Back To School

I have always liked this time of year immensely, even when it did mean going back to school.

Slight sense of panic that we’re suddenly two thirds through the year, and of course the immune system becomes far more vulnerable once the weather turns. But there’s a tremendous sort of freshness that accompanies our descent into winter (or the ascendancy of darkness, if you prefer). I think this is a far better time for new beginnings than in January when everything is very cold, due to get colder and so much of life is buried deep under ground.

Autumn is by far the most aesthetically pleasing time of year, at least in the British Isles; the most beautiful lights, the most interesting weather (frosts, gales, storms and shooting stars) and by far the best colours. The sunset crosses our living room windows from right to left. Similarly, we get by far the best smells; bonfires and that earthy, vaguely fishy smell following a good storm in Whitby. Even a little dampness and decay are by no means unpleasant when inhaled in the open air - and cool fresh air at that.

Now I'm beginning to sound a bit like Charles Dawson or Sally, who write far more eloquently about the changing seasons, spending far more time on the other side of the bricks and glass.

The pagans celebrate Samhain on 1st November of course, which marks the more realistic beginning of the new cycle. I like this concept, although it seems quite late in the day to me. It is a touch counter-intuitive on one level, but the things we normally associate with freshness and newness in nature are generally the realisation of processes that have already been happening for some time.

Anyway, we’re hoping to head back up North tomorrow and once home I’m going to be extra super disciplined, rest plenty, exercise in a more sustainable fashion, lose weight, become a better person, etc., etc.. Something like that, anyway, you get the picture. It’s only nine or ten weeks until we’re back in Suffolk again to celebrate our seventh anniversary, which we are, um, celebrating.

Apart from the joys of Alex, the other notable thing about our flying visit to the New Forest was that on the way back up round the M25, we saw a car parked on the hard-shoulder. Next to the car stood a priest, black cassock bellowing in the wind. And he was stood there, upright, facing the car and reading from a heavy-looking leather-bound volume that I can only assume to be the Bible.

“It’s not that odd,” says [...], “I mean, if we broke down we’d phone the RAC. He’s obviously got a different sort of cover and is simply making the appropriate call.”

Feature: Another Nappy Ending

Rock-stars keep getting younger and younger. In this exclusive interview, the Goldfish speaks to Alexander, the lead performer in the upcoming Indie outfit Tinker and the Taylors about life, birth and the universe. Photographs by Daddy.

I meet Alexander in his New Forest residence, which he shares with his eccentric musician parents. The house is a modest bungalow, only given away by the trademark John Cooper Mini on the driveway. Alex’s mother shows me into the nursery, a well-lit room with kitsch, brightly coloured toys piled onto the shelf such as Octotunes and Tiny the Elephant.

Alexander seems much smaller in real life than he does in the publicity photographs; much smaller than you might imagine from his music; a blood-curdling cacophony interspersed with passages of monotonous gurgling, described by one critic as Death Metal meets Light Jazz, that has taken the world by storm. I ask Alex how he would define his unique sound.

“It’s a sort of plaintive wailing,” he says, “although there’s a lot of rage in there to; a lot of frustration. I think I say what so many babies have said or tried to say in the past. We’re hungry, sometimes we have a wet nappy, and sometimes we don’t know where Mummy is. We have all this to contend with and we have no real means of communicating that to other people. Most people forget what that’s like; they learn to speak and become complacent. As I see it, I am here to remind them."

There has been widespread speculation about the deeply political subtext of his work. For example, when listeners hear the track Daddy, my nappy is full, in which Alexander cries 'Aagh, Waagh, Aagh!', few can deny the oblique reference to the erosion of civil liberties under the Blair administration. But Alexander prefers his work to remain equivocal.

"People may take what they like from it," he says, "but as far as I was concerned, my nappy was full and I was a bit uncomfortable. I was merely trying to inform Daddy of the fact."

Until just a week ago, Alexander was living quite comfortably in the womb. This halcyon period came to an end when he was propelled out through the birth canal and into the world. Along with independent existence came instant stardom. I ask him what this experience was like.

“It was pretty bewildering, I can tell you,” he says “but I think it has had a big influence on me as an artist. I mean, I was so tired after – I’m still sleeping almost all the time and it’s been a whole week. But you have to remember that until I came out into the air, my vocal cords just didn’t make a noise. One could say that I had to go through that trauma in order to find some means of self-expression.”

Alex is very relaxed here in his home environment, and burps and passes wind without inhibition. In the other rooms of the house, there are dozens of pale blue cards sent from adoring fans, a clue to the flood of attention this young man has been subject to during his short career so far. Alexander isn’t afraid to speak candidly about the impact of this fame.

“It’s pretty strange to have to listen to people discussing the intimate details of your life – like how often you’ve had a poo and stuff. The female attention also gets a bit much sometimes. Lots of women I meet want to fuss over me, hold me and talk to me in high-pitched voices. Perhaps it’s a novelty for a rock star, but I am firmly a one-woman-man.”

So is there someone special in his life right now? Alex gurgles at the question. “Yes,” he says, “my Mummy.”

Indeed, despite the ferocity he expresses artistically, Alexander seems to live up to his paradoxical reputation for clean-living. He doesn’t smoke or drink and lives on an exclusive diet of breast milk, which is claimed to be good for a healthy immune system. “I’ve never had a cold,” claims Alex, “Not a single cold in my entire life.”

As for the future, Alexander is ambitious to build on his early success. He hopes to learn to walk and talk out loud.

“I think it will make my message clear,” he says “Right now, my work leaves a lot open to interpretation. If I had a few words, I could perhaps tell them what I want and thus get the things that I want a whole lot easier.

“I also would like to understand a lot more about the world. I’m hoping that pretty soon my eyes will be able to focus on objects for more than a few seconds and I’ll begin to work out, you know, what it’s all about.”

Alexander wouldn’t be the first rock-star to attempt to unravel the meaning of life, but no New Age Guru or fashionable retreat for young Alex.

“I don’t need to travel a long way in order to find myself,” he says, “I just need to work on my co-ordination and wait for my senses to fully develop.” He waves an arm about in a characteristically nonchalant manner. “I think I am roughly over here, somewhere.”

Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world

Everything is going fine here in sunny Suffolk (which is actually sunny some of the time). We’re going to make a flying visit to Hampshire next weekend – a real flyer, and it’s going to be totally knackering, but we will get to meet the baby.

The fascinating thing about Alexander is that he’s not nearly a person yet. Not a person in the sense that other people I care about are. He sleeps much more of the day than I do and doesn’t have a whole lot to say for himself. He doesn't even try to control his bodily functions. And whilst it is possible to teach him lessons now which he could carry for life, there will be no conscious memory of events which take place now. He doesn’t really know what’s going on.

And yet, everybody loves the little chap nearly as much as they are ever going to. The love will change, as we get to know him, as we have reasons to admire or empathise with him, as he becomes more recognisable as an individual. However, none of us have any great investment in what he is like and what he might achieve – besides hoping that he’ll be happy and successful at the things he tries for. And it just goes to illustrate that essential point; that love has absolutely nothing to do with abilities and accomplishments. I hope Alex learns this sooner than I did.

Here is an absolutely gorgeous picture of Alexander and my Dad taken by his Dad - uh, Adrian, that is. Watch this space for non-baby-related posts real soon I promise.

A star is born!

Tinker has arrived!!! His name is Alexander James Taylor. He weighed eight pounds and a penny, was born underwater at home at 10:33am this morning. At last.

They were quite keen to induce Rosie today, but labour started yesterday and got going with a vengeance in the early hours of this morning. She took warm baths, drank raspberry leaf and used the TENS machine. Then she sat in the birthing-pool and inhaled vast quantities of gas and air. As a result, it sounds like it really wasn’t too bad as these things go and the midwife stated that she ought to write a book about this birth on account of how very smoothly, and according to Rosie’s meticulous plans, it all went.

Alexander’s first word as he came up through the water was blobolob -olob - only a second old and already a fan of his favourite auntie’s blog. As you can see he has very deep blue eyes – although some babies do have blue eyes which change colour within a few days, so we’ll have to see. And although it is rather early to tell, it does look as if this child is, in fact, ginger.

Initially his entire face was a little blue as his umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, but this was dealt with so quickly that Rosie and Adrian only fully registered this after they read the notes later on. Rosie’s has had very little trouble feeding him. Adrian was heroic throughout, managing to wash the car whilst caring for R –pouring the cooling water from the birth pool out of their front window onto the Mini. Adrian is simply beaming and has done an absolutely excellent job of looking after my sister and nephew.

This is Granny Kelly’s first great grandchild, so she was ecstatic. She is generally in great shape and is off on a hot air balloon ride tomorrow.

Mum had a big cry and then started leaping about, dancing and singing a song which was a combination of various of James Brown’s hits. Dad was kind of quiet about it but I think he is also very happy.

Alexander shares his birthday with Katharine McCormick, Joseph Hegel and Lady Antonia Fraser. He is born on the 110th anniversary of the shortest war in history; the Anglo-Zanzibar War that raged from 9:02am to 9:40am on this day in 1896. So there you go.

Another girl, another planet

I think I’m going to have to leave my series about liberty and stuff for a while as we’re heading down south on Wednesday and I have a lot to do before then. I’m going to take my laptop with me as we may be a good couple of weeks, depending on when Tinker is born (click here to see a picture of my enormous sister). But if I do any blogging while away (oh come on, if?) it will only be general nonsense - as opposed to vaguely-thought-out nonsense.

Last week, I was looking for cards to give to R & A for when Tinker arrives. I have to buy cards on-line and in advance because I can’t pop out to the post office to choose an appropriate card and [...]’s selection is usually, well, anyway, I have to buy cards on-line and in advance. I buy some from my friend Vic, who takes pretty photos and I buy others from Charity Cards, who are a very good shop about which I have no complaints whatsoever (in fact I recommend them).

However, naturally they have a range of New Baby cards which are fairly typical. Most of them are either baby pink or baby blue, celebrating the joys of unambiguous gender and thus initiating the process of gender conditioning. By far the worst example was this one, which reads on the front;

A baby girl
Absolutely wonderful!
And you know exactly what lies ahead…

- her first Barbie at three
- clothes conscious at four
- borrowing make-up at five
- obsessed with her hair at eight
- practicing [sic] high-heels at ten
- eyeing up the boys at twelve
- first Cosmo at thirteen

and then the moods, the spots, the piercings...

The first time I read Casino instead of Cosmo, which was confusing. This sort of thing is so depressing. At least in the eighteenth century certain accomplishments were expected of a little girl. Imagine a child has just come into the world and on account of the contents of its nappy, it is condemned to be completely preoccupied with its appearance - it is defined by the preoccupation with its appearance, the attribute over which it has the least control and which is least likely to bring it any happiness. Okay, so everyone likes to look good, but it does not maketh the man by any means, or indeed, the woman.

I thought I would write a rant about this, but on reflection, it needs very little analysis. Instead; a little nostalgia...

I had a Barbie doll. I also had two Ken dolls and an Action Man. My main childhood solo occupation was playing with Lego, but when I played with my dolls, most of my games involved the Action Man (a sinister looking thing with eyes that moved from side to side via a lever in the back of its head) kidnapping Barbie. The Ken dolls – one blond, one brunet and both mutually enamoured with Barbie – would then set about her rescue. Their characters were based somewhat upon Ilya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo and most of my play consisted of their adventures and conversations. Dad helped me make them a speedboat (I wanted to make a car, but Dad steered me towards this less complex project). It was painted in blue Hammerite and had seats made out of vinyl flooring that somehow managed to look really cool. The dolls started off with really camp clothes – a pink tuxedo, a garland and pair of loud Bermuda shorts and of course Action Man’s khakis – so I had to make sensible clothes for them to wear.

I guess I presumed that girls didn’t have adventures, they just got abducted by dodgy-eyed men with fluffy penguin henchman (I seemed to have several soft toy penguins). But on the plus side, they could quite happily have two boyfriends who remained the best of friends. Neither of these ideas played out in experience - apart from the penguins, of course.

I did become conscious of some aspects of clothes early on. I knew that sometimes if I wore trousers I could be mistaken by other adults for a boy and thus get away with far more low-level naughtiness and dangerous behaviour. I can also remember being bothered at one come as you please day at school (day when we didn't need to wear uniform) that I was the only child in class who did not possess a shell-suit, then the height of fashion. With hindsight, I am quite proud of the fact.

My first interest in make-up was the casualty make-up we put on in The Badgers (St. John’s Ambulance Brigade for wee ones). Bruising was my speciality but I could do a nice gaping wound if required. I had a brief flirtation with cosmetic make-up in my late teens and early twenties when I became very conscious about my remarkable texture and colouring, but I am still not sure how to put it on and not look ever so slightly like a clown.

I don't think I have ever been obsessed with my hair.

I only got into high heels when I could no longer walk any significant distance anyway; you can wear three or four inch heels in a wheelchair and it doesn’t make a great deal of difference. Can’t combine them with a short skirt though – it is simply bad form to sit with one’s legs crossed in a wheelchair, as well as being bad for the circulation.

Eyeing up boys at twelve? Twelve year old girls, in my experience, are completely and utterly baffled by boys and their relationship to them. Just a short time ago, everything was fine, but suddenly they've gone all odd; they don't smell too good, they don't look too good, you've got to try not to giggle at the fluctuations in their voices and it's no longer possible to hang out in the uncomplicated way you used to - and will do again when you all get over yourselves in a few years time. The state that twelve year old girls are in themselves means that while boys may be a source of bewildered preoccupation, it's not eyeing up so much as giving anxious sideways glances to.

And I have never bought a copy of Cosmopolitan Magazine.

All this and yet clearly, I turned out all right. I am perfectly normal in every conceivable way.

Window Shopping

Tinker has obviously inherited the family’s sense of punctuality, anyway. The world remains in suspense, but I'm taking a break from the heavy stuff anyhoo to do some shopping.

First off, our friends who run the soap shop in Whitby are now on-line. Honeyz sell handmade soaps, bath-bombs, massage bars, 'soap cakes' (like this one on the left) and so on. It's all suitable for vegetarians, none tested on animals and so on. It all sounds absolutaely delicious with Patchouli and Lime bathbombs and Cinnamon and Orange soap.

Yes, this is an unashamed plug, but as well as orders, they would be very interested in feedback about how it is all looking.

I had been meaning to make a puppet to help me communicate with my niece or nephew when he or she finally emerges into the world. However, since the birth is imminent, I decided I must buy one instead.

I love glove puppets. And my very limited childcare experience suggests that children are captivated by them – just sew two buttons on an old sock and make it speak with a lisp (because, you know, snakes lisp). We’re sorting a webcam out so that I can speak to Tinker through Skype and I figure that, not having the kind of face which is naturally entertaining to small children, I may need a puppet sidekick to keep those conversations going.

The best puppet shop I found on-line, and the one I finally bought from was Puppets By Post. You can get almost any animal you could think of in puppet form. They even have seagull puppets and the bizarre biblical camel (which is wearing sunglasses, as all the camels did in the Bible). They have a troll puppet which comes with a hedgehog finger puppet, so one could recreate the sinister dialogue that might take place between these two. They also have a range of what they describe as signing puppets although I don't know whether that means what it sounds like.

After much deliberation I bought a rather plain but cute bear puppet. It cost £8.50, is supposed to cover your entire lower arm and has a working mouth, which I thought was important. It is sweet, isn't it? But not too silly. It doesn't have a name yet, if anyone has any ideas.

And whilst on the subject of shopping and stuff, when I was really bored and looking at jumpers at Dorothy Perkins, I noticed that some of the jumpers were described as boyfriend jumpers. What the heck is a boyfriend jumper?

Is it supposed to attract a boyfriend? Replace a boyfriend? Resemble a boyfriend? Although they are all quite long jumpers, they do vary rather in shape and colour. I quite like this shape jumper but they have such dull colours. Apparently this autumn's colours will be red, grey and black and white. Well there's a surprise...

Liberté, Égalité, Pornographie

Once again, we are invoking the Law of Sod. My brother-in-law is playing organ for a wedding this afternoon, my sister's midwife has a dinner party booked for this evening and my sister has had some pains, like period pains but sharper that last a minute - although so far only at twelve hour intervals. Could this be early labour? Could it? When is this little imp going to show itself?!

These facts combined with the fact I am writing about a rather adult matter today, Tinker is bound to be born today such that in twelve or thirteen years time (s)he will be reading his or her favourite aunty’s blog, thinking I wonder what Auntie Goldfish was writing about the day I was born…

As I said on Wednesday, the trouble is that most of the battle for equality between men and women, non-disabled and disabled people, straight and queer etc., etc., is to do with positive freedom. Women, for example, are no longer literally enslaved – we have an equal amount of negative freedom under the law. We are slaves to no man but societal attitudes, within ourselves and all around us, prevent us from always being our own masters, so to speak.

Pornography is a very good example of where a real conflict arises between liberal Rabid Feminists* like myself and those folks who have the same egalitarian aims, but believe this struggle should be conducted with some degree of coercion.

I am going to be very specific (thought not explicit) about the subject matter here, because there is absolutely no controversy around the fact that many women and others are terribly exploited, subject to all manner of violence and intimidation within the currently illegal sex industry. We may disagree about how to help them out of those situations, but no feminist is unconcerned about any situation where crimes are being committed against women.

There is, however, a controversy over whether prostitution, including pornography, is wrong in all cases and in order to address a fraction of this enormous topic, I want to simplify the area we are discussing. The British Board of Film Classification gives us these guidelines for films released in the UK under certificate R-18. These prohibit all sorts of activities where consent is ambiguous and greatly restrict the distribution of this material. We shall also presume that this law is rigorously upheld; that nobody participates in the making of this material (or views this material) having made any verbal objection.

Okay, so… as I understand it, there are three main objections that feminists might have to pornography in this context.

The first is that the involvement of any financial transaction presents an obligation which means that consent can not be as easily withdrawn. If participants feel unable to withdraw consent then they are effectively being raped. Thus paying someone to perform sexual acts amounts to rape.

Sage has written a couple of excellent posts (and promises more) which have begun to explore this massive issue.

However, there is no circumstance under law whereby payment is considered such a heavy obligation. If you are in someone's employ and they ask you to commit even a minor offence, then a criminal court will not consider your mere need to be paid extenuating circumstances which detract from your own responsibilities. Threats and a fear of violence are another matter; money is never enough.

Choosing to have sex when you don't want to have sex is a pretty grim prospect but is not the same as being forced (by whatever means) to have sex when you don't want to - one involves a choice, the other doesn't. That's not to say that prostitutes can't be raped; consent can be withdrawn at any time whoever you are and in whatever circumstances. However, it is up to adults to indicate the withdrawal of consent - just as the law obliges adults to refuse if they're employer asks them to do anything about which they have moral reservations.

The second objection is that pornography is such an inherently degrading experience for the participants that the consent cannot be taken seriously in any case. Participants perhaps fail to effectively resist their own degradation because they are fulfilling the role assigned to them by others who consider them as purely sexual objects, and their self-worth is entirely tied up in this role. In other words;

If participants had a genuine choice, they would not choose to do this.

The circularity of this argument is reminiscent of the reasonable man who disapproves of male homosexuality; the reason we know that participants do not have a genuine choice is because they choose to do something that, given a genuine choice, they would not choose to do. Ouch!

There are lots of reasons I can think of why people would have cause to regret participation in pornography. It could also be that participating in pornography is motivated by insecurity and low self-worth, and does turn out to be a big mistake for every single one of the people who do it.

However, such is the nature of all our relationships and behaviours. We simply cannot be protected by the law from making mistakes when we think something is a good idea at the time. Many marriages are entered into for totally the wrong reasons and end horribly, but once again, as adults, we are entitled to the choice. Anything else would be another form of oppression and we would never learn anything about ourselves. We would be kept as children.

A far more powerful (to me at least) argument is to do with the positive freedom of men and women in general. It asserts that If pornography didn’t exist, society would treat men and women in a more equal fashion.

This argument goes like this:

The way that groups are represented in the media has a profound effect on the way they are treated in every day life.

Pornography represents men and women in such a way which is detrimental to sexual equality.

Authorities should attempt to censor the media in order to protect people who may suffer the knock-on effects of unequal treatment.

Therefore, pornography should be censored.

The first premise, I have absolutely no doubt about. We can of course argue over degrees. For example, there used to be a theory that the use of pornography encouraged the viewers to commit rape, but empirical studies suggest otherwise. It is also theory which angers me very greatly because it is only one step away from blaming the victims; if images of naked women can be to blame, then why not scantily-clad women on the street or indeed any woman who isn't covered from head to toe and accompanied by a male relation at all times? However, that’s another subject - even in the absence of such a dramatic effect, there is no doubt that that all media has the potential to influence attitudes and ideas.

On the second premise, I am not expert enough to judge! Obviously, there are going to be examples of pornography which represent the relationships between men and women very badly indeed. However, the thing which categorises the pornography I happen to have seen is that both men and women are presented as creatures entirely preoccupied with sex and for whom sex is a highly enjoyable experience.

Now, men and women have a lot else going on in their lives apart from sex. But most of us do have and enjoy sex. I am not sure how this portrayal could be more harmful than commercials on prime-time television, where for example, women are obsessed with wrinkles, hair colour, their weight and the whiteness of their sheets.

Personally, I would suggest that such representation may be far more dangerous, for four reasons. Firstly, it meets a far wider audience than pornography, an audience including children. Secondly, it portrays women in everyday settings and situations; in the home, in the office, making it far easier to associate these made-up women with the real women of one’s acquaintance. Thirdly, the activity of viewing is far more passive (one is not attempting to manoeuvre a chieftain tank at the same time) and therefore, I speculate, the audience is more vulnerable to subconscious influence.

And of course, pornography is designed as a means to an end. Commercials are designed to influence. Their primary goal is to influence one into spending money, but they play on whatever aspirations, fears and insecurities they think may help them. These inevitably include all the baggage we carry about sex, sexual attractiveness and gender roles.

I’m not suggesting the law should interfere with commercial advertising, I am just suggesting that there may be more dangerous influences than pornography which we simply do not have the power to control outside some totalitarian state.

The third premise… I have written before about free speech more than once; and basically, I cannot find it in myself to argue that footage of one of the most natural acts in the world (and perhaps a few not so natural acts) should be banned. Not when you are talking about highly regulated production and distribution; nobody is subject to this stuff who didn’t choose to be.

I hope that may have made things a little clearer for folks who take the opposing view; I feel this is a rather clumsy and simplified explanation of some very highly complicated - and very important - arguments.

Next time, I shall talk about... well hopefully Rosemary's baby will be born before then and you and I can take a break from the heavy stuff. But at some point soon I shall write about how we put all this back together.


* Rabid Feminism is a new faction of feminism, inadvertantly invented by Lady Bracknell's Editor. So far this movement includes only myself and in the tradition of the factionalism that exists in most equality movements, I intend to keep it that way...