Quick hit: unilad set to return

Still laughing? These statistics, just like the article’s statistic that 85% of all rapes go unreported, illustrate the reality of the rape culture in Britain. It’s far more complex than just one “Uni Lad” making a joke about rape. One joke doesn’t cause rape to happen, but it also doesn’t exist in a vacuum – it contributes to a society were rape is trivialised.

43 per cent of female students who’ve been sexually assaulted don’t report the attack because they thought they’d be blamed for what happened. Almost half of unreported attacks on women students are not attacked because the victim fears they will not be taken seriously.

In January, Alison Saunders of the Crown Prosecution Service told the Guardian that, “the demonization of young women is contributing to the failure to secure more convictions of suspected rapists… Some victims are deterred from coming forward because they fear they will be vilified.”

Rape is one of the few crimes in which the behaviour of the victim is scrutinised so closely: Why were you walking home alone at night? What were you wearing? Had you been drinking? Were you on a date/in a relationship with the attacker? None of these things alter the fact that sex without consent is rape, yet the victim-blaming myths and accusations prevail.

[studentjournals] by my good friend Sarah Graham.

In brief: I need tunes

Right, I have finally upgraged to spotify premium. After battling with its restricted “open” allowances for a while, I gave up on spotify altogether, but was then faced with the hassle of ensuring that I had all of the music I wanted stored locally (on three computers and one iPhone). That got very old very quickly.

A tenner a month isn’t that much, really, to have everything you want where you want it all of the time. So that’s what I’ve done. However, I had become quite accustomed to using spotify for finding new music and I haven’t been bothered to look in its absence. That’s where you all come in. I need recommendations and I need them now. So have at it in the comments. Thanks.

tenderhooligan does a little bit of literaryism

Ah, do you remember when I used to read all the time. I used to have about four books on the go at once. (It’s to do with a generally short attention span but there was a book for every mood. It’s the only way to read, I think.) Then, Bad Things Happened and I stopped reading for a while and I am only now starting again. I’ve found, however, that my favourite authors are not pleasing me any longer. Take Will Self, for example. There was a time when I would have lived and died for the next Will Self publication but now I think that he and I are just about through. Yeah, he’s pretentious, arrogant, tautologous and he certainly doesn’t have any bother turning a reader’s stomach when he puts his mind to it, but I did love to read him so. (I do have an attraction to a sordid mind, it has to be said. See above for Bad Things Happening.) Two of Self’s recent novels have not pleased me at all, however.

The Butt, a cautionary tale about stopping smoking I think, was my first disappointment. Well, it was about what happened to one Tom Brodzinsk, really, who, on holiday in an unnamed location, flicked his last ever cigarette from his hotel balcony and burned the living hell out of a sunbather below. That’s a mistake our Tom won’t be making again for he finds himself at the mercy of a seemingly corrupt criminal justice system when he’s charged with ‘assault’. There’s a questionable (and possibly paedophilic) ambassador or helper or something who appears shortly after the cigarette-flicking incident and it’s all downhill from there. So far, so good, one would think – right up my street – but I just couldn’t feel it. Tom wasn’t at all interesting or sympathetic and even when his wife and kids took off (for reasons that were not at all clear), I couldn’t muster up any compassion for him. (Of course, Self is not famous for creating sympathetic characters but I want to be able to feel something.) I ended up quitting Tom and his dubious friend about half way through their adventure. I have no idea how it all ended up, but I would say it was in tears.

Then I gave a collection of Self’s short stories – Dr. Mukti and Other Tales of Woe – a go. Bearing in mind the aforementioned limited attention span, I thought this may be the one to get me back on my feet. The first of the short stories concerned a certain Dr. Mukti and his rival and tormentor Dr. Busner (who, you may recall, first appeared in the Quantity Theory of Insanity). In a bid to outdo each other in both love and life, they trade some poor unfortunate psychiatric patients and it all… erm, that’s all I know. I gave up on it too. I just didn’t care again. I actually gave up mid-sentence, realising that while the battle was clearly important to Drs Mukti and Busner, it was not at all important to me. I enjoyed the next short story – 161 – much more. Real people, real lives, real pain, real sentiment. When I’d finished that, I decided that would be enough of the whole thing. The volume is now in the Possibly for Oxfam pile.

In non-Self news, I next read a Bukowski. I was much younger, much more naive, and much, much, much less feminist when I read my first Bukowski, Post Office. Chinaski, the autobiographical protagonist in many of Bukowski’s novels, is a hard-drinking, hard-talking, hard-loving gentleman of letters who has as many hangovers in a year as he does female conquests. And he never seems to blink an eye. When I first encountered him all those years ago, I fancied myself quite in love for a while. Such freedom of spirit and expression. And the sex; so much sex. I was all sorts of taken with it. I had put off reading Women, the last in the Chinaski trilogy, for reasons I can’t quite remember now, but I picked it about a month ago. Dear Lord! What a fucking horrible man. How could I ever have had a soft spot for him? How could I ever have even have liked him!? Abusive, nasty, misogynistic, horrible, horrible man. That’s the point, of course, and exactly what we’re supposed to think of him, but still. Horrible! To hell with freedom and love and passion, the man’s a fucker and reading about his escapades was torturous (“I got drunk, I got up, I slept with some poor woman, I wrote a poem, I fell over, I got drunk, I got up, I slept with…”). I thought I was going to have to scrub myself with bleach to get rid of him from my mind, but it turns out he hadn’t infiltrated it all that deeply this time. Bukowski was certainly one of the most talented writers of his generation, and his depictions of ordinary, far-from-perfect lives were very affecting at times but MAN, I hate that Chinaski. By definition, I suppose I probably now hate that Bukowski too.

What I’ve been reading – French ads, men against rape, condoms in Uganda, and Nigerian traffickers

Where to start. It’s been a busy week in the blogoshere. There’s been a lot to talk about.

In no particular order:

• The iconography of French advertising (theillusionists). This is a discussion of the very obvious objectification of women on Parisian billboards and the effect that that may have on the pervasive sexism on Paris’ streets (and, presumably, behind its doors). It may, the author admits, be a simple correlation but it’s a noteworthy one nonetheless. These ads “confirm”  the sexual availability of women for our happy sexists (with one going so far as to claim that “Everything is allowed”) in a culture which is all too ready to take that on board.

• Men speak out about the sexist coverage of rape (msmagazine). And this is a call to action where men (for a refreshing change) ask that coverage of rape moves away from its frequent demonisation of victims to focus on the men who perpetrate these rapes and the culture which not only produces them but insists on apologising for them and condoning their actions afterwards.

For too many young men, communal rituals of sexism perpetuate negative notions of manhood. Most of us are rightly horrified when we read about gang rape. But group sexual assault is best understood as being at the extreme end of a continuum of behaviors that normalize men’s sexist treatment of women. What about college guys hiring strippers for private parties and openly calling those women “bitches and hoes”? And let’s not forget–an entire genre in pornography is devoted to simulated scenes of gang rape, which in many quarters is considered socially acceptable entertainment for men, who sometimes watch it in groups.

• The sisterhood of “the pole” (jezebel). We may not like it (and I, for one, object to jezebel’s title) but the sex trade exists though God knows I wish it didn’t. This piece looks at a side of the sex trade we don’t hear about very often and discusses the strong bonds that are often developed between sex workers in their daily lives. It might not mean much to you but it might help to remind you that these women are, indeed, human beings after all.

• 83% of women in rural Uganda have never used a condom (newvision). The piece is entitled 83% rural women shun condom use which is a somewhat misleading title. Further reading indicates that this issue is not about “shunning” condom use but is rather more about these women not being able to insist on condom use because to do so is (1) not “normal behaviour for women”, and (2) not possible given the lesser place and power of women in Ugandan society which makes it difficult for them to enforce condom use with men. The figures on HIV and other sexually transmitted diseases speak for themselves.

• Finally, for now, Nigerian traffickers use black magic to trap 1000s of women to send to Italy for sex trade (theindependent). This one is not for the faint-hearted. Nigerian traffickers are reportedly terrifying the living hell out of trafficked women by using a West African religion (“juju” ) to ensure that these women are fiercely loyal to their traffickers. Let the following excerpts tell you what you need to know:

Nigeria’s human traffickers are using black magic to trap thousands of women like Rita into a life of sex slavery in Europe. Eastern European gangs use violence to coerce the women they transport, but the “madams” at the top of the Nigerian trafficking chain don’t need muscle – they have juju on their side. It is a form of ritualised extortion that allows Nigerian women to be both perpetrators and victims of the exploitation.

… Rita says she has no choice but to carry on working. Before she left Nigeria, she swore an oath of loyalty to her traffickers in a traditional religious ritual, a practice I was investigating for Channel 4′s Unreported World programme. She promised to pay back the cost of her transportation to Europe and offered up her soul as collateral for the debt. When she arrived in Italy, she was told she owed her traffickers €50,000 (£44,000), as well as extortionate living costs, including €300 a month in “rent” for the right to solicit from her particular patch. “I can’t escape this unless I pay,” she says. “Africans have very strong charms that can destroy someone in the twinkle of an eye.”

… The condom-strewn lay-by near Bergamo where Rita picks up clients is a far cry from the Europe she imagined five years ago when traffickers approached her in Edo. “I was happy that I was going to Europe to feed my family,” explains Rita, 27. “I didn’t know it would turn out to be like this.” She now sleeps with about 10 men a day, seven days a week, for €20 (£17.50) a time. She will work even if she feels ill, even if she has her period, even though she has been badly beaten in the past.

Keep your eyes peeled people. There’s a lot going on in the world.

Reading etc.

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The Pausers

I’m a little astounded that, on only my third post since I resumed blogging, I’m not only about to repeat myself but I’m going to talk again about bad acting. But I’m going to do it anyway; astoundanation bedamned. A week or so ago, I posted this entry about Tudors star Jonathon Rhys Myers. I noted that, in his role as an ageing Henry VIII, he’d taken to lowering his voice to a unseemly level and pausing (for God knows what) every couple of words. It was taking approximately twice as long for him to say every sentence as it would take any of the rest of us. It is very possible, of course, they didn’t have enough script so his pausing was strategic, but we all know that’s not true. I’ve just watched the last episode of season four and, thankfully, the last episode ever. So chronically dreadful was Myers’ performance in this episode that I sat on my couch willing with all my might that the King of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, Head of the Church Of England¹ would just die already and put us and him out of all our misery.² It was flipping torturous, even if the wonderful Anne Boleyn did make a brief appearance (head reattached). I was embarrassed for him, as I have been frequently during this season. I very much imagine that his colleagues must have been behind the scenes on the set laughing and saying, “What the hell is Jonny at? Do you think he’s having some sort of stroke?!” Horrendous!

I have an acting tip for Mr. Myers right here. When you go to, say, a restaurant, would you order thusly:

I would like the
…
…
Ceasar salad
…
…
but go easy on
…
…
the croutons.

No, no, you fucking wouldn’t. So why is it acceptable to punctuate so absolutely needlessly when you’re pretending to be Henry VIII?! The old charmer sounded like a busy man, to be honest, burning all those heretics and beheading all those traitors, so I’m sure he just spat out whatever it was. Henry VIII was no pauser! You, my friend, sounded like a bollocks.

–
¹ Commander of the Sun, Ruler of the Kingdom of Tortoises, Emperor of all that is Good and Purple… Christ, I thought he was never going to finish.
² He did die eventually by the way. Yes, Henry VIII = dead now and, with any luck, Jonathon Rhys Myers = out of work actor now.

I’m the Doctor, and I just snogged Madame de Pompadour!

It has to be said, I’m fussy about my Doctor Who companions. In fact, I’m probably fussier about my companions than I am about my Doctors.

Historically, the Doctor’s companions have been very hit and miss. Patrick Troughton’s Jamie and Zoe were wonderful; Jon Pertwee and Tom Baker’s Sarah Jane was divine; Baker’s Harry was a joy; but his and and Peter Davison‘s Nyssa and Tegan were dreadful. Etcetera, etcetera.

In the new series, I adored Rose. I thought she was great and I could have watched the natural chemistry between her and David Tennant’s Doctor all day. It was so wonderfully reminiscent of Tom Baker’s Doctor and Romana. It’s no wonder she stayed in the show for so long, for she was both popular and good at what she did.

Martha, bless her, was a disaster. She couldn’t act, she was annoying to watch (I still impersonate her constant breathless panicking for a friend), and for someone who was apparently studying medicine, she was really very stupid. (In real life interviews, it seems the actress who played Martha is, indeed, a bit thick.) Praise the Gods they got rid of her quickly, even if she did have to make several Russell-T-everything-must-be-massive-and-brilliant-Davies reappearances. She’s gone for good now, I think.

Donna was just as you would expect Catherine Tate to be, but it worked. Again, she and David Tennant’s Doctor worked very well together. She was clever and engaging. I wouldn’t have liked her to be any more Catherine Tate but she hit the mark well. She’s a funny woman, really.

But few can match the sheer obnoxiousness of Amy Pond, the companion in the current series. Here she is, travelling with the universe’s most interesting and engaging genius, and she spends her time trying to make out that she’s cleverer than he is. She’s really not. Every line is delivered in a, ‘Yes, I know, you’re boring me now’ attitude and tone of voice when we all know that there’s no way she could know that and she’s just being deeply annoying and arrogant. She was constantly nasty and selfish towards her fiancé for no reason, and (with only a smattering of exceptions) she seems to be completely devoid of human emotion. It’s very hard to watch her and I tend to look away from the screen a lot when she’s on it. If I didn’t think better, I would believe that the production team told her to ‘play it psychopathically’ but that’s surely not how WHO does business. I think she’ll be in it for another series, or we would have heard otherwise by now. It’s a shame, really, for she’s totally ruined this one for me and I’m sure there are plenty out there who could do a much better job.

The Chokers

I love The Tudors. I love the costumes, the pretty people, the scenery, and the over-wrought and oft-ridiculous performances. It’s silly and engaging telly, and I wouldn’t be without it. Plus, I want to sleep with most of the cast.

But what in the name of all that is holy is Jonathan Rhys Meyers doing in this last series? Now, he’s an insufferable little prick to watch at the best of times but he’s really pulling out all the stops for series four. In series one to three, his general modus operandi was to SHOUT every single emotion, regardless of what it was, or at whom it was directed. When he wasn’t shouting, he favoured pausing after every two words in a sentence to make his point. He made his point, you could argue, but it wasn’t worth listening to after the second or third round of tedious delivery. He’s a very limited actor, there’s no doubt.

In series four, he’s upped it a notch and has taken to talking in a Very Deep Voice (whilst still shouting and pausing for every line). At first, I thought he probably had a cold on the day of filming so I could let it pass, but as it continued, I realised that he was doing it presumably because his character (Henry VIII) was getting old and he thought this would be the best way to convey his increasing years. It’s so really not. (Oi, director, you’re supposed to know things like this.) I know quite a few aged gentlemen and none of them speak like they’ve just started choking on a piece of toast, so it’s beyond me why he thinks that this is an effective strategy. Frankly, I think that members of the over-paid acting fraternity should know better if I do. I find myself looking at the screen and saying, ‘Clear your throat, man, what the hell’s wrong with you?!’ Or, at the very least, hoping when he started that carry on that someone had the good sense to slap him hard on the back a couple of times to put him out of his misery. Or, you know, his face. Whichever was closest…

Doctor Woefully Awful

It’s not often I break out the old blog these days, although I certainly have a few things in mind that I want to blog about. Let’s start with Saturday night’s Doctor Who. Oh dear God, yes, let’s start there.

I was excited for Doctor Who’s return at the weekend for, with all its faults, it’s a damn good show. And the good outweighs the bad. There’s been lots of coverage, of course, about the new Doctor and about David Tennant‘s departure from the role, but I’m rather more interested in changes in the writing team. Now, all due credit to Russell T Davies (RTD) for resurrecting Who after its 15 year break, but my respect for him largely ends there. RTD cannot write. He’s the head writer of a major television production, and he just cannot write. Something isn’t right. Yes, many will argue that if he’s given the time to think through his stories, and he takes the time to scribe coherent ideas, he’ll manage to come up with the goods. But I disagree. I’ve seldom enjoyed an episode penned by RTD, and Saturday night was no exception. Let’s summarise what happened. We had a wooden companion who we were presumably supposed to like, a handful of vacant and pointless characters who served no purpose other than filling out the numbers, and a sloppy story premise which involved – as it always does in RTD’s episodes – the end of the world. Again. Groan. The first ten minutes were wholly derivative of Midnight (another RTD story), while the remaining 50 were a mix of unimpressive special effects and RTD’s trademark ‘cryptic’ prophecies. There was little discernible story arc and there was even less to engage the viewer and make them care. So the world was going to end again or something. Isn’t it always Russell? The whole thing was just embarrassing. I was bored out of my mind.

One poor episode I could forgive, of course – God knows we’re used to them by now with RTD – but my concern is for David Tennant. He’s been the best Doctor, in my opinion (and he’s had some hard acts to follow) and I feel bad for him that this – this inconsequential, lazy rubbish – will be how he finishes out his days in Who. Tennant acts his little socks off every single time he’s on camera, and he himself must feel dejected that he has this nonsense to work with. I look forward to Steven Moffat taking over the writing team shortly, for he is very talented and he never fails to please, but it will be too late for David Tennant, alas. He’s just going to have to put up with these horrendous stories in the meantime and hope that his fans know that he’s better than them. This fan certainly does.

Boy stabbed. Sister actress makes news.

Another stabbing in London. Yes.

But does it strike anyone else as strange that Ben Kinsella’s death has become more about his ex-Eastenders actress sister than him?

The Mirror: EastEnders star Brooke Kinsella in emotional tribute to murdered brother

BBC: Sister’s tribute to ‘true angel’

The Sun: Stabbing grief of EastEnders star Brooke

The Telegraph: Ben Kinsella, brother of EastEnders actress Brooke Kinsella, is murdered

Sky: Actress Pays Tribute To ‘True Angel’

Daily Mail: EastEnders star’s tribute to murdered brother as she begs for end to knife epidemic

Guardian: Brother of actor is 12th teenage stab victim

The Times: Actress Brooke Kinsella’s brother is London’s latest knife victim

I’m not really sure what that’s about, but it makes me feel very cynical and uneasy. When I walked past the newstand in Tesco this morning, I saw her face five or six times. I saw his once.