On the topic of truelad.com:

"Did you know 'women can be lads too'? i don't know about you, but that information totally takes away everything problematic with the term for me. i've not been worrying my pretty little head about it since. next week on bigoted logic: defining black people as 'honorary whites'!" (Rosie Tuplin, my intelli-feminist paramour, 2010)

There is an advert that has been cropping up in the saturday Jobs section of the Guardian Weekend for a good few years now – I have a distinct memory of reading it in Hamilton Square Train station the year before I started University, which would make me 19 and hence the advert to have had a presence in the Jobs pages of everyones favourite “bleeding hearted liberal” rag for at least 4 years now. I also have a vague sense that I'd seen it around prior to the instance I am taking as a marker; regardless, the point is that the position being advertised has evidently been around for quite a long time, and requires new applicants on a fairly regular basis.

To paraphrase, it's basically an advert for “Home Help” needed by a “slightly disabled” female writer. Nothing particularly remarkable there. I get the impression what is required is, apart from the odd bit of shopping, mostly company - “Over qualified people,” you will be glad to hear, all of you job-starved recent Uni graduates from the Class of 2010, “[are] welcomed,” and furthermore, “A sense of humour helps.”

So it comes to pass that somehow this advert, which in actuality probably amounts to little more than a lady who is for some reason rather unfortunate when it comes to being able to appoint reliable household help, has captured my imagination on repeat occasions to the extent that when I glanced upon it today for the umpteenth time I felt my imagination diverge far from the path of reasonable assumption. I like the idea of a 'difficult' (in the way which can only be said with a forced smile, through gritted teeth) lady, stubborn as a mule and crabby as an old wounded cat, who , despite her good intentions and ultimately kind heart, has driven away a long succession of potential home-help with her willfull spirit and demanding requirements. I'd imagine the first day always goes quite well, for both parties – perhaps some of the “House Rules” seem a little demanding (“No Shoes anywhere past the porch, please, and I like to keep all the doors closed – insulation, you see.”) but really, nothing more than you get in most houses these days, now that the home has become less of a sanctuary and just another commercialised space onto which neuroses are projected by those who dictate what is appropriate. They part on cordial terms, and with cautious optimism – the help, walking to the bus stop in the cool dry afternoon air, reasons that even though it's only ten pounds an hour, it's not hard work and besides, how much can there really be to do? Plenty of time to sneak off for a cup of tea and to devour a few pages of the newspaper. And so, the next day – shopping, stilted conversation peppered with the occasional dry-as-toast witticism, and strange foodstuffs (eccentricity is allowed in elderly female writers, you suppose – but quails eggs?? This is dinner party food, food to show to others, food for display; then again, what is wrong with entertaining well even when your only dinner guest is yourself? An audience of one is still an audience).Back at home, searching looks over the battenburg cake and excuses made, as you escape to the kitchen. The upstairs landing smells like geraniums. There are no photographs.
Wednesday is a day of rest; you spend the afternoon hopping on and off buses, getting lost in suburban London, which mostly looks like suburban everywhere and has the redbrick and concrete labyrinthine qualities of suburban everywhere, and the repetitive motifs of suburban everywhere, and is held in an arid pause in the desert of those afternoon hours before the school run begins. You sit on a bench and unwrap your sandwiches, wrapped in tin foil, and ignore the curious looks that passers by would throw at you were they able to commit such a flagrant disregard of social convention – it being, in this sort of place, nothing short of brash to do much more than acknowledge the existence of another body in close proximity – for who on earth brings a packed lunch these days? Strange to do so, when sandwiches are available from every corner shop – limp, polystyrene triangles with pieces of meat like pieces of paper, cheese that comes from a tube, the metal arms and metal teats of the production line now the hand that feeds. (you cannot bite nor seek comfort here; battery farmed lives with just enough emotional sustenance to continue conspicuous consumption – the factory doesn't end where you think it does. You can't always see the bars.) Finish up your sandwiches, squash the tin foil into a ball. Bus home.
Thursday is worse. The air is stale, the conversation is stale; your tolerance grows less and less – your own ego, mediocre but expansive, resents the role you signed up to, you forget to close the living room door, the cat gets in, there is hair on the sofa, you spend the next 40 minutes vacuuming. Before you leave, she reads to you – poetry, and it's raw and it's good and it's honest but somehow it makes you feel further away, as though you're watching her through metres of water, rising to the surface, staring down below. Such an open invitation to truth, a door left unabashedly, flagrantly ajar makes you weak in a place you can't quite identify. The more the door opens, the further you sink into the shadows. You make your polite compliments, you say goodbye. Front door closes, you're left staring at a brass knocker. The paint around it is chipped. In the window to your left, there is an aspidistra plant. The bus home is quiet and stagnant, save for a mother and a boy of eleven or twelve in sports clothes who kicks a solemn tattoo on the back of the seat in front of him. When you get home, you call to hand in your resignation – time constraints; it doesn't fit in so well with your timetable as you had thought. The voice at the other end of the line is distant – “Very well. It was nice to work with you, briefly.You must pop by for a cup of tea when you're in the neighbourhood.” Click. You are left staring at the handpiece held before you as it hums its inverted Omkara. Call severed.





Whether this is anything close to the truth or not, I would like to send her a cactus because they are easy to look after and very rewarding. and I hope she has children or grandchildren or lots of old friends to come and visit her.

My Mum likes to watch a TV channel called Yesterday (tagline: “Where the past is always present”) which specialises in vaguely nostalgic documentaries usually focused on the none-too-distant past. At the moment, there is a show on exploring the thirties through the lens of home video cameras, obviously a rather scarce commodity at the time. It interests me, that we feel so disconnected from our past, that we need it fed back to us, in bitesize chunks – this comes in an evening in which I have seen slum clearance in 1960s Leeds, and footage of Dockers giving wads of cash to Miners in a show of 80s solidarity. Is this the only way we can conjure up any sense of origin, of source – that is only real which is reflected in glorious technicolor?

Anyway, the section which just finished featured Eva Braun's home video footage. Weird.

A bit too pretentious for a facebook status update...

:) / :(

neither one exists without the promise of the other and today I wear both masks. (you can call me Thalia or Melpomene as the mood takes you..)

sometimes I think that if I was a gay man and didn't care so much about my work (or anything) I would basically be a character in a Bret Easton Ellis novel.

Also, even by this early stage in my existence I think I own too many books for it actually to even be possible for me to read them all.

((reflect on this:))

The mimetic quality of desire amazes me: it turns everything into a hall of mirrors.

So I haven't really been around here much for a while. Could offer explanations but won't; nevertheless, if I were to they would definitely be of the positive kind. I may not have been writing here very much recently but I have been writing a lot elsewhere ,- "I draw on anything for inspiration: a piece of paper, a fond memory, the walls in a train station." I am sun-drunk and have been running around and playing lots, as is the summer custom, but I am also in a phase of overt academic activity too. This means that my time is divided between the library (or other place of study), various drinking holes and my bed at a ratio of roughly 3:3:1. I love it. I get such a kick out of reading up on something that interests me and making headway with an idea, it's better than any drug could ever be.

Anyway I thought I would stop by and post this because on my cycle into Uni, I was thinking and I tend to try and get my thoughts out these days and into the relatively stable medium of words because if you don't tie down an idea to a signifier of SOME sort then it risks floating away into abstract oblivion, and I don't like to think of those poor lost little thoughts drifting off into the universe of the never actualised, the land of might-have-could-have-what-if-but-didn't.

I am thinking a lot, at the moment, about theories of modernisation - particularly post-modernism (Baudrillard, Lyotard, Jameson for those who are interested - recommendations always appreciated with love&kisses) and the constrictions on the individual that accompany the present state of western society (Capitalist, late capitalist, consumerist, post-industrial... you get the gist). Specifically, at the moment I'm concerned with the means individuals find to transcend the "cage" of these constrictive societies, and to pinpoint even further, the ways in which such transcendence (or the desire for it) is portrayed in contemporary literature.

So, for men in the land of the fictional, apparently, it's violence. Violence is what gets you out of your cage; it's through violence that you lay claim to the identity that our secular-anonymous-sterile-technologised-void world takes from you, or so the literature seems to think. Then there's sex. "The only time you feel like you're really alive." Another potential avenue for transcending the cage of individual subjective experience, which is presumably open to both men and women. Yet there are intimations that neither of these experiences are capable of subverting the prison of the normal, of providing us with meaning in a world in which "meaning itself" has ceased to hold meaning. I have completely wondered away from my point into the realm of cloudy, rusty, transient thoughts that I have not yet realised (this time in the land of might-have-could-have-what-if-still-might) and am at risk of getting lost amongst them so I will firmly march myself back on track and give voice to the thought that I felt deserved words in the first place:

So how do we, women, get out of this cage? Why don't we want the violence and the blood and the gore and the paradigmatic sexual experience? I'm not saying that we should, rather simply observing that we don't, really, to the same degree; and it interests me why. How are we getting our kicks?

One suggestion is that it is through motherhood that we derive meaning for our selves. I can understand this, to some degree. To be able to give birth, to create life, is one of the greatest gifts that our lives have been granted - the ability of life itself to continue, to propogate. I think that having children is probably one of the greatest things you can do in life, and one day (in the very very distant future) I hope that I am willing and able to do so. But somehow I can't accept this idea that my life, as a woman, can only derive meaning from what it can potentially give rise to. This idea, of deriving meaning only from what I could potentially contain, calls into my mind the idea of chinese boxes, Russian dolls, each having worth based only on what it contains, again and again in some kind of infinite regress. And of course, an infinite regress doesn't provide adequate support for believing any proposition to be true. and I dream of being something other than a vessel

Today I had a not very nice flight but made friends with a violinist who was in the seat next to me, and then I bought a Pepsi on the train from Frankfurt and the man in the shop gave me a cup which he had modified with two drink-stirrers sellotaped to the bottom to make it look like an alien and drawn a face on it. SO that was ok.

"We don't believe in you and your wrecking crew/We don't believe in you wedontbelieveinyou"

Election innit

I don't really know all that much about Politics. Unfortunately my sixth form college went in for Politics less than GNVQs in beauty therapy; but that is rather beside the point as in all honesty I was too busy doing any number of wildly stupid things to pursue any kind of personal education in the subject. This isn't something I'm proud of, and it is something that I hope to rectify one day. On an entirely personal level, this election has made me feel rather ashamed of my shallow knowledge of British politics. Theoretically, I have it all there. I can discuss social contract theory until the cows come home – I know Hobbes and Locke and Rousseau, I have dabbled in Marx and Marcuse (too much Marcuse, not enough Marx, some might say), I can understand (although for some almost indiscernible reason disagree with) Rawls – I can even, on some level, consider that all property (all proper tea?) is theft. Give me a half a pint, twenty minutes and s topic and I can discuss the hows, whys and wherefores of any number of complex theoretical political “big ideas.” However, when it comes to the ins and outs of British politics – of economics, of first past the post, of strategic voting and percentages and all these fiddly but violently important little aspects of the actual system in which we find ourselves I am blind. I am as blind as the next man and blinder than most. I am not good at politics. But, I am good at people. Not in terms of interaction - but I understand people, to a degree, and I do a lot of listening. And this time round, I have heard a few things. This is what I have learned.

[+]'Voting for Policies' has a nice ring to it and would perhaps work in a system of proportional representation but that isn't the system we have so we just have to make the best of it, really, and hope that things are different next time round.

[+]I have never met anybody who lived through the 80s (and by lived, I mean, was of an age to be more concerned with the poll tax and less with gnawing on their transformer toys) who wants another Tory government. Never. I suppose that anybody likely to think that the Thatcherite years were a good thing is probably fairly unlikely to be hob-nobbing around with the likes of me, but nevertheless, I think this is telling. I know with hindsight it's easier to find things to appreciate, and people keep telling me that Thatcher did do some good things (allegedly.. probably.... possibly?) – but then, even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day, doesn't it?

[+]When talking about Politics, most people don't seem to know what they are talking about. I mean of course, there are many people who do – I have enjoyed, this time around, listening to the thoughts and opinions of people far more politically educated than myself and I have found it very insightful, a definite learning curve. I have witnessed some passionate debates and had ideas suggested to me that never ocurred to me before. However, none of this detracts from the fact that it seems like, to me, a lot of political debate amongst your average citizen is basically just everyone trying to sound like they know what they're talking about more than the person next to them. It so often seems to descend into petty point-scoring and pedantism - “Please, correct terminology, cretin.” As if tarting up your views more prettily is somehow more important than the fact that you're trying to polish a turd. I feel like I've spent a great deal of time watching people bluster through discussions that are based far more about who is the most confident and who has the most aggressive debating technique than who actually has arguments of substance. But then, I suppose that's the case with everything, it's just that politics seems to particularly titillate it.

[+]Before the circus began, it seemed like it was the general consensus that we were going to get a Tory government. However, I soon realised, whilst venturing out of my cosy little middle class student enclave, that this wasn't anything resembling the consensus of everybody at all. In Leeds a few months ago I had a really interesting conversation with some of the regulars in the pub I used to work in. They were the first people I encountered who genuinely didn't see a Tory government as being an inevitability. Furthermore, they didn't see Labour – 'warmongering, disappointing, rebranded' New Labour – as being backstabbing failures. I come from a middle class background. I know 'everyone' does these days – that, I suppose, was one of Thatchers victories, the rise and sprawl of the middle classes. Convincing everyone, even those on not all that many grand a year who are realistically one paycheque away from the breadline, that they are middle class and should vote to protect their own small interests. To convince the more affluent of the working class that they should vote in the interests of the wealthy, than the masses..... because One Day, You could Be Here Too! Why give up anything to support those who are in need? Because it requires sacrifice, and Hell, I don't Need It – I'm Doing Just Fine, and I Worked For My Money, and So Anyone Who Doesn't Have Money Doesn't Have it Because They Are Lazy And Unmotivated Scroungers and so Why Should I Carry Them? Completely disregarding the fact that wealth distribution is at best based on an arbitrary system of birth and circumstance and most of all luck. 'Why not reward the rich and successful? That's where we all want to be, right?' And one of Thatchers victories was convincing us that we could be. Fact: We won't. Not all of us. That is an impossibility in a society based on massive inequality. Statistically, you are probably not going to get There – so why are you protecting the interests of those who will? They aren't playing on the same pitch as most of us – they aren't even playing the same fucking ball game. But my point is, that although to some of us, it might not seem like there is much difference between Labour and Tory, there are people to whom it makes a massive difference. See: Surestart. See: Child trust fund initiative.

[+]On May 1st,1997, I was on a school overnight trip. It was a sunny evening. I remember our teachers (well, most of them) walking off to the pub, even clapping each other on the back. I remember, far before I could understand what it meant, grown ups saying that things were going to change. That this was it – finally. It was going to be okay from now on. It wasn't. My mum puts it best – with the Tories, you expected it, but with Labour, they stabbed you in the back. All of the problems we have are not simply a result of some evil Tory deathstar and would be totally resolved by a labour government. Labour fucked us. In 1997 they wined us, dined us, told us we looked awful pretty in our nice new dress and hey, maybe did we want to come back to their place just 'to talk', and then bent us over a desk and buggered us. But at the end of the day – they are So Much Better than the alternative. If I were to vote Labour, I would not be voting pro Labour, I would be voting Not Tory.

[+]I'm from the kind of family where it would be tantamount to sacrilege to vote Tory. This kind of tribal politics seems to be sneered at now; somehow it is considered weak or ill-informed to vote on the basis of social class, to continue the values inherited from parents, grandparents, eras with values that we are convinced are so alien to our own.We should vote how we feel, however suits us best – we should forget all the lessons history has taught us and vote on the basis of policies, because, as we all know, Politicians Of Course Stand By Their Election Pledges. (see: 1979 (78 maybe), The Sun front page: ten pledges of Thatcher's government. Five years later, all broken) However, if I genuinely felt voting Tory would be in the best interests of our state I would do so. I don't vote on the basis of how I have been told; I would never be a part of some blind indoctrination process and my parents would never expect or desire me to be. But, having grown up with the values my parents have instilled in me – values which are based on equality and fairness and the importance of a chance for all, of working to dismantle the class system which for some reason is still so pervasive in our society, of valuing everybody as being of equal worth regardless of their origin – having grown up with these values I would never dream of voting Tory.

[+]I wouldn't vote Tory because of a very distinct ideological difference between my own views and theirs. I wouldn't vote Tory because I don't believe it's okay to sacrifice the poorest people in society on the altar of “free enterprise.” I know this more American concept of freedom is catching on in Britain – I know that suddenly anything which prevents us from striving to achieve our ambition to basically be as successful as we want and to hell with whoever pays the price is viewed as a bad thing, but I don't agree. It would be one thing to value unhindered ambition if the starting society was a level playing field, but it isn't. Alls it means to give Everybody a chance to Make Their Fortune is that those at the middle and upper echelons of the system are somehow justified in indulging their greed by professing that They Deserve It, and the poorest in the system are left to stagnate in their pool of 'primordial ooze' regardless of how much Ambition, Talent and Drive they display. Anyone who claims that the above three qualities pave the way to success in an unequal society is talking bullshit. The path to success is paved with money. Money begets money. I am not claiming that everyone who has achieved success has done so on the basis of great wealth, or that they somehow don't deserve this success – far from it. In fact I applaud those who, from whatever background they come, have managed to achieve something in our society off the back of hard work and clever decisions. What I am pointing out is that it is utterly utterly misguided to say that all of those who achieve under our present system have done so purely on the back of wit, intelligence and dilligence and all of those who fail to achieve are simply lazy, unmotivated and untalented. It's just bullshit – it's utter, utter bullshit and makes no sense, and to justify inequality on this basis defies belief.

[+]I know there are people who, when one brings up the subject of the 80s, automatically switch off. We weren't alive then, things change! Lets move on! But I grew up with the shadow of that decade hanging over me. I knew from a very young age that some deep rooted ideological inequality had somehow marred the world into which I was born. That somehow, people were confused – that even those with not-very-much nurtured a sense of entitlement coupled with a fear of losing it all that somehow seemed to justify clutching their own tiny piece of cheese to their chest even as it melted away.

[+]At the end of the day, we don't live in an ideal world. We should strive for utopia..... of COURSE we should strive for Utopia; if we ever for one second stop dreaming that we can make things better then we would be a lost cause. But that shouldn't stop us facing the reality of our situation. By all means, usher in a new era – Storm the fucking Bastille, I'll be right alongside you, but until that day, we have to do the best with what we have. Hope for the best, but plan for reality.


So that's what I think, and that's what I've learned. This should have been a lot longer but it's 4.59 am, I still need to pack for a flight tomorrow and I don't function well on no sleep. I hope when you go to cast your vote, in whatever direction you may choose, you do it with conviction. I hope, when you justify it in years to come, that your justification is not made purely on the basis that you thought it would see you and you alone through the next few years of turmoil – that you saved a few hundred quid in taxes, to the detriment of public services. Public services that perhaps you might not benefit from most – but which have a massive impact on others who share our tiny island. Britain. We love it passionately and we hate it in equal measure; we can't even agree on the matter of what it is and what it means, let alone where we should take it – but it is ours. All of it. And regardless of how you define it, we have a duty to all of Britain to do the best with it that we possibly can for all of our citizens. When you vote – please, PLEASE, think.

So that's my opinion, anyway. I'm sure somebody will be along any minute now to tell me why it's wrong – and actually, I'm sort of looking forward to it.


Ps I know this is heavy on the emotive and rather light on substance in terms of opinion on actual policy but you're going to make up your own mind anyway on those matters, so.....