*Excited Screams*

I've been added to A Very Public Sociologist's blogroll!

Does this mean I am doing something right 'on the blogosphere'?

(S---, please don't kill me for using that phrase. I promise I'll ration it to once-a-year's use!)


It is somewhat ironic that I am a 'new kid on the block' (although when it comes to explicitly political stuff, I am), since I've been blogging since 2006. Which is longer than some other people, y'know!


Anyway, to bed with me.

The Family Barbecue...

It was today, and as I'd feared, ended with some sort of unpleasantness for me. However, it really wasn't as expected. What I learnt from this barbecue was:

a) If someone hisses to me 'Serve them! Serve your brother-in-laws first!', whilst said brothers-in-law are busy operating the BBQ and in no position to be served, I will wander about like a lost sheepdog, unable to function.
b) I'm rubbish at serving without being prompted as to what to do. Even my father has more of a clue on how to treat guests than me. Of course, the reason I'm not as military-level trained as my cousin in these matters could be because:
- unlike her, I don't enjoy domestic duties. Terrible though it sounds, we're kind of like two female stereotypes: she's the academically struggling, practically-gifted obedient elder daughter who has grace and femininity and everything an Indian mother/mother-in-law could want. Whereas I am the nerdy, lofty-discussion-loving 'intellectual' who freezes at the sight of women carrying full dishes out to the table, uncertain of my place in the pecking order.
- the assignment of duties in these situations pisses me off so much that I have to fight off a giant mushroom-cloud of resentment everywhere I turn, thereby leaving little brain-space (or will) to do as I'm told.
c) I seem to be drifting apart from my cousin.


These kinds of situations are like a bitch-gift for me. There's SO MUCH I can lay into. However, let me begin by saying that I was really prepared to try today. I even spent the day helping my mum, mostly doing the cleaning and stuff while she cooked. I also helped out with chopping and stuff when my sisters arrived to get food ready (we had a lot of back-up dishes in case the weather let us down as well as the things to be grilled).

Everything started to go wrong when it came to laying the table and so forth. I was already a bit annoyed that all the women and girls immediately engaged themselves in the kitchen, while the boys were allowed to play Wii and the men, to talk. So, the table was laid (in the garden), the men crowded around the BBQ and, er... what next? I sat down and stared into space while my cousin slunk about with our camera, snapping all and sundry. That was when situation a) (see above!) came into play. My mother managed to shake my two Jijs free from the barbie and make them sit down.

Immediately, my eldest sister and then the younger one had the market cornered in 'serving the men.' I stood, watching helplessly, proving that I was 'too slow' at anything. I think that in reality, I was aghast. Eventually, my second sister got me to serve some things, muttering directions to me as if it were Fort Boyard. I got to eat before too long, (before my sisters and mum), feeling guilty for it and then feeling like a failure as my cousin effortlessly responded to every slightest hint of a demand before I had even grasped its meaning fully in my head.

I managed to compensate for this a little by taking everyone's dishes in after they'd eaten (repeatedly) and offering Oreos around (though I had to be told again). My mood was getting worse and worse. I hated the way my brothers-in-law went 'Well, go on then' (although to be fair, it was more one than the other) and such things as if they were being pushed to eat more and more. I hated the way we had to put them first in every situation, to make them feel their importance, that we were acknowledging their importance. I hated the way ALL the men sat there in front of the loaded table, WAITING TO BE SERVED.

This is something I find really disgusting in the subservience we get programmed into us. It is not enough for us to clean, cook and then set out the food to be eaten, all while offering the pre-meal drinks and snacks (we also have to 'socialise' before, during and after this). No, we have to pretty much PUT THE FUCKING FOOD into the men's mouths as well, as if they are baby birds and we are their mothers. The older men, I can slightly comprehend a little (especially my dad, since he still can't see properly), since they have grown accustomed to this after years and years of it. Yet seeing men 30 years their junior sitting there, expecting the same? It's a bald depiction of how little has changed for those of us who have grown up even in this country, where things are supposed to be better.

I'm sorry, but I am NOT OK with it. It makes me angry, and then what makes me feel even more hurt and alone is that nobody else sees it. As far the other females are concerned, I'm simply not quite up to scratch as one of them. Even if I could accept the notion that women should do most/all of the cooking for the practical reason that mothers don't generally teach sons how to cook, how the fuck can I accept that these boys can't even serve themselves? If a man does serve himself, you will get in trouble for having put him in that position afterwards. To add insult to injury, you're supposed to act all happy and have a smile on your face all the way through... once you've done all there is to do (which never happens), you have to 'entertain' your guests somehow (the 'socialising' I was talking about earlier).

The reason we are made to act this way with my brothers-in-law is so that they don't take any grievances they might have out on my sisters afterwards. Look at that sentence and think about what it means. Two men have the power to bring a WHOLE FAMILY to their knees because of their emotional immaturity, not just their wives! 'They are guests,' my mum told me, as if that explained everything. Right, but she told me my sisters were guests too, and yet their work was hardly unduly questioned or condemned. Apparently my younger sister's husband has moaned about that before, but I don't think he's doing it to be considerate, more to show implicitly that her family are crapper than his, so she always has to help them...

Then, my eldest sister made me the present of... a cuddly toy. With all this racing through my mind, and the memory of the previous, similarly-childish gifts she's got me (a Rugrats writing set when I was 16 or 17? A 'make jewellery from beads' set (the sort 8-year-old girls love) for my 20th?), my face fell. I couldn't take any more. I couldn't pretend I was happy with this. My brother got a 'Singh: 10' Man U shirt and was absolutely ecstatic.

I felt a bit guilty after that, because my sister then told me she'd booked me a massage at her gym, then said I could have the money instead if I preferred. I opted for the money, since I need all I can get right now. Everyone eventually shifted indoors and the dull, obvious patterns re-emerged: boys playing Wii, my cousin fiddling with her handbag, men talking about religion and the women in the kitchen AGAIN. My cousin and I had nothing to say to one another. Fed up, I went upstairs and went on the Internet.

After what seemed like forever, I went down, only to discover my mum was about to call me, because all the women had somehow ended up talking about my little cousin sister, after her mum looked through wedding pictures with her in and started crying. Great. My mum made me feel guilty, reminding me that the anniversary of her death is next month, and my cousin (her older sister) made me feel stupid when I asked if there had been crying.

Then, my mum accused me of being jealous because she saw my face sour when I got the cuddly toy and made me feel double guilty by saying I had hurt my sister's feelings by not thanking her and showing that I didn't like her gift, and saying that I should appreciate it because she didn't have to get me anything. I tried to make up for this before she left, by thanking her as genuinely as I could. Afterwards, I tried to explain the babyish gift thing to my mum, because I couldn't exactly tell my sister, could I? I tried to say that I WASN'T expecting anything, that I never ask for anything and therefore that it was a bit of let-down. I didn't want her to think I was an ingrate - it's just that when it initially seemed like I was getting a soft toy while my brother got the latest Man U shirt, you can kind of get how it felt. Plus there was the babying element.

What I really wanted to say was: 'Look, of course I appreciate the thought behind this. It's just the gift itself - if she was going to get me yet another babyish thing, which makes me feel even more unable to talk to her, she could have just saved herself the trouble, because I don't ever ask for gifts anyway. Thank you, but you REALLY shouldn't have, especially since you already gave me money and then gave me more money.'

Is that ungrateful? I have my problems with my sister, but I'm not made of stone. I hate that this happens, that I end up looking a certain way because I CAN'T OPEN UP TO ANYONE. I'm not selfish, I'm not evil, I'm just not what you expect. I'm sorry.

Recommended reading from the ever-excellent F-Word.

The best fucking song on the face o' this planet as far as I'm concerned (right now). And how classy is the video, too? Eat your heart out, Pussycat Dolls and all you other pathetic excuses for American girlbands currently around!

Why You Too Should Become An SGR Devotee

Although this Scary-Go-Round 'ad' doesn't do the gloriously, Britishly insane comic justice.

He's Leaving Home

Mon amour flies out to the Netherlands tomorrow to start a Master's.

I'm not quite coming to terms with this yet.

I just hope it doesn't happen (my coming to terms with it) anytime during the Nagar Kirtan tomorrow (which I'm assuming I'll be forced to go to well in advance), or during the family barbecue on Monday, another event I'm not exactly looking forward to.

My sister proceeded to ask us what we wanted (to make) yesterday. Then, after a short pause (in which no-one said anything, because they knew it wouldn't really matter if they did), she proceeded to tell us what she had planned. Then she asked my mum the same question. Any vague thoughts I might have entertained about asking for halloumi or vegetable kebabs went down the pan as my mum asked if she could make paneer (my sister's not going to refuse my mum! Who do you think she is, me?) and then I was roundly ignored when I suggested vegetable kebabs.

Of course, if you're being left out of something, you're going to find it dull, aren't you? Ergo, while eating my dinner (having been refused permission to head upstairs and FINALLY finish episode 7 of season 5 of The Wire), my eyes strayed to the wall-clock at least four times, a couple of times intentionally and a couple of times idly, as I mentally drowned out the talk of couscous salad and SOS burgers.

Silly me, I forgot that I was in the presence of one of my elder siblings and what the inevitable result of any kind of individual activity is in such cases. '.....! Why do you keep looking at the clock?' she asked, with that amused sneer that always makes me want to punch her square in the face.

I was 'saved' by my mother chipping in in her best woe-is-me-I-don't-understand-these-children tones, saying something along the lines of 'Don't even ask about her. She's a fanatic. She thinks this...' and the rest was white noise, as usual.
I fought the urge to take a huge, preparatory breath when I saw the amused sneer spread as my sister took in the information, obviously thinking this was A Job For Her, as a 'healthcare professional' to pontificate upon.

'Is this Paul McKenna?' she asked, with an air of expertise.
Somehow I kept my jaw under control enough to manage an affronted 'No!' It can be very damaging for one's self-esteem when one's family members assume that one is exceptionally thick and susceptible to all sorts of 'influences'.
Magically, I didn't laugh or scream while she proceeded to tell me that what I was doing was wrong, while simultaneously getting what I was doing WRONG herself, because she didn't even bother to ask me before going off on one!

So, I sat there, licking tiny bits of spinach meticulously off of a burki while she told me that I didn't need to chew every bite 30 times, and then when I said I wasn't, told me that I didn't need to count in my head (WTF?) before swallowing, or something. I was finding it hard to pay attention due to the sheer farce of the situation giving me a near out-of-body experience. Finally, patience at a single-hair thickness, I informed her that all I was trying to do was eat slower and make my mealtimes (as in length of actual eating) cover 20 minutes or more, since I had already tried it and IT WORKED FOR ME.

Fat lot of good that did. The flow kept coming, and I replied swiftly and somewhat sharply (in tone) to something else, resulting in her telling me to 'shut up and just listen'. That's GOLD, ferChrissakes! Absolute GOLD. Then she somehow turned THAT into a lecture on how I should be more obedient and dutiful and then asked me why I wasn't accompanying BOTH my parents to the shop. It seems that my dad having an eye operation, which has actually rejuvenated his eyesight, makes him older and weaker, not less. She also pulled the 'I've told both of you' despite-only-guilttripping-me classic as well. As usual, my brother got off scot-free because somehow, being male and the youngest child means that your every failing, no matter how grave (like smacking bags of frozen veg against your grandfather's face?) can be blamed on 'not mature yet' or 'boys are like that.'

Stupid, stupid bitch. I felt guilty for having such strong feelings against her, then something in me exploded underneath it all, and I thought: WHY? Why the hell should I feel bad for this huge resentment? Is it without foundation? No. Do I get treated like an adult? No. Do I get listened to? No. And yet, as soon as it suits their agenda, they trot out 'You're 21/an adult now, you need to take more responsibility/act like it.'

Well, my brother is 19 and contributing fuck-all to the world. Where is his responsibility? In the Nintendo Wii? Round one of his myriad friends' houses? In his driving lessons? At the gym, where he is obsessed with making himself 'hench'?

Also, when I came home earlier, I was wearing a dress that ended mid-thigh. She looked at me in a comically faux-perplexed way and asked me where my skirt was. I replied 'Oh, it's ridden up' and pulled it down (making all of 0.5cm difference). Then, she asked me (almost in a rhetorical way): 'Do you think you should be wearing things like that out?'

The item in question looked like this but with a higher and more closed neck, and was slightly longer. I replied 'Uh, yeah, because I'm wearing it with opaque tights' (bright red opaque tights! :-D).
'Now, I know you might have worn whatever you felt like in France' came the reply, with a very strange trout-like face being pulled and her flapping her hands near her face as if she was possessed or somesuch, 'but here' and she snapped back into her stern-matriarch pose, sitting upright against the sofa back, my mum's bulk beside her, 'you have to be a bit...'

She paused and my brother, who had been trying to contain his deranged glee since she began her haranguing, shouted almost compulsively 'With it! WITH IT!' before bursting into shrieked guffaws of laughter and falling against my mother. I could swear that that child did not receive enough oxygen in the womb.

'... conservative,' she finished. 'Hurry up and get changed, they're coming here for dinner.'
I looked at her, lost. 'Who's coming for dinner?'
Exasperation glinted in her eye. 'Do you live in this house?' she cried. Bizarre question. 'Who's missing?!'
'Dad and Uncle?'
'EXACTLY!' she said, thrusting her head forward in a sort of exasperation-shrug, as if this had been wildly evident from the start.

Wordlessly, I turned and went upstairs to get changed, marvelling at my composure.

Currently keeping me (barely) sane: Lupe Fiasco - Gold Watch.

Mad About The Boy

Dinah Washington - Mad About The Boy.

This song has graced God knows how many smooth jazz compilations, which is terrible because that almost automatically implies that it's going to be 'chilled-out' or 'smooth'. The jazz backing isn't exactly the work of musical mavericks, it's true, but it's hardly dull. However, Dinah Washington's voice and style of singing are what lift the song to 'timeless' level.

The woman who inspired Amy Winehouse and Aretha Franklin, she was apparently known for her perfect diction, powerful voice and emotive singing. In this song, from the very start, anyone who has heard even ONE Amy Winehouse song can see how strong that influence is. Amy obviously wants to become her... Despite owning both her (Amy's) albums, I must concur that Dinah blows her away quite effortlessly with this song, though I was hoping it wouldn't be so. Apparently Noel Coward wrote this song (for a lover?), but Dinah makes it hers in a way that belies that fact and would have you believe that she had written it herself.

An air of imminent heartbreak hangs about this song; that's why I love it. How often nowadays do you get simple lyrics being infused with such a dizzying, yet carefully controlled explosion of feeling? When she sings 'I'm so ashamed of it, but must admit / The sleepless nights I've had / About the boy,' I myself feel the painful and tumultuous pangs of first love once more.

'Lord knows, I'm not a fool girl / I really shouldn't care,' has me blushing and looking around guiltily as if unsure of what I'm doing. The whole fourth verse is richly redolent of teenage crushes gone bad and broken hearts. I haven't even had much experience of that (roughly none in the latter instance) and yet she brings it home to me.

I'm mad about the boy
I know it's stupid to be mad about the boy
I'm so ashamed of it but must admit the sleepless nights I've had
About the boy

On the silver screen
He melts my foolish heart in every single scene
Although I'm quite aware that here and there are traces of the cad
About the boy

Lord knows I'm not a fool girl
I really shouldn't care
Lord knows I'm not a school girl
In the flurry of her first affair

Will it ever cloy
This odd diversity of misery and joy
I'm feeling quite insane and young again
And all because I'm mad about the boy

So if I could employ
A little magic that will finally destroy
This dream that pains me and enchains me
But I can't because I'm mad...
I'm mad about the boy.


A strangely wise song about the fatalistic type of love that makes you lose your senses of reasoning and perspective. The acknowledgement and comprehension of the fact that it's a potentially unhealthy attachment ('misery,' 'insanity,' 'mad' 'pains and enchains'), that can only come with romantic experience make it more affecting, ergo its well-deserved classic status. Noel Coward is to be congratulated on his sublimely simple lyrics, and Dinah Washington for her superb rendering of it that makes the lovelorn character at the heart of it seem more pained, and less straightfowardly shameful than would appear just by reading the lyrics.

Read This Article

I mean this article.

I was furious enough as it is, although delighted by the brave women taking a stand and refusing to be forced to abort their beloved children. While there are many brainwashed daughters-in-law and tradition-hardened mothers-in-law venerating male children, there are also many women who recognise that girls are equally - and sometimes more - valuable, and many who WANT girls.


However, this bit made me almost lose my mind:

'Vaijanti and Nupur call on Renuka Chowdhury, the minister for women, who says: "This is a very, very grave situation."

She adds: "In many places, boys are unable to agree to find girls to marry. Because of this, the nation will soon face an unimaginable crisis."'


INDIANS! INDIANS AND SHAADI! Why doesn't anything else matter? Desi Italiana commented somewhat more humorously on this topic on her blog. Seriously though, it makes me really sorrowful that the situation is only grave now because people won't be able to get married. What about the whole 'killing females because tradition says so'? It's doesn't rate high enough on its own because it involves the messy aftermath of marriage (and believe me, it frequently is messy for a lot of Indians) and not the fucking build-up to it.

The notion of women as burdens and property is one that sorely needs to be blasted apart as the unadulterated bullshit it is. Even in this country, I have heard my parents talk about many people's marriages (my dad often gets dragged into these things because he's a prominent community figure) and they find that more often than not, it is actually girls who come back and care for their parents, EVEN AFTER THEY ARE MARRIED, and they - might I add, a pair who subscribe to the 'boys are best' bollocks - also admit that when you look at how much girls are made to do, just in terms of sheer household contribution, for example... If we're going to look at everything in terms of 'value', they become worth more than a lot of Indian men. WHADDAYA GOT TO SAY TO THAT, EH?!

I will say that women are probably more responsible for this state of affairs than men are, though. Women are the ones that enforce it, policing each other's behaviour while men sit back and enjoy the benefits. It is just twisted.

Finally, might I just ask, for a country that is so often stereotyped as 'spiritual', an ideal destination to 'find yourself', why the fuck is India so money-obsessed? You can't just blame it on the poverty, because even the middle-class people seem to be obsessed with making more of it. It's ironic that 'Westerners' go to India for religion and spirituality, while Indians emigrate to make more of the paper stuff. Comfort is one thing, but excess is another and the love of gold, flashy cars, big TVs and expensive dinner sets is something I am never going to get.

Some Summer This Has Been

This blog was supposed to stop being quite so personal, but when needs must, needs must. Right now, the rain pours lushly outside my window and I am listening to it and feeling quite deranged. We have had a poor excuse for a summer, all overcast skies and thick, grey humidity. The sunny spells feel like an accident, not the underpinning they should be. If God is up there somewhere, he, she or it is having a larf right now.

Despite this, rain does not make me feel like it perhaps should. Listening to it makes me feel happy, like travelling far away. It makes me think of jewel-bright grass, growing thick and healthy and hazy golden-yellow sunshine that slides in to make everything steam alluringly. In short, I'm thinking of the kind of post-monsoon footage you get on BBC documentaries about wildlife an' shit.

I have seriously gone downhill since coming back from France to discover I had even less friends than I thought I would. I long for equals or betters, but when I encounter such people, I am not worthy of them. If anyone reads this (and hopefully they WON'T), I don't want pity or sympathy, just to indulge in near-Catholic self-flagellation. Why? Why do people terrify me? Why do I freeze with fear at the thought of a sustained conversation?

I thought I have moved on considerably from the past; it would appear that this is very much not the case. I don't know where I should turn now. A big part of me wants to become a recluse. Whenever I meet people, I often have the feeling of having been suddenly put on trial; my every shake and sweat-drop will be held up as evidence against me and my reputation hinges on first impressions. Except that my shattered nerves betray me, and then I make a fool of myself.

My worth as a person should not come from how other people see me. Among a certain group of people, I am all belligerence and rebellion, positing this arrogantly. Yet among people whose opinions I care about, their approval is all I seek. I find myself needing to please almost desperately. I haven't 'moved on' at all - simply displaced my need to please from one group to another.

On a side note, my hands are getting worse and worse. It's only a matter of time until I make them bleed.

I just don't know what to do with myself, as the song goes.

Cassius - Foals. La seule chose qui me comprend en ce moment.

And All That I Sought

And All That I Sought

The awkwardness, beating against me

Like the screech of nails on blackboard, assaults my eardrums,

My cheeks are rosying with discomfort, I’m warming

All over –

And all that I sought was to be free!

To be naked figuratively, open, accepting –

And yet, not passive; a Lady Godiva of defiance,

Not this gauche restriction.

How my lips, coy, trip me with

Their sweet, speedy nonsensical ream!

I’m knitting a coffin of speech

For my self-respect,

For the more elaborate notions hidden

So promisingly, like DVD Easter-eggs

A compass without a needle,

A mass of fluid rushing madly

Without an inherent logic.

Failing repeatedly to tie

Mind and expression, I condemn

Myself to the harshest judgements

Until the praise falls upon me like

The guillotine’s blade slicing away

Silvery layers of self-assurance

Built with a silver tongue and bullshit

Made of concrete. How little

Is needed for the foundations of life,

Of years to fall away! As shame flames

And smoulders into regret,

In time leaving nothing but a

Sorry orphan of lesson learnt; the

Shivering flesh, the inarticulate screams

Of a baby.

© myself.

Who's The Boss Now?

To steal a currently oft-used phrase, 'the silly season continues,' with the news that India has launched 'Bigg Boss', its very own version of Big Brother. I found this out purely by accident, being present in the room as my parents watched Star News. UPDATE: Apparently, according to Rumbold, this has been around for some time. Wow! I wonder what channel it was on?

It is one humorous-at-least instance more of Indian hypocrisy regarding all things morality. If you don't quite get what I mean, just think about how taboo women's bodies are and how misogynists try and use this to talk about how women are so respected and honoured in Indian culture (bullshit, yaar). For evidence of this, all you have to do is watch a clip of any Indian soap at a moment where a wife is being cheated on by her husband/ being given away for the first time, and you will hear this kind of BS in some shape or form (or just look here for a good overview of things). Then take a look at this. Very funny but also incredibly disturbing.

Back to the topic. I can imagine any number of Indians condemning 'Big Brother' for its voyeurism ('how besharam (shameless)'!), never mind the deliberate 'cherry-picking' of contestants to ensure conflict, which is typical of 'Western,' exploitative, immoral thinking.

Yet all of a sudden, they have their own Big Brother! In typical Indian plagiarisin' style, it's been renamed to 'Bigg Boss' thereby losing all its 1984-associated gravity, but ah well, I doubt that many there would know or care about Orwell's classic anyway. I must specify though, that it is not nicked from the UK producers - I didn't think it was, I was just taking the piss. Normally, I could care less - I mean, it's India. Can't imagine things really getting that racy, can you? However, what really got me goggling was the fact that Jade Goody has been flown in from the UK and apparently also PAID to be a contestant.

Let me just refresh your memories. This is Jade Goody, the woman who was burnt in effigy by protestors for her 'racist' treatment of Shilpa Shetty. Who has been HIRED (for a repeat performance of dumbassery, perhaps?) by the producers of Big Brother, er sorry, 'Bigg Boss.'

Really, UK execs and ex-reality TV stars in need of a career boost could learn a lot from this. SS too has decided to exploit her own apparent exploitation and appears as the occasionally-gyrating (in the advert anyway) host. Might I also add that she was wearing a ridiculously skimpy cropped waistcoat-with-shirt-collar thing too? What is the need, really?

I find it quite amusing when people moan about skimpily-dressed Bollywood actresses. 'Why is it bad?' I ask. 'Because...' and then you can see the cogs turn as they try and think of a way to sugarcoat before the inevitable 'it's not Indian.'

So the Western world has a monopoly on semi-nudity, does it? What about saris? What about belly-dancers? However, I wouldn't bother even debating with the kind of unthinking neds who say such things. In one fell swoop, they've already revealed their thoughtlessly-imbibed-from-my-elders conservatism to me without realising.

I just think it is bizarre that SS feels she has to advertise Bigg Boss by swaying her hips every now and again and by thrusting herself about here and there. You have nice abs, lady and an unenviable figure, but all you're doing is warning us that nothing's going to happen in the show! Nobody'll be allowed to get it on, so you have to up the sex quotient all on your own! I feel your pain. No, really. Abs like that are HARD WORK. :-D

Maybe they should've got Aamir Khan in to do the same. I'd watch that five times on repeat *slobbers*.


Unfortunately, I can't find the vid, so I can't link to it - sorry!

UPDATE: Apparently Jade Goody has now left due to having been diagnosed with cervical cancer! I hope this is not true - according to the news, it's a 'scare.' If it is, may she make a speedy recovery. Damn.

Englishhhh People!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

My boyfriend just linked me to this video of fucking Steve McLaren (former coach to the English football team). The team he's coaching now are Twente Enschede of the Netherlands because, as my boyf put it, 'NOBODY else would touch him as he's SHIT - really shit.'

However, it would appear that that is a grossly unfair underestimation of Mr. McLaren's character - he's a moron too! I didn't really notice it as much at first, but he is doing that very English thing of insulting other nationalities by responding to his interviewer in deliberately slow, bizarre English (at one point, he actually says 'Everything is there for a surprise' !!! WTF?) and adopting a slight, fake Dutch accent.

Fuckin' why? Why do English people do this? It isn't just white English people of course, although it often is. By 'this', I mean trying to imitate the accent of the people they're talking to and/or speaking English slower and/or louder. If you're going to move somewhere, LEARN THE FUCKING LANGUAGE. No-one's saying you'll be fluent, but at least make SOME effort before you go there. In Paris in 2003 or 2004, I remember cringing as my parents enthusiastically mispronounced the names of things and did the talking louder/talking slower thing repeatedly. Oh yeah, and we also went to an Indian restaurant. In France.

However, I can almost forgive it in my parents. They speak three languages as it is. Learning English was an absolute nightmare for them - learning French would take so long, there would be no point at their age. My parents are the same age as some people's grandparents. On holiday, it can almost be forgiven, provided your holiday isn't a month or longer. In that case - PHRASEBOOK, bitch.

I know this might sound bad, but when it comes to fairly middle-class white people moving to Europe, though - the staid, Daily-Mail-reading, aspirational types who actually visit the chateaux near where I lived last year for enjoyment - I have very fucking little sympathy. I feel the same about ethnic minorities in the same position, but here's the thing. Ethnic minorities don't generally make a habit of moving out of choice, especially those who've already grown up in somewhere that's not their place of origin (Who does, really?!). Laxmi Mittal/Hinduja brothers-style exceptions aside, most of them aren't even rich enough to think about getting a villa in Spain or whatever.

Back to the hate-spew, though. Daily-Mail reading, aspirational pricks going to live in Spain and France and the like have never held much appeal for me, but now I feel even more coldly towards them since my year in France. There is a country that is struggling as it is to work out where the fuck to turn and what to do underneath a populist and hugely divisive president (the left HATE him, so do some of the right and the rest either don't know or are going with the flow from what I know). I heard more than one person saying 'This is their 'Thatcher years' while I was there.' I don't know about that. What I DO know is that in a country where race desperately needs to be discussed and dealt with openly and where the status of the language is continually under threat from English, the last thing they need is an influx of self-centred, bigoted, idyll-seeking Middle Englanders who don't speak their language and don't have a fucking clue about their culture. Those who live there and don't learn the language at all REALLY drive me nuts, much like the ethnic minorities who came here and depend on their children to do everything for them. Unless you're actively prevented from mingling and learning, there's no excuse.

It's all very ironic really, because these types of people, who tend to see themselves as beacons of righteousness, are responsible for destroying a lot of the 'positive' stereotypes about British people. Polite? Not when you can't even be arsed to learn the language of your new home-to-be? Eccentric? Not so much as isolationist and self-centred. Individual? Hardly, when you consider they still act like the British Empire's in place, as if France didn't have enough right-wing bigots of its own to worry about.

Of course, Spain is the country that really needs to worry, since France repels people more efficiently than Spain does. Spain doesn't have the same notorious suspicion of foreigners (be they coloured or not!) and while Spanish isn't necessarily straightforward, French is more difficult to learn from scratch.

This highly irritated and ranty post is over now. I will not be surprised if I receive lots of comments bollocking me for my intolerant bollockings of intolerant bollocks.

Alors, pour commémorer l’anniversaire de mon ami Fabien (bien que je lui aie envoyé une carte électronique et je lui ai téléphoné ce soir), voilà ce petit message et cette affiche sur mon blog (malheureusement en anglais, je sais, mais c’est difficile pour moi, être en colère en français, tu sais ; pour ca il me faut penser, et être en colère, ce n’est pas penser !). MORT DE RIRE :-P. Si tu veux, de temps en temps, j’afficherai des messages entièrement en français pour toi, parce que j’aime toujours discuter avec toi, quoi que ce soit. Maintenant, je m’arrête de me comporter comme ton rôdeur (MORT DE RIRE) et je m’en vais ! Tout ceci n’était que pour te dire que je n’ai pas encore réussi à trouver un anglais aussi intéressant que toi ! MORT DE RIRE et GROS BISOUS, je t’ai laissé ce message parce que je n’arrive jamais à finir ta lettre et il me semble que peut-être je ferai mieux à terminer le projet de le faire… ?

Made For CiF?

Inspiration struck, picking the worst time possible as usual. I decided to have a little fun, even if this will likely never grace the pages of CiF...


'Why Comment is most certainly not free'


Theoretically, you can say what you like over a page of the prestigious Guardian. But who really reads the paper editions that much any more? If you want to be heard, you'll submit your words online. Then stand back and watch your free comment become encumbered by the foamings and slobberings of a million (or more like 200 if you're doing well) half-wits.

The most astonishing aspect of the whole comment-submitting process is also how ultimately pointless your little comment will make you feel. Depending on the topic of your comment and exactly what you said, you'll get a whole range of commenters. Comment on big political issues tends to have straight-forward ideological smack-downs, with people essentially arguing over the fact that neither can convert the other to their point of view. Of course, it won't be that obvious - nit-picking over facts, spelling, grammar, punctuation or layout could be (and usually is) the way to do this. These commenters will usually spell correctly, come across as terrifyingly tuned-in and sneeringly haughty, and are at the high end of the intelligence level. Presumably some of these people don't mean to present themselves that way, but the Internet's faceless wonders come at a price, and that is of sounding as distinctly mechanical as the computer you're channelling your thoughts through.

After that come the quasi-loons. These are usually people who can, for the most part, manage syntax, grammar and spelling enough for you to believe that they might well be a real person. Then they go and spoil it all by showing that they haven't really read the comment, or if they have, have completely misunderstood and decided to plough on regardless without even a second glance. These are probably the sort of people who, in the real world, would tell you that Margaret Thatcher is worthy of respect because she was the first female British Prime Minister, but wouldn't be able to tell you much else about her or even why they agree with that particular sentiment. One fine example would be a commenter on a very recent CiF article about alcohol consumption and rape, who claimed that 'Rape can be less harmfull (sic) than serious assault.'

Another type of quasi-loons is the variety who doesn't actually say anything directly, but strings together a bunch of vaguely nonsensical sentences to hint at something. Another example is offered by the article I just mentioned, where a commenter insinuated that what Britain needed were 'common sense rules' regarding drinking so that 'It is understood, (not condoned) what may happen to women who get drunk and behave drunkenly', just like India where s/he is apparently from. Considering that that ran counter to the whole point of the article, such a misappropriation of the information presented therein was almost impressive.

Last but not least are the out-and-out trolls. These are the 'eye-swivelling nutrags' as Charlie Brooker once put it in his own 'Screen Burn' column for the Guardian. These 'people' (can they honestly be real?) have the barest grasp of language, which is fitting as their comments will have all the intellectual complexity of a child's storybook. They will be the ones who immediately resort to ad hominem insults in order to convey, with all the finesse and discretion of a steam-roller, that they don't agree with the comment. What stating this achieves is a mystery to most, but presumably it is simply a way for the troll to get what they desperately need: attention. Guardian readers are stereotypically renowned for their 'liberal guilt' and didactic tendencies, but trying to explain things to a troll is akin to punching yourself repeatedly in the face.

Saving for the best for last, in amongst the rubble of cybergabble will be some real and proper commentators. Whether they be people who offer intelligent and informed critique of the piece at hand, or simply polite and supportive readers who try and engage, they're rare but useful, and definitely appreciated. Considering how damaging the comments of one particular type of commenter can be for a 'new' writer (let alone the multiplied effect of accumulated lunacy), these are what we need more of. The types of commenters I've listed above aren't generally good for much other than helping 'new' writers develop a thick skin. Comment is free, facts are sacred, but debate is essential and something that we are SORELY in need of considering that authoritarianism seems to be increasingly fashionable all over the world. So, to the sane among you, I urge - bring it on.

Right-On Lurve *squirm*

This is a fun little post (not) so that I can do some of the navel-gazing I so roundly condemned last time. That's because I'm a HYPOCRITE, A DIRTY LIBERAL/LEFT LIAR.

Um. Sorry. Been reading this, which made me get a bit carried away.

I figured it was time to pose a question, and in doing so, get an answer for myself while simultaneously drawing out anyone who actually READS this blog.

What does it take to make one attractive and/or attracted to right-wingers? I don't just mean in the, er, physical sense here but as a friend too, because... whatever it is, I seem to have it (especially in terms of the former).

Is it because I seem soft? I don't think I'm a token leftist, although in some ways I am. I can be a snob and a smartarse, and I'm dangerously academic. The closest I get to 'keeping it real' is living where I do (hah!) which is an aesthetically unsatisfying but not too dangerous area. However, we all know that news narratives aren't the most honest, so I would be hard-pressed to tell you anywhere that really is a bad area and/or worse than where I live.

I'm generally not that combative (which is new for me, honest) because I'm pathologically terrified of making the hardcore swing from left-right that those with trumpeted convictions seem to do as they get older. The thought of myself with all-grey hair screaming 'WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!' while brandishing my walking-stick is fucking terrifying. I don't want to be a mean old mama, terrorising the skool yoof with my Freedom Pass-abusing ways.

Er... anyway... back to the topic. I try not to be fixed about things because I genuinely believe that there is always more learning that one can do. However, like all normal human beans, I do have a gut reaction to some things and I can be sentimental. I just fight it, because it's dangerous; a subtle and easy form of intellectual complacency.

So can somebody please suggest where I might be going wrong? I'm not saying right-wingers aren't good people. Some of 'em are. However, you're not going to get very far if you're a fairly passionate person and a lefty, especially in the romance stakes - good Lord.

I'm starting to get scared that maybe Ruth Fowler was right.

(Fucking hell, it looks like we've been thinking along the same lines! Albeit she got there first).

Politics and 'the game'

OK, I said I would talk about this in my last post, and so I’m trying to honour my word. Regardless of my single-digit readership, this is something I have to talk about for my own sake. It’s never impressive to be a writer and then not be able to express yourself properly, as seems to happen to me all the time. Starting regular posting again on this blog was intended to help me with that a bit. I have to remember to take Gege’s advice about joining the debating society at my uni also...

The concept of ‘politics/the game’ is not new at all (though I don’t know how old it is), but I think it helps to have watched The Wire to be able to understand it more completely (or The Thick Of It and similar shows, for that matter). In short, the way I see it, ‘politics’ is kind of an amalgamation of what Confucius and Aristotle think (or rather, what Wikipedia told me they think...): public service. The problem is that nowadays ‘politics’ is depicted as glamorous and its public service aspect just isn’t as important as it should be (I’m NOT saying ‘oh, the good old days’!). A lot of what I feel has come from the ‘Westminster village’ development in British politics. This is where London and news about London is given greater importance in the media, therefore creating the impression that the capital is ‘where it all happens’ politically.

So: London is ‘where it all happens’, not just socially (being the capital lends it glamour, and it has a buzz and allure regardless of that) but then politically too. Obviously, that isn’t true because hello, we’re still attached to the rest of the country (despite the hopes of some of us, hehe). It’s also quite dangerous. Showing people that all political power (read: ‘power to change things’) lies solely in London creates resentment, it generates apathy (‘why bother doing anything outside of the Westminster bubble?’) and then people disengage from politics. Meanwhile, the populist right-wing media tell them that everything is ‘going to the dogs’ and (this is implied, rather than said directly, I feel) because all the power lies in Westminster, they can’t do anything to improve things. So they continue to simmer and boil until eventually, in places like Barking, they vote in the BNP. Great.

To understand this, one must also look at the type of people inhabiting the Westminster bubble. They are generally white, middle / upper-class males, who went to public school and then to Oxbridge (though there are some women who have too – step forward, Ruth Kelly). It’s sad that the likes of the Mail and the BNP don’t see the true irony in this – Britain has a lot of ethnic minorities and yet very few of them are prominent in the Westminster bubble. However, that would require thinking which the Mail and the BNP just aren’t capable of! To this disastrous mix, add in the fact that even though apparently London is where all the power is at, even we can’t do anything, because nobody’s allowed to protest about anything un-government-sanctioned anymore. Just wonderful!

Add to all that the fact that we live in an increasingly celebrity-obsessed culture, and the way that information regarding those in charge of our country is accordingly presented. British politics has always had elements of the playground with rival sides shrieking at each other – but now, when increasingly, nobody cares? The state of play (intentional pun) is reaching Shakespearian levels of theatricality, with both wings (left and right) competing to seek attention like their livelihoods depend on it (which I suppose they do). On the one hand, British politicians ARE trying to get our attention more, because membership of their parties has declined considerably over time and they’re up the creek. On the other, we’re not trusted to handle pure politics in action, because *drumroll* it’s not that interesting! Well, running a country is always going to involve some work, isn’t it?! So we had politics-as-edutainment which seems to be losing its scruples and heading for politics-as-entertainment now, with all the squabbling on the left about what exactly to do with ‘new’ Labour, plus the fights with the right.

To finish with what constitutes ‘the game’ i.e. ‘modern British politics’ aka ‘much of what I hate and am now complaining about’: back to the news narrative. Where the populist media hawk a very simple and emotional news agenda, the more highbrow publications offer in-depth analyses and expert commentary designed to make you feel like a hopelessly ignorant moron. When doing my YAP on the British and French daily press earlier this year, I remarked on how the British daily press is very indicative of our gaping class divisions – and how! For me, this isn’t generally much of a problem: I eye up the terrifying-looking Guardian before me and think ‘This’ll get better with time, bitch’ before reading the whole thing over about a week and understanding maybe 5% of it. I consider myself an eternal student, a ‘Sikh’ if you will (ironically enough), but without actually being religious, so I stick with it, even if I feel confused and apprehensive.

The class cleavage (as I like to call it) is something that really can’t be ignored, though. Papers are not just unreliable because they rush to break stories and beat the Interweb at its own game, but also because they always have an agenda. This never used to bother me, but now it does. The BBC is the closest thing we have to an impartial source of info on the news, and that is why most of the population loves it. However, the right-wing media hate it and take every opportunity to slag it off. What with people increasingly unsure about having to pay the licence fee, its future is not as certain as it should bloody well be, and this is terrible news for all of us who do, and want to, give a shit about what goes on in the world.

All of this bullshit makes up ‘the game’ as far as I’m concerned. I know I probably sound like a complete fucking hippy in this age of free-market-instilling reforms everywhere you turn, but I do think that politics should be about public service. I’m not saying it should be a fucking depressing dredge where your only enjoyment is the occasional word of thanks, and occasionally meeting people from other countries, BUT –

*here comes the big but*

The glamour and ‘revolving door’ advantages have got to stop. ‘Career politicos’ need to be snuffed out. People getting into politics just because of their ambitions can fuck right off. OF COURSE, that is easier said than done – how are you supposed to tell what people are planning? Season 4 of The Wire knows exactly what I mean :-). At the very least though, stop treating politics as a game, because there is no real victory. Right now, the victory is only for those who win the spin war and/or those who slink off to make money away from the sidelines. Less well-known politicians often tend to reach the spotlight as ‘pubic figures’ – people who ‘blow up’ thanks to their sex lives. Enough of that.

We need something other than the BBC to give us the background to the ongoing ‘serious’ news narratives. Less spin and more communication (we all know politicians are out of touch, but it’s really gone too far now – when the BNP are spotting opportunities you’ve missed, it’s fucking SHOWTIME). The irony of all this (sorry to sound like SUCH an English student by always using that word!) is that self-introspection is greater than it was before, probably thanks to the increased information flow, but we need to look AT EACH OTHER TOO. Everyone is complicit in creating this apathetic, self-absorbed, class-riddled, half-true state of affairs, and as somebody who is desperately battling the urge to turn apolitical, I say – ENOUGH!

Required reading for this post: Charlie Brooker's article, which put into words what I felt before I could do it myself.

More reason for me (and you!) to love Armando Iannucci:

'"I've always been a political nerd, reading copies of Hansard when I was 12," says Iannucci. "I'm fascinated by how politics works, but have become increasingly appalled by how the truth is quite unashamedly contorted in political debate."


He is the win.

A True Pirate Daughter

My father had eye surgery on Wednesday (to remove a cataract) and has been wandering about looking distinctly more dishevelled than usual with a clear plastic disc taped to his eye. I like to imagine that I am the daughter of a pirate when I go out in my shorts and waistcoat, with a scarf tied round my head and now that particular little fantasy is one teeny step closer to coming true...!

Though that is not urbane, witty or particularly sophisticated, everyone needs a little stupid something to get them through times of stress. My eldest sister has come to stay with us for a few days, and although I have tried hard to ‘be good,’ it’s been bloody hard because she’s my eldest sister.

Allow me to explain (even though no-one reads this blog regularly other than myself!). There is a ten-year age gap between my sister and I and she regards me as ‘her’ baby, out of my brother and I, because I came before him. This means she can be REALLY patronising at times; she acts as a second mother. A mother who refuses to accept that I am (becoming) an adult. That would be bad enough as it is, but add in some fundamental personality differences and you’ve got the ideal combination for a passive-aggressive nightmare.

Yesterday, for example, we went food-shopping so we could make something ‘fun’ because it’s my brother’s birthday. Desperately short of ideas, I suggested Mexican. She murmured ‘I was thinking about making enchiladas... Enchiladas with Vegemince are quite nice, but you know, Dad doesn’t like it very much.’

AAARGH!!!! I wanted to let that out of my head through my mouth, with all the inherent blaring frustration. My dad, as an amritdhari Sikh, doesn’t eat anything even haunted by meat, fish or egg. As a Punjabi man, however, he is dead traditional and thus he doesn’t enthuse overtly about the meat substitutes that make our sparse vegetarian existence somewhat more bearable. And guess what, because we’re an Indian family, if he doesn’t like it, my sister’s not going to make it! I think that, as the oldest child, she suffers the need to try and please our (absolutely impossible) parents much more constantly and acutely than we do. So we lose out, all because Dad doesn’t sing hymns of praise to Vegemince. We ended up having ‘enchiladas’ which were not only protein-free (other than the vague sprinkling of cheese on top) but contained mangetout and baby corn within. MANGETOUT AND BABY CORN, I ask you.

See, if my mum had done something like that, I would’ve forgiven it because she grew up on Indian cuisine and nowt else... but my sister? My sister actually knows a bit about food, and that’s why I was so disgusted with her monumental cop-out. Most of all, it represents that attitude I hate so much: ‘I’ll conform to the needs of others so that they don’t need to conform to my needs.’

As an Indian girl, you get that bollocks rammed into your head all the way through your childhood and right up until marriage. Keep your nose clean! Keep your head down! Learn how to cook, and don’t expect help because Indian men aren’t going to give it to you! Eventually, you get to the level where you’re so hopped-up on fear and insecurity that you kowtow to the smallest of things, and by doing so, you allow other people to see that they can treat you a certain way.

As S--- said, when I tried hopelessly to communicate what all of this meant to me, it’s a question of degree. Just because you’re getting a bit of flak and rudeness from your husband now (as my sister has been for a long time) doesn’t mean that you’re safe! You shouldn’t hold that up against men who murder their wives and say ‘Well, it’s not that bad.’! What we have, in Indian society, is a scale of acceptability, and that in itself is absolutely fucking abhorrent. NONE of it is right. NONE of it is acceptable. Don’t have a scale, don’t have points on the scale which constitute ‘unacceptable behaviour.’ Do away with the whole thing and acknowledge that abuse of ANY KIND is INTOLERABLE. Today’s name-calling husband could be tomorrow’s murderer. By having the scale system, we are instantly implying that a wife could be to blame, somehow, for the way she is being treated – and even when parents or relatives have good intentions, this is hugely damaging to the victim.

Why do I feel so strongly about this? I really don’t know. Even before my sister’s marriage and my discovery of some of the skellingtons in our family’s closet, something about this really stung me. I am an egalitarian feminist – I want us all to be equal, but I acknowledge that right now, that involves improving the lot of women much more than it does improving the lot of men. Yesterday I read ‘Shame’ by Jasvinder Sanghera and it made me incredibly angry and sad. At first I felt annoyed with her for being so mopey about her family and for picking men who would treat her badly. Then I thought a bit more and got angry at the real culprit – the Indian family unit (though you could say it of the family in other cultures too) which often fosters a kind of unhealthy co-dependency between the child and the rest of the family that is regulated by fear, just as much as, if not more so, as by love. I think she mentioned both these things in the book, but I don’t think she tied them together as I just have.

Actually, I do know why I feel strongly about this. It’s because my family (both immediate and extended) are a lot more educated than some Indians, and I suppose I expected better of them than to go on mindlessly endorsing the traditions of a place where they don’t even live any more. The most annoying of my aunts has been through a lot of shit, I found out only last year: married into the family of a patriarch who brain-damaged his own daughter for whatever reason (!), impregnated by a husband who had someone else before and after the marriage and put on a train to London alone when six months pregnant, with very little English. When she gave birth to her daughter, the family then tried to disavow all responsibility and attacked my father when he attempted to make them face up to the consequences. There were the eye-opening marriages of my two sisters, in particular my eldest sister’s, where everyone’s tears were symptomatic of a heavy sense of regret and loss rather than joy at her marriage, and the fallout from their continual arguments. Last, but definitely not least, there was the murder/suicide of my cousin in India (who I only met twice in my life). Like so many others, she mysteriously caught fire and died from the burns without anyone being able to help at all. People may say the practice of Sati is dead, but on the evidence of that and several other similar deaths (such as that of Jasvinder Sanghera’s older sister Robina), I would beg to differ.

On a slightly lighter note, I appear to have strayed from the spec yet again! I PROMISE I will explain my politics/game thing and talk about trolls next time.

A Pickled Post-Mortem...

Why it wasn’t that great: The sun shone on my face till I was a little bit red-boiled-looking (like a newborn baby, and only marginally less grumpy), felt ready to drop asleep any second and I was absolutely starving for maybe about an hour. Also, at times, I felt like I had all the charisma and intelligence of a potted plant.

Why it wasn’t half bad: I got less shy with time (comme d’habitude!), met some very friendly and interesting people and just generally TOOK A CHANCE FOR ONCE. Yay.

What am I on about?

Yesterday, that is to say, Saturday 2^nd August 2008, I went to my first-ever Pickled Politics meet-up. This may have seemed a fatal mistake if I had even dreamed that the majority (i.e. everyone apart from me and two others) would be seasoned writers/bloggers. I spent a lot of time just listening and not saying anything much for a good while at first (which makes a change, I have to admit – I’ve got a bit sick of being with people who expect me to do all the talking all the time).

I’m going to use either a person’s real name or their online name, so as to respect people’s privacy – this may be the same for some people, as it is for me (on PP, anyway). I was the youngest there, which didn’t surprise me, but I wasn’t made to feel it too much. Once Sunny arrived, things seemed to get a fair bit more relaxed, probably because he was the organiser of the event and also because he ushered in the arrival of at least three other people. After that, I don’t think anyone else was really expected, so y’know... it all just kicked off.

I wish I had tried a bit harder to talk to Sid and Sonia, but... I suppose things don’t always go how you'd like. It was quite fun talking about music and Queen Mary with Gege, and really interesting talking a whole load of assorted breeze with Nyrone. There was the revelation that MaidMarian may be a friend of Sunny’s, the semi-revelation that Avi Cohen is either a self-loathing Jew or a Muslim in disguise (I figured something like that, but I can never read his posts without my brain shutting down) and the non-surprise that Sunny wants to move into politics proper, as opposed to being ‘just’ a commentator. Sunny seemed rather chilled for someone who’s always working (apparently :-P), Sonia was tiny and elegant (no offense intended, I just thought you’d be really tall for some reason!), Nesrine Malik was regal, Nyrone was kind, Sid was dressed cool (his friend seemed cool too, but I didn’t really talk to him for some reason, probably hunger) and Rumbold was... a shock. He was a lot younger than I expected, and quite charming (for a libertarian, hur hur). The only person who I was really scared of (at first) was Tom from Boriswatch, because he REALLY knew his stuff and he speaks really fast. I tried to make small talk with him, and he must have thought I was simple (almost everything he said dived right over my head and into the sunny sky).

I am awarding myself brownie points for sharing my paltry pretzel remnants out, and also for speaking up when I was about to pass out from hunger. I spent the length of a debate between Sunny, Sonia and Sid growing gradually more catatonic, until I found myself wondering what the hell I was still doing upright (Thank you M&S, for restoringmy sanity on the Tube home). There were a few disappointments. Firstly, that there was not that much real non-politics discussion – but I suppose that wasn’t much of a surprise given that it was a meeting of political bloggers, who are about as hardcore as you can get (outside of politicians) I suppose. Secondly, that no-one seemed to have heard of The Wire. WTF, mate?! That almost made me lose a bit of respect for them! Third and finally, I was disappointed with myself for not responding to people’s questions better. I never got to explain fully what I meant by ‘politics and the game.’ That’s what I think I’m going to do in my next post. I will also be dealing with trolls, as I found the NY Times article on that particular topic very interesting. Adieu for now.

This post was brought to you by Freda Payne's Unhooked Generation.

Debunking the 'community mindset'

I’m sure it’s been said many a time before, but it struck me today, while watching an episode of the American sitcom Girlfriends, how damaging and hypocritical the ‘community’ mindset is for the protection of women (among other issues). Advocates for this mindset (such as my father) essentially consider ‘the group’ and ‘being part of the group’ (whichever group that might be) as much preferable to an ‘individualistic’ outlook or society. The ‘community’ mindset is apparently better because when you’re part of a group, you all support each other, and it’s a huge, selfless love-in.

This is, of course, so breathtakingly deluded I don’t even know where to start. I couldn’t help thinking to myself that the kind of people who are communitarians often tend to be Indians, Africans, Arabs, Chinese etc... The list goes on (I’m focussing on Indians myself, whether Indian Indian or British Indian, because that’s where my experience lies). In many cases, one will often find that the defenders of this sort of mentality are also usually men. The ‘older generation’ in general, tend to be vocal supporters of it (I’m thinking of those sections of Indian families that are usually in the 40+ group, though there are exceptions).

Now, I feel it necessary to run through the positive aspects of being in a group. To avoid the ‘racialising’ of this, I’m not talking about being in any one group in particular; this is a one-list-fits-all deal. So:

1) You have a strong and established support network.

2) An overarching sense of identity is established (you are not just yourself, but you also become yourself as part of something bigger, which is of course irresistible to us humans, as social animals).

3) Er... that’s it.

It seems rather unfair to list only two positive things, but looking closely at them shows that they encapsulate everything good about being part of a group. I’m not going to break those points down, because I don’t think there’s any real need for anyone with half a brain.

So now let’s consider how and why those two things might fail, or turn out to be a load of old tripe.

1) Society is neither equal, nor fair (a lot of the time). Cordoning yourself off in a little section of it, screaming ‘THIS IS WHERE I BELONG!’ sadly does not change that fact.

2) Er... that’s it.

In just about every country in the world, a small and powerful assortment of people is in charge. The reasons for their being in charge will vary from place to place, (wealth/popularity/skill/knowledge/ancestry). Nonetheless, the overall list of reasons will always be applicable, and more often than not, it will involve the first two and/or the very last, reasons. This is the way it is the world over – wealth, popularity (usually beautified as ‘social standing’ or, more honestly, ‘contacts’) and ancestry are what rule the world. THE WORLD.

So what in hell makes you think that your ‘group’ is going to be immune to this? In every group too, there is a particular ‘elite’ of people who look out for the reputation of the group above all else, and when individuals show themselves to be human, they will be sorry. It’s dark, but it’s true, and it’s one of the things humankind routinely tries to ignore about itself wherever possible. What comes to mind in particular here is France’s myth of nationhood, developed after World War II. De Gaulle is a national hero even today, viewed as a father of the country almost.

Yet in reality, the support for the Resistance was scant and the collaborationist Vichy regime was not the hated oppression that people like to imagine today. Apparently, many regular French people adopted a ‘wait and see’ attitude during wartime, which didn’t really surprise me that much. Though we try to reduce history to individuals (thereby exonerating ourselves completely), ‘the group’ is much more responsible than anybody likes to admit.

To finally make my point about the protection of women, I’ll use a famous ‘historical’ example from India – that of Draupadi, the wife of the 5 Pandavas, who was gambled away in a game of dice. The man who ‘won’ her, their cousin Duryodhana, claimed the right to disrobe her in public. By a convenient religious miracle, he didn’t succeed; however, all those seated in the gambling hall were guilty of looking on and doing nothing, as Bhishma Pitama (a prominent elder of the clan) would regretfully observe later.

Not much has changed. We continue to ignore the fact that ‘the group’ wants to have its cake, and eat it too. It wants to benefit from the advantage of having a collective of individuals, without actually making them equal. When ugly issues arise – child abuse, domestic violence, incest – more often than not, people will be rejected instead of receiving the support they might expect, because at the end of the day, individuals’ problems are a PR disaster. Quarantine off the infection, and leave the infected part to moulder!

Oh, good Lord

After my last post, I actually backpedalled and properly read the post-before-that, that I put up at the end of January.

My neuroticism is funny at first, then the whole thing just becomes a horrible mess, because I start raving about 'what I have to do' and the tone suddenly creaks towards private.

I must not list my chores to anyone again. Ever. Not even to my blog.

I see how my boyfriend felt all this time. I'M SORRY, ----!

A break with the past

I have made my blog open to all once more, and that means that previous posts can be read by anyone.

I could easily have chosen to delete them all, but I don't want to. Pretentious as it will inevitably sound, they were an essential part of my formation and growing-up - which is not yet complete, but I'm getting there!

Anyway, from now on, I'm going to try and be a bit less... teenage.

I've added a fair few links: Between East and West, which is a blog I really like by Ala Abbas, and Ariane Sherine's blog. Ariane's is a lot more light-hearted than Ala's on the whole (well, she is a comedy writer), but they're both excellent writers.

I hope to join that particular 'A'-club someday by becoming a skilled (and read) writer myself! At the moment, I'm stuck with addressing you, my purely fantastical audience.


Well, this does make me feel a bit better than all my recent future-based panic, so... I'll try and keep it up!

Must work...

Written yesterday.

This is a kind of combination email / blog post. I am so knackered today, it's awful. It's that horrible, misty kind of tiredness when you have so much to do, and you want to do it, and yet you can't. What I need, above all else, is sleep. I can't help feeling that if I had got home early, as planned, and had a nap, I might feel more inclined. What I do feel like doing now is curling up with Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (which arrived 2 days ago - at last!), and then sleeping at about 11. That would mean having no dinner, but that might not be such a bad thing, seeing as how my stomach is distinctly paunchier than it was (and I have been noticing it, big-time).

I need to say something here, because this is my blog. I regret buying those cropped cardigans off ASOS. I do regret it. Everyone telling me they don't like them doesn't help. They don't always look so bad, but they're too big, and they just make me look fat and lumpy-breasted, rather than sculpting my chest the way Kirsten's do (unless she just has the one? I don't know...). It doesn't help that the one I wear the most is mustard yellow - and of course, light colours make you look bigger. I generally try to avoid wearing anything very light on top - 'pale' is always a disaster - but sometimes it's not possible! That colour is great, and I've had no luck finding any other cardis in that shade. So I'm stuck with it for now. The dark brown one, though boring, at least has the advantage of looking smaller because it's dark. I'm not a huge fan of my uber-pale pink cardigan either but again, it's one of those 'go-with-everything' colours and I'm pretty limited out here in -----.

God, I can't believe I've just moaned extensively about cardigans. Still, we all need to vent a little, and that's something I can feel 'spafe' about. Spatially safe - which is kind of retarded, because I mean I feel safe moaning about it because it's an issue can put aside for a long time. That therefore makes it about time rather space. Substitute with 'stafe.'

This is what happens when I talk to myself - I rave on about cardigans and space VS time. Christ. OK, I'll try to be constructive, and make a list of what I need to do this week:

1) Email Dr McMorran about my YA plan, asking how it's meant to be done, if there is any kind of regulation for it.

2) Email out surveys to people - my family included - and start collecting, reading and collating the responses people give me. Instead of getting about 10 'French' responses and 10 'English,' I'll just send out as many poss. The more responses I have, the better. Besides, I can, for the time being, advance on the grounds that the first wave of responses seems to be confirming what I think more or less so far. French people are much more incumbent on TV and radio than we are (we tend to be more paper & Internet-oriented). This is interesting because it suggests that we are more visually-oriented than they are, and certainly, the English language is more visual. Chance for cultural commentary here! They are definitely still closer to the Middle Ages and oral culture than we are, especially when you consider how much Middle Ages / Renaissance literature features on literature courses here.

3) Sweep my room

4) Wipe the:

- sink

- kitchen table

- desk

- bathroom sink

5) Mop the floor.

6) Work on my relationship. Fundamentally, nothing has changed about ---- for me. I love him, he loves me, it's beautiful, blah blah blah. I am right now listening to Fugitive Motel by Elbow. I have listened to this and thought of him many a time, but it holds more relevance than ever, seeing as how I am in another country. So here goes:

Oi - you. Yes, YOU. YOU reading this right now. I am thinking about you. The little soft hairs at the nape of your neck (that I have too). Your big, brown, trusting eyes that are fringed with long, long lashes. I would say you've got a dog's eyes, but there's a terrible knowledge in there that a dog's could never have. I look in them, and I am pinned harder than a butterfly on a botanist's wall. It might not have as intense a physical effect as it did, but I still feel love for you when I look at you, and when other things aren't hampering me and making everything harder than it should be. I know I'm still in love with you rather than just loving you - my greatest fear is when I get to the point when it's but the latter. I know because I still want to be your wife. I know because the thought of you standing by and letting me be with another man makes me feel a strange mix of anger and grief, though mostly anger. Why that turn of phrase, though? Because I would never let myself be with anyone else. (I would be severely tempted, were Wylie Times to propose to me, but that's so impossible that we will now forget I just said and laugh instead... ! But seriously - GET IT ON WITH DIZZY, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, YOU'RE SUCH A BEAUTIFUL COUPLE, I CAN'T STAND IT). Anyway, to return from that random tangent, you're still who I run off into the sunset with in my head. This year is testing us big-time, because I'm growing as a person, while you are being put under pressure and restrictions. But I'm just telling you, this is my attempt not to lose sight of what's important: us. We have had many a stupid fight recently, and the distance has been very damaging (among other things).

BIG HUG. I love you. Hurry up and start watching Heroes, so that we can geek out together, and I don't have to turn to A--. In all honesty I don't mind hearing about The Wire, but I get impatient and jealous when you go into raptures, and the temptation to go on Wikipedia and read all the storylines becomes dangerously seductive. I am going to listen to that !!! song later. The Internet here is not working (ha!), so I am going to post this tomorrow sometime, in the afternoon methinks.

And here's a big kiss for you. I really miss you physically. You've seen how much difference your being physically present makes - it's actually even a little dangerous, because I can relax TOO much. I feel so safe, I feel like an adventurer from a fictional world climbing inside the crooked elbow of a sheltered cave, safe but not bored, comfortable without being confined. OMG, this is brilliant, I may yet be able to return to the glorious descriptiveness of my younger days! I will speak to you soon.

Love, to you, and to myself (note to me: you needs to be kidnapped by a loving soul and pampered for days on end, so you can relax, sleep properly and get back on form!)

..... MWAH MWAH MWAH

Whew!

I just looked at my last post and I am so so embarrassed. I can't believe I was that mad at A---! Thankfully, that is all ancient history, now that I'm in France, and everything has changed so much. That was almost a year ago - well, about 5 months short of a year. So much has changed, but I don't need to go into that, because this blog is primarily for me and mines, and I know what happened. I upped sticks to France for my Year Abroad, and though there were as many trials and tribulations as you might expect with that, it's also been a huge learning experience for me. I got a lot closer to people I never thought I'd be friends with - Trish and Tom - and made new friends (Matt, Kirsty, Fahad, Sophie Cameron...). Trish, Matt and Kirsty are leaving - well, Trish went this morning - but it's not the end of the world, and I feel a lot more grown up than I was for dealing with it. I was really sad this morning when it hit me in full that Trish is GONE, PERMANENTLY GONE to Bologna. Mais c'est la vie... and so I have to deal with it. I'm treating the departure of my favourite people to chat to here as a blessing in disguise, because it'll mean I'll get more work done. I'm making slow progress on that front, but progress at all is something to be glad for.

Christ, I am KNACKERED. These 10.30 starts are a gift compared to last semester, but I haven't yet got the hang of sleeping before 1 or 2. Therefore, even a reasonable time like 8.30 comes on like waking death with head aching fuzzily and my eyes prying themselves open as if there's a crowbar at work. It is lovely to wake to sunshine though - yesterday was the first sunny day for some time, as is today, and it makes even the littlest acts of 'going about your day' something infintely more bearable, dare I even say, FUN. I'm very happy because I did a naughty thing which I can't talk about here for fear that S--- will read it. Well OK, it wasn't a NAUGHTY thing, but it was fun, and now I will shut up and say no more.

Comic of the moment: I won't necessarily always have one of these, seeing as I tend to binge on comics, much to my shame, but for now - 100 Bullets. Oh my goodness. This series has far exceeded my expectations of what a comic could be, and yet it does do complete justice to the term 'graphic novel' that is generally applied to all the comics I read. It is, in many ways, the total opposite of my first love in comics, Preacher. It has the sex, the violence and the one-liners, but that is where the similarities end. Where Preacher defined itself by being rude and crude, balanced with a hidden heart of gold - in short, strongly reflecting the main protagonist, Jesse Custer - 100 Bullets is subtle, complex, and extremely... disjointed. I'm not totally happy with that term, since it has quite negative implications. However, what I mean is simply that Brian Azzarello juggles a huge cast of characters, and several storylines simultaneously, without breaking a sweat. Stylistically, it is much more ambitious and ingenious than most comics try to be, I think. I don't mean to insult other books, but where most sell themselves on a new/individual style of, or particularly beautiful, artwork plus good writing - 100 Bullets doesn't.

See, I can't help thinking that this is not just for people who aren't so keen on books, and/or taking a break from films (some of the others give me that impression). This is a consummately literary masterpiece. Take the storyline 'The Crash,' for example. Nothing much happens. Agent Graves meets up with some of The Trust and is made an offer, while a young couple discover a crashed car and a dead man clutching the winning lottery numbers. And yet it turns into a masterfully disturbing look at humanity, with Agent Graves / Javier's dialogue overlapping into the 'crash scenes.' When the couple struggle to choose a course of action - take the money and run? Ease their guilt by paying some to the family of the crash victim? - it is a situation we have all been in, where to help ourselves is to deny another, and what should be an easy choice becomes a guilt-ridden nightmare once our sense of responsibility gets involved. The two scenarios reflect each other - in both cases, an offer of sorts is being made, a huge decision must be taken.

However, it doesn't end there. The very premise of the series is recalled - Graves presenting strangers with 100 untraceable bullets, a picture of someone who has ruined their life and proof of this in the signature attaché case. It is a troubling decision which has huge consequences for everyone who ever has to make it. The niggling question arises once more: just what is Graves up to? Whose side is he really on? And the plot only thickens when you proceed further, to where Graves attempts to stitch up his apparent associate, Mr. Shepherd, by inciting Wylie Times (who is BLATANTLY a former Minuteman, c'mon, I'm not stupid!) to use the magic bullets on him. I realised what was going to happen after reading 'A Crash,' but was still shocked - and delighted to be right - when it did.

Shepherd himself is a gloriously seductive character who makes me think powerfully of Philip Marlowe (Raymond Chandler's uber-famous private eye). I suspect this is deliberate, what with his trench-coat, constant smoking, and wistful hangdog air. Also, if you look here, it lists some of the influences, and surprise surprise, guess who's in there? Shepherd is wonderful because you know nothing about, nobody seems to trust him completely, he is apparently playing for both teams - and yet the man has a downright graceful air of 'don't fuck with me' about him. He's not particularly menacing - not in the way that psycho-hound Lono is - but it's clear he's no rookie either, what with the fact that he's apparently 'on the fence,' and still alive in spite of it. He also becomes more appealing as we start to see him pitted against Graves more and more explicitly. Where Graves seemes to be defined by his ruthless single-mindedness, Shepherd seems to retain some sense of principle, some sense of right and wrong. And apparently he's got feelings for Dizzy, one of my other fave characters! In short, he is the man-in-the-middle, yet the only real 'moral compass' (thanks, A---!)... and apparently a former Minuteman. I look forward to knowing more.

Album of the moment is AIM's Hinterland. This fella is from the U.K (yay!), and he is on that trip-hop shit... but GUESS WHAT? He does it well! I also think that his is one of the few cases where you can legitimately apply that label, being as it is a blend of trippy, electronic and hip-hop elements. So you get insistent basslines, and braggadicio rapping (The Omen, featuring Diamond D) and soulful female vocals with sweepy classical violins. There is also a neat use of weird, slightly distant-sounding samples, such as during my favourite track of the album, Linctus, where a woman in the background croons 'Bay-beh'... or so I think.

Right, well the first 10 tracks are very good, with some utter stand-outs (The Girl Who Fell Through The Ice, Good Disease, The Omen, Linctus and Vipco come to mind here). Then comes the album's first - and thankfully, only - huge mistake. A Twilight Zone. What was he thinking? This could serve as the music to some mobile-phone or insurance advert, and I wouldn't care. The next one, From A Seaside Town, wasn't too memorable either, but the last track, Hinterland is better. I guess he had to get its name from somewhere!

Well, that's about it for today folks. I'll smell ya later (when I've got the time!).