A Treatise on Women's Mags; or Is This Feminist?

I'm going to make a proposition here that I think is not particularly daring... or necessarily all that political. I feel that it's just something that has to be said.

I've already ripped the shit out of marriage in a previous post. See, I really do get why people love marriage. It's because they love tradition and their dear little brains just look at the cover of the book and go 'My, but that looks wonderful.' Of course it looks wonderful! You can't predict the future now, can you? I'm not prone to believing any of us yuman beans can, in all honesty.

So WHY WOULD YOU TRY? Why would you slap a giant condition like a marriage-contract (for what else could you call it) onto something that's dying on its feet as a 'relationship' already? The idiom 'hammering the final nail into the coffin' seems very apt here.

Marriages when both people are really sure of what is involved - i.e. if they've lived together for a while, or if they occur later in life when people have had more life experience - are most certainly a wonderful event for those who attend them, and an inspiration (with a decidedly religious glow, ahem) to the rest of us.

Yet how common are those kinds of marriages, really? Especially within the British Asian community (and in India...) where both partners come to the table deeply hampered by inequality. As I have said before with various other things, this isn't just an Asian/Indian thing, it happens everywhere.

And this is what I want to move on to attacking today: the deeply traditional idea that you HAVE to be in a relationship to be happy and/or complete as a person. The reason I ask if I'm being feminist is because this is something women are fed CONSTANTLY. I was discussing this with a friend and we agreed that on the whole, it seems that men are encouraged to seek sexual experience while women are encouraged to form relationships. Anybody else see the potential problems in that?

I'm not asserting that as an absolute truth by any means, but if you want some form of evidence: look at the male homosexual community and the way just about everyone (including some of them themselves) equate 'their culture' with hedonism, kinky sex, partner-swapping etc. I would dare to say here that we don't really know enough about lesbians to venture any sort of stereotype that isn't immediately wrapped in masculine-tailored bollocks (i.e. 'all lesbians are man-hating dykes,' or 'all lesbians can be 'cured' with the arrival of the right guy,' or 'all lesbians are nymphomaniacs'... see what I mean?). Gay guy-mates of mine have commented that they actually do wish to settle down with somebody, but that that's not really something they can advertise in the sex-oriented gay dating scene.

The solution for this is NOT (I don't think), for women to just try and 'even the score' by becoming as sexually-oriented as men. By all means, ladies, go in search of the perfect orgasm if you wish. Just be aware that you're facing off against your biology, which wants to reduce you to the level of a childbearer and not much else, if you don't watch it.

That's why I really don't see the logic in 'friends-with-benefits' situations. Duh, could you ask for trouble any LOUDER? Could you take hold of the can-o'-worms and wrench the lid off any harder, please? The worms will hit YOU in the eye and then YOU'LL complain. Some people really are developed and mature enough to rise above their biological instinct and handle these situations as they need to (I'm thinking Tallulah Bankhead here).

Unfortunately, many of us don't see the obvious problem in entering into regular sessions of close physical contact with somebody we know and quite probably like and trust to a fair degree. Wait, read that back to me - NOW do you see the problem? What makes you think the other person being your 'friend' is going to make you 'safe' from attachments (if not simply MORE at risk of falling for them because you're not paying attention?) ? As my brother would say, NAAW MATE.

The problem is that we really don't do enough to support each other as ladies, now, do we? I'm looking at you here, women's magazines industries! Then again, what's to say that you are even really trying to 'connect' with women? You might have female editors an' all, but the owners are more than likely probably still men, and the shareholders are the people who really matter. Cynicism, here I come. The French singer Yelle had the right idea when she sang:

'C’est la faute des ma-
Des magazines
Les Maries, Les Frances
Les Marie-France
Les femmes pratiques qui en ont pas marre
Des cosmo vogues et tout l'bazar'


Translation:
'It's the fault of some mags - some magazines / The Maries, the Frances / The Marie-Frances / The 'practical women' who haven't had enough of them / Of the Cosmos, Vogues and the whole bazaar.'


You women's mags, you give us a real half-assed picture of the situation. You tell us: great, go after your female orgasm. You encourage us to stay good and monogamous with your endless articles on 'how to spice up your sex life' while simultaneously and subtly trumpeting the values of casual sex with your reader confessions columns and the endless stuff on attaining the perfect climax (again), taking a lover etc. I have Cosmpolitan in mind particularly here.

Women's mags aren't 'all bad,' of course - I don't mean to imply that they are (Marie Claire, for one, has some very interesting and well-written articles, such as one about Real Dolls...). They're just selfish - as is everything out there at the end of the day. Women's magazines won't tell you what to do once you outgrow their 2D status-quo world. Look how shittily simplistic their solutions are: either carry on as you are, looking for a relationship all the time, or make sex the main factor.

There is of course a third way that they won't tell you because it's not in their interests to do so (they prescribe this in small doses, usually to women who have suffered a recent break-up or who have emotional/mental health issues of some kind). Get the cheesy disco music ready, people, because that is to 'Love Yourself.'

Actually, hell with that. We live in a post-psychoanalytical age, where we are trained to ascribe meaning to things (such as our personality quirks) that may not even need it really, and I just don't DO cheesy disco music anyway (give me some Justice or Donna Summer, fool!). So instead, pop on a song that makes you laugh and BE YOUR OWN FRIEND. To briefly invoke the oft-whipped carcass of marriage again for convenience's sake: if you can't spend eternity on your own, how the hell are you going to spend it with somebody else? And vice-versa. Take a leaf out of those magazines' book (thank you Ugly Betty for making that metaphor actually work!) and GIT SELF-CENTRED.

The way I see it is this: despite what your parents say, despite what society says - no matter who brought you into existence, or who sees you out of it - you are born alone (unless of course, you are a twin, or one of triplets etc. etc., but even then you won't all be leaving yer mum's tummy at once!). Does that not make loneness the most natural state in the world to inhabit? There is something glorious I find - dunno about y'all - in gracefully accepting that.

No-one says you have to be misanthropic (not all the time, anyway). No-one says you musn't value your friends or relatives, or your partner (or whatever the fuck you call them). It is rush-of-blood-to-head LIBERATING though, when you realise, that you shouldn't have to be defined and existent entirely in terms of others. I have come to value the bond of friendship - REAL friendship - as quite possibly the highest human connection there is. However, there's a lot to be said for enjoying one's OWN company from time to time. And if you're somebody whose mental tank always seems to be running overloaded-full (comme moi), then find a way to go and birth your thoughts into the world.

In his Essays, Francis Bacon essentially said that men could choose between children and creative endeavour, which was why the greatest artists had been childless men. A very wise and interesting observation, I think you'll agree, and then I hope you'll join me in saying '... but Bakey, now the wimminz can do that too. Relationships, marriage, and kids (in order of seriousness of impact upon one's life and future) are not the sole feckin' purpose of our existence.'

So fuck you, biology! Here's a chance for us all to be equal. And hey, if there's less stupid people falling into these binds, hopefully that means a smaller influx of idiots turning towards extremely conservative/religious/overall fundamentalist viewpoints - or falling victim to them.

Own yourselves. No-one wants to be another Bristol Palin, regardless of whatever their age is (just look at that poor girl's eyes in the picture... I can imagine how she will look once being a 'mommy' takes its toll on her). Own yourselves and RECLAIM YOURSELVES!

Aidan Moffatt's Love Advice

Aidan Moffatt, for those of you who don't know, is what might be termed 'a professional grump.' He was in the band Arab Strap with Malcolm Middleton.

I don't actually know any more than you, my readers, probably do, in this situation - I know that Arab Strap were known and acclaimed for being apparently quite darkly comic in a distinctly '90s Scottish way.

Anyway, Aidan Moffatt acted as an agony uncle for the review site The Quietus (a site I really love reading every now and again, as their writing is very witty and just so much fun). It was in two parts, both prefaced with I'm No Expert... and whether you're looking for love/sex advice or not, it's hilarious. The second column is especially brilliant.

Uncle Agony Aidan Moffatt's First Sex Advice Column For The Quietus.

Uncle Agony Aidan Moffat: Back To Fix Your Weeping Sores.


Their review of Eden Lake also has single-handedly convinced me to watch it, while simultaneously reminding me why I love The Quietus. I also owe them for randomly urging me to listen to the (absolutely brilliant) Afro Samurai soundtrack. Yay!

Marriage: I Ain't Sold

This post was inspired by Nesrine Malik, Desi Italiana and Sonia... thanks, guys.

Well. I must begin this post by congratulating myself on avoiding eating more than 1-an'-a-bit squares of utterly tasty Sainsbury's Belgian dark chocolate, especially after having eaten a sin-filled pack of Walkers' Max Paprika earlier. I am a feminist and ergo not crazy about looking overly-youthful and wisplike all the time (the former would really be cause for concern, as I am still quite young!), but if you do not have the metabolism of a greyhound and are likely to get grumpy after eating too much 'crap,' you have to watch it.

This post is intended to be about marriage, especially its place within Indian culture. I have learnt a fair bit about this recently, and I feel that it's time I wrested my blog from the caprices of creativity and pushed it back towards the polemic. Unfortunately, because tiredness and stress have somewhat 'worn the wick' recently, I may descend into what is essentially a series of no more than randomly-caught observations.

I used to think that I could escape the clutches of the Indian society that surrounded me by choosing who I got married to. There was a rather great irony in this, because I would say that feminism/egalitarianism is more important to me than keeping my parents happy and upholding a certain idea of Indian 'culture'. Ever since I was little, I have burned at the notion that females should be considered inferior to males in any way, especially in this country. Even the whole 'men are naturally stronger' argument never cut much ice with me. I mean, bitch please – are all men the same? No. Are all women the same? No. For example, a dedicated female javelin or discus thrower is probably going to be of greater strength than an Asian rudeboi of the same age, unless, like my brother currently is, he's so obsessed with getting 'hench' that he's significantly bulked-up.

Aaaaaanyway… I used to believe that one could have the best of both worlds. I could placate my parents in the merest sense by marrying someone brown and to all intents and purposes, Sikh. Even if he was secretly unsure (like me), or a naastik (atheist), it would be OK because, like a well-placed visual illusion, everybody would see what they wanted to see.

The problem with my little picture is that it was missing someone fundamentally important: me. I was thinking about entering into an arrangement that would be convenient for the other person and appease his family and mine. I have always taken pride in being the firebrand of the family, but I didn't see the obvious until it was pointed out to me repeatedly by a very dear friend: I'm not ready to get married and I never will be.

Now, I can understand the line of thought that goes 'oh, y'know – it'll just be a stupid wedding and then you have the rest of your life.' I can understand because that's what I thought up until a few weeks ago. What bullshit, yaar! Whether you're a girl or a boy, if you're Indian, shaadi (marriage) is the whole point of your life. All that differs is the point at which this is impressed, and then eventually, imposed upon you. If you're a girl, chances are you'll be conditioned from childhood (whether you realise/enjoy it or not) to be a wife and then eventually in some ways, a mother. Whereas with boys, it varies - many of them are left free to do as they like until a certain age when the kitchen sink and all is suddenly dropped on their head.

This must be said, because the current double standards that are deeply ingrained within Indian society (more so in some classes/groups than others) are bad for EVERYONE. Seeing and admitting this is a shot of common sense that is desperately needed. Parents like mine – who are actually almost liberal in some ways, how else would I have got the way I am?! – encourage and support their daughters in going to university, only to gently remind them that marriage is ultimately going to be more important. Even if this reminder does not come verbally, it comes in the fact that more of your life will be spent in gearing you towards marriage than will be spent in encouraging you to get a job you want to, or in pursuing a degree you want to do.

I find that even in education, marriage just won't leave people alone. Women who do 'male' degrees (medicine, law, dentistry, finance etc.) or watered-down 'male'/acceptably-feminine degrees (biomedical sciences, pharmacy, teaching…) are more worthwhile investments than those in the arts. The same applies for men, more or less. However, the reason I find this more appalling with regards to women is because it shows how little things have really changed. Now, people don't just want a well-indentured servant, they want one who can pay her way too. Funny how the huge emotional sacrifices made by the bride (leaving her family and having to externalise them while ingratiating herself with a set of near-strangers) doesn't apply much in this regard. I do appreciate that men who 'deviate' educationally also have it hard, but the overall level of suffering is still notably lower for them. (It often seems to me that if you're a guy who does 'deviate' and it doesn't work out for you, your senior male relatives will often rally round and bail you out somehow, while if you're a girl, your senior female relatives will tell you you're reaping what you've sown, but it could just be the cynicism getting the better of me...).

Encouraging the men-folk to do whatever before suddenly dropping the nuptial bomb is disastrous as well. Shrieking harridan mothers-in-law and scheming bahus (daughters-in-law) have come to stereotypically define the power-struggles in Indian marriages, because there are some things that people just don't want to say. Like, if you let your son marry a woman and then make her life hell because he has someone already (or because he swings the other way…), you are not 'saving face.' You are NOT good parents. It will reflect back on you when the aggrieved party either fights back or leaves, when your son gets together properly with the 'somebody else' or when something bad happens to the wife.

I know that tradition is hard to let go of for many Indians, especially my parents' generation (those who are in their fifties and sixties now), but puh-lease. If you've come to a foreign country, you have to accept the fact that your children have the right to choose to follow 'other' influences – and why wouldn't they? There is so much more freedom available to them in many ways. Some will eventually turn their back on that, but many don't want to. Your tricking them into losing the adult years of their lives in a tacit concession to your ideals – shaadi – only shows you up as a load of spoilt children.

That isn't to say that marriage always inevitably fails. I take a very dim view of it, because I have seen how often people struggle to balance the sacrifice, the delusion and the harsh, harsh reality. I simply think that it needs to be said that the failure of marriage is NOT down to Western influences, emotional immaturity or anything that easily scapegoatable. I think deep down, we know that it's really down to the arrangement of power in the Indian family structure (if you're old, you're wise. If you're young, shut up), and the deeply unequal and voracious nature of marriage. Stop idealising the parivaar (family) and the shaadi! Most of the time, in a move harking back to the Middle flippin' Ages, marriage is about the advancement of two families. The Indian ethos par excellence, distilled into the symbolic form of the married couple: communities before individuals. It often becomes almost a political contract, an act enacted for the purposes of what-bloody-else? NETWORKING. 'Look at the relatives I have acquired.I have moved up in the world!' Very bloody ironic for Sikhs, since Sikhi is meant to be without caste, whereas many Punjabis are obsessed with going up a class (why?! why does having x number of doctor/lawyer relatives make you more of a person?!).

To finish, my mother often castigated us for not trying hard enough/failing to learn how to make adequately round chappatis. She told us we needed to learn it for our own sake, because 'otherwise, what will people say? What would your suss (mother-in-law) say? People will say that I didn't teach your properly' (i.e. that she had failed in her duty as a mother).

Yeah, because telling your daughter that she should learn something to your standards to please some far-off woman – which at the end turns out to be you, surprise surprise! – isn't selfish in the least. As Private Eye would say: trebles all round!

Sleeping Beauty

Sleeping Beauty
Missah Sleepy Sweet,

I spell your name like it was air
Expelled from my lungs

In slumber; come fly
In my dreamscape; come lie in my way-
Out-of-reality –

The twitch of my
Pink lip fishes for you; my incomplete,
Sweet, incoherence burbled’ll

Hook you like a
Singing stream; I am Sleeping Beauty; bewitching,
Making an offering

To dormant gods;
Listen for the nonsense prayer breaking
On the side

Of my mouth
In messy, mini, white waves; just lean out
Of the night,

Kiss me in
My mind, if not in reality – pray, let me
Wake another day.


(aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh).

'Get There Steppin'?'

... is the thought that crosses many a confused cyber-wanderer's mind upon encountering this here blog of mine.

Seeing as how I have loads of work to do but my brain is broken (AND I am currently facing a whole load of upheaval), I am resorting to the most enjoyable and therapeutic form of procrastination possible: writing.

I am currently far too sappy to write about anything even remotely important, so I am going to instead reveal (FINALLY) why my blog is called 'Get There Steppin.''

I wish it were a better story than it is, but onwards nonetheless...

Once upon a time, a girl made a blog. Although she had developed the habit of keeping sporadic diaries over the years - and writing poetry on almost anything she could get her hands on - she decided that chronicling her thoughts in a weblog would be good, as it would be a way to ensure that she never lost or damaged her thoughts (no fountain-pen ink running here! No family computer-contracting-50-viruses-and-getting-fucked, no sirree!). And once she had her own laptop - her 'personal computer,' if you will - it would only be even easier and more effective for her.

Well, this blog had to have a name. The girl, like many young people have been known to want, wanted to choose something 'edgy.' It should be a name both attention-grabbing yet obscure. It ought to strike fear into the thoughts of those who happened upon it, with its literally-translated message of 'get the heck out of here!' Then again, the nature of the title would also imply rewards for the patient among any potential readers - if they were prepared to 'get there' one step at a time, they might enjoy themselves, and who knows, even become REGULAR READERS.

Reader, I would like to say that this is what shot through that girl's mind like a glint of sequin in a sari!

However, the sad fact is that she simply panicked and thought 'What... er... something not too noticeable, but unique, but a bit weird... Wait, what?' Then the fear of seeming derivative and overly self-conscious struck her. Giving in to the inevitable insecurity of the would-be writer, she thought 'A line from a song! But which?'

She thought, and 'Lose My Breath' by Destiny's Child marched uninvited over her memory. The audacity of Kelly Rowland singing:


'Oooh, you understand the facts that I'm tryna get to you
You're movin' so slow like you just don't have a clue
Didn't momma teach you to give affection?
Learn the difference from a man and an adolescent?
It ain't you boo, so get ta steppin''


Randomness had decided. And so it was born - Get There Steppin', a blog with just about nothing to do with the woman, group or song that inspired it AND a misspelling of the song-lyric it came from!

:-D


The video, as is only fair. In the paraphrased words of Manhattan Transfer, 'ooh, those girls can dance!'

I'm on PP!

Whoa.


*blushes, screams and then finally passes out*

PP Meet-Up LE DEUXIÈME!

So. I dressed up in the most offensive outfit I could muster (which is, curiously enough, a big, baggy hooded sweatshirt and a miniskirt!). Might I add that this is A TRIED-AND-TESTED disapproval garnerer (yes, I know that's a neologism) - I got hassled, each time differently, three times along the same road while wearing it in France.

Offensive but practical - the rain was pouring down and the sky miserably overcast as par for the course these days. I legged it to the National Theatre, feeling a bit nervous and shtoopid for having forgotten my book. This was to be a book-disseminating meet-up, and there I was contravening the whole point of it already. Great. I had visions of an outdoor table surrounded by barely-conversing people, a book or two languishing on top as the parasol fluttered dangerously in the 'breeze.'

However, it was then time to put away the imaginary violins because everyone turned out to be on the ground floor huddled cosily around a couple of tables. Saying the atmosphere was 'cheery' is shittily generic... but it kind of was, since there were lots of colourful chairs and stools, quizzical-eyebrowed white-haired men and women peering at things and eventually live music.

I encountered Nesrine Malik first off, and she remembered my name! Score (good God, I sound like a cross between an American frat-boy and your average Heat reader). She, like I, had turned up 'on time'-in-accordance-with-Sunny, which means an hour late. Hah.

Despite already feeling the odd mix of drowsiness and hunger that the NT seems to inculculate in me now, I spotted the PP table as we were about to walk past (yay!). Immediately we started chatting with Shariq, and I kept trying to find out who was actually in attendance since I only recognised a few people. Nobody seemed completely aware of the guest-list, so I gave up and decided I'd work it out for myself eventually...

As a fellow Wire fanatic, Shariq and I had a bit of a fan-moment over season 5 (which as I remember it, seemed to involve us going on about how much we liked it in a strangely camp way), and we preached its gospel to Nesrine. Despite fasting and really not enjoying it, she was a JOKER, as my brother might say. Or perhaps trooper is the right word. I spotted her getting a pasta salad down her at speed later on, haha. Respect! (She kept asking us to excuse her hunger and fatigue-induced dullness. There was no such dullness!)

There were, however, lots of books, and I cursed my Chagall for being at home on my desk, then consoled myself with the fact that probably, no-one would've wanted it anyway. (I didn't even want the damn thing when I bought it!). These were political bloggers! Reading political books! True to form, the table was already full of lofty-looking tomes...

... and then along came Sunny and his shopping bags, to much cheers and amusement. He effortlessly slotted himself in and began to work his way around the table, slowly but surely (*coughcoughHUNDALFORPRIMEMINISTERcough*). Taking inspiration from Our Great Leader, I started working my way around.

Now, so as not to harp on:

- The Westminster Wisdom folks were quite delightful. I got a whiff of hardcore political geekery from them, and might I say - GOOD ON YOU! Haha. I definitely hope to see them at the next meet-up, especially Gracchii who I shared a fun few minutes discussing Private Eye with.
- The wimminz rocked. I met Laurie Penny and Cath Elliott (might I just say - and I hope this doesn't sound weird although it invariably will - CE has quite possibly the friendliest face there has ever been). Laurie was lovely and exactly as I thought she would be, judging by her posts. I found her refreshingly open (as I did all the laydeez - maybe because there were less of us?) and we geeked out about comics (sorry Cath!). Laurie had to go early to feed her hungry lesbians (how did that go?) which gave me a very odd image of baby birds in a nest with human heads. Damn my overly-visual brain. Nesrine then came over and she, Cath and I chatted (although I listened a lot more this time). Despite having brought fruit-based provisions (i.e. an apple), I was starting to get catatonic with hunger (just like last time!).

- This led to me bugging Sunny about what to do, until I just decided to go the hell on with my original suggestion of 'whoever's starving, come get a sandwich and bring it back to the NT!!!' (Three exclamation marks - I get She-Hulk when hungry). Like some sort of political 'dream team', Sunny suggested the place - and I led the charge. I was so hungry that I almost flew towards the sandwiches and snatched up my prize, having decided what to have already. Leon laughed at me, approving of my decisiveness, but in my head my brain was screaming 'IF SHIT DON'T GO DOWN FAST, SOMEONE GON' DIE!'. I waited with Shariq for the others to get their food, and we compared our impersonations of Clay Davis (yes, I know... The Wire again...)' trademark 'Sheeeeeeeeeeeeit.' Hahaha. Rumbold showed typical libertarian indecision in taking what seemed like aeons to decide upon a yoghurt with 'Grape Nuts' in *snickers*. He didn't take too much to them, in the end.

We got back to the NT (I forgot to mention that Sonia had joined us, with a couple of her colleagues, who were very nice too). My sandwich was speedily consumed with an indecent haste and marked lack of ladylike-ness. I almost wanted to swear loudly in order to complete my conversion to Renegade Pirate Revolutionary, but was sidetracked by Bircher muesli.

After that, hands began to be rubbed anew over the future of PP since Sunny will be heading off to India... Sonia and I barraged Leon (despite there being a whole group of people 'involved' in the conversation) with suggestions, and in my case, ideas as to why some people (including myself) have withdrawn from it a little. I had to put my hand up at times to speak, and got laughed at again by Rumbold (but I would have the last laugh, because practically no-one knew who he was! Hur hur hur). After that, Sonia, her female colleague, Leon and I fell into a lengthy discussion about female misogyny in Asian cultures, especially the 'cult of the auntie-jis' which is making lives miserable left, right and centre. I managed to get the last word by suggesting that SOMEBODY make a reality TV show - 'Behind The Scenes of an Indian Shaadi.' THAT'D blast away a lot of delusions, and not just for non-Indians either!


Things I appreciated (for whatever reason): Leon remarking, upon my pointing out of Rumbold to him, 'I thought he was in his forties!' Hahaha. Haven't we all?

The food (of course).

Arriving, high off a wave of criminality because I managed to get from home to Waterloo for free, purely by accident.

Email swapping with some of the other ladies. I really would like to meet up with people again, in the (pinched) words of Nesrine, without Sunny as our 'Jewish grandmother.' She then did the accompanying accent! CLASS.

Cath Elliott's story about the big scary man with the crucifix who tracked her down one day over her abortion views (nothing happened to her, which is why she lived to tell the tale - thankfully!).

Fangirling over Charlie Brooker with Nesrine and Cath. Hahaha. Also, the Oxbridge and Ruth Fowler chat!

Being told 'You're lovely! I like you!' by Laurie. Why, thank you ma'am.

Making off with a trashy novel ('Ring' by Koji Suzuki - I bet it'll be so close to the Japanese adaptation that it'll leave little impression on me), an autobiography (If You Don't Know Me By Now, by Sathnam Sanghera) and a book on bhangra which Sunny received 5 copies on. The cover is made to look like floorboards and bears a little blue sticker reading 'CHAKK DE PHATTEY!' then in smaller type underneath 'Lift the floorboards.' Sadly my brother then left it in his friend's gym bag the next day (wtf?).


Things I didn't appreciate that much:

Ben being unable to give me a better reason for preferring The Sopranos to The Wire other than 'it's more entertaining'. We'll have to agree to disagree, my man. At least until you have the BASIC KNOWLEDGE (i.e. watching at least half of the first season) to argue your point! I remain not-particularly-inclined to watch The Sopranos, though I'm sure it is good.

The Anti-Boris coalition. They didn't mingle like the rest of us were. Look dudes, I know taking down Boris is a full-time job, but y'know, the books were kind of an opportunity for everyone to meet each other and talk unpolitical for once. Have a break. Have a hardback.

Being drowsy while experiencing a kind of faux keen-alertness as a result of hunger. I felt like a guard-dog that someone was waving a steak at from a safe distance.

Breaking a chopstick while on my way to the NT, thus making it not really possible to put my mad just-washed hair up. I ended up having to use my spare socks.


Thoughts, anyone?


Necessary Music Video - you don't even have to watch it, just listen to the song!

It's Friday Funtime!

I will try and do a real, serious post on 'issues' an' shit at some point (probably on Nietzsche, because he's giving me some serious food for thought), but in the meantime, enjoy these. Apologies to anyone who has seen these already.


The 8 Most Obnoxious Internet Commenters.

The David Blunkett policy maker.

The Daily Mail-o-matic

and *drumroll* my personal favourite...


The Alastair Campbell Wheel of Retribution.



God bless the Internet!

A Liberal Conspiracy You Can Believe In...

Once upon a time in America, there lurked an association of people (mostly fairly old white men), called the Republican Party. They were also referred to by all and sundry as the 'Grand Old Party,' or GOP, an appellation perhaps harking back to the good ol' halcyon days when they were considered a 'progressive' party (the year 1854, to be exact).

Now, this political 'party' had a problem, not least that it had only lived up to the second of those two words in the sense of creating free-reigning havoc by pushing a monkey disguised as a Bush to be the 'Leader of The Free World.'

Actually, wait, dear readers. This was after all the problem. However, for the 'party', the problem was not that Curious George had been their (highly visible) figurehead. The problem was that Ye Great American Public - upon whom they relied to do the essential job of generally not voting, watching FOX News for a thorough and shamelessly one-sided view of current affairs and having trouble with anyone not of a 'wheatish' complexion leading the country - had noticed.

Yes, 'Joe' and 'Jane' Public had finally decided for whatever reason (probably something to do with the economy) that after near eight years of the cheerful chimp, that they just couldn't take it any more. The GOP's rivals, the Democrats (or the Dumb-o-craps, as some of the wittier 'party' members were wont to term them) were gaining in popularity. Furthermore, God seemed to have taken their side.

How? God had sent a white-toothed, symmetrically-headed charismatic figure called The Obamamessiah to their rescue. The Repubs realised they were in trouble. So one day, they headed to the shores of the Pacific Ocean and summoned up the spirit of Old Man McCain.

Old Man McCain was a famous chip- and general frozen-food-product maker who had died suddenly after inhaling a new type of chip made with the SKIN of the potato in. His tragic death had gone relatively unnoticed... and it was this that the Repubs could now put to use.

Hiring a 'diverse' cast of trained actors (including a former drug-addict turned stay-at-home 'mom' and an attractive young blonde blogger, as well as a former Bangladeshi orphan), the jig was set. 'John' McCain, as he was now known, began to fight back for the GOP, all the while claiming to be a maverick. His myriad shifts in political stance were facilitated by the fact that his head was composed entirely of ectoplasm, and extremely sensitive to changes in temperature and humidity. He even claimed to be a 'war veteran', conveniently harking back to the days when he had actually been alive.

However, the Obamamessiah managed to hold his own despite all of this... and even struck back at accusations of political inexperience by picking a man named Joe Biden as his would-be vice-president. The GOP were now decidely uneasy. 'John McCain' was being derided as being 'not that much of a maverick' and 'frankly quite like his chimpy master' and fears abounded that he would die if he became President (YGAP being unaware that he was in fact already dead; a mere ghost, and at other times, a conveniently-placed hologram with a voice-actor hidden somewhere in the background - or shouting out from a tape recorder).

'John' on his own was not going to do it. What could the GOP do, particularly to woo their evangelical Christian fans who had smelled a rat over JM's 'maverick' (undead) tendencies?

Upon the aftermath of a particularly well-received speech by the Obamamessiah, the GOP took direct action. It was then that 'Sarah Palin' was unveiled as JM's vice-presidential nominee.

This expertly-engineered android was set up to be pro-guns, pro-religion and pro-teaching creationism in schools, as well as pro-life all while purporting to be a 'feminist' and 'a reformer'. She came pre-programmed with an obscure career as the governer of Alaska (complete with 80% approval ratings), a husband who worked for BP and five children, including one who had Down's syndrome. To top it all off, she had been carefully crafted in order to reflect her claims of being a 'former beauty queen' with convenient photogenicity.

Rubbing their hands together with glee, the GOP unleashed the Sarah-bot alongside Old Man McCain. What they could certainly not have foreseen was that parts of the robot's programming would begin to fray and malfunction almost instantly; when her 'daughter' was revealed to be five months pregnant, for instance, or when her anti-corruption reputation was weakened by allegations of using her influence to get her 'sister's' ex fired.

However, their scientists had had enough. 'Let it go, would you?' they cried. 'You've already got us working to death on finding proof that global warming is ABSOLUTELY and exclusively the fault of Ma Nature and NOBODY ELSE!'

Old Man McCain stood silhouetted against the sky. (The silhouette actually turned out to be that of the voice-actor who voiced his hologram). He raised his gooey fist to the sky.

'If only those darn rednecks had got the job right!'

The voice actor blinked. 'Hey Mr. McCain... don't stress too much. I'm sure the Sarah-droid's coverage will be dried up long before November. Just think, after that you can have the Viking sea burial you've always craved.'

Old Man looked at him. 'Really? You think?' he asked, his voice cracking.

The voice actor shook his head. 'Sure. And hey - if Sarah doesn't work out, you can always just get the GOP to loan her out to the BBC to star in the new series of Doctor Who. I hear it's the most-recorded programme in England. That's got to count for something, right?'

Some Like It Hot

Some Like It Hot
'Summer', you might not be, but I'll take you anyway -
the runaway madness
that I could well regret someday.

I perceive your deceitful play at nights when I slide
Between the sheets and feel
the shiver climbing up beneath my nightie –

The cold that runs fingers up my spine,
Seizes my nipples, kisses the nape
Of my neck so rudely –

Pulls every sense in my skin taut
And alert, waiting for the rich spill
Of golden warmth that never comes –

Just thick days of wet humidity,
Accumulating and weighing down
On me, till I can scarcely inhale,

Scarcely think, needing to peel off
All my layers just to breathe. Clouds
Close me in, to battle against

The strange, weighty desire you force
Upon me, like Zeus, come disguised
Replete with seduction plans...

Sweat gathering everywhere makes me
Aware of my self, creates a need for touch
A resolution of the friction –

'Summer' you might not be, yet ironically
You call forth the heat
From within me.



Not my finest moment ever, but I'm trying to write something, anything!

The Irony Of Trolls

OK, for anyone who hasn't yet read it, you better read this NYT article, which is requisite to the understanding of this post and really interesting to just about anyone who uses the Internet and has ever been anywhere near a messageboard/blog/ any kind of domain where visitors can have their say... Those of you who have already may wish to read it again to refresh your memories.

Of the two prominent trolls dealt with in the article, the only one I can take even remotely seriously is the one with a real name, Jason Fortuny. The other one is called 'Weev,' looks as deranged as he sounds (check the eyes... the glint of madness is clearly present) and is apparently an anti-Semite. Plus, when I read his response to the article, my brain turned off about three paragraphs in, in protest at his unbelievable arrogance. Here's a short sample from his Livejournal to give you an idea of his mentality:

L: ET scared me, he was so ugly and gross.
W: Well, it is a Spielberg film, so its purpose is to get you to empathize with the Jews. The "lovable" main character is a lazy layabout who needs expensive medical care and has never had a real job or contributed anything to anyone, just sits around and eats the food of the white people who were kind enough to host it. Eventually it causes political drama and leaves for a far off land, never repaying the people it parasitically attached itself to.
L: So that's why he needed people to dial numbers. Must have been Shabbat.

Lovely chap, eh? I categorically refuse to link to him, since I have my readers' welfare at heart and you beautiful people are not deserving of such eye- and brain-poison.

Anyway, back to Jason Fortuny. The guy essentially justifies what he and his ilk do as: '“...like a pitcher telling a batter to put on his helmet by beaning him from the mound,"'. Apparently he was sexually abused and he obviously has issues which he's trying to ignore (he has cut contact with his mother, rather than trying to resolve things with her as many others would). I find it interesting then, that rather than trying to break the cycle, he is simply perpetuating it. However, the fact that he tried to compensate for the actions of another troll by writing a guide to safe Web surfing for epileptics is interesting, suggesting the hint of a conscience.

I find it really interesting that these trolls are simply expressing what are essentially rather reactionary ideas using the most cutting-edge means possible. I and probably several other people who read this article came away with a seriously uneasy feeling about trolls and the damage they can do. Yet I also was thinking all the way through that like all barely-developed beings (i.e. children), if you don't give them attention, then they're going to get tired of their 'lulz' seeking and get lost.

And guess what... Mr. Fortuny has said as much himself, it would seem! Here's a sample quote from his response to the article:

The only thing that I'm sad wasn't covered is the one troll ethic: you'll never see us go after someone who has their act together. If they say or do intelligent, clever, witty, insightful things, we'll be the first to cheer and shower them with praise. We love smart people.

But God help you if you're a drama queen who complains about having a broken back that's prevented you from seeing the world in one blog post and the next day posts an ugly naked arched-back-on-a-jungle-gym photo talking about how worldly you are. You are batshit crazy, and we're going to troll you until you break.

Would you look at that! Despite the talk of trolls having ethics and him showing more ability to think than the other fella, Fortuny has more or less gone and admitted that:

a) trolls are simply an online hybrid of a stalker and a bully
b) these are people of a very reactionary and absolute cast of mind (not like Mr. Loonybin's Jew-hating didn't illustrate that earlier).


First off: nobody but nobody 'has their act together.' Especially on the Internet of all places... I mean for Chrissakes, unless you're webcamming and voice-chatting with somebody, you CANNOT get a full idea of someone's personality! Earlier in the article:

The willingness of trolling “victims” to be hurt by words, he [Fortuny] argued, makes them complicit, and trolling will end as soon as we all get over it.

I find this a bit rich when what he and his ilk are doing is reducing people to the mere level of the words and/or information they have put up on the Internet (intentionally or otherwise). Though somebody like him might argue that voice, gestures, tone etc. don't add much to a person's personality, THEY DO.

That is attested to by the fact that he might just have seemed like a total sociopath, until the writer Mattathias Schwartz met him and fleshed him out with physical and behavioural descriptions which showed him to be a fairly normal person with an unpleasant past and asshole tendencies when online.

Secondly: who are the hell are you to decide what is acceptable behaviour from somebody, especially in a context such as that just described, when a person can be only partially known? If anything, trolls like this sound more than anything bitter because they can't control the Internet wholesale. They limit themselves to policing it in their own twisted fashion instead. I know that everyone judges everyone else, but for people to be doing so on the Internet makes me a little annoyed since I consider it possibly the most democratic form of communication there is in the world. Also, for trolls - people of very fixed opinions and little nuance, who would never have the guts to do the same thing in real life - to position themselves as the regulators of the Web is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

These are the sorts of people who considered a teenage girl with depression fair game for their exploits - AFTER her death.

Anyway, enough of the trolls. I am apprehensive because it is an old school friend's birthday dinner tomorrow (even though her birthday was at the beginning of the month, and we went out then too...?) and a certain assortment of my old school friends have the tendency to pick shit places to eat - big-name places where the prices are high (especially for me) and the food is desperately sub-par at best.

Last time, we went to TGI Friday's and I had a thoroughly regrettable experience where I spent most of the evening staring into space as though traumatised, and smiling waterily as two of my friends descended into a storm of furious mutterings and furtive mumblings over how fit the waiter was.

Tomorrow we are going to a place in Camden that looks to be more of the same. Chatting to a friend who shares my feelings on these matters today, I came to a decision: no more. It is time to stand firm and take action on this wholly un-democratic matter where the place was chosen apparently by the elected candidate of their choice without our counsel or approval.

I'm going to eat before I go.

However, might I say that I am seeing my new skinny friend (;-P) on Sunday, and I am very much looking forward to it! He's going to learn what good cheap eatins' tastes like. Hopefully.

Ah Hell, Why Not...

I asked Ala if she wanted to have a read of this before I dedicated it to her, but I can't be bothered to wait for her to email me now, so I am going to just go ahead and post it. It is OLD.


For the lady Ala Abbas, here it is:

Agnostic
“Agnostic” left my lips,
took a step forward, tripped,
right over and into the abyss.
Having taken the plunge,
I opened up my eyes
to the vultures that awaited me calmly.

The medication had ceased
to do its wonders; a placebo
long past it, I came off this
Black-and-white LSD shit –
Good God, sweet Lord,
Jesus H. Christ – one helluva trip.

Now Mama, don’t feel low
I still believe in ghosts –
they’re just here, now I know,
and not floating somewhere
up in the sky – oh, the truth
Is much closer than fiction.

Ohmyfuckin’God,
excuse me while I blaspheme,
‘cause if there really is a big ol’ beardo,
why the hell should he care about me?
Unless he fancies that S & M, like sending
Poor Joseph and Mary all over Bethlehem –

And look, now I court controversy,
it’s just the beginning.
You hush me, shut me up,
you threaten me, by Jove –
‘Twas the evil in my own home
to make me doubt the existence of a God.

© myself.

Though it is no doubt going to sound odd-as, I really think I need to rave about the effect that hearing Nathan Jones by the Supremes has on me. It makes my heart race. The way the music gives way to the vocals makes me think of a lightning bolt or a bird soaring. Diana Ross doesn't have the best voice ever (ha!), but sometimes the Supremes get it really, really RIGHT, and this is one song where that happens. The strange mixture of hurt and confusion, with the merest hint of anger make this one of their few really affecting songs.

Jayzus, I have got to start talking about more important and political things. Soon enough, once I start sleeping early enough for my brain to actually work. Nietzsche's book On The Genealogy Of Morals is always looking sternly at me, as if to ask when I'm actually going to get beyond the first two parts of the introduction. Aargh.

(Though it has to be said, Nietzsche ROCKS! I fucking love him, from what I've read so far. I don't necessarily agree with, or understand, everything he advocated or believed in, but as a person I think he really practised what he believed and was a pretty decent sort. I originally thought he was a bastard because the Nazis claimed him, but I actually find him quite awesome).

*Jerks Awake Suddenly*

Haha, I am absolutely knackered today. What a great feeling! I am going to be living in university accommodation 'next' year (i.e. in a month's time), and I was getting all riled up because I forgot to hand in something on the list. I forgot the most minor and unimportant thing (a SSAE), despite having paid my deposit, handing in my signed licence agreement and giving them the requisite passport-sized pictures. However, the copy of the licence agreement I had warned very sternly that missing any of items a)-d) could result in losing one's place. So I legged it over there (well, as fast as one can when one's destination is on the other side of the city and trains are involved), fearful because I'd rung several times and received no answer.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I entered the Residences Office and was approached by a woman instantly. 'Sorry, I forgot the SSAE,' I began immediately.
She blinked at me, and then let rip in a cheery, hearty Cockney accent: 'Ah, babe! That's really sweet of ya! Most people don't do that!'
I smiled at her, slightly dumbfounded, then handed her the envelope.
'Thanks, babe... can I just 'ave yer student number?'
I duly pointed it out to her on my copy of the licence agreement, which I'd brought with me in case of 'trouble.'
'Right... OK... thanks! See ya!'
'Thanks, bye!'

I left the room, and the building before bursting out laughing. We need more cheery Cockney women in the world! However, as I walked along, my mojo-uplift was slightly compromised when I heard a bizarre sound... which I realised was someone making kissing noises. AT ME. I looked up and there was a spike-haired loon in his car on the other side of the road, going for it like he had a pacifier in his mush. He carried on, irregardless of my more-than-a-little-disgusted expression, until I was out of sight.

Still, I suppose it's better than the time I was going home from a friend's house and then a man with a golden perm/mullet and the sort of chubby, red, boiled-egg face that could be 35 or 50 turned asking for directions into an attempt to chat me up. When I said I had a boyfriend, he asked me if I was going to marry him. WTF?! What does it have to do with you, fella?!

I really do not know what is with me, I emanate 'freak' vibes the way our Netgear routes emanates wireless signals. The most normal experience I've ever had was last year in France when a bouncer stared hard at me when I walked past. Then, a good hour later, he reappeared out of nowhere while I was sharing chips with a friend and asked me if we wanted to go dance at a nearby club with him and his accomplice. I looked quite coolly at him, clutching my takeout box and replied 'No, we're eating.' OOH, BURN!!!

In other news, I made a new friend today, but he is skinnier than me and that is surely wrong. No man should be potentially lighter than me unless he is gay or yet to have his growth spurt! It makes me feel like even more of a baby elephant. Also, I had a Reflection on clothes an' fashion an' shit while drawing the curtains.

Comfortable is never fashionable. Talk of beauty and fashion abounds with references to 'suffering' and 'being uncomfortable' to 'look good.' Often when comfortable clothes are in fashion, it lasts all of about two seconds, and you see about five people dressed 'comfortably' before it all inexplicably moves on to the new trend of skintight bikini-dungarees made out of old suspenders or whatever.

And I'm not talking about comfortable as in 'oh, the new shoe-boot is so much better than summer's wedge-heeled sandal!' I mean REAL comfort. Slouchy, draped layers that make me think of ancient Greece and Uniqlo all in one go (though that's rich, since it was at Uniqlo that my fear and distrust of skinny jeans was really developed).

What the fuck does all this 'looking good' actually amount to, though? What does it MEAN? If you think about it, it always means emphasising your body. In fashion terms, that means tight clothes and revealing clothes. High heels that lengthen your calves and push your butt out! Platform heels that make you tower like a sexy willow-tree!

So in short, it's about creative nudity. We cannot (too scared, too dangerous etc.) walk around naked and we will not (because we're vain, insecure etc.). Therefore, 'looking good' through fashion is, as far as I'm concerned, most of the time about sex and precious little else. I mean, look at the way models are chosen nowadays. Everyone loves the androgynous, pre-pubescent look despite what they might say, which is why Agyness Deyn is apparently going to be the new Kate Moss (fuck off). This is because the people behind the manifold orchestrations of the fashion industry tend to be gay men for the most part. They turn women's bodies into the canvas for their sexual yearnings.

Is that art, or is that misogyny? I think it sits somewhere in-between. It's a little bit sad that so much fashion and beauty is that shallow (although not very surprising). Maybe I'm getting it all wrong, though. Maybe when people feel that they 'look good,' that they are sexy, and then their confidence increases which really IS sexy... There are people out there who dress how they like, and yes, they might dress to emphasise a certain part of themselves and look good (like me), but they also do it for the sake of it and not just because it's 'in' or because they want to pull. Although I suppose people don't even realise they're doing it sometimes. Let's not forget the easy pull of conformity, especially when it comes to clothes. If your body shape is irregular in any way, shopping is going to become an arduous and unpleasant process, so you might as well go with the flow, even if it doesn't look good on you. Case in point: skinny jeans.

OK, enough lighter-than-thou ravings. I will leave you with this very amusing piece of bitch, which turned out to be my favourite of all the DOs and DON'Ts (most of the ones online are actually pretty shit).

UPDATE: I just realised that the DOs and DON'Ts are in themselves a perfect illustration of what I'm talking about. A good 80% of the time, the DOs are girls that are dressed in a way that is sexually appealing to the reviewers, and most of them are very skinny, wearing tight or revealing clothes (though not necessarily revealing in the glamour model sense!). Whenever they try to put in slightly bigger-sized women, or women who don't look like models, there's almost always a certain patronising quality about the captions, even when they mean well. How 'good' people look is about how much they make others want to sleep with them, 90% of the time! Who are the makers of this mag? For the most part, white middle-class men (though one of its founders is Pakistani). Who are the readers? Hipsters and hipster-wannabes. This is the sometimes-funny but often-distasteful bit of a free mag which otherwise has some really good photos and journalism.

*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.