But they all have lovely bottoms

Unless you’re in the habit of paying attention to women’s magazines, you probably missed Georgia Salpa’s OK! cover at the beginning of February. Salpa, fresh from a stint on Big Brother and an alleged fling with Callum Best, appeared to be making a further attempt to break the UK market by faking a relationship with Peter Andre. The headline – “Peter <3 Georgia: ‘Our Big Fat Greek Date” made for bleak reading. “I loved Pete the first time I laid eyes on him” it continued (insinuating, of course, that that wasn’t all she was laying on him). The magazine promised us the “First ever pictures and words from their intimate penthouse liaison.” Georgia and Peter looked out from under the bright red ‘OK!’, their smiles betraying nothing in the way of love for one another but, rather, a desperation to make the most of their fame while they still had it. Of course, it is not the first time that two people in the public eye have fabricated a relationship to boost their profiles, but this was a whole new level of bizarre absurdity. I suspected that Salpa was trying to make as much money as possible before her looks faded and/or the public got bored of her and moved its collective gaze onto another curvaceous princess. It made me sad.

I’d love to meet Georgia, talk with her, have a little chat. I’d love to know if there really is as little to her as interviews would suggest. I’d love to know whether she feels the indignity of claiming a deep and lasting love for Andre in a PR move that stank of desperation and cheap fake tan. I’d love to know what she loves about her job. I can imagine the answer of course. “Well, the money’s really good. And people make comments about my assets all the time! It’s gas! And strangers take my photo in nightclubs. I’m very lucky, really.” Salpa, momentarily solemn, would lean towards me – those beautiful Bambi-fied lashes batting wildly – and whisper – “Beauty is a power. It can get you whatever you want.” But Salpa doesn’t get whatever she wants. She gets fleeting fame and a fake romance with Peter ‘the spirit of grunge’ Andre. I wonder if beauty is a really a power or a trap.

We have a special relationship with girls like Salpa in Ireland. By “girls like Salpa”, I mean models who are commonly referred to as “Irish models” – a mostly derogatory term for buxom models whose main source of work is posing with products in their bikinis in the hope that the photos will make the papers the next day. (If they’re lucky, the girls will be posing with a mobile phone or, say, a giant inflatable banana. But every now and then, it’ll be Eamon Dunphy.) It’s easy to make fun of these girls. It’s easy to call them bimbos. It’s so easy, in fact, that most Irish mainstream media outlets manage to do so while simultaneously salivating over them. The Sunday Independent – particularly their Life magazine – feature these girls in inane interviews that seem to exist solely as an excuse to print titillating photos of the girls in their underwear. Within the same magazine they make fun of the Irish Models with sarky captions under photos of their press promo shots. If the girls are so stupid then why interview them at all? We know the answer of course – because in certain media outlets an ugly notion persists that the most important thing for a woman to be is beautiful and sexually available while wit, intelligence, or any recognizable achievements are incidental. The same cruel tendency could be seen when Georgia Salpa was interviewed on The Saturday Night Show by Brendan O Connor. After asking about her typical day, O’ Connor proceeded to show a series of Salpa’s promo shots. Like a smirking smartarse uncle at a first communion, O’ Connor scoffed “Your job is hard, you never know what you could be doing. For example, here you’re a boxer and here you’re a footballer.” One thing was never in doubt, Salpa was the (bountiful) butt of the joke.

Don’t misunderstand me – I don’t think these girls are to be pitied. They are simply responding to a market gap. Rather, I wonder at the mainstream media putting the Irish Models on pedestals as if they were ideal examples of Irish womanhood. I marvel at the snide, cruel taunting of every “hilarious” photo caption. I question the troubling reality of a culture that uses girls in bikinis to sell products, rather than trying to think of anything fresh, clever or original. All of this serves to create a limiting and limited idea of female sexuality – one which is based on performance, rather than sincerity.

Inevitably, anyone who decides to point out the stupidity of the Irish models phenomenon will be called “jealous” or “a bloody feminist” and for some reason both of these accusations will end the argument. Those are the trump cards designed to make you shut up, sit down and stop asking annoying questions. There’s no coming back from that and you’re shamed into submission by people who don’t so much have a problem with your argument as they rage and spit at the idea that there’s an argument to be had in the first place.

But I want to see women get a better deal and I don’t think you need to be a ideologue to see this culture as creatively bankrupt, tacky, boring and ultimately damaging. It’s sad that the most high profile young women in this country are venerated for their luck in a genetic lottery rather than any – any – recognizable achievements. It’s also sad that the very publications that build them up, seek to tear them down with cheap jokes.

In my nightmares, I’m surrounded by a cartoonish parade of tits and ass. It’s all clownish smiles and twinkling eyes, undulating orange thighs skipping towards a leering camera lens. A crowd gathers beside the Irish Models, hands down trousers and masturbating with feverish intensity. Arrrrr. Lovely girls. There’s a ten year old girl saying “Mommy, I want to be like them when I grow up!” while a hack journo types up an interview with in which Rozanna Purcell says, well, not very much at all. There’s a fifteen year old girl spending an hour putting on make-up before school and still convinced she’s not pretty enough, because that’s the most important thing for her to be. And Georgia Salpa is in the middle of it all, smiling for the cameras and wondering when the whistle is going to blow on her fifteen minutes.

If this is what best represents Irish womanhood then squeeze the oestrogen out of me and send me to a hermitage. I’ll keep bees and never be troubled by this bullshit ever again.

 

Butter or mayo?

As the whale said to the pelican, this image is "very misleading".*

I really like chicken fillet rolls. Yes, I even ‘like’ them on Facebook, the most meaningless fan activity one can engage with in 2011. They’re cheap and filling. Portable. Hot (well, warm really. But close enough) and you can customise them with whichever fillings you like. I also relish the recession deals that have sprouted up all over Dublin in the last few years. It leads to conversations like this:

“Let’s go to the Centra on Dame street. They do a chicken fillet roll for €2.30.”

“Yeah, but if we go to the Spar on Dame street, the one across the road, you can get a chicken fillet roll AND a can of 7up for €3.”

My roll order is very basic, harking back to the simpler tastes of my childhood when I couldn’t abide anything with more than two distinct flavours. I like a white roll, with mayonnaise (lots of it), a plain chicken fillet, and lettuce.

I find the mayonnaise the most important part of all this. I have come to love the playful slap of the mayonnaise as it plops onto the filling. I love when the sweet-tasting mayo combines with the slight crunch of the lettuce. I like to have just enough so that people have to comment and say “that’s a lot of mayonnaise,” just in case I hadn’t realised this already.

You get the idea: I love chicken fillet rolls. A lot of the time though, the deli assistants behind the counter make a disappointing roll. I imagine that there is no training given specifically for making the sandwiches and rolls. There should be, though. You can have a good and a bad roll just as you can have a good and a bad cup of coffee.

Sometimes I’ll be texting or talking to someone at the counter when I’m ordering a roll. On these occasions, I am distracted from the order and I forget to ask for the things I like. I always get annoyed at myself because there are little things I look out for:

• The size of chunks in the chicken fillet. Some cut them in long strips, sometimes as few as three. Others dice the chicken. (I have no real preference for this part, if I’m honest.)
• The amount of lettuce in the roll. The lettuce to chicken ratio is very important.
• The amount of mayonnaise. I like a generous spread on the bottom and a nice dollop on top when the whole thing is done. Too little and your roll is very dry. Too much and you’re basically eating bread and mayonaise with a slight sprinkling of chicken and lettuce.
• Whether or not the roll is then cut in two. Some deli assistants ask if you’d like your roll to be cut in two. For me the answer is always yes. I can’t understand why they ask it. Surely everyone gets their roll cut in two, no? I’m just one little person; it’s bad enough that I have to somehow wrap my lips around the roll’s wide girth (no tittering, people. Can’t you tell this is SERIOUS?). But if it’s the entire phallus of a demi-bagette, you can forget it. I feel so un-ladylike. Suddenly, I’m back in the boarding school and the nuns are telling me off for sitting with my legs open while wearing a skirt.
• Where the ingredients are placed within the roll. Usually they are placed in a manner that leaves the meat on one side and the filling on the other side. No matter how you bite into it, you get a mouthful of one or the other (I’ve heard complaints about burrito bars falling into this trap also). This is bad enough when you have flavoursome fillings. But when your filling of choice is plain old lettuce, the polystyrene foam of the salad vegetables, your sandwich experience is on the verge of ruined.

Today, I had a very poor roll. There was so little mayonnaise in it, far too little lettuce. The whole thing tasted of protein and fat.  Just look at this FILTH:

Exhibit A: Damning.

(Apologies for the poor image quality. It was taken on my Blackberry. My utter outrage caught me off guard.)

The thing is, I’m not at all a pernickety person. I consider myself a laid-back and, mostly, accepting person. (This is backed up by my 6th year Irish teacher who told my mam at a parent-teacher meeting that if I were any more laid-back, I’d be horizontal.)

But for some reason, when it comes to my leisurely afternoon chicken fillet roll, these little things get to me.

If anyone has had any similar frustrations in their roll-purchasing experiences, I’d love to hear them. Maybe we could set up a lobbying group.

*Watch Beached Whale

Good evening. There is no news.

On April 18th 1930 at 6.30pm, the BBC radio news bulletin began, as per its usual schedule. However, as it had been decided that nothing newsworthy had happened that day, listeners instead heard the following: “Good evening. Today is Good Friday. There is no news.” A little piano music was played to fill in the gap before the next programme. That was the day the BBC said there was no news.

In 2011, this idea is completely alien to us. In our world, twenty-four hour news is standard. Every day, we meet with a constant dizzying merry-go-round of news, commentary and opinion via various media. We live in the midst of this merry-go-round. It has come to define our information age.

I feel that we have a tendency to get caught up in all this and forget that, sometimes, there is no need to say anything at all. I was struck by this idea over the Summer – particularly in the crazy week that saw the height of the News of the World hacking scandal, the mass killings in Norway and the death of Amy Winehouse. I was following all three stories closely for new developments but found myself getting annoyed at the sheer volume of unneccessary opinion and speculation that did not complete our knowledge, intelligently challenge prevailing ideas or, indeed, add anything new to commentary or debate. These leftovers simply took up air time and column inches. In July, Charlie Brooker touched on this idea in one of his Guardian columns, when he talked about the “expert” TV analysis in the wake of the Norway killings that saw Anders Behring Breivik branded a Muslim extremist within hours of the story breaking. The truth soon emerged, of course. But in the meantime, unneccessary guesswork was the order of the day. This was dangerous and irresponsible on the part of the news networks. Without knowing the full story, perhaps saying nothing would have been a better response.

I find my weariness swelling up again this week. Today is September 11th and it is the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. All week long, a lot of the anniversary coverage has verged almost on fetishistic. Regurgitated stories, minute-by-minute breakdowns of the day and countless photo diaries have resurfaced yet again on TV, print and the internet. The story of that day is one of horror and disbelief – and it’s a day we’ve been reliving all week. We seem reluctant to stop rewinding and replaying 9/11.

Earlier today, The Guardian set up a Twitter account called ’9/11 Ten Years Ago’ (@911tenyearsago). It tweeted the events of the day in real-time, including a lot of the communications with flight staff on board the hijacked planes. No information was tweeted that hadn’t been readily available (or, indeed, impossible to escape from) all week. Even the real-time aspect was nothing new – a real-time documentary aired on BBC News this morning. However, the subtlety of difference in using the Twitter format made the reconstructions all too real. Without the distancing of a documentary format or the legitimizing of a newspaper article, the twitter account was judged to be eerie, uncanny and “in bad taste”. @keano81 said: “I can actually imagine the meeting where they brainstormed @911tenyearsago and the massive wankfest that probably followed. Horrible idea.” The @911tenyearsago account was suspended long before it reached the fall of the first tower. “This account of events is now ending” came the last tweet. Yet others were able to see that there was not much difference between the week-long widespread reconstruction and this little idea. ”it’s a reconstruction. But the platform wasn’t comfortable.” said one tweeter. Comedian Tim Minchin had this to add: “Interesting. @911tenyearsago stopped. Same text not in real time (ie newspaper) wouldn’t've been contentious. Funny creatures, aren’t we.”

All of this leads me back to my original point: sometimes endless coverage that eventually loops back in on itself proves frustrating, unnecessary and, in the case of horrific events such as 9/11, betrays an almost morbid fascination. Being, as I am, painfully aware of the irony in needing a blog post and a few hundred words to get that message across, I am ending this piece with a video I found while searching for the date of the BBC “no news day”. The forty-five second video shows footage of those awkward few seconds that occur when there’s a gap between the presenters speaking to camera and the beginning of the ad break. Here, however, these moments are transformed into something very different.

In the context of an actual news channel show, those dud few seconds are awkward and fumbling, painfully breaking the rapid-fire chop and change the format demands. The presenters stare at us and we stare back expectantly.

Here however, when edited together to form a single piece, those few seconds of silence are suddenly infused with a new sensibility, an almost apologetic dignity. Eerie and affecting, it manages to remind us to pause and breath. Shut the fuck up. And say nothing.

As SlutWalk comes to Ireland, some thoughts…

“…They have a test for that in Ireland now. They’ve scientifically perfected that. The Madonna-Whore-Quotient of a woman. You know, if, when a woman puts her hand together to pray, and when she’s crying the blood and she levitates and you don’t get a sustained hum in A Flat, she’s a fucking whore!”

‘Slut’ is an evocative word. It is also a powerful word. If you really want to hurt someone, just call them a slut. Words are the primary way meaning is created. It’s noteworthy, therefore, that there are numerous common derogatory words for sexually promiscuous females – ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ being the main examples –  but there are none for sexually promiscuous males.  Men can be dickheads, assholes, sons of bitches. But there is no go-to insult for a male who decides to put out. So, we can see that slut is also a loaded word.

It’s a testament to the power of this word that, earlier this year, when a Canadian policeman told a group of university students that they should “avoid dressing like sluts” if they didn’t want to get raped, a worldwide movement was born. SlutWalk marches have been organised in cities all over the world. Many men and women choose to march in their underwear, some branded with the word slut across their chests and brandishing banners. “Don’t tell us how to dress, tell rapists not to rape”, is the general idea.

And that is the central issue. Victim-blaming with any violent crime, particularly one as heinous and traumatic as rape, is wrong. When this view is harboured even by those who are meant to be implementing the law, it is clear that a drastic reality check is needed. Cliona Sadilear from the Rape Crisis Network Ireland says “I’m asked all the time for a list of things women can do or not do to avoid being raped. This attitude assigns responsibility to the victim when the reality is that it’s the rapist who decides to rape. It has nothing to do with what a woman is wearing or her behaviour. The culture of victim blaming has been going on too long and it’s time it was challenged.” SlutWalks aim to generate much-needed attention for this cause and, to a certain extent, they have achieved this.

I’m not so sure I’ll be joining a SlutWalk, however. Are centuries old stigmas really going to be challenged if I march through Dublin in my bra? I get that it’s ‘oh-so-ironic’ and postmodern, but I fear that the marchers are preaching to the choir. I understand the message, but I’m not convinced it’s the right format to shake people out of long-held cultural stereotypes. SlutWalk, while a refreshing show of solidarity from women around the world, is surely an isolating movement, perhaps even solidifying the ‘them and us’ mentality that has typified previous feminist movements and has branded feminists ‘men haters’, ‘ugly women’ or, in a remarkable display of wit, ‘lesbians’. The idea of marching in my underwear with ‘slut’ across my chest – well, that’s something that I could buy into in an ironic way, at a party of like-minded men and women. But it’s simply not an appropriate way of getting such a crucial message across. As well as this, I simply detest that word and can’t see why it should be reclaimed (as some SlutWalkers would like). Think of the most stubbornly sexist man or woman you’ve ever met – a person who is so out-of-touch with modern sensibilities that you wonder if someone has, in fact, invented a time machine on the sly and beamed these people in from the dark ages as some sort of mass practical joke. Is he/she going to be convinced to think differently about men, women, sexuality and gender? I don’t think so.

As if to prove my point, a thread on People’s Republic of Cork entitled ‘Fellas planning their hols to coincide with slutwalks‘ displays the following gem: ”Lads who would normally head to Santa Ponsa for 2 weeks now heading to London or Paris to coincide with Slutwalks and guaranteed to get their hole.Great idea, whatever lad came up with them parades.” “Are they having them here?”, one Langer asks another. “Should do. The place is full of sluts” comes the reply. (This must be a joke, right?)

In many ways, any problems I have with SlutWalk are linked with one of the central problems for feminism today – there are so many differing ideas of what feminism is, or should be, about. Postfeminism (the feminist movement we’re currently smack in the middle of, for those taking notes) is meant to be about diversity. It respects that there is not just one way to tell a story, it sees the world in shades of gender-bending gray rather than gender-defining black or white. In an effort to remove itself from the dogmatic preachings of 1970s feminism, postfeminism says ‘as long as you’re making an informed and educated decision, then whatever you’re doing is alright’. This sounds cosy, but in fact it means that ideas of what feminism is about have become confused and disorientated. Does anyone really know anymore? It is this lack of centrality and definition that means Playboy bunnys, Sarah Palin and Germaine Greer can all be described as feminists.

As well as this, issues for women all over the world are incredibly different. While we debate the pros and cons of slutwalks, it is illegal for women in Iran to drive. While we discuss gender representation in advertisements, women in Africa undergo forced genital mutilation to ensure their virginity for future husbands. There doesn’t seem to be anything ‘post’ about feminism in these parts of the world. So really, we should be talking about ‘feminsims.’

We’re still a long way from ‘feminisms’. We’re still a long way from universal equality for women and men. We’re still a long way from ridding the world of its misogynistic strongholds. But, in the meantime, however one feels about SlutWalk, we can take more care in the words we use. After all, ‘slut’ is still a disgusting word, one which should be left on the scrapheap of history and forgotten about.

EdinburghGame

I’m sure Edinburgh is a lovely place for the eleven months of the year that aren’t August. I can’t comment on that city however, as I’ve never visited it. Edinburgh in August transforms into a swirl of colour and costumes, posters and ramshackle venues held together with little more than MDF, a ratty curtain and some good faith. I’m reliably informed that the population of the city doubles for the month of August, and I believe it. I dub this city EdinburghGame. It’s not the real Edinburgh. It’s simply the place promoters and performers deem worthy to hold their annual Olympics. Here are three of my favourite things about that city.

1. Talking Shop

Everybody taking part in EdinburghGame is having the same conversation. Walk down the street during the Edinburgh fringe and you’ll hear snippets such as: “They’re selling out but we’re struggling…” or “I want to see that show, I read a really good review.” Every day, it’s ‘How many sold today?’ ‘How did your show go?’ ‘Did you get that review back?’ A lot of time is spent discussing favourite acts and least favourite acts, who is doing well and who is bombing. Everybody is talking shop and it’s one of my favourite things about Edinburgh. Colm O’ Regan put it very well the other day in The Irish Times when he said “That’s the thing about Edinburgh, even though it’s so big, it has a habit of making your world very small. It’s like being on a giant training course in Milton Keynes where there’s nothing going on elsewhere and you’re stuck in the same resource centre.” We’re all here for the same reason. We’re all stuck in a bubble. When the riots were going on around the UK, I was especially shocked because it took me a lot longer than usual to notice they were happening. The rest of the world could be overturned by flesh-eating monkeys from the planet Zolbagon and we would think. “Ok. But how is that going to effect ticket sales for today?”

2. Everyday I’m husslin’

There are of course days when all I want to do is crawl into bed with someone nice, instead of going out in the cold/rain/sun/wind/all these weather conditions at once and flyer for a show. But there are other times when it’s rather fun and I don’t mind doing it at all. After spending twenty days (and counting) on the Royal Mile, other flyerers become very familiar. The constant hum of their lines and catchphrases all fit in to my personal Edinburgh rhythm. I’d love to create a beatbox-style track to illustrate this idea.

“Zanzibar Cats. Zanzibar Cats. Come talk to me about Zanzibar Cats.” – a middle-aged man wearing a hat at a jaunty angle. “Five Star Irish Comedy” – a female voice, gradually rising in pitch almost to the point of a question mark. Then there are the remarks people say when they’re getting frustrated and/or think they’re being original. “Pick a flyer, any flyer” – whilst fanning out identical flyers like a deck of cards. “Free piece of paper, Madam?” Oh, you. “Do you enjoy laughing?” What a hoot. And if you refuse, you might be hit with “That’s alright, I didn’t want you going to my show anyway. I don’t like the look of you.” (This final guy is a great annoyance to me every day, the kind of person for whom the fact that he doesn’t have his own TV show is a constant niggle.) There are some moments of desperation on the Mile too. Like the girl who shouted out in the rain, little rivulets of water dripping off her rainjacket hood down rosy cheeks, “Please take a flyer. We are a young theatre group and we’re cold and wet and we need an audience for our show.”

Finally, there is Joel. Well, his name probably isn’t Joel. I call him Joel, because he looks like a Joel. Joel wears a pink shirt and busks on the mile, dancing and singing to musical and pop standards such as ‘Stayin’ Alive’ and ‘Caberet’. Joel is best described as the human embodiment of an episode of Glee. Joel has a pretty good voice. Unfortunately, he also possesses an extreme self-confidence that is both his gift and his curse.  Joel has no idea that the reason people stop to watch him in the street is because the vision of a tall chubby man tap dancing in a hot pink shirt and a pair of dorky glasses is an irresistible one. He shouts “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the hits of Take That!” A tinny backing track begins on a small boombox and Joel presents his awkward, fumbling dance routine. You can feel the perverse interest in the crowd swelling at the spectacle of Joel. You yourself are finding it hard to tear your eyes away. Joel is a tragic figure, but he’s also a triumphant one. “Ah, fair play to him” says the Irish lad beside me, summing up the situation pretty accurately, I think.

3. The Meadows

The Meadows is a big grassy area just south of Edinburgh University and the old town. It is criss-crossed with paths and used for all sorts of things: concert tents, funfairs, picnics. The usual park activities. I walk through the Meadows on my way home. I particularly love this walk at night because I walk on the grass instead of the path. I like to feel the dew soaking through my Converse. Sometimes I’m heading home from a couple of drinks and I’ve got either a beery belly or a winey swagger. On these occasions I like to sing out loud. That’s strange, I know. But try it sometime. I used to live with a guy who worked late shifts. I’d hear him walking home at 1am, singing his little heart out (he was a musician). I asked him about it and he said it was often the only time he could properly sing out loud. He found it invigorating. I tried it too and now I’m passing it on to you. Sing on your lonely walk home. If you see someone coming you can shut up. But there will hardly be anyone around. Little digression there. But worth it, I think.

Another thing I love about the Meadows is the tent put up for the LadyBoys of Bangkok. I’ve never seen the show but there’s always music blaring from inside: something like Beyoncé, The Black Eyed Peas or The Proclaimers. I like to imagine what’s on stage as I walk by and have built it up as an opulent spectacle of gender-bending wonderousness, all to the soundtrack of a boozy night out. Although I am curious to know what the show is like, at this point I enjoy the sense of mystery provided by the big tent even more.

Then there’s the moment you’re walking home alone on a starry night and fireworks explode overhead. And you think of all the people across the city, also there for the festival, also looking up at the sky. Magic.

Sarah and Felicity

Sarah, bored and sitting alone in a restaurant, imagined her death. She saw her bones crunch and contract in an accident. She imagined letting her blood flow in a warm bath, watching the water turn pink and then red.  A slice of lemon perched precariously on her glass of gin and tonic. She picked it off, sucked on it, and, for the remainder of her days, never fixated on her death again.

Felicity spent decades watching her twitter feed refresh itself. Her hair grew long, matted and grey. Her ovaries shriveled and died. She watched as the whole world joked and debated and defined, 140 characters at a time. Eventually history retweeted itself and she nodded, satisfied that it was so.

Lie down. I think I love you.

And suddenly, she was tired. Tired of struggling to know him. The sun was coming up. She turned her head and buried her face in the warm pillow, damp with wasted tears. Sleep oozed into her body and it felt good.