What The Girl's Been Up To

That sister of mine, upon reading my blog yesterday, why I hadn't done a 'What I'm...' in a little while. I feel guilty putting them on the end of a long post, making it even longer for the casual reader, so I've avoided it for the past few posts. But the time has come when I feel I have done enough in the world to spew up a little feedback. So, enjoy, and please comment.

What I'm reading:
Wicked George Maguire I've never seen the musical, and feel lucky I haven't, because friends of mine have told me the book would be far too harsh on my delicate senses if I was expecting a lighter, less graphic sort of book. Wicked is an adult novel telling the story of the Wicked Witch of the West, with little caring for the spellbound children of the original Wizard of Oz story. There's no way around this, the novel was vulgar. It seemed like Mr Maguire had sat down and wondered how to make this novel more appropriate for adults. The answer was sex and violence, often mixed together. Maybe I'm a prude, but personally I found that rather off-putting, especially when not particularly relevant to the main story (yes, I am referring to that horrific 'Philosophy Club'). Aside from that, the story was predictable and unbelievable, missing out crucial areas in time jumps. Although the main character, Elphaba, became a sympathetic character towards the end, it took far to long. The writing style was engaging mostly, although approaching the bland style of L. Frank Baum at others. So perhaps not a particularly recommended read, especially if you like the original tale.

What I'm visiting:
 FABRIC–ATION Yinka Shonibare MBE at The Yorkshire Sculpture Park My sister often over-enthuses about her favourite artists to deaf ears, but not often does my father, as he did after seeing this exhibition. Intrigued, I went to have a look, and was thoroughly impressed. Yinka Shonibare MBE, although physically disabled, manages to make incredible art, from sculptures to canvases to films. He goes to great lengths in his sculptures of people to dissolve the ethnicity, and he manages to create a world identity in his work. The colours, usually based on Nigerian designs, are vibrant, and the entire exhibition seems so touchable (although don't because every thing's alarmed). There is something for everybody, children will love the colour, texture and movements he captures, but Shonibare creates multiple meanings, a set of dresses (Little Rich Girls) can refer to hierarchy, prejudice, but also examine the role of little girls and how their constricted. I haven't been so moved and inspired by an exhibition in a long time, and will probably go back again before September, when the exhibition closes, and would defiantly say its worth more than a look in.


What I'm watching:

The Golem Shonaleigh at The Library Theatre, Sheffield Maybe its cruel to talk about this, seeing as the piece of storytelling was yesterday, the 17th of July. Still, I think it's worth writing about, in case Shonaleigh comes to your area. All Shonaleigh does is get on stage and tell a story. Even she doesn't know what will happen, out of the thousands of tales she knows from her Jewish grandmother she selects as she talks. I never knew I had a capacity to just sit and listen for so long, she told a multi-faceted story about prejudice, love, and everything in between. I wish I'd been able to stay and listen all night, she alerted you to the points where she could tell so much more. It was a performance which is hard to criticise, and anything said would just be trite. Again, if she comes to the area, do anything you can for a ticket. I'll probably be in front of you in the queue.

Sheep and copyright

I was recently at The Yorkshire Sculpture Park, where me and those roaming with me came across a sheep with the word 'Orary' spray painted on. Confused, we began hatching theories about over-possessive farmers etcetera. Most of these fell to dust however when we encountered another sheep with 'Mystery' written on it's side, and a rather mardy looking one with 'Me' stencilled on. It took an embarrassingly long time before someone suggested asking at the information desk, but by that time everything was closed, so we comforted ourselves with the knowledge the enigma could be googled at home.
Once at home we found it was the work of one Alison Cooper, a link can be found here to see the official part of the Yorkshire Sculpture Park website. But something else emerged, it appears that those sheep were at the heart of an artistic scandal waiting to kick off. Poet Valerie Laws, self professed 'sheep woman', said that the Sculpture Park sheep were a direct rip off of her Haiku, or “haik-ewe”, printed on 15 sheep. You can have a better look at the story here. The gist of it is 'don't go stealing my claim to fame be-atch'. Alison Cooper and the Yorkshire Sculpture Park both claim they had no consciousness of Laws's work. Despite this, can we still say that Cooper and the Park have infringed on Laws's work and right to remain original?
Well, I'm sure the artistic dispute will be sorted out in its own time. But the concept of an idea belonging to someone is relatively new. Dickens was fighting for copyright laws to be brought in most of his life. Even to the point of alienation at a point from the free and unbound American public. But his income and lifestyle depended on his work being fully credited and not copied or stolen. You can understand his distress at various money makers publishing they're own made up endings to his newspaper chronicles for the eager public, and plays being made of his writings without his approval, or even knowledge. But a couple of hundred years earlier thievery was common practise. Shakespeare has been often accused of stealing plots for his famous plays, such as Othello, from earlier literature. His contemporaries used to carry about note books where they could take down turns of phrases and concepts they liked to use in they're own literature, taken from other plays and books as often as not. So have we evolved to value our individuality more? Has our concept of ownership consumed us in an increasingly materialistic world?
However, can it be said that there is no such thing as originality any more? Some great works of art have sprung from earlier art, Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys, based on Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, is now seen as great literature. Another popular novel, 50 Shades of Grey is based on Twilight. So how much can the original owners really claim ownership of they're grandchildren. Should we discredit Rhys and James because they're simply copying other authors? Well, within the fields of art forms, isn't everybody trapped within what is pre-existing? Can you think of an alternative way of writing a novel that doesn't already somewhere is exist? To be honest, actual originality might be impossible these days.
So the real question is, where does something start infringing on somebody else's work to the point where they can get upset about it? It has to be acknowledged that for artists such as Dickens copyright was seen as vital, and continues to be today, especially when their livelihood is dependent on it. But McDonald's has tried to trademark the prefix 'Mc', and Facebook owns the word 'face'. Most would see this as ridiculous, and worrying for the hoards of Scots with 'Mc' on the front of their surname. So we have to acknowledge this is a difficult, delicate business where the copyrighter is not always right.
So, returning to the Poet Valerie Laws, on the scale from McDonald's to Dickens, I would put her plight somewhere in the middle. Granted, her profession and her livelihood is at stake, and she would benefit from real appreciation, but at the same time the art of spraying sheep is not new. Most farmers mark their sheep to recognise them, and show ownership. So if two artists should happen to reach the same point should it really end in tears? I have to be honest, I can see why Laws might be upset, but we can hardly move for pre-existing forms. Maybe we should evaluate how original our idea could possibly be, and how likely it is someone else has the same idea, before causing a fuss. Anyway, Sheep have been around for a very long time, and have been used as canvases before, for adverts and suchlike. And I'm pretty sure they don't give a damn.

The Bipolar world of Book reviews

During one my lazy weekends I recently found in The Guardian newspaper a feature on the world of book reviewing and whether it was sexist or not. Through a collection a statistics over a period of two years a series of graphs had been made showing in different newspapers the ratio of male to female reviewers in non-fiction and fiction, which you can go have a look at here. The report came to the predictable conclusion that women were under represented in the literary world, with only 29-36% of non-fiction reviewers female. However in fiction it is generally 50/50, with some papers going one way or the other, but a large amount at a fair ratio. So, should we simply assume that the non-fiction world is more sexist in terms of reviewers?
With some papers questions should perhaps be raised, such as The London Review of Books which inexplicably only has male reviewers for fiction, and only ten per cent women reviewers for non-fiction. But on the whole it evens out male to female reviewers when you merge the ratios of fiction and non-fiction. And the presence of women in non-fiction reviewing shows that the path is no barred to them, so should we be annoyed at the papers for not forcing their female reviewers to review non-fiction. Furthermore, by simply creating ratios like this, are we actually doing more harm than good?
Let me explain, although these statistical outlooks might be productive for individual papers, in making sure there is a lack of discrimination, by publishing these statistics and placing blame on the world of literary criticism The Guardian is risking discouraging equality in reviewers by saying that it is harder to women to get a role as say, a non-fiction reviewer in The Mail on Sunday. Similarly, men are being told it is hard for them to get a role as a fiction reviewer in The Times. This wouldn’t particularly encourage the average person to try. A better way forwards might be to advertise for and encourage more female or male reviewers in certain sectors as oppose to telling them how unlikely it is they'll manage to gain a job there.
Even this ignores a problem. While these exposés are essential at times, should we even be judging the reviewers based on their genitals? By publishing this feature The Guardian becomes guilty of encouraging the bipolarity of the sexes. The entire concept of the feature suggests that male reviews are somehow different to female reviews, and reviewers should be hired according to their sex rather than their ability. I fail to see this as a positive thing. Yes, encourage gender equality, but don't degrade the quality of the institution for the sake of it. By doing that the idea will flourish that, say, the introduction of female fiction reviewers in The London Review of Books has ruined this once great paper. So, overall I'm saying we should stop putting men and women at odds and just see them as people. Nothing more, nothing less. Then maybe we can get some of that much desired equality.

Real

'After we came out of the church, we stood talking for some time together of Bishop Berkeley's ingenious sophistry to prove the nonexistence of matter, and that every thing in the universe is merely ideal. I observed, that though we are satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is impossible to refute it. I never shall forget the alacrity with which Johnson answered, striking his foot with mighty force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it -- "I refute it thus."'
-Boswell

For a while at secondary school I took a philosophy class after school. I can't say it was the highlight of my week, rather as one of the two only girls in the class, and a year younger than everyone else I was rather taciturn. Despite all this I did manage to pick up some interesting concepts, such as the one illustrated above. The basic theory of Bishop Berkeley's is that nothing actually exists and the world is in fact imagined. But Johnson's point is that the world is physical and real, and the sensation of kicking the stone proves this to him. I have to say, I have come to no conclusion about either theory, I tend follow the belief that I might as well behave as if the world is real, because behaving otherwise will never get me anywhere. But fairly recently I was thinking about the ideas and I thought of a story where someone behaves according to the idea that their world is completely imagined by themselves and nothing is real, while another character attempts to show the point of living life. I hope you enjoy, if anyone fancies leaving some feedback I would adore it.

Real

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

She blinked her seaweed eyes. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is a shadow maker.’

I grinned and took her hand in mine, a hand which veins and scars made maps across. She once told me all the places she’d been were written on the back of her hands. She could run a finger south, towards the bony wrist, and remember the way a willow made the light dapple across the surface of a lake in Angouleme.

‘But you make shadows; trees make shadows, what makes it different?’ I replied.

‘It’s not. I’m not saying names are set.’ She grew animated as she spoke, ‘Think of it as fluid, to us right now it’s a shadow maker, but to someone sitting inside it might be called home, or shelter…’

‘You’re right.’

My eyes open and I take in the room. Light spills in through gossamer curtains, her choice, she liked to see the light or illumination as she called it. Light was too conceptual for her. Turning on my side I see the bedclothes, pulled awry by me during my sleep, where she should have laid. My fingers clasp around cold hard metal, in my hands she called it the soul splitter. I called it freedom.

Do you believe we’re actually living? Do you believe that everything you’re touching now is real, is actually pressing against you, the fabric of your clothes, the brush of eyelash on cheek? Do you believe in mortality? She did, she believed in it so hard she’d break a glass and cut the flesh on her forearm to prove to me she bled. She once showed me how she could go to hospital and made me watch how people reacted. I touched her arm, and didn’t feel a thing. If you stopped looking at these words would they still exist? If you stopped listening to your lover’s heartbeat would it still sound? I once told her she wasn’t real, while the heart monitor beeped beside us. She wouldn’t look at me.

She called the heart monitor a safety drum. When it stopped sounding it would lose the catch and make everyone come. She called the bed a dream maker. ‘I’ve only ever dreamt in a bed.’ She explained. I told her she’d dream if she slept on the floor. ‘No I won’t’ she said.

I take freedom and run its edge along my thumb, down a worn groove. Then my index finger, and then lightly round my wrist. Swapping hands, I repeat the movements on my left. I stop at the wrist and regard my freedom and its bloodied edge. I regard and wonder; would it be worth it, to press a little deeper?

I used to humour her a lot. When we lay in bed I told her she was flesh, blood, and bone, as solid as the stones in the graveyard. But in the evening, after dinner, I’d tell her how everything was constructed. I told her how I controlled the world, how it was all in my mind. She told me to fix it. Five weeks and a day later Libya rose against Gaddafi; ‘Look,’ I told her in the evening, ‘look what I have wreaked.’ She said I didn’t make her. She said she thought real, independent thoughts and felt emotion like I did. She said she could prove it to me.

She took the soul splitter and split herself open. Her eyes turned to marbles and rolled away; her lips turned to wax and melted down her face. I was left with a heap of red soaked meat.

I don’t know why I made myself hurt. I don’t know why I created an empty bed, why I couldn’t recreate her out of a spare rib. It’s been a year and two days and thirteen hours, and she still hasn’t sat up in her grave and pushed her key in the lock on the door.

So I choose the freedom to forget, and push it in deeper.

Katie Hopkins: A Britain built on heirarchy

Katie Hopkins appeared on 'This Morning' last Friday and if you haven't seen it yet I  wonder where you have been living and advise you take a look at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edZjdgU0asM. Hopkins argues that it is valid to use a child's name and it's connotations of class to decide the child's character and whether they would be a suitable 'play date' for her children. She believes that children with names such as 'Tyler' are more likely to be a negative influence on her children, and behave worse at school.
Now, the interview focuses on Mrs Hopkins's apparent hypocrisy and idiocy, and only lightly touches on the real issue, that people are consistently judged on their background and parents. This isn't always direct; having wealthy parents means you are almost guaranteed a certain privileges, such as private schools and increased respect for your lifestyle. This is instituted in British tradition, we still have Kings and Queens who automatically by right of birth have privilege and status over the common rabble, 'Dukes' and 'Duchesses' are seen as sophisticated and admirable, but we have to remember these titles are inherited. These presumptions are not based on individual merit, but upon a hierarchical system that discounts the majority of the British public, no matter what they have achieved.
What Hopkins presumes is that those who come from a poorer and less privileged background are automatically worth less intellectually and personally than the wealthy. But this is not necessarily the case. Typically at Oxbridge (Oxford and Cambridge) universities those who have come from state schools outperform those from public schools. The simple reason for this is that they have had to try harder and have had to show more individual strength to reach Oxbridge in the first place. In Oxford only roughly 30% of the intake at undergraduate is from State schools. Public school students will have had training for the interviews, for the entrance exams, something very few state schools have the time or resources to give. So in general students from State schools have to have worked harder, tried harder by themselves. And I'm sure quite a few of these students are called 'Tyler', and have had to fight against the prejudice of people such as Hopkins all their lives to prove their own worth.
And although I wouldn't call myself under privileged, I know what it's like to have to prove your capabilities despite your background. When I went to sixth form I was entering from a closing school, which had been deemed 'failing' by Ofsted. Most of my primary school friends in the catchment area refused to attend because they thought the school was rough because it took in a lot of people from a lower class, and a lot of immigrants. On sixth form open days at two schools I was told once I'd informed them of my secondary school that I was unlikely to get GCSE grades high enough to study at sixth form. I started to tell teachers immediately; 'I go to (name removed) School, but I'm predicted all A's'. But my secondary school was widely diverse, I had incredibly interesting friends from all over and I never felt superior because I was middle class. I had friends just as intelligent as me, and more so, and they weren't restricted by their background. The main restriction will always remain the people who assume that they cannot succeed because of where they come from, or what school they go to. And one of the reasons why this country is one of the most unequal is that these people did not get the same opportunities as public school children. The automatic hierarchy is outdated, and people like Hopkins should be rightly called idiotic, as long as we realise this isn't just an isolated case. This is a symptom of a much larger problem, one that this country is clinging to for dear life with our Royalty and House of Lords. God knows why.

What I'm reading:
Theft Eric Chappell I should first explain that this is a play, and I'm trying not to read it simply the way I would read a novel. I'm trying to work out blocking and casting etcetera, but even simply reading this it's interesting. Written in a naturalistic style, with  a classical shortening of acts to create the sense of time running out towards the climax, I'm finding the play quite exciting. Set in the drawing room of the posh home of John and Barbara Miles, the play follows a burglary, and the manipulative burglar, who knows far too much about everybody involved. Relationships and trust are tested, and I think I would love to see this play performed.

What I'm watching:
The Returned Channel 4 Got to say, I normally dislike zombie and ghost programs. I find them ridiculous mostly, and would rather be watching Downton Abbey or Doctor Who (Yes, I am aware of the irony). However, The Returned is incredible, set in a French town (worth mentioning now the program is in French with subtitles) and people start returning from the dead. There is no explanation for why this is happening, and that's part of the charm. The show focuses on the characters, and the effect those returning from the dead are having. From start to finish every Sunday I am totally entranced. The acting brilliant, there is nobody who lets the side down, even the child actors are wonderful. Although, it is hopelessly complicated and there's a lot to remember, so not something to watch for a laugh.

Old

I was on the bus one day, during rush hour, as all the students walked to school. From my window seat I chanced to see an elderly couple among the rabble walking hand in hand. What surprised me was that they were both dressed in a punk fashion, a man in a long leather coat and long hair back in a ponytail, and a woman with short pink hair jelled upwards and in a short leather skirt. I imagined them waking up and being surprised to find themselves old, then going about their daily duties as if nothing had changed. So, what can I say, I wrote a story about it. If you chance to think up any feedback I would adore it...

Old
Today I woke up old. My hand was withered like a dried rose petal, so I held it up to the morning sun to see if the light would shine through. It didn't, skin think with pent up memories I've never had.
When I tried to get out of bed, my lips parted of their own accord as my back clicked into place, one vertebrae on top of the other. My feet curled in on themselves, the skin on the bottom thick like dead slugs.
I dressed myself in my best black cashmere jumper, but my stomach and breasts bulged unexpectedly, so I zipped a stiff jacket on over. My leather skirt wouldn't close any more, I used a safety pin hoping no one would notice. The makeup in my bag didn't match my face, the red lipstick paled me and showed the circles beneath my eyes. I zipped the bag up and wiped it off.
Nobody turned their heads when I walked by. Young men fixed their eyes on the legs of some other scrawny mite. I caught sight of myself in a shop window, and a blush crept up my neck. I was old, I could see it in the reflection that hovered over a faceless dummy. My skin was draped over me, my legs were blemished with a tangle of purple wires. Somebody looked, I knew it at once, but the gaze I turned to meet was the cold, disapproving stare of a young woman. I shuffled home as fast as my creaking legs could take me, gently lay myself on my med, curtains closed, lights out. Maybe I'll wake up young tomorrow.

Thoughts on the works of Charles Dickens and Joss Whedon

Assuming the superiority of the novel

Joss Whedon recently released a film; Much Ado About Nothing. Perhaps you’ve heard of the play, the famous Shakespeare canonical piece of writing. Whedon is mainly known another film, Avengers Assemble, a spectacular swashbuckling action superhero film. It will suffice to say that one didn’t win any awards, but I am willing to bet that Much Ado About Nothing with its Black and White effects and little known cast will be a far more viable contender for the awards. Perhaps Whedon felt he had to bring more ‘artistic integrity’ to his direction, who knows. But however good that film, however ‘high-brow’, it will always be rated as generally inferior as an art form to the play as a piece of literature simply because it is a film.

Now, when you go into the library or the bookshop, depending on how much you support our local libraries, you will get shelves of literary criticism, of Carter, Austen, Atwood, Banks… but this criticism is not extended to film. Why? Film is capable as much as literature as getting the same themes across, violence, racism, relationships… it is only a matter of being a different form. Now, the fictitious novel has gone on a journey to reach its high status, the study of literature has expanded from being created as a ‘soft’ subject at Universities only studying canonical texts, to including modern authors and even graphic novels, there is no reason why further expansion could not include film.

Let us look at how our great literary art form was once seen a ‘pop’ in the same way cinema is seen. Our High Priest of Literature, Dickens, wrote Oliver Twist and Bleak House which have been cited as some of the greatest pieces of literature of all time. But when Dickens was writing he was not seen as a great author, he wrote for newspapers, he wrote ‘trashy’ fiction. Now we see him as an incredible author. Austen too had to battle critics who thought that novels were inferior, something which she brilliantly satirises in her novel Northanger Abbey:

"But you never read novels, I dare say?"

 "Why not?"

 "Because they are not clever enough for you - gentleman read better books."

But now English literature is studied at Universities as a respected ‘hard’ subject, and Austen’s novels are debated at works of art. ‘Fiction’ and the novel are still relatively modern as a concept.  So could it be that the reason we don’t consider film as a ‘hard’ subject is because it is too new a form, simply because we haven’t the hindsight to appreciate it? My sister had an interesting theory when I shared this idea with her. And in most cases it can be agreed that fiction is easier to read than non-fiction, more enjoyable. Could it be that the fact that it is ‘easier’ to read made people look down on the form? And could this not be the case with Cinema, the fact that the masses enjoy film and find it quicker and easier than reading make it a less valued art form. What snobs we all are.

So why don’t we consider Inception the way we might consider A Tale of Two Cities? Or even the same way we might consider Small Island by Andrea Levy published 2004 and studied for A level literature across the country. We should be able to recognise the merits of film as an art form, and be able to argue in the same depth at patterns and issues film deals with. I soon hope to see mingling with your Shakespeare books of essays such as ‘Race and religion in Gangs of New York’ or ‘How the proletariat always loses in Disney’. Maybe I’m being too optimistic, but hey, you know us Artsy folk. We’re all dreamers.

Review: This Is My Family at the Sheffield Crucible

Yesterday evening I went on a trip to the theatre in honour of a visiting family member. Having only found out the evening before that he was coming, and knowing that This Is My Family had gotten such good reviews, I rushed to the box office, and ended up buying the last three tickets. The show was taking place in the Crucible Studio (as oppose to the main stage), a much smaller venue, but with better sight lines all round, although there is the added danger of over-enthusiastic thespians spitting on you. There's also the fact you can't book seats, meaning you end up with the hassle of having to queue before hand to get good seats (top tip: arrive at least half an hour before show starts). Still, I'm a naturally hardy person and have dealt with this system many times before so this did not deter me from my aim of thoroughly enjoying the evenings entertainment.
Now, this is what I knew before hand from advertisements:  This Is My Family is a Musical comedy following a thirteen year old girl as she tries to plan a holiday which she hopes will help stop her family breaking apart. Sounds perfectly family friendly. Tell that to the woman who brought about five ten year olds, and then went beetroot when a number which can only be called 'The sex song' was sung. Although using metaphors and similes, it was undeniably graphic. Although not loads, there was some crude humour, which contradicted the marketing of the play. This probably should have been made clear in the advertising, and although not a problem for me, I felt considerable pity for the parents who brought their children. Parents on their own on the other hand would probably enjoy the show; even I, a teenager myself, could laugh at the blatant stereotyping of the age group. Their play did try to live up to being a 'comedy', we got a few giggles, but no big belly laughs. The comedy seemed more incidental than part of the genre of the play, and became laboured in the first half of the play as we got told to same information over and over again. Luckily the second half was much faster and interesting, and the satire more poignant.

Now I'm a fan of musicals in generally. I'm not one of those people who turn their nose up at a good bit of singing. But unfortunately I felt the songs didn't really add anything to the play. Even worse, they seemed to be an excuse for dialogue which, I have to say, wasn't great. The orchestra was a strange makeup, consisting of a full drum set, a leading keyboard, a cello, a double bass, and then an accordion. It wasn't too bad, but a bit disconcerting. Having said this, there were two numbers which I felt were done rather well. I was transfixed by Yvonne (Clare Burt) singing about her fear of growing old, something which most people in the audience I bet could relate to. There was also Sian Phillips, who played a Grandmother losing her mind to Alzheimer's, singing a beautiful church Hymn, which throughout became more and more confused. It seems that Tom Firth can really write vulnerable, touching women at least.

It may seem so far that I hated This Is My Family. That is not the case. Mostly the acting was brilliant, especially Clare Burt as the Mother figure, and Evelyn Hoskins as the teenage protagonist. Only Rachel Lumberg let the side down, seeming to only play a cliché as the lively and large fun Aunt. She simply became dull and two dimensional, to the point where I began to feel the play would have been better without her character at all. The teenage son, played by Terence Keeley was unfortunately written as a complete stereotype, and although he managed to pull the role off well considering, Firth's and the director Daniel Evan's general ignorance of teenage culture was highlighted at points, mainly by the unfortunate pronunciation of 'lol' as 'L. O. L.'.
Rounding off, unlikely as this seems, I would recommend a watch. It's on until the 20th of July, and tickets are £15. The acting is mostly superb and manages to bring life to the dialogue. The set is certainly impressive, and the play, despite the trite, schmaltzy ending (oops, hope I haven't given anything away), is enjoyable. Just don't take your kids to see it, this is defiantly one for the parents.
P.S. I have realised my choice of proof reader, my sister, was a bad one. Most would realise that taking the advice of a dyslexic on spelling and grammar is not the best choice, but it seems I'm a bit slow. So I've gone through some old posts to make some changes, if you would care to take a peek.

Breaking News: There's Life Up North!

(Note: Sheffield is near York and curiously lacking on most maps)

Last January I was down in Exeter for a university interview, a lovely placid place compared to my hometown of Sheffield. In the depths of winter I could walk about without only a jacket, what a wonderful experience! Now, I'm not that northern comparatively, but its worth mentioning I was one of the most northern people sat about waiting to be interviewed.
I soon found my kinsfolk, a Lad from Barnsley, and also a girl from 'Baarth', known as Bath to those such as myself. Now, I wouldn't normally pick up on accents, my own leaves much to be desired, but in conjunction with a certain comment she made, I think this detail is worth sharing.
'Are there any Universities in the North?' She asked innocently. Me and Barnsley boy quickly disabused her of the Romantic notion that the North was nothing other than abundant moors.
I'm not going to list all the Universities up North, Russell group ones included such Sheffield University itself (for the moment barring Scotland), I only want the reader to reflect on the sheer ignorance of one half the country of the other. And I have to say, this is not confined to small minded 18 year olds. When I read papers such as the Guardian it feels as if I've accidentally picked up the London times. The relatively famous film 'Four Lions', set in Sheffield, was referred to as being set in 'a Northern city', despite the fact that Sheffield by most counts comes as about the fourth largest city in England, Manchester beside it. In the countdown of the 50 best restaurants there were only 7 counted that were in this half of the country, and about 40 in the list were in London. The Guardian started off as a Manchester paper, so why is it so London-centric?
I'm going to dig into my historical knowledge for this one, to try to explain why this is the case. Kings and Queens have been, as a general rule, situated in London. This naturally made London the place to be if you wanted to be involved in Law making and the general governing in the country, a little unfair considering its so Southern. Through the years following the crowning of the first Tudor (who fought the northern Yorkists for power) the royalty became increasingly suspicious of us lot. Elizabeth Tudor never came as far as Yorkshire in her travels, and significantly Mary Queen of Scots was sent here as a place of banishment. So historically the county has been South-centric. But in our increasingly modern times, why should this persist?
The BBC some time ago launched a scheme to move their headquarters around the country. There are buildings in Manchester, Norwich, Cardiff, making the BBC truly a wholly British television station. So why can't our newspapers follow suit? People like that Southern girl should have an awareness of the entire country, she should have a national identity which truly is national. She should have the same awareness of Manchester and Sheffield that I have of Exeter, otherwise our full potential as a country, to recognise universal talent, will never be reached. Then what will happen to our 'gloriously advanced' civilisation?

What I'm reading:
50 Shades of Feminism Edited by Lisa Appignanesi, Rachel Holmes and Susie Orbach The poor boy behind the counter looked terrified as I pushed this towards him. 'Oh god, not another militant man hater' I'm sure he thought. But this collection of essays, sometimes stories, is interesting because its not simply man hating. Sure, you get a few whiny essays on how women are constantly oppressed, but most acknowledge that most men in the western world want equality as much as women. A few congratulate our progress. But the best examine problems which prevent equality without placing blame, simply saying how we can improve without saying we should all become lesbians. Lovingly decorated with Posy Simmons illustrations and little uplifting quotes, this book is darling. I only wonder about the exclusion of male authors. I know male feminists, I've met them, so surely we should let them contribute, for real equality.

What I'm watching:
Horrible Histories CBBC Don't let the fact it's on a children's station fool you, this is one of the few unpatronising comedy programs out there. The show is comprised of various sketches about history. Nobody is too precious not to be made comical, even our Grand Priest of literature Dickens sings a whiny song about his sad old life rendering him ridiculous. The show is up to date and simply conscious of what the target audience is exposed to, even Can I has cheezburger is utilised in a sketch about the Egyptians. And the best thing is, the facts stick in your mind, making the endless problem of topics of conversation a thing of the past. You know 'Hullo' was originally an expression of surprise, only used as a greeting because of Edison making it the official telephone greeting...

What I'm listening to:
 These Streets Paulo Nutini What a relaxing uplifting album. Nutini's voice is rugged and delicious to listen to, his lyrics poetic. I admire anyone who can switch from the longing Grant my last request to New Shoes, utterly frivolous and exciting. It's hard not to be seduced by this album.

My Madonna

I wrote this sneakily in my planner during an English Literature lesson while my teacher strode about animatedly throwing bible passages at us about the Madonna at us in conjunction with a book we were studying (The Magic Toyshop by Angela Carter). Being my wayward self, my attention span slipped, and when I chanced to hear what he was saying I assumed my teacher was talking about Madonna, the singing sensation rather than the virgin Mary. It took me longer than I care to admit to realise my mistake, but the idea stuck with me. It seems to me to symbolise the modern disillusion with religion. In my class of twelve we only had one Christian who understood the references in our texts, and it made me wonder about how we lost touch with something which was integral to the formation of our society. I am atheist, but even I can see how our social conventions, such as the weekend, come from the Christian religious beliefs. So here's a little poem on the topic for you all to enjoy.

My Madonna

Madonna, with your pointed bras,

Your pure red lips,

And your immaculate body,

Teach me how to sing.

We worship you from the stalls,

Our eyes look to you,

Cradling a foreign babe in your arms.

We were taught about you,

head swaddled in blue,

Your eyes so kind, I thought

how you had thinned to almost nothing.

I am glad you stepped up from the limelight,

stopped hiding behind bearded faces,

But somewhere along the line you lost your immaterial halo,

Somewhere along the line

We lost touch.

Should feminists feel guilty enjoying Tangled?

I was recently at a little soiree, dress code: Fairy tale characters. I was Dorothy in my red shoes of Wonder and glory and with my Mum’s worn old dog hot water bottle for Toto, L. Frank Baum having called The Wonderful Wizard of Oz his ‘American fairy tale’. Somewhere along the line, without my knowing, fairy tale had disintegrated into Disney. We had The Mad Hatter from Alice In wonderland and the wizard from the Micky mouse short with the dancing brooms (comment if you remember this wonderful piece of cinema). The hostess was the witch from Tangled, specifically Mother Gothel. But this room full of teenage girls, most who would happily call themselves feminist, came to an impasse. Should we feel guilty idealising the characters from these Disney films, how much were we belittling ourselves by calling complying with the fairy tale stereotypes? Angela Carter, who wrote The Bloody Chamber, would have looked down on us, we were sure. The translation of fairy tales most of us are familiar with, by Charles Perrault, promotes typical bourgeoisie values. Women are shown as ‘God or wolf’,  rewarded for taking on traditional oppressive female roles; the stay at home mother only appreciated for her beauty and good home skills, and punished for curiosity and having power (think witches). But does the film Tangled inevitably promote these values, being based on Rapunzel? Should that group of us in our crowns and witches dresses feels guilty? I’ll tell you in short what I think: No.

To begin with, we’ll take Rapunzel’s glorious long hair to represent adherence to traditional concepts of beauty as a redeeming feature, and its healing power to represent the mother healing role expected of woman. This hair is a desirable feature on a superficial level; it restores youth and heals Flynn’s hand. But overall does this bounteous gift improve Rapunzel’s life, is it shown as something we should all aspire for? Good grief no. It is the source of all Rapunzel’s problems in fact. By this I mean her kidnap and imprisonment. When she visit’s the City, which could be seen to represent real life in comparison to her tower, her hair is trodden on, gives her no end of trouble and has to be plaited up. And when cut off, which could symbolise the escaping of her oppression, she doesn’t lose her power, and critically, she does not stop being feminine and an admirable character. She keeps her healing skills, but rather than being tied up in her troublesome hair, she can access her power through her emotion. I would call this her base instinct, separate from any expected role. She appears as a powerful liberated woman. Therefore I don’t believe it can be said that Disney intends to show women as simply desirable for beauty and home skills. Rapunzel is spunky. And here we come to her weapon of choice; the frying pan.

‘Frying pans, who knew?’ Flynn Ryder exclaims to himself, in perhaps one of the lines most loved by the internet community. Critics would argue that it shows, as Rapunzel’s weapon of choice, that she can’t really escape her gendered role. If she could she would use a sword or another male weapon surely. I would say why on earth should she? Why shouldn’t women be able to access power through manipulating the meaning of items such as the frying pan? And throughout the film the pan becomes unisex, Flynn Ryder uses it and is surprised by how good it is, as if he didn’t realise before that actually, there is nothing wrong with taking on a female role. It’s actually quite liberating. So I find no guilt attached to laughing at Rapunzel repeatedly whacking Flynn over the head with her pan. Everyone loves a bit of slapstick anyway.

So what about our Mother Gothel? My friend in the long black dress, from whom the whole dilemma originated. She has to be the most delightful, sexy character in the history of Disney. The special thing about Madam Gothel is that she is not the ‘wolf’ character you expect of the evil witch. By that I mean she is not damned for her powerful character, I’m pretty sure everyone in the cinema enjoyed how she manipulated everyone around her. It is not Gothel’s power which is the bad thing. She is not punished with death as a woman who has overstepped her gendered boundaries; she is punished for her greed. Greed; a trait we all understand, we all might find her sympathetic. We all want something we shouldn’t have. Women and men. So, Gothel is perhaps not a character we should aspire to be, but she is one we can enjoy and not feel guilt about, as the budding feminists I’m sure we all are.

Only one more main character to go; the lovely ‘Flynn Ryder’. He was apparently inspired by all the most desirable celebrity features, and at the beginning expects he can get out of any situation using his ‘smoulder’. Rapunzel raises an eyebrow, as does the rest of the cinema audience. Just because Flynn is an attractive man, he is not any more powerful than Rapunzel, he in no way controls her, through his ‘smoulder’ or any other means. A lesson for all young women I would have thought. She refuses to be cowed by his visit to the vicious pub ‘The Snuggly Duckling’. Men aren’t something we should fear, the film seems to be saying, and we watch as Flynn stops his sleazy patronisation of Rapunzel throughout the film, at the end they save each other. It’s a mutual thing. Equality and feminism at its finest.

I could go on, talk about the Queen and the King, about the ‘dreams’ of the ‘Vikings’ from ‘The Snuggly Duckling’, and so on. But I think I’d just be repeating myself. So, I will conclude with the assertion that all of us at our little party should feel happy about confessing our love for Tangled, perhaps a child’s film, but no good film should appeal only to one audience. It makes me laugh, the scene with the lanterns takes my breath away routinely, and I can’t watch the ending without a little snuffle. And most importantly, I don’t feel guilty admitting this. If you would like to comment, please do. I would be interested to hear your feedback and (hopefully!) counter-arguments. Thanks for reading.

P.S. I’ve written this listening to My Head is an Animal by Of Monsters and Men. I’ve long loved this band, and I would thoroughly recommend Little Talks. Just sit down and listen to the lyrics some time, they never fail to move me.

The Clockwork Women

Recently (well, not that recently) I read The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, and it made me think.  About society, about my self-worth, and about losing my mind. About how we define ourselves, and how easy it is for a country to just change, if the right (or wrong) people are in charge. Anyway, I wrote a little something after the great Atwood herself, I'd love some feedback, adore it. So just let me know what you think. And I swear, I'm not angry, I don't think men are out to get me. It's just a little something that I couldn't let go of until I wrote about it.
P.s. We're listening to Kate Nash's Album Girl Talk. Is it just me, or is it a little tuneless and shouty? Reminds me of spoken word poetry. I find it hard to like, but my sister is bopping along visibly empowered, so Nash must be doing something right.

The Clockwork Women

We wait in a room that smells of wipes and cleaned up shit. The heels of our painfully tight shoes tap together as we cross our hands at the wrist. Every face is the same, a little pale, begging a night’s sleep, but wide awake, eyes nervously ticking. Mostly either a little too wide or a little too slim of face, but I’m pretty sure the bone structure will melt over the days to come under a spurt of flesh. I clutch my standard issue handbag tighter, the white on my knuckles growing as I clench. It is all so horribly slow.

Finally we are ushered in, a big messy clump of heels against the linoleum floor. The freckled redheads, the corn blondes, the mousy browns, all stand straighter, their individual strokes of colours lost amongst the scraped back buns. Somebody attempts not to cough, but creates a sudden splutter, a ripple as people step away, and in the centre of this she starts to viciously rub anti-bac over her hands, eyes glinting nervously at them. They stand watching us, with flint faces that don’t even flicker. We vibrate with anticipation, but not a word is said, the air is filled with the humming of anxious female minds. I flex my fist; I’ve bustled my way to the front, others eye my enviously. Probably they think me a worn out hag with an overlarge nose. I’ve borne so many times my breasts are beginning to sag and my lips purse. I know how this is going to go.

Suddenly, with the elegant finesse of practise and distaste, one of them lifts off the copper lid to reveal the spewing red liquid, Dozens of tiny bodies float about the froth, too static for comfort, tiny hands open, ready to be grasped. We pause for a breath, dust hangs in the air, and then we surge.

I elbow, I push, and I collide the various stick like parts of my body with those of other women. There is a satisfying yelp as I storm up the steps, mine and the feet of many others clanging like an angry beast from the time of Gods. I’m the first up, receive a gratuitous nod, and plunge my hand in; I’ve singled him out. Blond, healthy looking, guaranteed survival. But as I reach, another tiny body collides with my hand, and with a shock I feel it impregnate me. At once four hands and a clench of fingers wrench me back causing me to stumble. Uneasy am I with the unknown infant newly placed in my abdomen. Nobody at the heaving front pays me any attention, but a couple round eyes at the back watch me, like snakes lustily watching a pregnant sheep. I am taken by this sense of colossal fullness not unbeknown to be, but all I think is ‘you’re not the right one,’ tapping my handbag impatiently.

I pay my money at the desk, precious coins that could feed a thousand street brats. ‘Congratulations.’ Says the girl at the till, pushing my receipt into my hand, eyes already on the next woman staggering forwards.

The pregnancy is hard, like always. I stumble from room to room in a daze, my thin hips heaving and breaking beneath me. Finally it is born, a crop of black hair on a cold blue body. This is the fourth time, and I don’t watch it be wheeled out the room. Instead I look at my hand as I close another finger down into the fist. ‘One more chance’ I think; a growing chain of lives that never were wrapping around the depressions and wrinkles on my body. There’s nobody home to watch me struggle back out to the shit scented rooms, ready and panting to do my duty to our precious father land. Like a dog returning to the one who brandishes the whip, I come for what I am owed by ancestral right, and what may never be mine to possess.

House Warming

Hullo there, and welcome to... Barbeque Soup.
It strange being me, about as strange as it is being everyone else I expect; I've pretty much just turned eighteen, finished my A-levels, and am looking at a couple of months of job searching and University stress. If I get in of course. So, I've decided to create a blog! Whoopee! This will pretty much consist of whatever comes to mind, including my random thoughts on feminism, stories and what I'm doing. Because some people might find that interesting. You never know.
Well, thanks for having a look! Hope you enjoy whats to follow. Please comment. I feed off comments. Honest.

What I'm reading:
Things You Should Know A.M. Holmes A collection of short stories, unashamedly surreal. If your in the mood for something haunting, that'll stop you sleeping, this is the thing for you. Poetic and beautiful. Although I have to say, it's hard to forget how constructed these stories are.

What I'm listening to:
Becoming a Jackal The Villagers Have to say, I'm listening to this against my will. My twin sister is playing this rather loudly while doing her crazy art work (I'll have to post some sometime, pretty impressive). Melodic and poetic, but don't really inspire emotion for me I'm afraid. And I have no problem talking right through it (much to my sister's annoyance).

What I'm Watching:
Russell Howard's Good News Show BBC Three Just saw episode ten. I used to love the show, and it still is pretty funny most of the time. However, Russell Howard's humour has definitely become cruder since series one, and I'm finding it less funny, and more mortifying. He's adorably childish, but I eagerly await the day when he stops pretending to orgasm onstage. If your considering starting watching this, maybe go back a couple series.