe we should eschew the ‘hard’ road for once, refuse the unreasonable, the stupid (or troublesome or plain inconvenient). I don’t want my life and its learnings to be a summation of hard knocks, difficulties and failures I trenchantly (and allegedly) learn from.
Let’s hear it for learning from pleasure, sensuality, mystery and beauty.
Sunday 11 February 2007
Shane
As I type, it looks as though England might yet win another sporting contest. This time, it is in a one-day international cricket series against the Australians. The Aussies have dominated cricket in all its various forms for a seriously long time and there are very good reasons as to why this is so. One of them lies in their excellent cricketing infrastructure which means that they are able to chuck out sensational players with monotonous regularity. But only a few ever reach the heights of Shane. The quixotic, mercurial and inspirational Shane Warne. Pain in the ass, bad boy Shane. Articulate, passionate and probably the best bowler the world has ever seen. A flawed individual, he’s instantly recognisable – spawning a generation of spin bowlers with blond highlights – and it’s that flawed humanity that makes him so appealing. You can’t help but bond with a guy who’s struggled with his weight and got banned from the game because he took a diuretic women take to deal with pre-menstrual bloat (on the advice of his mother). Yup, he’s not exactly faithful – in fact you could probably say he’s a skirt chaser – but I am personally long since thinking that this is a crime. I don’t go out with men like that, but equally I’m not hung up on sexual fidelity either.
So here’s to you Shane, you glorious creature you: one team, one dream, nothing is impossible.
So here’s to you Shane, you glorious creature you: one team, one dream, nothing is impossible.
Zero intolerance
London fashion week begins tomorrow and I, for one, am waiting with less than baited breath. Whilst I really enjoy looking at lovely clothes, bags and shoes, it isn’t one of my great obsessions (no, honestly). I don’t buy fashion mags and I don’t make any great effort to keep up with trends. In fact, I gave up reading women’s magazines many years ago because they did very little for my self-esteem. Now, we are talking decades ago here when I was in my mid twenties. Since that time it seems to me that the tenor of these offerings has got worse – especially given the advent of the gossip glossies. Whilst I don’t buy them and when I flick through them in the doctor’s surgery or at a friend’s I often end up feeling decidedly seedy; that I have engaged in an act of voyeurism concerning people I don’t even know.
An additional outcome of these nasty mags is an increase in female bitching about other women and the way they look. Why do we do this to each other? Why the obsession with Victoria Beckham, an individual it seems to me, more need of sympathy and support than the endless bitching and sycophancy about her figure, her marriage, her clothes and her career. What does this dreadful fare do to its large teenage readership? Please don’t tell me that these are sophisticated young women who are much more in a position to make sensible evaluations about what they read, because the evidence suggests that this is not the case. And I am referring here to the worrying rise in eating disorders. A horrible confluence of forces exists here whereby everyone blames everyone else for the advent of the size zero model, but in fact the answer is actually very simple. We should stop buying fashion mags or any other magazine that uses skinny models to sell its produces or is used by advertisers. These magazines have it within their power to say to designers that they won’t accept the samples sent to them if they are for size zero’s and that the models they will use are a size 10 (minimum) with a tendency towards ‘plus sizes’ (size 12 upwards) and the sizes that reflect the actual figures of the female population.
Many women won’t like this because we have become so brain-washed by the skinny ideal. But if you go back 50 years, models to my mind looked so much more gorgeous and were slightly shorter and a good 36, 24, 36 which is a little more like it. Mind you, I’ve got a 26 waist, so how you get down to a 24 is anyone’s guess! What I feel is that the gains of feminism are being lost and have been eroded since the early to mid 1990s. I’d like to see more public sisterhood and a healthy relationship to our bodies and their use as signifiers. I’d like us to appreciate good women more and bitch about the ‘bimbos’ less. Just ignore them, they’ll eventually go away.
An additional outcome of these nasty mags is an increase in female bitching about other women and the way they look. Why do we do this to each other? Why the obsession with Victoria Beckham, an individual it seems to me, more need of sympathy and support than the endless bitching and sycophancy about her figure, her marriage, her clothes and her career. What does this dreadful fare do to its large teenage readership? Please don’t tell me that these are sophisticated young women who are much more in a position to make sensible evaluations about what they read, because the evidence suggests that this is not the case. And I am referring here to the worrying rise in eating disorders. A horrible confluence of forces exists here whereby everyone blames everyone else for the advent of the size zero model, but in fact the answer is actually very simple. We should stop buying fashion mags or any other magazine that uses skinny models to sell its produces or is used by advertisers. These magazines have it within their power to say to designers that they won’t accept the samples sent to them if they are for size zero’s and that the models they will use are a size 10 (minimum) with a tendency towards ‘plus sizes’ (size 12 upwards) and the sizes that reflect the actual figures of the female population.
Many women won’t like this because we have become so brain-washed by the skinny ideal. But if you go back 50 years, models to my mind looked so much more gorgeous and were slightly shorter and a good 36, 24, 36 which is a little more like it. Mind you, I’ve got a 26 waist, so how you get down to a 24 is anyone’s guess! What I feel is that the gains of feminism are being lost and have been eroded since the early to mid 1990s. I’d like to see more public sisterhood and a healthy relationship to our bodies and their use as signifiers. I’d like us to appreciate good women more and bitch about the ‘bimbos’ less. Just ignore them, they’ll eventually go away.
Sunday 4 February 2007
29 into 12 don't go...
As Sleepy noted in her most excellent blog, much mirth was had by us about an American paedophile who managed to pass himself off to school authorities and other paedophiles as being 12 years old...when he was in fact 29. Few things make me laugh out loud on the TV - usually it's Cristiano Ronaldo claiming a dive, that's always good for a giggle - but this was a classic.
The Daily Mail
Sleepy kindly sent me an article from the Daily Mail (not usually a paper I subscribe to) which set me thinking. For those who would not have read it, it was an interesting piece focusing on the life of a woman whose plight was highlighted in Enoch Powell’s infamous ‘rivers of blood’ speech. In it he spoke of a constituent in Wolverhampton whose neighbourhood was being taken over by West Indian and Asian families to the extent that in her road, only she and another family were left as ‘indigenous’ members of the community. Powell spoke of the victimisation she suffered: excrement through her letterbox, claims of racism because she refused to let out rooms to non-whites and continual harassment from children.
Actually, the truth was somewhat different to the claims made by Powell. He kept her identity secret in his speech, and the Mail only ran the story because the lady in question had recently died. Given the scenario outlined, you would expect to find that the woman had moved from her street – in fact she stayed in the same house until she died. Amongst the flowers at her funeral were several bouquets from local West Indian families, suggesting that at least some connection existed between her and her neighbours. The claims of excrement being placed through her letter box were inaccurate – the truth being that this happened to her next door neighbours who were involved in a local feud (not racially motivated) which escalated alarmingly with a dead dog carcass being thrown through their window. A fact that was also featured incorrectly in Powell’s tirade.
One thing that seems to me to be good about serious journalists is that they would have not just trusted Powell’s account but would have taken some time to find the woman concerned – just as the Mail’s correspondent seemed to have done. There is something to be said for doing your research and not relying on assertion. Given Powell’s allegedly superior intelligence and intellect, you might expect that sources would have been checked before such a story was promulgated in a key note speech – one he knew would cause controversy. But, hey, don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story or justification for action by the state – ask Tony and George.
Another thought of mine was how evocative the piece was. I can vaguely remember the very racist nature of British society when I was growing up in the 60s and 70s where it was not uncommon to find notices in shop windows advertising accommodation – with the caveat of ‘no blacks or Irish’. Ah yes, the Irish! One of the things that give me hope is that within my lifetime, we seem to have rid ourselves of anti-Irish racism (I say ‘seem’ deliberately – it might not be the case, but certainly there are very few manifestations of it in the ways that there used to be). To give you a flavour of how deeply rooted that form of racism was, my dad’s family were Irish in origin and it ain’t too long ago that we were hanging out in Cork. But even he had no time for the country he came from and would use plenty of opportunities to denigrate them – to such an extent that my mother pointed out (quite bravely) that his vitriol seemed misplaced.
I would like to be an optimist today and hope that if we can come this far that there is hope for the future. It seems to me, from working in an institution which is genuinely a league of nations, that we are becoming simultaneously less and more tolerant of diversity. The classes I teach have a genuinely diverse mix of ethnicities and races – let alone creeds. The staff mix, whilst still predominately white, is changing quite profoundly with a lot of new hires being Chinese, Asian and Indian. We have our courses running all over the world and partner with great people who do a good job. Yes, I get worried about the hold extremist views are exerting over young people, but I think that this can be overcome through dialogue and a change in certain foreign policies (i.e. the Middle East). As I type, I am watching Spurs play Man U. the teams have players from all over the world, a manager who’s a Scot and another who’s Dutch. Both are highly respected within the football world. Clubs now do all they can to ensure that those players from overseas find their feet. OK, there is a shrewd business rationale behind this as well as a welfare one, but I’ll take it. Years ago, the black players on the pitch would have been greeted by monkey noises from opposing fans. Today, such demonstrations would see the supporters ejected and their season tickets confiscated. It’s not perfect and there is a long way to go, but the Daily Mail article prompted me to think that we’ve come a hell of a long way.
Actually, the truth was somewhat different to the claims made by Powell. He kept her identity secret in his speech, and the Mail only ran the story because the lady in question had recently died. Given the scenario outlined, you would expect to find that the woman had moved from her street – in fact she stayed in the same house until she died. Amongst the flowers at her funeral were several bouquets from local West Indian families, suggesting that at least some connection existed between her and her neighbours. The claims of excrement being placed through her letter box were inaccurate – the truth being that this happened to her next door neighbours who were involved in a local feud (not racially motivated) which escalated alarmingly with a dead dog carcass being thrown through their window. A fact that was also featured incorrectly in Powell’s tirade.
One thing that seems to me to be good about serious journalists is that they would have not just trusted Powell’s account but would have taken some time to find the woman concerned – just as the Mail’s correspondent seemed to have done. There is something to be said for doing your research and not relying on assertion. Given Powell’s allegedly superior intelligence and intellect, you might expect that sources would have been checked before such a story was promulgated in a key note speech – one he knew would cause controversy. But, hey, don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story or justification for action by the state – ask Tony and George.
Another thought of mine was how evocative the piece was. I can vaguely remember the very racist nature of British society when I was growing up in the 60s and 70s where it was not uncommon to find notices in shop windows advertising accommodation – with the caveat of ‘no blacks or Irish’. Ah yes, the Irish! One of the things that give me hope is that within my lifetime, we seem to have rid ourselves of anti-Irish racism (I say ‘seem’ deliberately – it might not be the case, but certainly there are very few manifestations of it in the ways that there used to be). To give you a flavour of how deeply rooted that form of racism was, my dad’s family were Irish in origin and it ain’t too long ago that we were hanging out in Cork. But even he had no time for the country he came from and would use plenty of opportunities to denigrate them – to such an extent that my mother pointed out (quite bravely) that his vitriol seemed misplaced.
I would like to be an optimist today and hope that if we can come this far that there is hope for the future. It seems to me, from working in an institution which is genuinely a league of nations, that we are becoming simultaneously less and more tolerant of diversity. The classes I teach have a genuinely diverse mix of ethnicities and races – let alone creeds. The staff mix, whilst still predominately white, is changing quite profoundly with a lot of new hires being Chinese, Asian and Indian. We have our courses running all over the world and partner with great people who do a good job. Yes, I get worried about the hold extremist views are exerting over young people, but I think that this can be overcome through dialogue and a change in certain foreign policies (i.e. the Middle East). As I type, I am watching Spurs play Man U. the teams have players from all over the world, a manager who’s a Scot and another who’s Dutch. Both are highly respected within the football world. Clubs now do all they can to ensure that those players from overseas find their feet. OK, there is a shrewd business rationale behind this as well as a welfare one, but I’ll take it. Years ago, the black players on the pitch would have been greeted by monkey noises from opposing fans. Today, such demonstrations would see the supporters ejected and their season tickets confiscated. It’s not perfect and there is a long way to go, but the Daily Mail article prompted me to think that we’ve come a hell of a long way.
Wednesday 24 January 2007
Singers, stomach and a case of the piano
Now in Singapore where the temperatures are in the low 80s and all is green, lush and gorgeous. The hotel is jaw droppingly astounding and my room is all minimalism and comfort – a combination that tends not to go together too well in my experience.
All would be perfection if it were not for my rebellious guts and the corresponding lack of sleep. My colleague Ray is also having difficulties sleeping and we are like a middle aged version of ‘Lost in Translation’ but without the relationship frisson.
As I type I can hear the chanteuse in the hotel bar. It seems to me to be de rigeur to have such entertainment in hotels here and she was preceded by a piano player who played the usual repertoire…ending up with a lovely rendition of the theme tune from the film ‘The Piano’. This is one piece of music that has such profound attachments that whenever I hear it, wherever I am, it reduces me to tears. Although there is much about the film that is emotionally dark – in fact it mirrors something in the New Zealand psyche I think (the film was set and shot there and has a kiwi director) – the overall message for me is actually a very hopeful one and concerns the importance of being true to your heart, to your sense of self (whatever that might be as it isn’t always so clear as to what that consists of) even if it risks social disapproval or disavowal.
All would be perfection if it were not for my rebellious guts and the corresponding lack of sleep. My colleague Ray is also having difficulties sleeping and we are like a middle aged version of ‘Lost in Translation’ but without the relationship frisson.
As I type I can hear the chanteuse in the hotel bar. It seems to me to be de rigeur to have such entertainment in hotels here and she was preceded by a piano player who played the usual repertoire…ending up with a lovely rendition of the theme tune from the film ‘The Piano’. This is one piece of music that has such profound attachments that whenever I hear it, wherever I am, it reduces me to tears. Although there is much about the film that is emotionally dark – in fact it mirrors something in the New Zealand psyche I think (the film was set and shot there and has a kiwi director) – the overall message for me is actually a very hopeful one and concerns the importance of being true to your heart, to your sense of self (whatever that might be as it isn’t always so clear as to what that consists of) even if it risks social disapproval or disavowal.
Tuesday 23 January 2007
Putting your back into it
One of the things I DO like about HK is the ability to shop until obscenely late at night. Whilst this makes me feel decidedly guilty when I consider the hours people must be working, it sure as hell makes for a great post-work experience and a genuine feeling of being alive and part of something because everyone’s out on the streets. Now, if this was the UK, circa 10.30 we would have dickhead pikeys throwing up and lurid jocks on the pavements with their cans of stella shouting their (dubious) acquaintance with you. Not here. I’m not saying that people might not be getting loaded, but it doesn’t tend to detract from a pretty groovy ambience at street level.
Whilst I managed to avoid the designer shops (which were shut for some awful reason) I bought a copy of Tina Turner’s greatest hits in HMV. Well…it was sale price and someone’s got to keep the old love in her Alaia, don’t they? Back at the ranch, said purchase was robustly celebrated by TT dancing in my hotel room which ended up with me doing something subtly shite to my back. That and the whammy from jet lag finally managing to kick me in the bollocks, led to a shite night and thankfulness for a really cushy day. 30 minutes work cannot be bad and we have a day off tomorrow! I’m here for ‘staff development’ purposes but I seem to be doing precious little of the activity as far as I can tell – in fact the only person being ‘developed’ seems to be me and my dancing capabilities!
We are off to one of my favourite restaurants tonight – located at the top of HK island. It possesses great food and a lovely location and whilst one of the staff members on the trip drives me somewhat demented, I try to remember that she does, in fact, have a good heart.
Singers tomorrow and more raj-queenery on the cards in Raffles. I shall come home consumed with guilt (and gifts for Sleepy and wife).
Whilst I managed to avoid the designer shops (which were shut for some awful reason) I bought a copy of Tina Turner’s greatest hits in HMV. Well…it was sale price and someone’s got to keep the old love in her Alaia, don’t they? Back at the ranch, said purchase was robustly celebrated by TT dancing in my hotel room which ended up with me doing something subtly shite to my back. That and the whammy from jet lag finally managing to kick me in the bollocks, led to a shite night and thankfulness for a really cushy day. 30 minutes work cannot be bad and we have a day off tomorrow! I’m here for ‘staff development’ purposes but I seem to be doing precious little of the activity as far as I can tell – in fact the only person being ‘developed’ seems to be me and my dancing capabilities!
We are off to one of my favourite restaurants tonight – located at the top of HK island. It possesses great food and a lovely location and whilst one of the staff members on the trip drives me somewhat demented, I try to remember that she does, in fact, have a good heart.
Singers tomorrow and more raj-queenery on the cards in Raffles. I shall come home consumed with guilt (and gifts for Sleepy and wife).
Sunday 21 January 2007
Start me up...
At present I am in Hong Kong. Although I have not sampled a huge variety of the world’s greatest cities, I’ve enjoyed the delights of many and I think I can safely say that few (if any) are as mad as HK. A gorgeous neon pearl by night, it is a whore by day – dirty, overcrowded and overwhelmingly focused on the generation of capital. And it just doesn’t care.
I might be wrong but…I’ve only seen fur in the windows of Dior here. And whilst I can be an apologist for couture (and only couture, the rest of the fashion industry is wank as far as I can see…) I will never tolerate fur. How some bitch can think that she looks better in the skin of another gorgeous animal is beyond belief. Honey, you just ain’t all that…
And I won’t go into details as to how the animals are killed because of the need to maintain the integrity of the pelt…
Personally, I think that it is perfectly acceptable to hiss, spit and in any way abuse men and women who wear fur – and I do. Society had done a reasonable job of making wearing fur pretty unacceptable and for some reason we seem to have backtracked on this. Personally, I blame rappers and bimbo film stars like JLO, Poof Diddy and their ilk. Let’s give them a taste of the treatment that their demand for fur metes out to the animals whose fur they wear…that should do the trick.
And why am I listening to the Rolling Stones? Jesus I must be jet lagged…
I might be wrong but…I’ve only seen fur in the windows of Dior here. And whilst I can be an apologist for couture (and only couture, the rest of the fashion industry is wank as far as I can see…) I will never tolerate fur. How some bitch can think that she looks better in the skin of another gorgeous animal is beyond belief. Honey, you just ain’t all that…
And I won’t go into details as to how the animals are killed because of the need to maintain the integrity of the pelt…
Personally, I think that it is perfectly acceptable to hiss, spit and in any way abuse men and women who wear fur – and I do. Society had done a reasonable job of making wearing fur pretty unacceptable and for some reason we seem to have backtracked on this. Personally, I blame rappers and bimbo film stars like JLO, Poof Diddy and their ilk. Let’s give them a taste of the treatment that their demand for fur metes out to the animals whose fur they wear…that should do the trick.
And why am I listening to the Rolling Stones? Jesus I must be jet lagged…
Friday 19 January 2007
Honking and singing...
Well, I’m off to Honkers and Singers tomorrow – for work, I hasten to add. And whilst I am glad to be going, today has been a stress (with the exception of Sleepy’s job application form which came as a decidedly funny relief). Firstly there was the power breakfast with Steve to discuss my book chapter and book things generally. All I can say is that after the savaging, he at least had the decency to provide me with an alternative structure. And what’s worse, he was spot on…
Then I had to take HRH cat to the vet. Capture went well, but yowling of intense proportions followed me all the way to the blessed place, continued during the wait and during the consultation. She has only just deigned to start talking to me again and treating me like her friend instead of a beast who wants to rip off her head and shit down her throat.
And what bothers me most is the seeming esteem that Steve holds the increasingly awful Sam in. Sam is a ‘colleague’: ambitious, self-aggrandising, clever, articulate, pushy and in a hurry. She is undoubtedly one of the reasons why I would like to get out of the University and I’m increasingly getting the feeling that it isn’t just me who’s getting pissed off with her. My honey has told me that I’ve got to develop the art of self-promotion. It’s not something I am good at and it’s an aspect of the world of work I find hilarious in others but don’t do myself. Who’d believe me if I suddenly developed the art of spinning meself given that I am the originator of honest, up-front Brit?
I’m depressed, bitter and thinking that if it wasn’t for the fact that HK is soooo mad and Singers so sterile, I’d make the big leap out. Thank God for Marc Bolan.
Bah.
Then I had to take HRH cat to the vet. Capture went well, but yowling of intense proportions followed me all the way to the blessed place, continued during the wait and during the consultation. She has only just deigned to start talking to me again and treating me like her friend instead of a beast who wants to rip off her head and shit down her throat.
And what bothers me most is the seeming esteem that Steve holds the increasingly awful Sam in. Sam is a ‘colleague’: ambitious, self-aggrandising, clever, articulate, pushy and in a hurry. She is undoubtedly one of the reasons why I would like to get out of the University and I’m increasingly getting the feeling that it isn’t just me who’s getting pissed off with her. My honey has told me that I’ve got to develop the art of self-promotion. It’s not something I am good at and it’s an aspect of the world of work I find hilarious in others but don’t do myself. Who’d believe me if I suddenly developed the art of spinning meself given that I am the originator of honest, up-front Brit?
I’m depressed, bitter and thinking that if it wasn’t for the fact that HK is soooo mad and Singers so sterile, I’d make the big leap out. Thank God for Marc Bolan.
Bah.
Saturday 13 January 2007
Food for thought?
One of the things I find with regard to the yule festivities is that you tend to catch up with family and friends – it’s about the only thing I like about that time of year. This year I had the xmas missive from one of my cousins telling me (and sundry others) that his marriage had ended after 25 years. This was not a great shock – I thought that it was a possibility but sometimes people decide that they’ll make a go of it and that 25 years actually counts for something…
In order to offer some vestige of support, I took Robbo out for a wee meal yesterday. Locanda Locatelli. So I was clearly making an effort here and in all fairness, Rob has been good to me for many years, supporting me when I snotted my proverbial nose.
But I left a few hours later with a sense of depression and concern. Part of the reason why Rob’s marriage has broken up is due to the fact that he found the love of his life, somewhat belatedly in his late 50s. The woman in question just happens to me his wife’s best friend. Now, said woman is not prepared to leave husband or 16 year old daughter but I think that she reciprocates many of my cousin’s tender feelings. She has clearly not told him to piss off, but there is part of me that feels that this would be the honourable thing to do. This whole business has been dragging on for about 3 years now and it has something of an obsessive feel to it (at least from Rob’s point of view).
I am in no position to make moral judgements – I have a honey who is married and has been so for over 30 years and has two adult children. I contributed very substantially to the demise of my ex-husband’s marriage – something I feel deeply appalled by. So who am I to say ‘walk away’ build your life? Maybe I am re-living my past and projecting what I should have done in 1993 onto my cousin. I should have walked away and treated my twat of a husband as fling; all very nice at the time, but go home to your wife mate. I’m not against people having affairs but I am a great believer in discretion and care wherever possible – especially where there is absolutely no intention by one or both parties to disrupt their domestic situation. But I do understand the role passion and love play and that it is ok for me to pontificate safe in my rather nice old chair but hey, I ain’t smitten like a kitten.
No advice was offered other than to take care and none was sought. We parted amicably and I got to see Giorgio Locatelli in the flesh and eat his wonderful food.
So why the moral indigestion?
In order to offer some vestige of support, I took Robbo out for a wee meal yesterday. Locanda Locatelli. So I was clearly making an effort here and in all fairness, Rob has been good to me for many years, supporting me when I snotted my proverbial nose.
But I left a few hours later with a sense of depression and concern. Part of the reason why Rob’s marriage has broken up is due to the fact that he found the love of his life, somewhat belatedly in his late 50s. The woman in question just happens to me his wife’s best friend. Now, said woman is not prepared to leave husband or 16 year old daughter but I think that she reciprocates many of my cousin’s tender feelings. She has clearly not told him to piss off, but there is part of me that feels that this would be the honourable thing to do. This whole business has been dragging on for about 3 years now and it has something of an obsessive feel to it (at least from Rob’s point of view).
I am in no position to make moral judgements – I have a honey who is married and has been so for over 30 years and has two adult children. I contributed very substantially to the demise of my ex-husband’s marriage – something I feel deeply appalled by. So who am I to say ‘walk away’ build your life? Maybe I am re-living my past and projecting what I should have done in 1993 onto my cousin. I should have walked away and treated my twat of a husband as fling; all very nice at the time, but go home to your wife mate. I’m not against people having affairs but I am a great believer in discretion and care wherever possible – especially where there is absolutely no intention by one or both parties to disrupt their domestic situation. But I do understand the role passion and love play and that it is ok for me to pontificate safe in my rather nice old chair but hey, I ain’t smitten like a kitten.
No advice was offered other than to take care and none was sought. We parted amicably and I got to see Giorgio Locatelli in the flesh and eat his wonderful food.
So why the moral indigestion?
Friday 5 January 2007
The emporium
I have a dear friend without whom life would be decidedly less vibrant, real and funny. She and her lovely partner look after my cats when I go away and they have stuck with me through all life’s vicissitudes over the past decade. That is some feat. Whilst I know that there are others with whom she shares her spectacular originality and warm heart, I have a concern that she will desiccate without the regularity of human contact forced on many of us via the daily Jay Oh Bee.
With this concern and also this desire for others in the world to share my friend’s uniqueness, I am proposing that a wealthy backer invests in an emporium – a place which reflects her unique assortment of skills and interests. The emporium would sell books – with a comfy space for people to read (and maybe buy, or maybe just sit and read, have a coffee, discuss the book…). It would also sell CDs, DVDs and have a small, beautifully formed deli. One could access the Internet, have some light meals and maybe, in the summer, sit outside in a warm, secluded garden and buy herbs.
The space needs to be cosy, so not too much space. It needs to be intimate and not necessarily run along strict business lines. Second hand stuff would be available as well as new stock (which she would choose as she has spot on taste) and the aim of it would be to bring people together – especially those whose lives can tend towards being atomised, virtual and sometimes lacking in good quality human contact. Cos let’s face it, not all workplaces are terribly sociable or friendly – take mine (or rather, don’t). Also, there are too few places like this in the world. I came across a few like this when I visited and worked in Grand Cayman – maybe there is something about the nature of the Caribbean that facilitates this, I don’t know…
I am hoping that this will not offend my friend. I guess it is also a means of indicating how I see her and her partner in the world. Very, very few people would ever have the human warmth and personal idiosyncrasies to carry this off. With some help, she could. In her sleep.
With this concern and also this desire for others in the world to share my friend’s uniqueness, I am proposing that a wealthy backer invests in an emporium – a place which reflects her unique assortment of skills and interests. The emporium would sell books – with a comfy space for people to read (and maybe buy, or maybe just sit and read, have a coffee, discuss the book…). It would also sell CDs, DVDs and have a small, beautifully formed deli. One could access the Internet, have some light meals and maybe, in the summer, sit outside in a warm, secluded garden and buy herbs.
The space needs to be cosy, so not too much space. It needs to be intimate and not necessarily run along strict business lines. Second hand stuff would be available as well as new stock (which she would choose as she has spot on taste) and the aim of it would be to bring people together – especially those whose lives can tend towards being atomised, virtual and sometimes lacking in good quality human contact. Cos let’s face it, not all workplaces are terribly sociable or friendly – take mine (or rather, don’t). Also, there are too few places like this in the world. I came across a few like this when I visited and worked in Grand Cayman – maybe there is something about the nature of the Caribbean that facilitates this, I don’t know…
I am hoping that this will not offend my friend. I guess it is also a means of indicating how I see her and her partner in the world. Very, very few people would ever have the human warmth and personal idiosyncrasies to carry this off. With some help, she could. In her sleep.
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