Dear homophobic (and/or religiously bigoted) fuckturds of the world...

'Gayness' cannot be taught. It is not a disease that you 'catch' just by hearing about it. Nor is it a choice, unlike the way that your RELIGION and fucking INTOLERANCE is. Quite simply: you chose to be odious, they didn't.

People struggle to leave religions fully after they have grown up within a particular religious culture. The 'culture' bit of the religion - not the indoctrination, not the abstract theorising (though it may to some extent stick) - but the culture bit sticks. These slices of ritual offer people familiarity and comfort. Rip them out, and you are left with a tottering, hollow shell. It is a part of identity that they struggle with for peace.

Now, think about gay people. Gay people struggle to accept their sexuality fully, having grown up (in most cases) within a particularly heterosexual culture (do you see what I'm doing here? Yeah? You better). The 'majority' bit of the culture - not the lack of attraction to women, not the society-assigned 'effeminacy' (though it may to some extent stick) - but the 'majority' bit sticks. This awareness of being suddenly and inadvertently 'outside the norm' offers people self-loathing and misery. Rip them out, and you are left with a possibility for self-development. It is a part of identity that they struggle with for peace. Graham Greene (a Catholic at that!) got it: suffering is identity.

Now many, many people in this country are somewhat unshowy by nature. They personify this verse, from Coventry ska legends The Specials' classic and angry hit, Concrete Jungle:

I won't fight for a cause
don't want to change the law
Leave me alone, just leave me alone
I want to get out on my own

Many of the gay folks I know, even if they might be out on a Gay Pride march, are hardly Peter Tatchell. Stop trying to turn them into your radical, minority 'Other.' You must feel so fucking pleased with yourself that your harassment ends up producing enemies that weren't even there to begin with. They're not paedophiles. They're not interested in your sex life (so why are you so obsessed with theirs?!) and they sure as HELL aren't interested in you.

Johann Hari's article is apparently about the Daily Heil's (formerly Hitler-supporting paper and online messageboard home-away-from-home for BNP knobs) 'vile campign against teaching kids about homosexuality.'

Oh, let me see. The Heil considers itself a 'Middle-England' paper, and by the look of the lobster-hued, jowl-and-froth 'I love herd mentality' types I've seen reading it (though, let's be fair here, there are plenty of moronic Asians and Blacks who read it too. My own fucking SISTER brings it home from the gym, sssssssssss), it unfortunately is. I have been holding my Listerine-laced breath with anticipation of the day when hackers set their sights on its website (goodbye Femail! Goodbye faux-concerned pictures of women naked/gaining/losing weight, with subtle bitching from fellow females! GOODFUCKINGBYEHAHA). In the absence of that, I'll settle for some mild hypocrisy-debunking.

If some of the Heil's target audience's precious little darlings wanted to study Performing Arts, they would probably prematurely expire at the chance of having even momentary contact with Sir Ian McKellen. Sir Ian McKellen, aka Richard III. Aka GANDALF. GANDALF is the God of wise-old-man dramatic roles, thanks to Sir Ian McKellen. He kicks Dumbledore's ass (both of them - although one of them died, so I am sorry if that is horribly offensive).

BUT - BUT - what will Jean "How about LESS sex education" from Blackburn,Lancs (no, I will not correct the fuckturd spacing error there, much as it kills me to refrain) do when she finds out...

*tremble*

... when she finds out he is A POOF!

That's right! Like so many other successful and admirable individuals on this Earth, Ian McKellen does the naughty with other men!

When you watched him, in Richard III, or Lord of the Rings, did you sit there, thinking 'Wow, sir Ian McKellen acts so well, despite his GAYNESS' or 'Wow, I would've expected Richard to start commenting on how well-coordinated the army's uniforms were, because the actor that plays him is GAY, but he didn't, he just efficiently dramatised Shakespeare's Richard in a whole new context!'

No. No, you did not. (Or maybe you did, in which case, you need help. Seriously. Urgently. Preferable in prescription-pill, or therapy, form...)

And I bet if he was running a drama workshop which your brat(s) benefited from, you might even be MALFUNCTIONING right now.

Now we know you 'Christian' (or whatever else) Mailites claim to be obsessed with what you can't see (God), and take literally that which is now past (the happenings in the Bible).

Here's a little suggestion for you. Less obsession with what you can't see (homosexuality) and more taking literally of that which is now past... but not irrelevant (Jesus's - and whoever else's - teachings). Alternatively, do as the Pope has done, and try to make it all go away by indulging in a prayathon. At the very least, that'll get you indoors and out from under our feet, while we aim for the more inclusive future, eh?

P.S: My brain has had it with the term 'PC gone mad,' and has replaced it with 'P. C gone mad.' So, when idiots start - gingerly, or frothingly - trying to rave about 'the PC brigade,' I will have a vision of a charging group of bleating IT technicians. When I hear 'PC gone mad,' I will have a delightful mental image of a personal computer going all Marvin on its owner, before growing to Godzilla size, hopping round the city, and then leaping - splat - onto the Daily Mail offices. Byu-da-full.

Sikhism and Homosexuality

Firstly, I'm going to brandish my big, big stick and say that if there are any homophobes hoping to get lucky with this blog title: tough titties. VERY TOUGH, DRAGON-SCALY, LEATHERY-HIDE TITTIES.

Now that I'm done with that necessary introduction, here goes. I saw a post on Sikhism and homosexuality a few days ago on Pickled Politics, and the first comment on it made my blood not only boil but STEAM. It brought back in a flood all my rage and fury at the world, all my doubt of God that was born in my teens with the discovery that so-called Sikhs were really not the people they claimed to be.

My parents are a prime example of this. Vivid in my mind even now is the memory of my dad, in response to a BBC news item about paedophiles, spluttering 'Bloody gays and lesbians!'

Naturellement, my ears pricked (or rather, popped), I swivelled round on the computer chair and then got myself into one of those classic, thankless, arguments in which I can never win (I have since learnt to avoid these wherever possible). Instead of engaging with me as an adult is supposed to do, my father shouted at me for daring to contradict his painfully stupid and bigoted beliefs.

Here I am again, wading in where not wanted per se, delivering a Not In My Name. This shit is personal, muddafuckas. Were it not for the shocking bigotry of people like you, I might still believe in a God today. As it is, I can't rid myself of the trappings of Sikh culture just like that, especially not when it carries so many progressive and inspiring role-models and philosophy.

So yeah, homosexuality is NOT counter to Sikhism. There is NO condemnation of it, neither in the Guru Granth Sahib, nor in any of the accounts of the Gurus' lives.

However, there IS a stipulation at the very heart of Sikhi which states that Sikhs should stand up for the downtrodden and the oppressed. Linked to this, as far as I can tell, is Guru Gobind Singh Ji's notion of the ideal Sikh as a 'saint-soldier.' In Guru Teg Bahadur's time, this meant martyrdom to protect the Kashmiri pandits. In a story (which appears to be little known), Guru Nanak Dev Ji, the founder of Sikhism, was brought two pots of sweets by a devout Muslim (who had bowed to the star marking the arrival of a saint on Earth) when he was born, one from a Hindu sweetmaker and one from a Muslim sweetmaker. The Muslim wanted to see which religion the saint would favour. The baby Nanak smiled and simultaneously placed a hand on each covered pot. Maybe it will sound tragic to the militant athiests, but I remember reading that as a child and it gave me goosebumps even now, to remember the picture of the haloed child smiling with wordlessly eloquent love and serenity upon his delighted guest.

Now, I take this personally. Call it megalomania if you will, but I do feel responsible for helping others when I see the possibility arise, and for trying to treat others as I wish to be treated. Not to be confused with 'liberal guilt,' which I feel is intensely unhealthy (guilt generally tends to be, except for in a few instances, such as during mourning...). Which is why I've taken the job here of hammering home the message for the hypocrites and curious bystanders out there. I found this blog, which sums how I feel up:

Hollow Rituals Have No Value
Service to people is service to God.
Rituals, if hollow, value not.


There was a rather impressive bit of sophistry [/sarcasm] in that first comment, which I've also noticed subsequently noticed in followers of other faiths (notably with the idea that homosexuality can be 'cured'). It is a twist on the idea that homo (or bi) sexuality is a choice. What happens is that (hypocritically enough), intolerants lump together the idea that homo (or bi) sexuality is a 'choice' with the idea that it is some sort of perversion which the person can't really help. So, it's a choice because it's not natural, but it's a perversion because it's not normal. Like an illness, and of course, people can't help being ill, now, can they? Aahhh, I understand now.... (not).

How do you solve this knotty paradox when reality threatens to intervene? When people won't just shut up and become 'normal' and heterosexual even though you (and no doubt, to some extent, they) keep telling them to?

Easy. Align their sexual orientation with 'lust' and then tell them, opaquely, sanctimoniously and unhelpfully, that lust is a sin and that we should all try to 'overcome our desires' (near-exact paraphrase of a bit in that first comment!). What you really want to add, but don't, because it would derail your faux-compassion, is that: 'It's OK for people like me, because we have babies and you don't, so you're a waste of time. I mean, let's be honest here, this whole organised-religion business is just a giant popularity contest where we all want the most followers, and gay believers are a waste of time because they have no babies!'

(God, the way these people carry on about gay love. You'd think that all those gay people who want to be able to get married were having sex right in their faces, 24/7. I just love the way they can't seem to distinguish love and lust, mistaking the former for the latter. No doubt, vice-versa too - which sure explains their disgusting attitudes towards rape).

If 'lust' is really so dangerous, then imho, all those Catholic paedophile priests, as well as anyone who's ever abused their religious high position (I'm sure there are gianis and imams and rabbis and so many others who are nowhere near approaching saint level, to put it euphemistically) need to be dealt with fast. Give them electroshock/humiliation/flogging/social ostracisation therapy. Failing that, do as Lost in Showbiz commenters often wish upon celebrities, and have them fired into the Sun by rocket.

Well? I'm waiting!


(Quick and fervent round of applause for faisal, who, ahem, reworked the bigoted comment as follows):

Bigot (referring to self as 'Mangles', I believe 'Mangled' would be more appropriate!):

Guest by my guest and find a faith that accommodates your principles instead of trying to hoodwinkle and tarnish the good name of the SIkh faith and our Great Gurus. A homosexual wanting to be a Sikh is like a Tory wanting to be a communist, no offence to either, but the two do not corrolate.

faisal (in response to Leon, post #16):

Leon by my guest and find a faith that accommodates your principles instead of trying to hoodwinkle and tarnish the good name of the Sith faith and our Sith Lords. A homosexual wanting to be a Sith is like a Rancor wanting to be an Ewok, no offence to either, but the two do not corrolate.

Comedic brilliance.

22/04/09

Suddenly and inexplicably subsumed by bitterness. The sort of bitterness that crystallises into white logic and anger. Why are some human beings born 'wrong'? If you are depressed, you are 'wrong.' Your mindset is 'wrong', not positive, because instead of thinking about racking up achievements, all you think about is trying not to die and making the day-to-day business of stability a manageable reality.

So why are human beings who are 'wrong' born in the first place? Why are they encouraged to go on living? How much relief do things like relationships and love and passions really bring, when in the back of your mind you know that you are not normal? The next ambivalent occurrence to hit you will do just that - hit you, strike you, knock you off-balance altogether. While you're trying to deal with it, like a normal person, the white logic sets in, and that's when you remember. How can you? You're NOT a normal person.

Cancelled end-of-week commitments. Friend trying to convince me to come by text. She wrote 'I'm beggin u'. Yes, you are. Begging me to such an extent that you won't even ring me and ask me. You'll just concede limply, like you always do. Just another one of the many patterns in my life in which I awake to find myself trapped, every nerve to my mind freezing with white logic.

Everything falls away so alarmingly fast. How can I trust? Why can I not trust? In my gut is the terrible fear that suddenly re-emerges to question everything. The terrible fear that slaps optimism aside. The white logic that repeats, matter-of-factly, yet evil (I know it is evil, it must be) that the answer is death, death, death.

Found myself wondering what it might be like to be with a lover who hits you. Is the certainty what attracts other women, intelligent women, women who really ought to know better? The consistency? The knowledge, buried deep, that one day, they will either kill you or you'll snap? Is there a perverse empowerment in the knowledge that you have effectively chosen an embodiment of the end of your life, stretched the cord of your life out to the lunging executioner?

The bitterness was like acid in my dry mouth, I closed my mouth and felt the grain of it. The defeatism of my thoughts scared me. I told myself that I shouldn't think like that, that it's wrong. Yet a voice in my head told me, well you are 'wrong,' what are you going to do about it?

Broke down and cried. Bitterness burnt into anger, distilled into thick, thick nausea in my stomach. Cried hopelessly, laid on the bed, wishing for the courage to die. Went to the mirror. Stupid, tear-stained face. Cried some more, sat at the computer, trying to make myself type this.

Not exactly calm now, just sick. Typing this, as the only thing left for which I could live. A chronicle, a record of how it really was, of how utterly, purely unhappy I was for that time. Perversely, that is what I live for. 'Literature is analysis after the event'. In the end, no-one and nothing remains with me, for me. Except my chronicle.

PP meet-up the THIRD

WARNING: This is a post of incredible mediocrity, as I have spent the whole day doing an essay that I now see in my nightmares, while simultaneously panicking about upcoming exams and work-placement. RUNAWAY! RUNAWAYFAST!

That's right. That's right mofos. Here is the write-up that none of you have demanded, and that even less of you (yes, I know it's theoretically impossible for 'less than none of you' to exist) care about reading.

Pickled Politics, that blog what I read, had a meet-up yesterday, and I went to it. There happened to be civilians ('non-regulars') present and consequently, an equal number of white people and non-white people for once! Though it must be said that the turn-out could have been better... like if the thread for the meet-up had gone up sooner... *coughs and looks deliberately in Sunny's direction*

Sunny, our Lord and Master was of course present. A struggle betwixt his inner Body Clock (set to run on Indian Standard Time) and his better instincts had obv. ensued, as he was only an hour late. He told me to give him a hug as I was staring, half-blinded somewhere in the direction of the sun behind him (I would tell you why if I could work out why myself... For now, t'shall be blamed on a heady mixture of dry-ass brownie (oh, NT, do you know how my heart withered and died with every love-free disintegrating bite of the broken top? The inside was moist. Why then, a top crumbling like old-person foot?), sun exposure, not enough sleep, walking around and being inappropriately dressed for the outdoors. A sausage sandwich may also have been complicit.

So yes, our Lord and Master, living fully and ironically up to his name, commanded me to give him a hug. I lurched to, wondering if by some trick he was going to move and I would end up dangling around his neck like a pendant ( which incidentally, The Libertarian's favourite economist has been accused of being...). The awkward grapple lasted mere seconds, after which I was returned, immensely relieved at having neither incurred nor caused any injury, to TL. The mysterious 'people on the second floor' looked at us from the table, and my sense of irony kicked guiltily in. The Second Floorers were both very slender, probably thinner than me; further down the table, right at the end, were two women of a build closer to mine, who seemed to be enjoying a never-ending meal. Rowenna - the female of our Second Floorers - disposed of them with the polite efficiency of a sort of cross between Uma Thurman's Bride and Mary Poppins. Sonia and I were suitably impressed; then, with TL in tow (of course!) we sat...

... and talked about legalising drugs. Immediately prior to this, Sunny introduced us in customary fashion: 'This is -----, she's a blogger and on Pickled Politics.... What's the name of your blog again? I never remember it.' Thank you, for that demonstration of support, O Great One. 'Get there steppin',' I reminded him sheepishly. TL, Sunny and Sonia then cranked smoothly into action while I sort of tried to arrange my upper body at 45 degrees to the bottom, fuse with TL and generally avoid the suddenly-unfriendly wind. It began with Our Lord telling us about the author of Freakonomics writing another book, which he had brought with him, about being a gang leader for a day. My hood went up. I mentioned The Wire and Ben (with perfect timing and quite possibly taller even than he had been at the previous meet-up) took the piss.

We shifted indoors, and I ended up 'at the head of the table.' However, for a good 10 minutes, I was preoccupied with trying to make myself sufficiently taller than said table so as to be able to feel like an adult whilst conversing like one. I achieved only the former, and only just. I don't know what happens to me at these events. The inner child is awakened, and cries out for satiety. I blame the seats. When you have to fight to keep your chin above the table surface, I tell you, you just can't take discussion of Moldovan election issues quite as seriously as they deserve. Having Ben (who turned out to be 6'3'', and hence the tallest real person (i.e. 'non-basketballer') I have ever met, and that INCLUDES my brothers-in-law) to my right didn't help.

Fighting down the chaos inside, I ventured to make conversation LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE DO, with D-Notice and Ben. However, as seems to be characteristic of every meet-up at the NT so far, a uniquely British band (I think they were blues?) were playing as we tried to have lengthy and intellectual discussions. I say 'uniquely British' because I returned from the toilets to hear the singer bleating 'Too many cooks spoil the stew'. Not the broth - that dodgy foreign word of proverbs and Americans - but stew. Aaah. :-D Neatly-attired old white people sat, enraptured by this lyrical gem, saved from blending into the background by the gentle luminosity of their grey/white hair.

I don't know what happens to me, but every time I'm at the NT for a meet-up, I just want to RUN AMOK. Maybe it's the way I dress. Perhaps my neon-green tights and bright blue miniskirt had somehow infiltrated my bloodstream, and worked their way up to my brain? Lots of old people. With their clutch purses and pearl necklaces. Enraptured to stew. 'Twas all sweetly tragic. Some perverse instinct was urging me to jump on all the tables like a five-year-old and/or draw my rather wordless compatriots into a game of Musical Padded-Stools. Political bloggers are a serious and mature bunch, and I, unfortunately, am not.

Then, I remembered that D-Notice had been regarding me in a perplexed manner and decided to prove conclusively that I am not the freak I in fact am. I made jokes to reassure him and Ben of my (ongoing) sanity. They laughed, and sometimes I even heard what they said! W00t. However, Ben confessed to having read this blog, which was almost enough to make me fall off the tiny tower of scrunched-up Libertarian-jacket, scrunched-up hoodie and Libertarian wallet narrowly keeping me at their chin (if not face) level. Two posts at that. I later revealed to him that I thought Oxbridge people were androids. He then revealed that most of his family were Oxbridge-ites. I conceded that maybe there are some out there who are merely part android. Oh, I learn so much from my blogging associates.

I also tried desperately to complain about the culture of impatience and its effect on blogging to my poor captive audience, whilst wondering what the fuck I was actually talking about. I remember complaining (repeatedly) about right-wing trolls, spelling and syntax (urgh, how original). D-Notice laughed at least twice, reassuring me that the words had left my mouth in the right order if nothing else. Then, contrary to my best wishes, my brain informed me that BIATCH, I was hungry. I tried to continue seeming erudite and civilised as a mental screensaver of different types of cakes began (why? why? I blame that GODDAMN brownie again). Then, the smell of sausages descended. I resisted the urge to bob hypnotically to the wafting scent like a snake being charmed.

Blah blah blah, Sonia told me a lot of very interesting things about hijabi women such as Shelina Zahra Janmohamed (whose book, Love in a headscarf, I highly recommend!). I took the piss out of TL's eating habits to her, and he began to stop having elite political debates, and grin slightly at me. Sonia quizzed him with her usual forensic meticulousness about what he ate. I laughed. Rowenna, overhearing mention of Cambridge, joined us. I asked her about her article on the 'blokeosphere', which I unsurprisingly agreed with, and whether it was designed to elicit waves of absolute nobs proving her point in droves in the comment box. She laughed and explained to the others. I suggested that perhaps such commentators should be diverted towards taking pictures of their penises and posting them in the comment box instead, as that might at least be entertaining. She laughed, but I was serious. Everyone's been going crazy for Susan Boyle on Britain's Got Talent... It's evidently time for another Internet Sensation.

So, to ease the frustration of all them there Cif-ers who think they're a cut above because they post on the Guardian website, I say this: bring it. Bring the cocktasticness. If you still desperately feel the need to invent creative (read: stupid) names for Gordon Brown or froth uselessly about 'ZaNuliarbore,' feel free. You could Photoshop in a little placard with it on, so it looks like your penis is protesting. Or get it in there in some other amusing fashion. Then, send in separate pictures of your faces so that we can have fun matching up the two. I mean, seeing as how you think virtually all the female writers are 'feminazis' who of course can't by definition be straight, why would we laugh? (Er...) The winner can get a brand-spanking new porn career.*

So yeah, Rowenna was a very nice lady, but today I found out that apparently she is only a year older than me, and now I am terrified of her. Nyrone, who was his usual mellow self, arrived unexpectedly and got on like a house on fire with her for what may have been all of eternity, before revealing that he got a job at Al-Jazeera English. Classy! He also praised me for my honesty when writing (and wasn't the only one to do so!). I ended the evening looking into TL's eye and muttering about enchiladas. On the way home, I proceeded to fight hunger by gossiping about Sunny like a harridan of the highest order. I leave you with this, which was delightedly and pointedly brought up by TL and I. Two words: sexy goatee. HILAAAAAARIOUS!


* career not included.

P.S.: I found out what I would be, were I a pop song - and I didnae even need a fucking Facebook quiz to tell me.

When you look in the mirror.

I have thought for a while about writing this post, but for some reason I didn't. Then, I got a surprisingly good response to my 'Easter Monday' post which I really enjoyed writing, and decided to go ahead.

Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror and criticised? Everyone does it. It's what happens afterwards that counts. If your self-criticism develops - say, for example, you look at your hair and then you move onto your nose, or ears, or whatever - then you may be interested in reading on. If, however, you are of that rare breed of person who is efficiently practical in how they go about it - 'Ah, my nose is a little out of joint,' then you might not wish to. Yet - hang on, I can't actually think of anyone who thinks about themselves in the latter way, apart from when we look at something which we have the immediate power to change. Say, for example, I may look at my eyebrows and think 'Ooh, they could do with being neater,' but that's rather different from when I look at my breasts and think 'Why must you be so disproportionately big?!'

So many of us look in the mirror - or at our bodies - and we have that little snowball moment when the self-criticism just keeps growing and growing, and quite probably births a shadowy, snapping Pac-man of insecurity that closes its jaws over us. Suddenly, our mood is ruined and the happiness of the day is never quite completely recovered.

In my class Crises of Consciousness: American Writing, 1880-1915, we've been reading scraps of psychological/medical texts alongside the usual literature. Unsurprisingly, it's made for a very interesting reading experience. The sociologist Charles Horton Cooley wrote a bit about 'the self' which we looked at, developing on the ideas of that pioneer of early American psychology, William James, brother of the novelist Henry James. Don't run away now, I shan't load you down with biography any further!

William James is revolutionary (to me at least) in that he proposes that we all have at least two selves: our 'inner' (or 'real', if you will) self and our 'social' self. However, it gets more confusing than that. Apparently, a man effectively has as many social selves as there are people who know him.

Stop and think about this, and it makes a lot of sense, doesn't it? Of course all your friends and family and whoever else will all have a particular image of you in their head. The image may vary little across certain groups or pairs of people, but vary it will because people are individuals. Cooley's twist on this is that not only do we have a minimum of two selves, but that our 'inner' self is in itself actually two people. 'The impulse to communicate is not so much a result of thought as it is an inseparable part of it,' he says in Human Nature and the Social Order, chapter Sociability and Personal Ideas.

So... we do not communicate because we have thought; rather, we think, therefore we communicate. He describes the tendency of children to have an imaginary friend and how this is carried over into adulthood in our tendency to have conversations with ourselves, and also in our tendency (though not everyone necessarily does this literally), to treat our daily process of living as a sort of ongoing narrative. Essentially, what he is saying is that our thought manifests itself as a sort of inner dialogue.

Again, stop and consider this. We as human beings have an ongoing 'stream of consciousness' where our brains are processing information and reacting to stimuli non-stop. Alongside this is a steady conversion of rudimentary impulses into mental expression: thought. This often means that thought is being converted into language and vice-versa (especially if you're in contact with other people). for example, you may hear your thoughts as your own voice, or see them as words... or both... or even images... or all three... We are not simple creatures at all, are we?

So, whether you like it or not, you are effectively two people. You are 'other' to yourself at all times. People often view this negatively - and no surprise, because it's rather a scary thought. It also sounds slightly fantastical. Yet, there it is: you are two people. One of you is noting everything down - the observer - and the other is reacting to what the first notes down, if you want to think of it that way. While you do this, you (I mean both of you :-D) are in the presence of other people, and you may be looking for the disparity in them too, but without realising; say, in the way that you look at both a person's body language as well as their verbal communication when you 'socialise.'

So, look at yourself in the mirror again, and this time, STOP the critical impulse. Pretend you are a baby or a child. Do babies look at themselves in the mirror and criticise their teeth? No - because they're not developed enough to convert and shape thought. Thought is purely reactive for them because the critical parts of their brain aren't finished growing. Hence they look around and see things in a truly 'naked' sense.

I did this with myself. I stared at myself, and then I tried a little experiment. I looked at the face in the mirror and thought Hello. I switched on the light and refused to be cowed. Hello, I thought, you are me, and I am you. That means nothing, because I don't see you all the time, do I? You're not projected out beside me, like a full-colour, 3D hologram-shadow, when I walk to lessons, are you?

I thought about this. It was true. I didn't even have a full-length mirror, so every day, I looked at the neck-up part only. Every day, as I set off for lessons, my judgement of how 'good' or bad' I looked was based on my neck, face and perhaps a few snatched glimpses of me gained by jumping up and down in front of the mirror. So where did this picture of me in my head come from? It came from previous reflections caught in the mirror. From pictures. From the words of others.

I looked at myself again, coming back out of that temporary smokescreen of thought to the face in the mirror. So, I thought, there I am. Or should I say, there 'you' are. Naturally, there was no response, but I could sense agreement in the impassivity of the face. If you think about it - and of course you are, because you are me - I didn't exactly make you, did I? Mute agreement. You were sort of formed, and conferred on me like a judgement. Yes. I don't think you look like me. No. But that's because I already have an image of me that's internal, that lives in the words of my thoughts. It's built on things like 'sarcastic,' 'foodie,' and 'loving'... Well, quite.

So, if you - I mean me - I mean we - think about it, the 'real' or 'usual' or 'inner' me doesn't even have a face. No. Strange, isn't it? Very. Well, if I own you, but didn't make you, I shouldn't have to take full responsibility for what other people think of you. Damn straight. That means I don't have to own criticism of you. You're effectively an autonomous being. I came into the world, and so did you, but there's not much I can do to control how you're seen. No. Because, you see, that goes back to things like genetics and biology... and then on a level I suppose it does affect me, because if I am nice to people, they will find a way to like you. They might call you 'serene' or 'beautiful', as they did with Princess Diana.

Yeeees? ... But that's just ironic isn't it? Of course things like 'beautiful' exist in the head, in abstract form. Then, you shoot them out through your eyes and your mouth onto other things. Now you're getting it. I am. I see how it works now. We all apply our feelings to each other, all the time. Our sight is almost never 'naked'. I'm looking at you now, and I have made myself SHUT UP. I have made myself SEMI-BLIND. I see features. You are a pair of shoulders and eyes, a nose, a mouth, a face. A hairline. I made you carry a lot of weight for a long time. Sorry about that. Do you want to be friends? Why, sure. There's a condition, though. Which is...? In future, you're going to criticise me, because you're human, and particularly because you're female. I want you to remember this conversation. Remember it fully. We're not the same. We belong to the same 'person,' but I'm almost like another person. You see me in the mirror, like somebody else - the only difference that you take liberties in criticising me, that you wouldn't usually dare to take with somebody else. Again, I'm very sorry about that. Good. Now, run along and don't forget what I said. If ever it gets bad, keep looking at me, until the tears are in your eyes. The tears will blur your vision - but, I bet before you even reach that stage - you'll stop looking at me even as you continue to criticise. You'll retreat within a cloud of your own masochism. I mention the tears just to illustrate the lengths you unknowingly go in deforming me. It's not fair, and it's not right.

No.

With that final admission, I realised I had gone 'out of myself' - just as my impassive face had warned - and into the world of thought-filtered vision. I looked at the face again. I remembered the hypocrisy it had justly charged me with. I vowed to be honest with myself, as I always sought honesty elsewhere. There were spots. Eye-bags. The nose could have been perfectly straight, and anger burst through me. Was I a mannequin? - no! The faults lingered - and slowly, circling them as though it were a Heat magazine spread - I pushed them back. I called forth my whole face. Yes, the spots and so forth were a source of dismay. Yet the eyes were undoubtedly interesting. The mouth had a sensuous fullness to it. Like a jigsaw puzzle, I placed the eyes above the eye-bags, the mouth below the nose. The spots fell into place against a backdrop of otherwise obedient and even-toned skin. The extremes of my like and dislike cancelled themselves cleverly out. It had been difficult and a sense of fear lurked unexpectedly in me. Yet, I had done it. I had called my face up to me, whole.

I would be very interested to see if any of my readers try this with themselves, and see what happens. You don't have to do as I did - just stare in the mirror and have a brutally honest conversation with yourself. Put those masochistic tendencies to novel use, and I for one would be intrigued to see how it makes you feel.

Must... spill... guts...

OK, I'm snapping. I'm officially snapping right here, and right now, and the results may be ugly but really, who gives a flying fuck? I will feel the mad elation of the recently-confessed sinner. Forgive me Father, for I have had bad thoughts about my contemporaries and now I must repent.

Now, I don't know if any of my readers read Penny Red, but I used to link to it, and it's a good blog, no doubt.

I stopped linking to it recently, though. Do you know why? Because I realised, it kind of pisses me off rather a lot sometimes. I feel bad about this - there should be no reason for a well-written, ingeniously-analytical feminist blog to make me get really, really riled up. Yet sometimes it really does. When those 'some' times roll around, I want to stuff a knuckle into my mouth, eyes rolling wildly around like the ungrateful lunatic that I am and choke down the waves of fucking irritation.

See, as per the female stereotypes, I initially assumed I must be jealous. Laurie's slightly older than me - not even a year, really - and much more accomplished.

Then, I got real. Like fuck is it jealousy. Maybe if I were subconsciously my mother, I could safely believe in jealousy as the reason.

No, the reason why they drive me mad is because they seem to absolutely drip with dishonesty. I don't mean that in the sense that she's lying, I just mean that there is something strangely false about the way she writes. An anonymous commenter left this message on the latest post:

Very well-written article. You seem to have two sides to you, one that writes great stuff like this (although I don't agree with a lot of it), and other stuff that comes across as studenty rant. Stick with this stuff, but try to be a bit less old-left. I think the world has moved on from some of the stereotypes you use.

Exactly. Thank you, Anonymous. In many of Laurie's articles, as somebody previously handily pointed out on Liberal Conspiracy (don't make me look for it, you bastards!) you get a lot of good rhetoric - very stirring/rousing/whatever, and when she deals with stuff that is obviously from immediate personal experience - her angry feminist stuff and especially things dealing with female body image - the writing lives. It crackles with the lightning of unbounded, shameless self-expression that makes 'personal' writing (such as blogging) truly 'personal' and captivating.

However, in a lot of other stuff, the rhetoric is just that - empty pretty words, and it does feel 'studenty.' Oh, let's start a revolution on the weekend, shall we? I find myself thinking sarcastically. There's nothing wrong with being idealistic, but if you're claiming to be revolutionary, why don't you be revolutionary? Bring something new to the table instead of blatantly resurrecting the creaking ghost of Old Socialism. That's not to say the socialism is the problem - it isn't. It's the tone that's the problem. Take this article '1984 in 2009', for example, on Liberal Conspiracy. At the end, she says:

We are more than the queue-forming, forelock-tugging, tea-sipping, biscuit-eating, pet-shop-boy-listening people of popular mythology. We are, at the root and bone, a nation of king-killers. I think they’d better watch out.

What utter balls. Who is this fictional 'we'? The people of Britain? The people of Britain are not your fellow socialists, girl. They popularise the Sun and the Daily Mail. For someone who strives constantly to be a Superwoman of anti-prejudice, it's not only the taking the 'us and them' line that surprises (classic 'othering' tactic of racists, misogynists, et al, anyone?) but also the apparently-betraying a certain type of middle-class arrogance. Doris Lessing captures this middle-class arrogance perfectly in The Golden Notebook, showing the irony of a bunch of white, middle-class, Communist twenty- and thirty-somethings all with deeply divergent aims, in Africa trying to propagate Communism during a time of apartheid. One of the characters, Paul, in a moment of cynicism remarks:

'Suppose the black armies win? There's only one thing an intelligent nationalist leader can do, and that is to strengthen nationalist feeling and develop industry. Has it occurred to us, comrades, that it will be our duty, as progressives, to support nationalist states whose business it will be to develop all those capitalist unegalitarian ethics we hate so much? Well, has it?'

- The Golden Notebook, p. 101.

I.e.: your good intentions may be good for you, but not necessarily good for others, do you see what I mean?

I may be seeming a bit unfair here since I've picked out this particular article, but I have read a lot of Laurie's stuff and indeed, y'all may want to go check more of it out. The overwhelming feeling that assaults me, having read a great deal of it, is of somebody who wants so badly to be all things to all men, women, animals, etc. that she could easily end up being an MP a few years down the line. You only go all-out friendly with people if you want to be liked, right? This feeling was strengthened when I met her in person. The red light in my head that is reserved for such occasions screeched 'POLITICKER! POLITICKER!' when I had a chat conversation with her a while after our meeting, and she could barely remember The Libertarian (who she has met thrice). I was absolutely appalled. Shouldn't somebody who is a 'socialist, feminist... queer' who is 'plotting to subtly re-arrange the world to suit her ideals,' remember TL?

'Well, he is your man,' you cry. That wasn't what bothered me. What bothered me is that Laurie embodies her labels - that is, she becomes THE socialist feminist queer (et al) - by way of her lovely rhetoric quite frequently in her posts. Evidently, as I observed, that makes her a politicker - she wants to become 'the voice' of people like her (Rhetoric is the tool of politicians, isn't it?!). Which means she should remember who she networks with and - this is the crucial bit - who she needs to remember. I'm no swaddling babe, I know politickers are ruthlessly efficient socialising machines who remember people as and when they need them. Hold up, though - TL is the embodiment of privilege. He is a white, middle-class male - exactly the sort of person I'd think she's trying to engage in discourse with - and furthermore, sympathetic to her cause. A blogger who blogs on issues concerning 'minority' females, a group that liberal feminists are all agreed, needs reaching out to. Yet he didn't make enough of an impression for her to remember him. After three meetings.

I told TL about all of this, and he wasn't too impressed either. I think this whole thing has opened my eyes significantly. I'm deeply, deeply disappointed that I find myself in a world of clichés with somebody who is supposed to be more intelligent than me. Sometimes she plays 'the girl that boys AND girls like' in the guise of the 'unthreatening! liberal-not-radical! feminist' (as in the most recent post), sometimes she's the 'voice of angry women'... Ultimately, I can see her ending up as an MP or, I strongly suspect, a columnist. I'm repeatedly struck, as I've already said, by the stereotypically feminine need to appease that just radiates out of most of her material (not the journalistic stuff on the whole), anger being brought out only when it's useful. That's what I mean. Dishonesty. Schtick. It pisses me off. If you're a feminist, it should always be OK to be angry. Why, then, that sense of creeping fear? Why the need to appease? Why all the student-revolutionary bullshit, and the liberal guilt?


In a post on the vigil for Ian Tomlinson, she wrote:

When the tealights blew out in what seemed to be the icy gust of a hundred closing shutters, I lit them again. And people started taking pictures of the cute girl in black lighting candles, because of course the image, not anything we actually think, is the important thing.

That's what I meant by 'middle-class arrogance', because I mean, c'mon, you just know that (in bold), that's the kind of sanctimonious bull that'd pop up in a Guardian Cif piece about Jade Goody, or whatever. Maybe the people thought you were a weirdo, maybe that's why they were doing it. Or maybe they just wanted some memories of the event? I also hate the tendency she has to 'novelize' certain events she reports on her blog. No, don't do that, that's part of the problem! We need to fight the 'I, I, I, me' cult-of-personality that seeps more and more into journalism and the reportage of events nowadays. If you're writing something that will end up being used elsewhere (as her stuff frequently is), please, cut yourself out of it as much as possible unless the post is meant to be about you. This was about IT's vigil, not you being moved to sniffle and people taking pictures of you, and I don't give a fuck about any of that.

Do you see what I mean about her? I hope you do. Scratch the surface of the rebel-labels and you get subconscious attitudes, and behaviour, which is nauseatingly conventional. No-one's saying that feminists should become a parody of the 'angry man-hating lesbo femonazi' insult that's so often thrown our way, but if you really believe that 'the personal is the political,' that famous 70s feminist slogan, why not be more honest? You don't have to be good to every online commenter who concern-trolls you. You don't have to try to impress people on Liberal Conspiracy. Tellingly, as I observed, her articles that touch on the genuinely personal are good. The journalistic stuff is again mostly quite good (again, mostly when it touches on the personal, such as her article on anorexia on the Guardian website - oh, look it up yourself). Stuff like this is good.

Two-way connection is necessary, but both parties should lean in for the conversation, if you see what I mean. When I see Laurie trying to be everyone's best friend, it puts the lie to her labels, because you can't please everyone and people won't let you be all those different labels at once! Sometimes, it's not your job to educate the information-starved masses. Put the liberal guilt down, and step away from your pretensions. You are not a 'rebel,' you're a politicker. You've written for Labourlist. You're pretty much a Labour activist. Tell people to take a hike and learn shit themselves from time to time - being a liberal feminist is somewhat paradoxical, and you need to exploit the space that that paradox affords you. Write for yourself a little more.

Finally, before I collapse with fatigue and antihistamine - yes, as a woman, you do have some understanding of being 'second-class.' Yet you're not exactly on the level of a Muslim woman, or someone like me - you have ambition and you have a 'voice' and a platform. Society will tolerate the likes of you far more readily than it will conflicted types like me. It has tags all ready and waiting for you, and surely you must know this. It gives you your 'subversive' tags and you accept them in exchange for the realisation of your ambition. So, get real. You're not the voice of all oppressed women, nor are you the dark, spicy and seedy underbelly of what's respectable. You are inside the system, and that's the only point from which a person can ever work it. Fuck the rhetoric and the labels. Life ain't easy. You're you, and capable of bringing some real good shit to the table - so bring it.


Apologies to anyone who now thinks I am batshit insane. I am just going to blame all this on Doris Lessing.

Easter Monday

What a wonderfully flat title. It imparts factual information (telling you of the day and the date), without hinting at anything within the body of the post. Yet that is just the point. For once, I am writing as I need to. Writing as I used to. I have no game-plan, no conclusion.

I cannot seem to accept myself as I am. I realised the other day that in many ways, I am a desperately lonely individual. I am that 'ivory-tower intellectual,' although of course, I'm not because life is more complex (read: nuanced) than that. I have the humility and apprehensiveness of a religious person trying to live in adherence with a detailed religious code - without the certainty of a Supreme Being. 'Believe, then,' you might say. 'You did once, you can do it again.' I'm not sure if belief and obedience are the same thing. I'm not sure if a desire for stability and genuine religious devotion are the same thing at all. I think it would do the genuinely-devoted a real disservice to claim that they are.

Everyone reads. Even people who boast of never reading a book, or having read very little in their lives, read to some extent. You can't help it now, can you? I read, like a thirsty little sapling drinking in all it can get, when I was younger. A very strange mix - abridged Reader's Digest novels, autobiographies, the Reader's Digests themselves, books for my own age-group, pizza leaflets, recipe cards... If it came under my nose, I would read it. Family (my cousin in particular) compared me to Roald Dahl's Matilda. I always smiled uncomfortably. Keen to learn and imaginative, yes. Child prodigy, no.

That desire to learn, when not checked by the pervasion of specialist jargon (or for that matter, any sort of foreknowledge) or the presence of complicated mathematical figures, has never left me. I still trawl sections of the Internet for articles, for blogposts, in short for literature. I don't get to read as much as I'd like to these days; obsessively swallowing large quantities of text and then being pressed to produce focussed critical analysis at a rate of knots can really leave a bad taste in the mouth. The terror of enjoying a book, and then finding my brain mechanically deconstructing it afterwards, makes the pursuit of reading more complicated than it ought to be.

So yeah, I read a lot of stuff on the Internet. Lest we forget, the Internet is a communicative rather than an educative medium, and so much of what I read is accompanied by comments from ''readers.'' I put that in inverted commas because what strikes me, especially when reading things on Comment is free, but also occasionally on Liberal Conspiracy and Pickled Politics - never mind on other sites - is how little people actually seem able to 'read' now. The smooth and steady process of information does not appear to be happening. What actually happens is reaction. Lots and lots of it. Even those who think they are being witty very rarely are and are simply indulging in smartarsery that brings to mind the big-mouthed kid in the playground who wants everyone to agree how funny he/she is.

To return to what I was saying, I've discovered a new motive hiding away, like a stow-away, alongside my desire to learn. It is a desire for companionship, for agreement - in short for community. My loneliness is amplified by being a solitary individual by nature. I also have an intense need for guidance (being young and confused) which sits uneasily with a distrust of dogma and diktats. I don't distrust authority per se, but I have an absolute horror of groups. This comes from being an 'outsider' within the most prominent group of my life - my family.

So of course, I'm trying to resolve all those paradoxes by creating a new one: finding other 'slippery fish.' Other people like me, who are almost a walking 'stream of consciousness' in themselves. I feel a sense of spiritual kinship with some people I read, people I don't even know, sometimes. I may never meet them, I may not even agree with them completely. Nonetheless, they reassure me that I'm not totally alone. The world is changing, and when I find another, in search of nothing quite so grandiose as truth - just in search of honesty - I feel safer. I am no longer just part of the present, and I sincerely hope that all the knobs who co-opt the writings of others, to grandstand and ridicule them, will become part of the past in time. To them, all I can say is: you don't know everything. Nobody does. I don't. The sooner we halt this ridiculous trend of pretending we all know all there is to know, the better. As Forster wrote, 'Only connect.'

Reading is that most wonderfully paradoxical of things: a private communication. You are inheriting histories, facts, opinions, fears - in short, the distillation of a person when you read, particularly when you read fiction (given that fiction has more room for the personal and the subjective). That is why I find it so ludicrous the way the majority of people respond to articles. They deny the communication. They simply seek space to posture (funny that a lot of them seem to be rather unreconstructed males). It's a World Wide Web, you fools. Not a clean, linear Tube network. Yet even a Tube network goes in both directions.

So a paradox is what frees me, ultimately. Pinning down my thoughts to the (web)page frees me. I read, committing myself to the thoughts of another, to escape. A private pursuit offers me companionship, offers me freedom. And hell, if I like the 'look' of you (and you don't live abroad...), I'll stalk you and make you my friend (just ask Ala...) Scared? You should be.

G20 Protests: The Problem...

I was commenting on a thread on Pickled Politics about the G20 protests, and something suddenly crystallised inside my head. I knew right then and there that I had to write this post.

The problem with the G20 protests, I realised, is that they fit into a common, polarised narrative. The reason this scares me so much is because all the protestors are doing is expressing an anger that most people have about the irresponsible way in which our financial institutions have behaved.

Note the italics. Did you note my italics? I hope so. The reason I did that is because I want to emphasise - perhaps rather pointlessly - that many of us share common ground with the protestors. Even some readers of the Daily Fail.

That's just the problem though. The mainstream media (MSM) - and let me say that in this description, I include the free daily London papers as well - has pursued a dangerously successful agenda of 'divide and conquer.' Sunny pointed out, I think in the comments, how many journalists were busy highlighting the minority of protestors who were violent, rather than focussing on the entirely peaceful Climate Camp protestors.

Going on to any site - PP, Comment is Free, whatever - I am struck how there are a range of 'stock positions' which people fall into. When I went on to Liberal Conspiracy, the commenter 'Letters From A Tory' said the following:

Honestly, Sunny - I have no idea how you can be so naive. You join a mass protest that was always going to attract a violent element, then complain that the police were keen to contain the protest.

I wrote you a letter on my blog this morning explaining why your account of yesterday’s events is at best laughable and at worst idiotic.

This made me angry. The whole thing makes me angry. Why in the fuck was it 'always going to attract a violent element'? Why do we have these expectations of events?

Prior to the events actually happening, there was more of this sort of attitude. I read a frankly infuriating column in thelondonpaper, which I will reproduce when I get back to my flat. I notice this attitude appearing more and more frequently - it was apparent in quite a few of the letters as well. It was the stupid daily column where they get members of the public to write in about something they care about - I think it has to be 500 words or something.

The author of the piece argued that the protests were putting '1 million people at risk' and that '95% of the protestors don't know why they are protesting' (um, how do you know?). He also used the age-old assumption of many a knobhead that the protestors were simply people who didn't have a job to go to (again - how do you know?), and thereby trying to ruin things for those who did.

Behind this blithe shower of bollocks (which I found all the more astonishing given that in that very issue of the paper, there were comments on how many local businesses were actually being closed and people advised not to leave their homes in order to keep them safe - hardly 'at risk') was a common belief that I see on the Internet and in newspapers (often on the Internet versions of newspapers, haha). It was the deformation of those that one does not agree with, the lionising of those that one does agree with - in short, the breakdown of a highly complex event into a battle between two opposing factions.

The MSM has been subtly priming us to think this way in the run-up to this event, and so before, during and after, people fall back into their 'stock positions.' You have the 'amused/contemptuous cynic' (as shown by LFaT above), the 'earnest and frustrated protestor/supportive journalist/victim', the 'misunderstood third party' (i.e. in this case, people claiming to be members of the police sticking up for themselves) and then a whole load of people trying to intercede somewhere between all this.

That column exemplified this 'divide and conquer' strategy that is so often. Most often, it's apparent when right-wing papers talk about non-whites and immigrants. The 'us' and the 'them.' I hadn't realised it was being practised in this instance. I was naive; I never realised that the papers could use such an ingenious method of turning apathy lucrative. People no longer interested in traditional political parties? The Labour/Conservative divide just not working any more, because they seem to be merging into each other? Great! Give the people what they're crying for! Give them division!

It's deeply insidious - I read an interview with the editor of thelondonpaper when I was doing a project on the British and French daily papers last year. He had this to say:

"Free papers acknowledge the realities of young people's lives and, pretty much everywhere in the world, they are politically neutral. All the research shows that young people dislike political bias in newspapers and they are sick of being preached at by journalists. That's why they don't want to read columnists either."

and this

"Our appeal is that we're the antithesis of their 'Little Englander' mentality."

Riiiight - that's why you regularly publish the kind of thing that was in that daily column, and letters like the slew of ones slagging off the protestors. The star letter was from somebody advising people to 'hold up a bar of soap' to the protestors because it would have the same effect as garlic on a vampire, or something along those lines. Bullshit are the free papers neutral. London Lite and Metro belong to Associated Newspapers which publishes - *gasp* - The Daily Mail. Thelondonpaper is published by News International - which publishes The Sun, The Times and The News of the World. Gee, is anyone seeing a theme here? Lord Rothermere, Paul Dacre and Rupert Murdoch - yeah, that's absolutely synonymous with being 'politically neutral' in my book... [/sarcasm]

It's very clever. These freesheets may claim to be neutral by not publishing anything overtly inflammatory - but by ensuring that you highlight the content sent in by your most bigoted readers and laying out your coverage of issues just so - that doesn't sound politically neutral to me, that sounds like you're surreptitiously favouring an agenda...

So yeah, as I already commented, now we have 'ordinary, peaceful, hard-working Britons/Londoners' vs 'jobless/time-wasting, violent protestors,' 'helpless scapegoat working-class City employees' vs 'middle-class protestors who are probably all in charge anyway', 'the faceless and brutal police' vs 'well-meaning but radicalised protestors', 'the trouble-making protestors' vs 'the poor police just doing their jobs'... On and on it goes. Of course, many of these battles are bundled up together, i.e. the first two. It's almost impressive - you can have many binaries operating at once - but somehow, we're not advanced enough to realise that real life isn't a black-and-white binary.

Shades of grey exist, bitches. Maybe it's about time we started taking the joke that all journalists are just failed novelists seriously?

Seriously though, we all need to be alert and wary, for dehumanising is a tactic common to - what? Think about it. War, yes, that's right! Consider that recent story about Israeli soldiers' awful T-shirts which make light of things like murdering pregnant Palestinian women. Think of the war on terror as well, and how the MSM (the right-wing papers in particular) have worked overtime to dehumanise not only extremists, but Muslims in general, as a way to avoid engaging with the fact that the 7/7 bombers were 'homegrown.' Sure, they reported it. However, as any fule kno, reporting an issue and engaging critically and analytically with it are not the same thing. If they were, we wouldn't have comment sections in papers, and there'd be no need for blogs.

Whether we like it or not, whether we'd take to the streets over how we felt about an issue or not - these protestors are 'us.' Bigots, unfortunately, are 'us.' Is there really a 'them'? There will, for the purposes of political manouevre, always be a 'them' but we are the ones who read the papers. We are the ones who feed off these divisions. The scores of annoying, smug pricks who were predicting how the protests would end were smug precisely because they are making the narrative. They know that life is perfectly capable of imitating art, so to speak. We can only try to keep some hope about the whole affair - and remember that everybody is human. Even Josef Fritzl, a perfect example of what happens when we fail to take adequate responsibility for each other. We lock ourselves into destructive cycles and never progress.

This bit:

his mother Maria, who herself had been fostered as a child, had had him "solely in order to prove to the world that she was not infertile" following a marriage which broke up because it produced no children.

"Herr Fritzl was a 'proof child', an 'alibi child'," she said, adding that this "was his only function as a child". "As a consequence he was a burden to her, something she was forced to look after". She said that Fritzl, now 73, struggled throughout his childhood to form a relationship with his mother but that "it was impossible to build up any sort of bond of trust with her".

The fear he felt by her constant absences was never more intense than during the second world war bombing raids on their home town of Amstetten. She refused to take refuge in the air raid shelter near to the family home, insisting on staying in the house and sending her son into the underground shelter instead. "As a result he suffered from an overwhelming sense of anxiety, not knowing when the air raid was over whether or not the only person in the world to whom he had any relationship, would still be alive," she said. "It's the type of fear that over time has a huge impact on a person".

... made me want to cry. I can see clearly how the leap from an unloved little boy to an incestuous rapist was made - and it is essential that we see that, and not tidy this all away as if it has been resolved. It hasn't. Humanity, if it really thinks it's superior to the animals, needs to learn to take full responsibility for itself. Just because we've invented the Internet, it DOESN'T mean we've got any less thick! Sigh...

A music video for cheer-up's sake. YEAH THE BLIND BOYS OF ALABAMA!

An article, which I've just inadvertently realised, plugs neatly into what I've just said.