When is a debate not a debate?

Here are some examples of subjects which are up for debate at the moment

• Should we bring back capital punishment for the worst sorts of criminals?
• Should the UK enter the European Single Currency?
• Should the civil union between people of the same gender be called marriage?
• Should Scotland leave the United Kingdom?
• Should it be legal to help a terminally ill person to end their life if they wish it?

Some of these subjects are more pressing than others. It is unlikely that the UK should reintroduce capital punishment, but I think it's going to be a while until people stop talking about the possibility.

Here are some examples of subjects which are not up for debate at the moment:

• Should people be able to own other people as slaves?
• Should we burn people who dabble in witchcraft?
• Should people of different skin colours be treated differently under the law?
• Should parents decide who and when their children should marry? 
• Should we start to rebuild the British Empire by invading impoverished countries?

When I was younger, I'd often encounter an amateur philosopher who would derail a discussion by taking the whole thing back to first principles, as if it were clever to say, "Yes, but are we really here? Might I not be a figment of your imagination?"  Philosophers have to look at these questions, but then they have to move on before they can walk across the room (Is there really a room?) and make a cup of tea (What do you mean by make? What do you mean by tea? Isn't that a mug, anyway?). You have to put faith in the world as you see it in order to operate within it. Similarly, if we had to debate whether slavery is a bad thing every time we discussed workers' rights or modern day racism, we'd never get anywhere. 

This is about three very different things I've read lately, which seem connected by this issue.  The first may be - judging from what happens to other opinion pieces on the BBC News website by good and sensible writers - an example of sensationalist editing rather than the author's intention. Anyway, in Does the sex debate exclude men?, Sarah Dunant writes

[The idea men think differently about sexual ethics] will not necessarily be politically correct. Sex often isn't. It doesn't help that when men do open their mouths on the larger stage, they are firmly shot down. Both George Galloway and our now ex-Justice Secretary Ken Clarke might have been ill advised in their remarks about sexual behaviour and the law, but like it or not, they thought something needed saying, only to be met by a storm of female outrage that effectively stifled all debate.

Clarke got into trouble for blundering with words while participating in a real debate about how the criminal law is applied to rape, how to increase convictions and sentence appropriately. That discussion is ongoing, and hasn't been stifled one jot. But any questions raised by Clarke or Galloway's offensive statements take us back to first principles, a stage or two above "Should men be allowed to do whatever they like to women and their bodies?"  Not everything someone thinks needs saying ,needs saying, and certainly no everything someone says is part of a debate. Even if it is said by a man.

The idea of "female outrage" and variations on that theme (hysteria, pearl-clutching, the feminist thought police) are frequently used to discredit women with an opinion on anything. And thankfully, there has been no shortage of men feeling outraged about things said about rape in recent months (two examples from my modest blog roll and two more I happen to remember - if I actually went looking, I'm sure I'd find loads). If there really was a male/ female divide about the issue of consent, heterosexuality would be a lost cause.

Talking of which, Nick Clegg.  Like Clarke, Clegg has got into trouble for the words he (or his speech-writers) have used while talking about an actual, very current debate, when he (or his speech-writers) referred to those who oppose marriage equality as bigots. That is an example of someone stifling a debate. Let's call it male outrage!  Okay, so we won't.

Nobody who has ever been subject to actual bigotry could imagine that the plain old social conservatism which causes many people to object to marriage equality is bigotry. There are bigots about, for sure, but most people who have reservations against marriage equality aren't like that. They're wrong, of course, but the arguments are quite straight forward; they have a concern, we address that concern, they think about it and realise there's nothing to worry about. Remember all those folk who initially objected to civil partnerships but have since got completely used to the idea?  It's them. We can sort all this out together and everyone will be fine. So long as we don't call one another names!

However, as the subject of marriage equality continues to be debated, there are bigots thumping the table who wish to reduce the argument back to first principles such as "Is homosexuality a dark and dangerous force that threatens to destroy the world?"  They're not having a debate - certainly not the same debate the rest of us are having.  And I would argue that it is perfectly okay to call them bigots and duly ignore them. Or preferably just ignore them.

Which leads me to Do Marginalised People Need To Be Insulting In Order To Be Empowered? by a chap called Daniel Finke, who discusses the ethics of debate and implores marginalised people to adopt a civil tone when conversing with people they disagree with. There's a good (if rather sweary) discussion about this over at Feministe, where many people speak of the legitimate anger of marginalised people and this idea that marginalised people somehow have to win the world over, to demonstrate over and over that we are good enough for - better even - than the people who want to shut us out.

I strongly believe in being courteous and patient and trying to understand where people's prejudices come from, in order to give them the kind of information which might help them straighten that out. But honestly, there are some circumstances where anger is the only possible or useful response. But this is not a debate either. And it's okay not to have a debate.

It's okay to say "That was a horrendously offensive thing to say." without addressing any point someone made.  It's okay for Nick Clegg (or his speech-writers) to say, "There are some bigots and some reasonable people who object to equal marriage and we're not going to bother talking to the bigots." and it's okay for marginalised people to call our enemies names, safe in the knowledge that far worse names are given to us, just for existing.

But we can't call any of those things debate. 

The Goldfish Guide to Living With Big Breasts

Last week, there seemed to be a few young women about feeling miserable about their big breasts. Stevie at Vagenda wrote the rather disheartening On Having Big Baps and a young letter writer to Captain Awkward wrote about her mother who was using her breast size to critcise her weight, leading to a lot of discussion on big breasts in the comments, this post by Fizzy about bra-fitting and this excellent celebratory post by Elodie which all busty women should read, even if you don't have time to read my post as well:

The Cup Runneth Over: Love, Lifestyle and Clothing Tips For Large Busted Ladies

I wanted to this when I saw Elodie's post and thought, "Do I have anything further to say?" Possibly not, but I may say it differently, and this is a subject worth talking about as long as there are busty young women out there, feeling miserable about their bosoms.


What are big breasts for?

Breasts appear to have three biological functions.

1. They provide milk for suckling infants. But sometimes not.
2. They are a secondary sexual characteristic, which together with body hair and waist to hip ratio, help identify you as a sexually mature female. But sometimes not. 
3. They are an erogenous zone which can provide you with considerable sensual pleasure. But sometimes not.

None of these things are what your breasts are for.  They are just some reasons why you might possess them. Your breasts are yours to do with as you wish.

However, it's worth noting that none of these things depend on size; a big breasted woman is not more likely to breast-feed with ease, she is not imbued with a greater degree of femaleness and she us not more likely to take pleasure from her breasts.  Alas, biological function has no answers for our big-breasted questions!


So why do I have big breasts?

Minoan Snake Goddness, lifted from
Wikipedia's page on the Minoans

Genes, hormones, nutrition and quite possibly, a pixie curse. I understand that genetics is the big one but I am the only woman in my family who has particularly big breasts (given that the average UK cup size is now a D).

The great variation in breast size and shape is one of those little mysteries, like the distribution of men's chest hair.  There are great swathes of the world's population - entire ethnic groups - where breasts are almost universally small and chests are almost universally bald. Among other ethnic groups there is massive variation in both breast size and chest hair distribution. Who knows why?  But it's obviously not natural selection across the species - if heterosexual men consistently selected larger-breasted partners, breast size would be more consistent throughout the world.

(Check out the Embarrassing Bodies Breast Gallery for mostly pale-skinned bosoms in some of their considerable variety.)

There'd also be more evidence for our own culture's particular interest in big breasts throughout the world and our own history. This just doesn't exist. In most cultures, women's breasts are not nearly so remarked upon, in some cultures, everyday clothing givens very little away and in pockets of culture (which were once very much larger and more numerous pockets, like anthropological cargo trousers to the current hot pants of this practice) women go about bare breasted.  Breasts have to be understood very differently in these cultures, next to one in which it is possible to be arrested for exposing one's breasts in public, and where despite a great deal of bare female fresh and sexual imagery in film and advertising, it is rare to see an entire naked breast outside pornography.

(Which reminds me of when as a thirteen year old on the French Exchange programme, I saw nipples on a soap advert in the middle of the afternoon.  The father of the family, whose English was about as poor as my French, noticed my discomfort and declared, "I am shocking!"  I barely managed not to say, "Your entire country is, mate." )


So are big breasts not a sexual advantage?

Internationally, probably not.  In our culture, maybe, just now and to a limited extent. A quick leaf through the history of female nudes in Western Art will reveal that many different breasts can be both beautiful and sexually attractive. A quick leaf through our modern feminine icons, the women who get to be on the most sexy lists will reveal that this has not changed.  Whilst some individuals have specific preferences (and others feel obliged to), most gynophiles will tell you that breasts are quite lovely in all their variety. What's more, people's natural breasts tend to suit their bodies - nature is kind like that, in the same way you never get eye colour that clashes with a person's hair colour.

Our culture, however, says  "Look, look, look at the big breasts! Hilarious big breasts!"

Honestly, there are only one or two comments I have ever received about my breasts which weren't a bit of a joke. I'm gorgeous, of course, and I have had sincere compliments about various aspects of my physical appearance, but most of the breast stuff - and there has been a lot of breast stuff - has been a great big dirty joke. All the unwanted touching has been in jest (though no less awful for it). And this is not just among creepy strange men.  My breasts were a joke at primary school and in my all-girls high school.  My breasts have been a joke in my family. Big boobies! Ha ha ha!

Meanwhile, women with naturally large breasts can have the truly humiliating experience of disappointing a lover who has consumed too much pornography. As an eighteen year old virgin, I was informed that my breasts were saggy. They weren't and they're still not, but natural breasts are heavier than silicone and this can come as a shock for some wankers (I mean that word figuratively and literally).


How big is too big? 

As Elodie points out, linking back to a Shapely Prose piece, it is possible - and commonplace - for people to describe breasts of almost any size in a derogatory or sensational way. Very many women around average size imagine that their breasts are particularly large or particularly small, finding themselves being offered a padded push-up bra with one hand and a minimiser with the other.

I take a GG or H cup depending on manufacturer and my breasts are not enormous. You may have seen photos and videos of me and not noticed my bosoms. Many people who know me very well would not immediately identify me as a person with particularly big breasts. It's just not necessarily the first - or the twenty first - thing that people notice about a person.

I give this personal information because I've seen many letters and numbers thrown around in these discussions and many of them are much smaller than the ones I'm working with.  I'm reminded of a time in a changing cubicle in the Marks and Spencer lingerie department, realising I would not fit into the FF bra which was the biggest they had (they now go up to a K). Suddenly, the young woman in the cubicle next to me cried out (and she really did yell), "I can't be a DD cup - I'm not some kind of freak!"

That young lady was allowed to feel as she felt about her own body, but I know for sure that if she'd noticed me walking round the store, she would not have identified me or any other woman as a freak.

The top of a bra with a mp3 player clipped to it.
Bras have so many uses.

My perception of my bust has changed dramatically over the years. There have been great lows; for years, my appearance was a source of daily criticism and mockery from my ex. It's a very obvious thing to say, but increased confidence (and I have undergone a massive increase in confidence within the last few years) diminishes the prominence of a big bust - even though my posture has changed, and (when I'm not lying down) I generally sit up straighter with my chest relatively stuck out.  I am absolutely convinced that people notice my bosoms less now than when I was hunched over with my arms folded across them.  Despite the  frustrations, I enjoy shopping for clothes.  I get much less crap about my bust, far fewer jokes and comments now, presumably because it's obvious there's no shame there, no self-consciousness to poke  at or paint over with humour. In terms of my perception and my experience, it is as if my bust has gone from being a physical flaw to becoming completely normal in the space of a few years, without my body changing in any way.


So how big is too big?

Breasts could be too big if they - the breasts and not an ill-fitting bra - are causing us pain, unhappiness or dissonance.  The smallest breasts are too big if we don't feel comfortable in a body with breasts.  But if they are comfortable - or if the pleasure they give us outweighs any pain they cause - then they are just fine exactly as they are.

So, some advice on how to come to terms with and learn to love your big breasts.

1. A sense of proportion about your proportions.

In the absence of pain or dissonance, big breasts are not among the worst ways in which a body can deviate from the fictional standard model.  They can be expensive, demoralising and have social consequences but it doesn't compare to say, being fat, trans, having certain physical impairments or one or some of the above and having big breasts. The comments on the Vagenda piece quickly descended into an argument between thin cis women, some with big breasts, some with small, about who was most disadvantaged. Ha!

This may sound obvious and like I'm minimising the issue (tee hee), but I've not always been good at this myself.  Even without everything else, when I've been miserable about the ways in which my body doesn't work, I have fixated on its external flaws. One thing I have found very helpful in coping with chronic illness generally is to focus on the things my body can do and the parts of my body that work just fine.

I strongly recommend this for anyone who feels bad about their body.  My bosoms are just fine.  They don't have any work to do, but they're not painful and they do give me pleasure. On these grounds,  they're absolutely great, exactly as they are!


2. Buying a bra

I think big-breasted women have a simple choice here: you either get yourself a good bra that fits you well, or you don't wear one at all.  Personally, I don't enjoy being braless if I'm moving about, but an ill-fitting bra is so much worse than nothing. It feels absolutely miserable and with big breasts is likely to lead to chronic posture problems, back and shoulder pain, skin problems around the breasts and ribcage etc.. Also, it can look much worse, placing your bosoms in odd positions and causing you to hunch.

Bras with big cup sizes can be very expensive, but it would be better to get just one and wash it every few days than to make do with several that are the wrong size.  Personally, I buy almost all my bras on eBay and have been able to afford quite a collection.  It takes a little time, a trawl and a bit of a gamble (although much less of a gamble as time goes on and you get to know you're preferred brands). But I can get £35 bras for around £15 and less - much less if it's one a private individual has bought in error and photographed badly!

I sometimes get curvy-lady clothes, like this ace jacket,
as Christmas/ Birthday presents from family.
(me wearing a pink/brown tartan jacket)

Something else I've done is to ask for bras as Christmas and birthday presents from family. Which sounds a little weird, but as a young woman this was an item which I couldn't normally afford, was a nice pretty thing that was a pleasure to receive, and saved better-off family members spending the same amount of money on an ugly vase that I would only hide in a cupboard (or sell on eBay so I could afford a new bra). Obviously, I usually chose the bra, but weeks in advance so I'd forget what it was like and so was able to looked surprised.


3. Getting dressed. 

The first rule of getting dressed with big bosoms is that there are no rules about getting dressed with big bosoms. Stevie felt her boyfriend had a valid point when he complained that she wasn't dressing sexily enough. They're both wrong. A trenchcoat made of incontinence pads would be plenty sexy enough if she felt so inclined. Although it would get very heavy if it rained.

As Elodie puts it

"Do you know what type of figure you have? Oh god, you probably do. There’s the Apple, the Pear, the Ruler, The Strange, the Charmed, the Snail that Overturns the Nougat… the Hourglass. Because women love identifying themselves with fruit and objects! Pick up any magazine with Clothing Tips. It’ll rhapsodize on the natural, feminine beauty of the mythical Hourglass, probably saying something like “lucky bitch!” before going back to how Rulers can make their breasts look bigger, and Apples can make their everything look smaller. Let’s get rid of those notions now – let’s throw them out the window. You are a large-breasted person, yes. You are beautiful, yes. But fuck those magazines. Fuck ‘em. They don’t know."

Big breasted women receive two messages about getting dressed:

1. Cover them up.  Use tricks, colours, lines and layers to make your bust look smaller than it is. Wear brightly coloured knickers over your jeans to draw attention away from your bust. You are all out of balance. Establish a balance!
2. Flaunt those bad boys, girlfriend!

Dress is a form of communication but one we have limited control over.  Lots of outfits that are worn because of their power to communicate, nevertheless convey very different messages to different people; a police uniform, for example, a nun's habit or an expensive suit. 

Women's clothing is understood to have extraordinary powers, effecting other people's behaviour, let alone their impression of us. No woman can win with this, not really, but I think it's especially tough for busty women. Dress one way and you're immodest, a tart, your clothing invites comment about your body and event assault. Dress in the other way and you're a frump, unfeminine and not making an effort. In his capacity to critcise absolutely anything, my ex variously described me as dressing like a cheap whore and a sack of washing.  But I was wrong to think that there was a magical balance between these two insults, because they are insults.  By far the biggest effect your clothing has on others is through you. If you feel good, if you're comfortable, confident and cheerful, people will react to you better. The kind of people who are going to judge you because they can or can't see the shape of your body under your clothes aren't going to treat you like an actual person, whatever you do.

A brief detour into minimising...

Because I was tall, I usually had to play the male roles in school plays.  For this, girls like me had to have our breasts bound to us with bandages.  This was very uncomfortable and made us into rather strange new shapes (it's not like you can make the flesh go away, you can merely flatten it - to a limited extent - against your rib-cage).  It was also kind of weird and unpleasant to see it happening to others.

At some point in my teens, I got to the stage where minimisers were the only bras I could find in the shops which would fit me. I felt like I was being told that my breasts were simply too big, and I had to squish them down as I had for the school plays, only now it was just to play a woman. I didn't want to draw attention to my breasts, but then, I don't want to draw attention to my arse but I refuse to wear those horrible rubbery tube things that make your bottom smaller (or at least, redistribute your bottom over a larger area).

I hate the idea of trying to disguise a part of my body out of shame about it. If minimisers are more comfortable for you and allow you to wear nicer or more appropriate clothes, that makes perfect sense.  But don't feel obliged to hide something away because you feel your body is somehow offensive or inappropriate.

Back to Getting Dressed...

Wear what you like, but everyone should
have a dino hoody in their wardrobe.

Some clothes won't look so good on you as they do other women with different proportions. Some clothes will look better on you than they do on other women. This is the case for everyone. Have a look at photographs from fashion shows, where you have tall and thin young women wearing clothes by the world's top designers. Some of those clothes do not look good on those body shapes (of course, some of them don't look good at all, but some would look much better on, say, a short woman with a big bottom).

Of course, looking good is subjective and looking good is not necessary your top priority when getting dressed.  That's up to you.

Some clothes will not fit you properly, no matter what you do.  This can be tough - buying clothes for a special occasion in the summer, where everything is straps, halternecks or low backs, is very tricky. There's only one place I know where I could buy button-up shirts or blouses. When I was a bridesmaid, it took attempts by three different experienced dressmakers to make the dress design fit around my bust.  As well as making and dramatically adjusting clothes, I have taken some extraordinary measures to wear the clothes I like. In one case, I actually painted an area of a camisole the right colour to match the top I was wearing it under so that my vest looked like part of the top.

Elodie's post provides some excellent practical advice on this stuff, but you read all that already, didn't you?

4. Appreciating female beauty.

In her article, Living With Breasts That Can Be Seen From Orbit, Lindsay Miller says

I've found that nothing helps my breast-related self-image quite so much as sleeping with women. If you're not queer, sorry about that, but for the girl-on-girl crowd: When was the last time you thought “Wow, I wish her breasts were smaller/bigger/perkier/farther apart/a different shape”? Probably never. Probably you usually think something along the lines of “Hell yes, naked girl!” Seeing other women's bodies in a context where you're enjoying, not critiquing, can help you reframe your relationship with your own body in the same way.

I have an eye for the ladies but I'm not sure you need to be turned on by, let alone sleeping with a person, to notice their physical beauty. The trouble is that women are so often being asked to compare themselves to other women, as if there are a handful of standard beautiful women against whom all women's beauty might be measured.  You can look through a women's magazine and see a great number of beautiful women who look very much alike and nearly nothing like you.

But you can't do the same looking through a book on art, typing a girl's name into a search on Flickr or just looking at the various women you love.  Even if you can't find any physical feature that you find beautiful and which you also possess, you will at least see that beauty looks like very many different things, and so the chances are that others can see beauty in you.  Also, if you go for the Flickr route, you will encounter at least one cute animal who shares your name (here's mine).

( I recommend the same for men and people of other genders (see Genderfork) who struggle to accept their physical appearance, with or without big breasts. )

On a slightly negative note... I know that nobody who reads my blog would ever be involved in this sort of thing, but I've seen the posts going around comparing some thin modern celebrity to Marilyn Monroe with slogans such as "When did beautiful stop being this and start being this?"  I've seen people refer to curvy women as "real women" and lament the shallowness of men who date stick-thin beauties who have nothing between their ears or underarms (which is a lot like this infamous article, only in reverse).

This is not on.  Not only because it is sexist and sometimes outright misogynist, but because it can't possibly make such people feel better. If any aspect of one's self-esteem relies on the inadequacy of others, one is destined to be repeatedly indignant when those others get the luck, praise and love one feels entitled to. Not because really they're actually hotter than people who do this, but because they're nicer than people who do this. So there.


5. Accepting what your breasts are and are not.

Your breasts are part of your body which you are probably going to have to live with.  You may lose weight and your breasts will get smaller, but they will still be large in proportion to the rest of you (in fact, if the back size of your bra goes down with weight loss, your cup size may go up).  Surgical breast reduction is an option for some, but a radical and very expensive one.

Your breasts aren't part of your sexuality or even your femininity. They are just part of your body. They may be involved with both your sexuality and your femininity or they may not. You can be butch and big breasted. You can be another gender and big breasted. You can be asexual and big breasted.

Your breasts do not cause other people to behave in a certain way.  Together with other mammals which have mastered the art of not staring at others, human beings are not compelled to stare at your breasts, however big they are. When I am using my wheelchair, nearly nobody stares at my breasts, and they haven't gone anywhere (in fact, being sat down all the time, they're easier to look at).  The kind of creeps who stare at people's breasts are usually the same kind of people who can't look at disabled people at all.  A win for me, but the point is that this is a problem with other people, not your anatomy.

The same goes for comments and unwanted touching (including touching by a gay man making a television programme - honestly, I daresay some women enjoy being fondled by Gok Wan, but he never asks. Even people who have had to handle my bosoms for medical reasons have asked every step of the way).

Your breasts are not there for pleasing other people, whether suckling infants, adult lovers or the people you meet in your daily life. You are free to keep your breasts entirely to yourself, whether covered up or on display (to the extent the law allows). It's entirely up to you.

Go forth and enjoy your breasts! 

Alpacas on my Mind

A very smiley white woman holding a pink baby who
probably looks a month or so older than she is.

I dreamt about my new niece a few weeks before she was born and in that dream, she was called Victory. When she finally got here, she was named Sophie Elizabeth Taylor and just for you mass fans, she weighed eight and a half pounds! She shares a birthday with Jeff Capes, so our hope is that, one day, she will be the strongest woman in the world!  I can't stop thinking of her as Victory, so that'll probably be her stage name.

This week, Stephen, Mike and I travelled like the three magi to meet the baby. She is very thoughtful and spends her time sleeping, thinking, looking around and sucking very hard on whatever passes close enough.

We were also able to deliver nephew Alex's birthday present (here he is six, years ago, looking a lot like his sister).  Inspired by the stage production of Warhorse, which Stephen got to see, we set about making a puppet that would be so life-like and subtle in movement that it would both embody the physical essence of an animal, as well as almost human depths of emotional range.  The animal we chose was an alpaca. Alex has called his new friend Woolly. Here it is in action.

A fairly simple hand-carve love spoon in
pale wood (lime, in fact).

Being in Wales towards the end of Rosie's pregnancy, Stephen carved Sophie a beautiful love spoon. She was mightily impressed and commented, "Aaiiiee!" which may in fact be Welsh. Sophie may have been the first baby Stephen got to hold and he was both anxious and smitten.

Alex was climbing about in the background, helped me to get up onto climbing frame (well, a high platform built around a tree) and pushed me off again. He has promoted me from being Auntie Bum Bum to Agent Bum Bum.  He even provided me with a theme tune, the lyric to which goes

"Agent Bum Bum, Agent Bum Bum
Agent Bum Bum, Agent Bum Bum
Agent Bum Bum, Agent Bum Bum
Agent Bum Bum Bum."

I am so proud.  I was put in mind of a song my sister wrote for me when we were children.  The piano accompaniment was something of a Chaz & Dave homage, and the lyric went:

A blond monkey boy hangs upside down
from a rope net. 

"Deborah is a zebra, Deborah is a zebra, Deborah is a zebra and she's my sister too-oo-oo!" 

I have decided to make a cartoon strip about Agent Bum Bum and her trusty sidekick, Tinker Taylor (Alex). His favourite toy at the moment is a Super Soaker (they're not nearly as powerful as they were when we were kids and they require batteries) so whatever happens, the villain has to get wet at the end.

But first we have to make a second Alpaca - as if anything could match the first - and I have a wedding dress to make. And we've got a wedding to plan. And I have a book to finish writing and another to keep pushing on agents and publishers (the latest rejection described it as a "near miss" which was far more encouraging than perhaps it sounds).  Plus it's that time of year when I work out what I'm going to make everyone for Christmas.

Life is busy, but very good and all the better for having little Victory in it. I mean Sophie.

The Olympics, The Paralympics and My Body Image

I didn't expect the Olympics to have anything to do with me.  I was certainly fed up of hearing about it, long before it started.  Every BBC London News bulletin I've seen for the last eighteen months has mention the Olympics in some tenuous context or other;

"A business has laid off a thousand workers, leading to a bump in the city's unemployment figures and fears that none of those thousand people will be able to afford Olympic tickets."  

"A gas leak in the city has lead to homes being evacuated and concerns that the smell might not have quite gone away in time for London 2012."

"A rising tide of gang violence has claimed its latest victim.  The man was shot dead as he waited for a bus and will now completely miss the London Olympics."

I was, however, equally tired of hearing people complain about the Olympics.  Okay, so maybe the timing was bad, given what's happened to the economy, but we could hardly back out once London got the games.  And there have been genuine scandals; the Dow Chemical's sponsorship deal, the problems of security staff, the empty seats, memorabilia made with slave labour and the almost limitless remit of the "brand police".  But there were plenty of people moaning about just because they don't like sport.  I'm generally not keen on sport, but to complain about the Olympics on the grounds that sport is dull is no better people objecting to government funding to the arts because they don't like made-up things.

I didn't expect to watch any of the Olympics, but the family had to see the opening ceremony.  It was directed by Danny Boyle, after all.  He usually does films, made-up things - far more up my street than people running about everywhere (although he has known to open and close films with people running about).  Even so, I expected to cringe and yawn throughout.  I didn't.  The Opening Ceremony was flawed, as it had to be.  We spent the next few days discussing the omissions, especially from the run-through of British music of the last forty years (where was Brit Pop and Trip Hop? Where was the soundtrack to my youth?).  However, the show reminded me of day-long train journeys I used to take, where you'd see some of the true beauty of the countryside but always end up in Didcot Parkway at some point. Nobody has any idea where Didcot Parkway is and there's nothing to see from the station - you hear of people wandering from the platform never to be seen again - but you sometimes have to stop there in order to get from one significant place to another.  The Opening Ceremony visited Didcot Parkway, but sometimes you have to in order to cross this great nation of ours.

So the next day, Stephen and his folks were watching the men's cycling, which was happening around the landmarks of Surrey.  It was very dull and the commentators didn't seem to recover from the shock of Team GB falling behind.  I duly dozed off.  The next day, Stephen and his folks were watching the women's cycling.  Wow. That was terrific! I learnt all sorts about the aerodynamics of long distance cycling, the necessity for teamwork between members of opposing teams, and after the last few miles into the centre of London with the crowds cheering on, the rain beating down (it was sunny in Wales) and a silver medal for our lass Lizzie Armistead, well!  I spent the rest of the day sleeping off the excitement.

And so the Olympics proceeded and I wound up watching a lot of it. Charlie Brooker describes what I imagine happened to a lot of us.  My personal and very unexpected highlight was the women's boxing - I began watching it grudgingly and between my fingers and ended jumping up and down and doing this sort of thing in English, but for Nicola Adams as well as the legendary Katie Taylor.  I mean, wow.  The men's boxing wasn't nearly so good; they're generally heavier, not so fast and graceful and look like they can seriously hurt each other.  They certainly don't look like they can do this.  And sometimes they do.

As well as learning a lot and enjoying unexpected things, the Olympics had a surprisingly positive effect on my body image. It's rare to see such a diversity of bodies - especially female bodies - on the television in any given week, and all of those bodies are reasonably healthy, some very healthy (I comment on health because we're often sold this idea that healthy is one size and shape). There were skinny women, muscly women, women who were well-padded, women with and without sizable bosoms, short women and very tall women. There were women who looked a little bit like me.

There was also much more of an age range than I expected.  I have no issues about my age, but I imagined that at thirty one, I would be older than almost everyone competing. It was heartening to see a thirty-nine year old performing a complex tangle of sommersaults several metres above a trampoline and no-one comment that she was getting a bit old for bouncing about like that). It was also extremely obvious that someone who excelled at one thing would probably be no good at another however hard they tried.  Sprinters are not built for weight-lifting, cyclists are not built for Tai Kwondo and so on; even the most elite bodies on the planet have very clear and obvious physical limitations.

All this made me feel good about my body.  I can't sprint, lift weights, cycle or do Tai Kwondo (although I can do a brief physical impression of how a crow moves on the ground, which strikes me as half the battle). But hey, isn't it great to have a body?  And my body is okay, because it's a little bit like these other fantastic bodies that can do really cool things.  Even my body can do a few cool things.  I was reminded of a rather evangelical doctor who once compared my attempts to build up my strength only to be a foiled by a fresh infection or other random event, to an athlete who gave it her all but kept getting bronze.  I gave a somewhat bitter laugh at the time, but watching the Olympics, I thought, I do know about working hard with my body, I know about the care and discipline that requires and the misery of set-backs.  It's just a matter of scale really.  And thus, in a way, the Olympics did have a little something to do with me.

Last week was a rough one and I wasn't well enough to watch the Paralympic Opening Ceremony on Wednesday.  Even if I'd stayed awake long enough, I wasn't going to cope with even a fraction of the unending rhythm and chaotic spectacle of the Olympic Opening and Closing Ceremonies.  But I had also watched the local London news earlier that evening, and in that half hour, I'd had my fill of hearing that anything is possible, that anyone, no matter what their impairment, can do anything.  At one point, a piece on a scheme to train disabled pilots (who were flying over the stadium during the ceremony) concluded, “No matter what a person's disability, even the sky is not the limit.” and my brain ran through the list of fairly minor impairments that would bar someone from pilot training – some degrees of colour-blindness can still keep you grounded and I've never met anyone who considered themselves disabled because they were colour-blind.

A lot has been written about the inspiration porn aspect of the Paralympic coverage, and this ridiculous idea that the fact a double amputee can play sit-down volley ball at an international level is proof that anyone can do anything if they really try. (I did laugh when I first saw sit-down volley ball. Like many disabled people, I have mastered many stand-up activities from a sitting or lying position, but I never imagined it could be taken to such lengths.)

There's also been a lot of protest over Atos (both in the press and in person), the henchmen of warped government tests for disability benefit, being a major sponsor of a games in which many benefit claimants compete, leading the Daily Mash to report that disability benefits are to be replaced by medals.

But I wanted to add something about body image.  There are Paralympians who also have bodies that look a bit like mine, but naturally, they work a lot like those of the Olympians.  On a spectrum of physical ability, with your common or garden Olympians at one end, many if not most Paralympians are just a notch down from there – Oscar Pistorius, to give an obvious example, runs beside with the best bipedal athletes in the world.  Paralympians are still disabled*, because they have the same kind of problems I have getting around on public transport, or accessing literature, but their fitness, strength and the cool things they can do with their bodies are completely beyond most of us. They are at the other end of the spectrum from mine.

This isn't a problem - of course not.  I'm not upset by people who have skills, aptitude and function abilities I do not (jealous, maybe).  Nor am I upset by people sympathising with other kinds of injuries and impairments - I certainly do, although I also know there are limits to how much sympathy and individual is likely to find bearable.  But when I hear that people with these bodies are massively disadvantaged, that their lives are tragic because of their bodies' limitations, well, what does that say about me and my body? Is it so very awful to inhabit?  When I saw Olympic athletes with bodies a bit like mine, their deviance from the most common images of women's bodies we see around us were not even mentioned, let alone repeatedly focused upon.

That all elite athletes are remarkable and admirable, there's no doubt; anyone who gets to the top of the thing they do deserves our praise (well, you know, with some obvious exceptions like politics or organised crime).  But it is ironic that the Paralympic coverage should threaten to take back a positive message the Olympic Games gave me about my body.



* Of course, some Olympians are also disabled.  The Paralympic games isn't for disabled sportspeople, but for sportspeople with certain highly-policed physical impairments.  There were probably all manner of physical, cognitive and mental health conditions among the Olympian athletes, just as there were people who had faced all manner of major social, political, financial and psychological challenges, as well as the physical stuff, among the athletes attending either games.  Meanwhile, some athletes from either games will have faced massive obstacles of discrimination, political disapproval, financial hardship and personal tragedy which make their impairments pale in comparison.

On Weddings #1 : The Heeby-Jeebies

A wooden bench against a white wall with
a shadow of a two people embracing across
both wall and bench.

Having complained at some length about the bombardment of wedding-related advice, suggestions and miscellaneous pressure Stephen and I received within the first seventy-two hours of becoming engaged, I asked my friend Vic, "What is a dragee anyway?"

She answered, "Somebody who doesn't want to be at the wedding?"

(Apparently, dragee is a bit of confectionery, like a sugared almond but not.  I was later reminded that at my sister's wedding, they had some chocolate ones covered in gold plate.  Or possibly gold-leaf.  Either way, they tasted kind of metallic.)

For many years, I had recurring nightmares about being the bride in a traditional straight wedding, which are only partly explained by my subconscious imploring me to leave that relationship. Whilst I deeply regret getting married the first time, I don't regret the way the marriage bit was administered; in secret without romance or ceremony (except as much as is legally necessary). Weddings frightened me.

Five years ago, I wrote:

The traditional wedding is a fantastic manifestation of the traditional inequalities in marriage. Women do all the work; the bride must organise everything, the venue, the decoration, the itinerary, she must appease family members when the political conflicts arise over the seating plan. In many cases, the bride even chooses what the groom is going to wear. And all this for her big day, the happiest day of her life etc., etc.. Meanwhile, the groom is obliged to make a big show of reluctance, stag parties and so on, and turn up to perform his brief role in proceedings somewhat hungover. He gets to speak, of course; whilst the women did all the work, it is the men who get to make the speeches.  

It's a horrible caricature, but you have attended this wedding, haven't you? You bought them the hideous vase with the turquoise flowers on, remember?

It is a horrible caricature and now I don't think it's fair.  I have been to straight weddings a lot like that which nevertheless celebrated basically egalitarian relationships. These events are all about symbol and ceremony, and it is fairly common for people to play a symbolic role that may be a world away from their usual role, just as it is common to dress up in clothes than you'd never normally wear. I have known some formidable matriarchs who originally vowed, "to honour and obey."

Stephen's engagement ring: a silver ring with the
texture of a leaf skeleton.

There was never any danger of anything like that when Stephen and I got engaged, but as we began to talk about things - especially when we began talking to other people - I became subject to a touch of the heeby-jeebies. This wasn't exactly helped by a particularly lengthy conversation with my parents which began

"It's your wedding and you can do exactly what you like - we'll support you and help in any way, whatever you decide to do.  But..."

Among their many suggestions and concerns was the worry that Stephen's parents might be heartbroken if we didn't get married in a Church.  There are lots of personal and practical reasons for not doing so, even though Stephen and his family are Christian.  We'd talked this through and were sure Stephen's parents would be happy with our plans. My entirely non-religious parents weren't. We listened to and humoured them up to the point where my Dad stated that he knew a Canon who owed him a favour. Seriously. And no, I didn't dare ask.

Then there's noticing things written about weddings and the process of getting married. My rage against groups who think marriage belongs to them has only increased.  I notice articles or blog posts extolling the virtues of keeping names or taking someone else's name or combining the two surnames into a new one (our options there would be Welly or Kitehead - we should run an internet poll), all of which strongly imply that there's only one right way. At the time of writing, I think I know what I'll do, but I'm not completely sure.  I know, from experience, that whatever I do I will be judged for it.

I also notice products aimed at me, a woman about to get married.  Most of these are just excessive and silly, but some, such as Bridal Betty (via Vagenda), are utterly baffling; blue dye for your pubic hair (or down there as the website puts it - it's one thing to sell pubic hair dye, it's quite another to use the word pubic) raises many pressing questions, such as

• Attempts to dye my walnut-coloured (head) hair purple have always failed because I couldn't bring myself to bleach it beforehand. Wouldn't this be an issue given that most of the world's short and curlies are nearly black? 
• I understand Bridal Underwear is also a thing. It's very expensive and almost always white. Are these products compatible?  Even on a warm day?
• Does it include a warning for couples who have never seen one another naked before their wedding night? 
• Surely, celebrity influence on what women do with our pubic hair has gone far enough without Marge Simpson muscling in on the action?
• Why?  As in, why oh why oh why?

You get the picture.  About weddings, I mean.  I got a little distracted by the thought of blue pubes... 

Thing is, I think weddings are a fundamentally great thing.  It is a public ritual - something we rarely do in this culture - which celebrates love.  Not only romantic love, but familial love, friendship, love among a community and sometimes spiritual love (whether expressed in a religious building or not). All these people come together.  Families are joined together.  There's music, special food, poetry and speeches.  Two people declare their love and commitment to each other in front of the other people they love and who love them.

My engagement ring: a silver swirly sea-inspired
ring with a round sapphire in it.
(Getting it reduced to fit my finger.)

It's a wonderful thing.  It isn't necessary for lasting love and it isn't sufficient for lasting love - some people marry who are not in love at all, while many others live happily together for a lifetime without marriage. But in general, I'm all for weddings.

Stephen and I want to celebrate our love in a public way. We have become part of one another's families and have befriended one another's friends. We want to bring the principle players together and celebrate that. We also want the legal and social advantages of being married.  Stephen looks really hot in a suit. So we both want a wedding.

But I need to do some working out.  And this is where blogging comes in handy!

Some Things We Could Actually Do To Prevent Rape

This post discusses rape as well as what we can do about it. Be warned.

There are only two prominent messages we hear about how to prevent rape; don't get raped and don't commit rape. Police campaigns as well as horrendously clumsy statements by police and politions regularly attract controversy for their implicit and occasionally explict victim-blaming; the suggestion that if women took steps to avoid rape, it wouldn't happen. This is a problem. I don't need to explain why.

But telling men "Don't rape!" is also fairly futile, for three very siginificant reasons.

1. The vast majority of men are neither rapists nor potential rapists. As someone who has never downloaded an illegal film, bought or borrowed a pirate, I feel mildly insulted having to sit through the rowdy anti-piracy warnings at the beginning of rented DVDs. I imagine being told not to rape is a bit like that, only you know, about rape.
2. Men who commit rape are extremely unlikely to call it rape. If you want to identify rapists among survey respondents, you phrase it differently. Rapists generally regard real rape as something a notch or two worse than the rapes they have committed.
3. Some men are the victims of rape and not all rapists are men. This isn't merely important in terms of But what about men?! but (a) these victims matter (b) the model of rape as an inevitable consequence of straight men's sexuality and something women have to protect themselves against is at the heart of our problem with rape. 

So, what can we do to actually tackle rape as ordinary folk?  My attempt to answer this question is edging toward epic, but only because I feel very strongly about this.  It would make me very very happy if others came up with better ideas.


1. Look after your friends and don't mind your own business. 

While women are in much more danger of sexual violence, men are more likely to be injured or killed in other forms of street violence. So where late nights and drink is involved, everyone needs taking care of. When out at night, pay attention to where your friends are, who they are with and how they are doing. If any friend is

• extremely drunk, unwell or otherwise vulnerable 
• receiving unwelcome sexual attention 
• receiving sexual attention from someone with an evil moustache or something else that gives you the willies 
• paying sexual attention to someone who seems uncomfortable, or is themselves very drunk, very young etc. 

then simply stay with them or make sure another trusted and vaguely sober person stays with them. 

There is a limit to that, of course; if your friend actually tells you to go away, then you need to do so, but by that stage you'll have at least dropped the hint that you feel something is not right. There's no need to get all white-knighty and tell your friends how to behave, but exchanging our instincts about new people and situations, “I just don't like what's happening here.” is perfectly reasonable and one of the main advantages of being social animals.

 If you're wrong, the very worst that can happen is someone tells you to bugger off.  If you're right, you could save your friends an awful lot of trouble.


2. Encourage others to trust their instincts when it comes to creepy and inappropriate behaviour.

To the greatest extent, our culture teaches us not to trust ourselves when it comes to unwanted sexual attention. Then, having convinced ourselves we have a legitimate concern, we talk to other people about our feelings and are often told to question them further; Are you sure it was meant that way? Are you sure they weren't just being friendly? Are you quite sure they meant to touch you? You should take it as a compliment. You shouldn't read too much into it. And so on.

This is a disaster.

Nobody is entitled to anybody else's time, energy, attention, company, friendship or anything else. No matter how drunk, lonely or socially inept a person may be - no matter how funny, popular or decent they may be regarded by others - it is perfectly okay to say, "This thing you're doing makes me uncomfortable. Please stop it." and "You're making me uncomfortable. Please leave." and it's okay to respectfully remove yourself from their presence and have nothing more to do with them, with or without explanation.

Encourage your friends. Support their decisions to avoid people who make them feel uncomfortable. When they question themselves (and they often do - my mother thought she was being unkind to change the time she went swimming to avoid a regular at the pool who made sexually explicit remarks about her*), reassure them that it is more important that they feel comfortable than anyone else - even another trusted person - has access to them. Even if they are completely over-reacting to some poor hapless person's clumsy advances, acting on their intuition this time is excellent practice for the time when it's not an over-reaction.

I had written this bit when the wonderful Captain Awkward and the Awkward Community covered this issue better and more thoroughly than I ever could. Part of this obviously has to be


3. Exercise zero tolerance towards sexually aggressive people.  

Sometimes, people make genuine mistakes with flirtation and other times, innocent behaviour happens to press someone's buttons.  But there are limitations to this, which really ought to be obvious to everyone. Obvious examples include unwanted touching, spiking a drink, making sexually explicit remarks out of context, joking about sexual coercion (see below) and anything if it is repeated after someone made it clear they felt uncomfortable.

When a man oversteps this mark with a woman, other women are often nervous of cutting him off because they don't want to seem over-sensitive, uptight or hostile to male attention**.  Other men are nervous of going against the brotherhood, of failing to laugh off or empathise with their comrade's actions. When a woman is creeping out a man, both victim and perpetrator become a joke; my family laughed about the drunk woman who'd repeatedly tried to kiss my reluctant cousin because women aren't supposed to be sexually assertive and men are supposed to be up for whatever comes their way.  In my limited experience, gay and lesbian creeps are treated with less tolerance, except within scenes where - like the kink community - the defensiveness of the community as a safe, tolerant and funky place can silence members who have a problem.

Not only are people who violate other's boundaries in small ways very likely to violate them in much bigger ways, but people who cross these moral lines are unlikely to restrict themselves to this particular kind of bad. Often people tolerate creeps in their social circle because they themselves are immune to their attentions. But someone who doesn't care about not intimidating someone they find sexually attractive is unlikely to care all that much about not being an arsehole, in myriad other ways, to someone who considers them a friend.


4. Give all young people the same information about personal safety.  Don't tell boys or girls that their sexuality makes them dangerous.

As a girl, I learnt that I needed to be afraid of rape. Girls start receiving sexual harassment on the street very early on, and by the time a few of us had been shouted at, groped, followed home etc., we began to exchange ideas about how to defend ourselves if we were actually attacked. This now amuses me really; a can of hairspray and a lighter will make a rudimentary flamethrower but you need both hands and about thirty seconds longer than you probably have to fend off an attack. But we understood that we faced this threat. Anyone who thinks that women don't know the danger they are in is quite wrong.

At the same time, entering into adolescence, we understood that there was a demand on us to be sexy which we had to balance up with this risk of rape – dress too modestly and you're not sexy, dress too sexily and you might be raped. Even in the twenty-first century, a lot of the discussions around the sexualisation of young girls hinges on the idea of children being in danger of giving off sexual messages to men, as opposed to kids adopting a value system which is going to make them unhappy. When I was a teenager, bridging tomboy to hippy, I thought I received a lot of sexual harassment because I was tall and I had big breasts. In fact, I was told that men must think I was older than I really was. So it was all about me, and things I couldn't help about myself.

Nonsense. I was in my primary school uniform when I received my first sexual harassment from adult men. Mature looking or sexily-dressed children don't confuse men. Sexual harassment is an abnormal behaviour, and the people who do it operate abnormally; children are vulnerable and the kind of men who shout lewd remarks or molest women in the street and on public transport look for vulnerable-looking women, including children, whether they are wearing high-heels or trainers.

So girls should not receive dynamically different messages from boys about safety on the streets.
All young people need to be taught basic self-defence and to be given basic advice about travelling in groups, not drinking to a point of incapacity, avoiding certain places late at night, trusting and sharing their instincts about people and situations, only using registered cabs and so on. There is no evidence that anyone's clothing effects their likelihood of being sexually assaulted, so nobody should receive any advice about that.

Girls are much more likely to be subject to sexual harassment, but as it can happen to boys too (as well as other forms of harassment, e.g. racist, homophobic and disablist abuse) and strategies for dealing with this are much the same whoever you are. A culture which endlessly lectures girls on how dangerous there lives and bodies are but implicitly assures boys that no harm can come to them and there's never any need for them to run away, fails everybody.



5. Encourage a culture where everyone gets to say "No" without negative social consequences and respect a "No" whenever you hear one. 

At primary school, a teacher I didn't know accosted me in the corridor and asked me to run an errand. I didn't fully understand what was being asked of me – it was something to do with putting a dinner tray somewhere where it would be washed up, but I didn't know where she meant and I was anxious about getting in trouble with my own teacher for being late. So I said that I didn't want to. I had no idea how rude that was; apparently, it was the most shocking insubordination this teacher had ever encountered and what followed was the single worst telling-off I received in my entire school career.

During an early experience of sexual abuse, I actually said, with a forced laugh, “What about consent?”. This says a lot about my socialisation. I was desperately trying to work out the code that would make it stop. I had tried, “I don't think I want this.” and “I really don't think I want this.” Even when I was in great pain and crying, I still reached for, “Please can we stop this now?”

I don't believe that this happened because I didn't know how to say “No!” in a firm and forceful manner - I've never met anyone who had such problems with nuance that they confuse, “I don't think I want this.” with “Yes!” or even “I'm not bothered either way so do as you feel.”  But “No!” may well have been useful and I simply didn't have it. I don't even have it now. I probably have it for a stranger jumping out of the bushes, but for anyone I know well, like or respect on any level? Probably not.

This is partly about gender, although I know men who don't have “No!” and women who do. Rebelling against authority, to some extent, is part of our cultural narratives about how boys become men. They get to say “No!” to parents, teachers, maybe even the law, at least for a short time, in order to assert their masculine individuality. Culturally, teenager girl's rebellion is almost always framed as defying one's parents by accommodating the needs of one's male peers, putting out, rather than asserting one's own sexuality or non-sexual aspects of identity. The adult version of that telling-off I received as a child is being called a selfish bitch, a cock tease, a frigid dyke and so on.

However, it's worth saying how tricky it can be for boys and men to say “No!” in a sexual context, because of the idea that a real man, whether straight or queer, is preoccupied with and available for sex with any marginally attractive person. This idea feeds into the idea both that all men are potential rapists struggling to control themselves, as well as the idea that, immune from the possibility of unwanted sexual attention, men cannot be raped. One of the disturbing aspects of the otherwise hilarious Cosmo's 44 Most Ridiculous Sex Tips (this remains one of the funniest things I have read this year) and other “sex tips” from women's magazines is the number which don't involve even looking for basic clues as to whether a male partner might, at that moment, enjoy being groped, ravished or even physically assaulted as part of an experiment.

Which brings me onto


6. Practice, Discuss and Teach Your Kids About Enthusiastic Consent

Enthusiastic consent is the principle that great sex means ongoing positive communication between parties; you check with your partner and express your own enthusiasm (with words, noises, touch, gestures, eyebrow code etc.) at every stage. You don't have sex with someone just because they want to, you feel obliged to, because they've nagged you or sulked about it or because it gives you something to do with your hands while you work on that difficult formula. You don't have sex with someone who you suspect doesn't feel like it or seems uncertain about how they feel, or is very tired or drunk or otherwise vulnerable. You don't assume that the other person's willingness to be with you in one context (e.g their presence in your bed, their kissing you, their performing certain sexual acts on you) means that the other party is up for anything else that crosses your mind. You ask. You respect their answer. You expect the same from them.

Practicing enthusiastic consent isn't merely about being a considerate lover or avoiding doing something sexual that wasn't entirely welcome. You're likely to be in a much better position for managing your reproductive choices and, outside a lifelong monogamous relationship, it also helps protect your partners and their future partners by setting a precedent.

This does warrant discussion because (a) this isn't yet a dominant model of how sex should be in our culture – it certainly isn't what we see in the films, in Men's or Women's Magazines, let alone porn - and (b) some of us struggle with how to practice this, because of programming and personal issues around sex. What if talking out loud is a turn-off for a partner? What if you're doing something that renders eye-contact impossible? What about times you do something sexual for someone because you love them even though it's not really your thing? All this stuff is resolvable, but the principle matters and quite obviously, one's chances of having better, more mutually-fulfilling sex rocket compared to the model where one person (usually a man) initiates, everything just happens and both parties hope for the best.

My top tip: Being British means talking out loud about sex is almost impossible without giggling - just now I'm recovering from the effect of having put the words sex and rocket next to each other in the same sentence. Reading and participating in written discussions, both public and private, is much easier than sitting around with friends and saying, “So, you know when you really fancy the thing with the bubble wrap and the hedgehog costume, but your partner's busy reading Ovid...?”


7. Use The Word Rape To Describe Rape

One of the big problems we have even talking about rape is that our culture has an ideal model for the crime which (roughly) features a virtuous young single woman walking along in daylight when an armed stranger leaps out from nowhere and drags her into the bushes. We consider a rape a crime which necessarily

• results in significant physical injury 
• results in long-term trauma with immediate effect 
• results in a very specific mix of rational behaviours (e.g. reporting the incident to the police immediately) and irrational behaviours (e.g. being very upset all the time, refusing to leave the house and taking a vow of chastity). 

There are few other crimes when we question whether wrong-doing has taken place on the grounds of the victim's reaction to events - “All the evidence suggests your husband was brutally murdered, but you're now eating normally and you're able to tuck your children in bed at night without breaking down in tears, so this 'murder' can't have been as bad as you make out.”

Some rapes are much worse than others, involving more violence, greater fear of death, more than one assailant and so forth. This doesn't mean that other rapes are not serious or not actual rapes. Often, victims struggle to use the word rape because they don't feel what happened was quite bad enough and because they are deeply invested in avoiding any drama. Dissociation is a common reaction to the shock of an assault, which can mean that, on auto-pilot, the victim is sociable and friendly with the rapist in the immediate aftermath. Together with domestic violence – of which rape is often a feature – victims often see a choice between carrying on with things as they were and getting back to normal as soon as possible, or else identifying as a victim, condemning their friend/ lover/ spouse/ family or community member as a rapist and disrupting every aspect of both their lives.

So often accounts of rape begin, “I wasn't raped, but this thing happened to me once where I was forced to have sex against my will...”

This isn't victims' fault, and nobody should be pressed into using language about their own experiences which they don't feel comfortable about.  However, the rest of us need to get this right.

We generally struggle to use the word rape or even sexual assault when it is appropriate. The term “had sex” is overused in reporting of sexual crimes, even when discussing the abuse of young children. Julian Assange is currently suspected of rape, but the word is rarely used when discussing his case, regardless of anyone's stance on his as-yet-uncertain guilt.  In the coverage of an upcoming film about Mike Tyson, I've heard reference of “his time in prison” but not the fact that he was put in prison for rape (which in most minds, is towards one end of the huge spectrum of things a person can be imprisoned for). I've even seen film reviews that refer to "rough sex" when the only sexual content is an unambiguous rape.

I don't believe that this is because people don't know what rape is.  I just think we're massively squeamish about the word, like we are about some anatomical words - rape is perhaps a word we wouldn't use in front of our grandmothers. But this is part of the reason why people can commit rape and frame what they do in the language of say, men's magazines. If we consistently used the word rape to describe any time someone has sex forced upon them, it would make it far more difficult for rapists to rationalise their future crimes.


8. Avoid humour around rape and sexual aggression.

Many jokes about rape and sexual aggression muddy the water about the acceptability of these behaviours.  Sure, people laugh because these things are shocking to say and hear, but they are rendered less shocking by the saying, hearing and laughing. Jokes don't make people rape, any more than racist jokes make white people go out and beat up black and Asian people.  However, I guarantee that rapists, like violent racists, are much more comfortable in an environment where the joke is on the victims of their violence.

Meanwhile, I think this saga, which continues into the comments, demonstrates how shocking it can be to people who consider themselves harmless and decent to realise the hurt, distaste and profound mistrust that this kind of humour can elicit from people who have experienced, or are at higher risk of experiencing, sexual violence. You may be free to joke about whatever you like, but you will be judged for your humour and you will help create environments which make some people feel safe and others feel alienated. It's worth considering what kind of people you want to reassure and what kind of people you want to push to the edges.

I'd include in this, don't use the verb rape to mean kick ass, thrash, wipe the floor with etc., in a competitive context, e.g "Chelsea are going to rape Man U this weekend."  Stephen recently reported reading the phrase "raped by the postage" to refer to someone being charged high postage. I mean, just no!



* This really shocked me, because Mum is in her late fifties, is made of very stern stuff and would probably respond to the same story coming from another woman with a cunning plot to bring about the creep's humiliating comeuppance. But when it was her own case, she reverted to a young girl second-guessing herself about leaving a party to avoid a boy who just groped her - except that among her machinations, she argued that because of her age, the man couldn't really mean anything sexual or pose any kind of threat.

** Not all women have any interest in male attention, but many women are socialised not to rock that particular boat, regardless of sexuality.

What I might have learnt from Reality TV

For many years, I didn't watch television and it was during this period that Reality TV became ubiquitous.  Friends sometimes sent me videos of comedies and Dr Who and when BBC iPlayer came along, I got to see a lot more telly, but it never occurred to me to watch any of this reality trash.  Then I began living around people who'll watch whatever's on - you know, what is actually being broadcast at this very moment - and with Stephen, who is an extremely intelligent, cultured and widely-read classicist who enjoys Come Dine With Me and other programmes of that ilk. Usually, but not always, programmes that involve some cooking and some bickering.

Reluctant at first, I gradually realised how very useful Reality TV would have been, had I only been exposed to more of it in my youth. I have generally been very lucky with people; I've always had a few good friends and a considerable number of very lovely people to speak to.  But like everyone, I have been stung and I think Reality TV could have helped me avoid some of these stingings.

The first and greatest lesson illustrated so extensively by Reality TV is that decent people, with all the basic virtues in place, rarely need to protest their decency. This realisation could have saved me a great deal of heartache and confusion, had it only come earlier. I'm now able to recognise a particular vice whenever TV contestants or new acquaintances say a little about themselves and include statements like

"I pride myself on being honest." (I am not at all honest.)

"I'm not interested in playing games." (I have a cunning plan.)

"What you see is what you get." (I am manipulative and I judge by appearances.)

More than once, I've met someone who has mentioned, repeatedly, how very important honesty was for them; how above all else, at whatever cost, they aimed to be honest. Then later on, I realised they weren't. I'm not talking massive swindles here, but petty dishonesty, exaggeration, making impossible promises and giving different accounts of the facts to different people. I have had friends like this, and how much damage it has done depended on whether I ever actually had to rely on them for anything.

It doesn't occur to ordinarily honest people to say that they're honest, because honesty is fairly normal.  Describing oneself as particularly honest is a little like boasting, “I don't steal from anyone.”

Then there's the use of honesty as a pre-emptive justification for bullying behaviour;

“I say it how it is.” (I go out of my way to be offensive) 

“If people don't like to hear the truth, it's not my problem.” (I like to tell people things they don't want to hear). 

“I can't stand people who can't take a joke.” (I will hide behind humour should anyone call me out on my behaviour.)

Honesty isn't about saying whatever passes through your head. Lots of things pass through my head. Apple crumble! See? A lot of those things - like that next thing I thought of just now - would cause me a great deal of embarrassment and shame if I said them out loud, as they occurred. But most of the time, that's not a problem for me or the people around me. I sometimes do express some of my strange or foolish thoughts, but on the rare occasions that other people are upset by them, I don't respond with, “What's the problem? I'm just saying it how it is. That is an ugly dress and you do look a little like Yoda in high heels.”

Adult bullies frequently use honesty as an excuse to verbally abuse those around them, as if the possession of an honest opinion is like a having a gestating alien in our chest, something that's going to burst out during dinner whether we like it or not.  It's really not.

Incidentally, there's a world of difference between not saying cruel or offensive things and avoiding important subjects for fear of offending people. Vigorous honesty and openness is probably as often used as a mask for bullying and manipulation as social etiquette and familial obligation ever were.

Meanwhile, there's

“People either love me or hate me.” (My mother loves me, grudgingly, on a good day, when she remembers me as a baby and forgets the monster I grew up to be.)

The only people who truly divide opinion between extreme camps of adoration or disgust are very famous people, who we know by their persona or politics rather than personality. Socially, nobody is the human Marmite. Mind you, even Marmite isn't the Marmite Marmite, given that I quite like it once in a blue moon and my sister isn't especially keen but doesn't mind it. So it seems very unlikely that, even if a Reality TV contestant were to smear himself with Marmite - and that's probably happened on Big Brother before now - that people would either love him or hate him. Probably nobody would want to invite him into the hot tub.

However, if someone behaves badly and is mean to other people, he may be universally disliked. I have known ordinarily awful people who divide others between those who can tolerate them and those who can't tolerate them, but that's hardly love or hate.

Regardless, if you suspected that you were regularly eliciting an extreme negative reaction from people, even if other people thought you were great, you'd probably think to work on the negative bit, work out what was going on and, if you could, sort it out. None of us can please all the people all the time, but most of us can manage to avoid acquiring enemies within five minutes acquaintance.

Finally, there's

 "I am a real eccentric." (My hobbies are gardening and sudoku, which I do fully-clothed.)

 "I've always been a bit of an outsider." (I've had a very privileged life, of which I am ashamed.)

"I'm always making people laugh." (I have this one joke about a man with paper trousers.*)

There are all number of traits which it is so unwise to attribute to yourself.  True eccentrics are all but oblivious to their eccentricity - that's part of what makes them eccentric. Almost everyone feels like a bit of an outsider, until they don't, but only people on the inside have the privilege to talk about being on the outside like it's a good thing. And comedians, even truly hilarious intelligent comedians, make their job ten times harder by telling people that they're going to be funny. All this stuff is like saying that you're drop dead gorgeous on a dating site. It's stuff you have to leave for others to judge.

Of course, as well as being better able to identify vices and flaws in others, Reality TV has taught me how to describe myself:

This is me. I am what I am. I am all about keeping it real. Some people may like me, some may not, but most are likely to react with something just the positive side of indifference. Some of those opinions may change after they've come to know me better.

* What do you call a man with paper trousers?  Russell!