Arts funding - the level playing field philosphy of the UK

Blogs penned by me are much like constipation really. You spend hours on the word processor, straining and grunting, the rest of the family believing you’re strangling a wart-hog in there but, try as you will, nothing will shift; then you get a shock to the system and, lo and behold, out comes this torrent of calligraphic diarrhoea and although no-one else can stand the smell you feel so relieved to have got it out. Well, figures published recently provided the enema to release the following blockage.................................

For those unfamiliar with this blogsite of mine (Ha! Who am I kidding, that anyone else reads this?) you may not know that I work in theatre here in the UK; that’s not the place where they cut folk open then realise they can’t get back in what they’ve just hauled out you understand, but the place where show-offs gather to entertain the masses (and I use the word “entertain” in its widest possible sense here). In the UK and for many years, the arts in general and theatre in particular have always struggled to gain realistic funding or real fiscal support that would allow them to provide both secure planning and by that end develop centres of artistic excellence in the provinces. To these venues (and as things so often do when you’re living on low-level hand-outs which are coupled with a limited understanding of your plight by those who have the ability to help out..........mainly because these bestowers of largesse all live in London and consider anything north of Watford and west of Guildford to be "foreign") the wolf doesn’t just come padding up to the door but enters through the cat-flap, shits in your wallet and then sets up home in the fridge.

Due to consistent under-funding, and so in their continuing straightened circumstances, many theatres have had to ask for cash injections, one-off loans and such only to be told by those who have their hands on the purse-strings that they must be able to compete in this theatrical jungle of ours, to stand on their own two feet without bleating constantly for extra funding and, if they can’t 'get their shit together' then they should go under……and many of them have. Various actors have felt obliged to support or even start up “Save Our (fill in your own theatre name here)” movements in order to gain sufficient cash to continue even in the reduced circumstances they find themselves in. Amongst these campaigns have been appeals for theatres and places of entertainment that are steeped in the history of the theatrical tradition. Theatres designed by Frank Macham, stages that Garrick and Tree walked on, venues where groundbreaking theatrical movments started off; places of high cultural, social and historic importance that serve as an important centre for recreation, social intercourse and action for the area they are situated in but who's mistake is not being situated in the right place; namely the 'circle of fame' that is central London. In their efforts to gain funding for these struggling provincial ventures, the begging of support from private individuals and local councils, running benefit shows, raffles and hosting appeals to the general public in order to scrape together the £250,000 or so the venue needs in order to stay open have all been tried.

The same can be said for theatre companies, particularly those in the small-scale sector and even more particularly those companies run by, with reference to and consisting mainly or wholly of Black or Asian members. I’m sure I’ll get a massive postbag (?!) telling me I’m wrong here (hope so.........s'lonely here in cyber-moan-land) and you’ll have to check for yourself but, apart from Talawa Theatre (London-based and didn’t they go through some deep shit to get where they are at present) Red Ladder (Leeds-based) and Tara Arts (London-based……again) I’m not so sure there are many other fully professional, black or Asian theatre companies operating in the UK at present. Black Theatre Co-operative, Temba, African People’s Theatre; I think they’ve all gone by the wayside in this supportive, multi-culturalism land of ours. In fact, I believe I'm right in saying that, for a goodly time in the early '90's' there was no professional , Black or Asian theatre company operating anywhere in the UK (certainly not in the small-scale sector at least) all the funding having been withdrawn to those innovative companies that were in operation over the preceding four or so years.

Almost without exception, venues or companies that are in dire circumstances are provincial (outside London) venues, but even in London there have been some casualties, and many are still struggling to maintain their staff and output, er, unless you happen to be the Royal Opera House (ROH) English National Opera (ENO) or Saddlers' Wells Ballet………………… For these venues and companies there is, for some reason, always a ready pot of money to be dished out as soon as the accountants squeal loudly enough; and we’re not talking a piddling £250,000 here, we’re talking millions……………and millions………and millions……. The ROH had a grant of £24.9 million in 2003 and the ENO, after a £41 million refit and an annual subsidy of £13 million had to be bailed out in 2005 with a further £10 million; think that’s a lot; read on. The ROH was only saved from bankruptcy with an increase in their subsidy of £5 million and the ENO has been bailed out (again) with a further £20 million emergency grant (and even then they cut 45 jobs) and is hoping that the Arts Council will bail it out yet again this year after a further £4 million was handed over to stop it going into receivership. Add up those figures; look at the state of regional theatre in the UK today................... then re-read ‘em and weep. Now, you may think I'm being too focused in naming the names above, that it should also be pointed out that, with the Barbican as a multi-function venue in the heart of London, the spending of a further £111 million on building the South Bank Centre, a multi function venue in the heart of London (is there an echo in here?) also deserves mention; well there it is, and yes, it does puzzle somewhat........................ Sorry, I digress; you will be forgiven for thinking, “Well, how the hell does this state of affairs whereby a bottomless pit exists for some but not others not only happen but continue to happen?” For this you have to understand how the large arts and cultural institutions are run in this country.

When you or I go for a job, an interview process is undertaken in order to ascertain just what our qualifications are; you know, a process designed to find out whether the all-pervading smell of livestock emanating from your application form really is caused by the fact that you live on farm. So, for argument's sake, let's say you do live on farm and are well qualified in the raising of various stock. Fed up with spending most of your day knee-deep in animal excrement and elbow-deep in the various orifices of sick or pregnant beasts, you've decided on a change of direction. Armed with your lifetime's experience on the farm (which is part of the food industry, it has to be said) your three GCSE's and a letter of commendation from your scoutmaster (which states that you once rubbed two boy-scouts together and started a small blaze) you've answered an advert asking for likely candidates to apply for the post of supermarket manager. On this auspicious day, and for a reason known only to the psychologically sick and which requires a deal of fluke and blindness yet to be encountered since Peter Mandelson or Cecil Parkinson were invited back into goverment following various positions of disgrace, you've been asked for an interview at that said supermarket; what chance do you think you'd stand? For reasons laid out below, I'd venture to suggest a lot less than those in similar circumstances but having one of the three listed requirements who are applying for employment within either a government department or in one of the London-centric bastions of the arts, my friend; lets lay it out simply, huh?

Within our government for instance (and yours too, probably) someone can have absolutley no knowledge of, say, theatre, or dance, or how an art gallery is run, beyond the fact that they once went to a play (well, a pantomime anyhow......when they were three) have seen an Andy Wharhol print of a Marylin Monroe original (not the real thing, you understand, but in a book somewhere or other) and attended tap lessons when they were five or six (but gave up after three weeks because it scuffed their new shoes) and yet, simply because they are in government and have happened to be on the right side of the leader of their party, be promoted to Minister for the Arts and Culture. Clearly stated for the mesmerised amongst you, this gives them overall control of all institutions and centres of artistic endeavour; the true culmination of power without knowledge. Crazy, I know, to all but the most perverted or the most stupid, I mean would you give control of a fully armed fighter jet to someone who lent you fiver when you were broke and once flew model aircraft in the local park? How this happens will be explained a little further below, but bear with me for a little longer in order to gain the fuller picture, OK? Now, back to the running of the arts in this country and of the so-called "flagship" venues (their description, not mine) in the UK.

To gain a position of board membership on any of the aforementioned performance venues or on the national council that handles the cash and decides who should get it, how much and how often, indeed, to gain even just entry into the inner sanctum of these "areas of artistic excellence" (their description, not mine) and through this a chance to move on up to C.E.O. of an arts institution you have to have one of four things. Either, 1) The ability, if you wished to commit suicide, of completing this task by jumping off your wallet, or, 2) A uniform of some sort coupled with an ability to shout at new recruits or, 3) To have no chin but an ancestry that goes back forever or, 4) Be able to dress white tie without hiring in. No expertise needed in any of the arts disciplines, just one of the four above.....this is your job interview.

So how come, in this climate of struggling provincial theatre and theatrical production, and if there are these continued fuck-ups of monumental proportions with monotonous regularity requiring the monumental payouts mentioned above, is there this seemingly bottomless well for these “premier” (their description not mine) arts venues and companies? Jesus, come on, pay attention; in any democracy, those who make the laws that govern us also adminsiter them. Their desire to visit the domiciles of the proletariat who, as far as they are concerned still live in dung huts and think art has a letter missing, is as eagerly sought out as would be their drink of a bucket of warm faeces; strange when most of them live in what many consider to be the arsehole of England but there we are, all things are relative. So, with this as their guiding principle, it's fairly obvious that most provincial theatres will continue to struggle; will continue to have to hold a bring-and-buy sale of second-hand clothes every other week in order to maintain their mission of bringing entertainment to the masses in anything like safe conditions, whilst those who insist on buying their chorus 'Armani' suits for the next production of 'Aida' because, for some twisted reason, they think the production will suffer for it if they don't (on a personal note here, my old adage that, "if the audience are looking at the cut of the cloth then the production's a flop", fits this one as well as many others). These institutions will continue to cream off a casual £10 million whenever the fancy takes them for no other reason than they can, and meanwhile those other purveyors of the arts, the ethnic or groundbreaking, the provincial or small-scale players in the game will have to fight and squabble for the crumbs from the big-boy's table................... Does my working-class mentality show in this? Probably; just put it down to a lifetime of watching our inequalities in the arts keep our challeprovincial theatre in its place and pay it scant attention, after all the Arts Council have made a career out of it………………………Now, just ask yourself again why the ROH, ENO and Saddlers Wells keep getting in to deep shit and why, fortuitoulsy, they manage to keep getting bailed out; all becoming clear now? Good.

Big Brother - Fashion Shop for the Socially Challenged

Sorry about the delay in dropping a line to all you avid readers, I’ve been swapping my broadband supplier (from BT to Talk-Talk…………don’t ask, I’m still suffering from third degree angst burns) and these things I write take a little thought too.

Considered the fall-out from the Big Brother experience and considered a considered reply would be worthwhile, if only to assuage my own feelings on the matter; Jade…………………what a mess, huh? And even when things were going from bad to worse she didn’t know when to stop digging, and her manipulators didn’t know how to handle her lack of perception except through deceit.

That she was being briefed from outside by her Channel Four masters (and her agent/publicist too) became obvious, even to the most unobservant half-wit…… Obvious that Jade was remarkably well briefed when she entered the diary room prior to her being voted off when leaving the house, and even more so when we saw how fully prepared she was for the lack of public attendance these evictions normally provoke; unfazed when crossing the bridge with Davina McCall to just the echo of her own footfall. But, even though she had been fed information by those who are making money on her back, the media people and agents who are creaming her for a fast buck prior to moving on, she was neither a sufficiently intelligent vehicle for their priming nor the surprised but willing receptacle for our public admonition.

Right now, and probably over the past X weeks, her image crew (small shareholders in Jade Inc. to you and I) have probably been working feverish overtime in order to get Jade back on track; get her seen at the window of her home in a tired and emotional state; send her off to India in sackcloth and ashes (designed by Versace, obviously); get her to appear in something on telly that makes Big Brother look positively intellectual and where she can show her caring side (probably Fortune) and above all get her tits out somewhere in the tabloids ‘cos when all else fails in the British psyche a good pair of knockers will go a long way to a person’s rehabilitation in the public’s eyes. But that’s the obvious; the standard menu for the average punter, it’s when we turn over the stones of our own consciences that we find the hardest truths; but first lets start out by destroying a “pub fact” shall we?

It isn’t snobbery to judge Jade’s behaviour by the concepts and understandings of what is generally considered to be “society”. Those who say so are adrift in a classified sea of misunderstanding. You don’t look down on people because of their background but because of their behaviour. Eating with your mouth closed isn’t an act of the privileged classes it’s a signal of care and awareness of yourself and others.

You have to get deeper than that, try harder to sweep away the detritus of failed politics, and to hold Jade Goody up as a beacon in this travesty of failure and cruelty by politicians is to do her and her ilk the greatest disservice. To have people turning out like her is the crime; to hold her up as an icon is a greater one. All those who want to achieve and be like her should do so with the ability to conduct themselves with self-control, with articulate dignity, with an ability to complete at least one sentence in five without peppering it with a “fuck” every third word.

It isn’t contempt for the working class, its contempt for those members of any class who behave in a crass and grotesque manner; who offend and then, through their lack of social intelligence, re-offend the basic manners of civil society. It isn’t because its Jade, it’s because it’s wrong; her background is blighted with a lack of social responsibility, full of selfish irresponsibility and that’s not an excuse for such behaviour.

The discussion at the theatre where I work revolved around whether she would in fact be alive come the end of 2007 and this wasn’t one of vindictive relish but a genuine concern for what media and agents have created and that she lacks the intellect to see. When you walk into the lions den of celebrity you’d better know damn sure why you are there (Shilpa Shetty should have done a little more research, methinks) and Jade is and was singularly poorly furnished for such an adventure. Her upbringing suggests she is an eminently suitable case for therapy not for manipulation and social confrontation. The Channel Four bosses and particularly those involved in the casting of Big Brother knew that. They threw her into that melting pot precisely because she’d make “good telly”. The destruction of individuals is their role and it’s what we want to see; it’s our national blood sport; give it a year, maybe eighteen months and we’ll be watching people kill other people on telly for our game-show entertainment; it’s a racing certainty.

The ability to talk, to discuss, to reason is an essential part of everyday contact with our fellow human beings. We must have the mechanisms in place that allow us to meander and converse our way through the labyrinth of social, conversational signals that allow us to arrive at a viewpoint which is acceptable to those involved in the discussion. We need to negotiate skilfully, to reason soundly, to have the awareness not to overstep the bounds of personal propriety and, if we do to know how to draw back; and above all to know when and how to compromise. With so many people today, and sadly this does include a larger than average amount of what have been whimsically referred to over the years as “the underclass”, is that these skills are totally lacking. They move from divided opinion to open warfare in an instant, go from ask-you to fuck-you and miss out all the bits in the middle. All those skills of diplomacy and discussion, reasoning and deferment have gone.

The deeply worrying thing is that the more socially aware people in this country breed less, limit their families and have the skills handed down to them to care for those children they do have. Those in the underclass have more children; demand the life of the role models of the day and lack the self-discipline and the education required to be strong parents, to be able to guide their children in socially responsible ways. The hedonism that we went through since that arch-bitch Thatcher told us there was no such thing as community (built on a platform of suspicion and mistrust planted by tosser American psychiatrists that the gainers of power saw as their ticket to riches) has been the building bricks of this rampage to self. But we didn’t all fall for it; we didn’t have to fall for it. Those with the intellect saw through it all and made their own way, the others just followed the lead that led to the next Prada handbag.

The outcome of the Big Brother debacle seems to be that Mr and Mrs General Public have finally switched off the light on this playroom filled with under-educated hedonists and are looking further than the reflection in their Police sunglasses. I hope so for, if not, this leaves us with the inevitable end-game; of greater numbers of social and educational miss-fits and as we all know, we should never underestimate the power of very stupid people in large numbers.

Education is a fiscal right.................

As you've probably guessed, those of you that stumble across these missives of mine, this is not a "daily blog"! There's a lot to be said for lengthy breaks between blogs; the down side is that most people think you've died (some may think that's an upside, but, hey, every silver lining has a cloud) the real upside is that the bitterest fruits of my imaginings remain stuck on the branches of my mind........sorry, waxing lyrical there, I won't do it again, promise. Suffice it to say that it takes a lot to get me to write stuff; I think on events much the same as everyone else does and I figure you have enough of your own dilemmas and daily annoyances to cope with than to have them crumpled up with my waste-paper-jottings. However, there are times...........

I think it's because I have a stunted development when it comes to socialism that the change and debate that's accompanied the new rules concerning school of choice in the good ol' U of K has finally ignited my ire and brought me back to the Blog. No, relax, I'm not going to sound off about the state of our kids' education or the plethora of new rules and regs that teachers have had to put up with, my beef is a far more wide ranging one than that. You will, however, have to put up with some background information otherwise all my international readers (?) will be totally mystified by what follows and, along with most others, think these are the ravings of a self-delusional lunatic............erm.......think I might have just shot myself in the foot there..........

The latest scam our Labour government has come up with concerns the filling of places in secondary schools (12-18 age group for those of you reading from foreign climes). As with any education system there are good schools and not so good schools and many of the rich and well-positioned members of our "fair and equal" society clocked on to the fact that 1) the poor people's children were getting places at the good schools simply because they lived in the catchment area (i.e. near to) of those good schools and so were being turned out as well educated and potentially high-achieving members of our society and 2) their children were not getting this advantagous start in life because the school they lived near resembled a mid-eighties Beiruit back street where the pupils were being turned out as poorly educated orang-utans. This must have filled them with real alarm; I mean, fancy the outcome? All of sudden these snot-nosed little urchins were being better educated than the chinless wonders of commuter-belt parents; with that as a stepping stone who knows what might happen? They could find that their darling little Tarquin deQuincey-Ryan, who's father is "something in the city" and big in gilts, is having to take orders from Bert Smith, who's father is something in the gutter but big in whippets; that would never do! So these new-money people decided to turn things to their advantage and stifle this threatened social upheaval by using the tried and tested methods that had stood them in good stead and on the throats of the lower classes for centuries; they bought their way into the game and had the lower orders sent off for lack of spondulics. Finding out where the achieving schools were they paid over the odds for properties that would put them in the succeeding-school's catchment area thereby pricing the riff-raff out of the market and claiming the area as their own. This created an exclusive school property for these dollar-snobs and ensured that it would continue to be their kids that were handing out any whippings that would undoubtably be needed in order to keep the lower orders in order.............if you see what I mean.

To stop this happening, our "level playing field government" have instigated a lottery system. This will mean that, once the school has taken up all of the local clientele a lottery system will be instigated for the remaining places; you know, put all the names in a drum, give it a shake and draw until all the positions are full; can you believe this? This is a government of adults, or so we are led to believe, and this is the upshot of their 15 years of considered ruminations on how to tackle the obvious shortcomings of school places in the UK............by turning it into a lottery? And they really think this will stop the moneyed-classes from gaining what they see as righfully theirs. Jesus, it'll just mean they'll have to offer bigger bribes to the schools in order to get their sprogs to the best ones, that's all. They've already begun by getting this "equality" government to allow them to sponsor schools..................takes some believing doesn't it, that they expect us to believe our children will get a good, well balanced education from a school funded, in the main, by a multi-national conglomerate that sells "stuff" to the masses? Have bears had their first porta-loo delivered yet? I don't fuckin' think so! That new oven for the kitchen, that new set of football strips, that collection of Shakespeare books for the new library? You want it then toe the line, buster or we'll move down the road and steal all your good teachers for that new school! All the major supermarkets do it with the chosen customers they find. Like those precious, small wine-makers the supermarket predators move in, get several small artisan winemakers to join together, modernise the process, pump it up, buy all the produce at low prices then cancel the buy-off when something else or fashion takes their fancy and leave the massively overproducing vinery with no market to sell to; the Labour party are doing it, they called them loans and dole out knighthoods, do you think the lucre-laddies won't follow suit? The one thing new money has remembered are Mr Coward's immortal words; "Camp Freddie, everybody in the world is bent".

What we have now, then, is a lottery, basically a gamble to get a good education for your children that will be bent, bribed and bullied by the Ferrari fathers and four-wheel driving cash cows who transport their offspring the four-hundred yards to school each day. As far as these models of citizenship are concerned good eduction isn't a socialist principle, it's a commodity that can be bought and sold like any other, so don't look to them to cut you break.

Pimp Debate - Another Open Letter to Maxine Frith at "The Independent"

Hi, Maxine,

You may remember me; it’s Doris, the one who wrote what must have seemed an endless reply to your 'Independent' article on drinking in the UK a while back? Enjoyed the “The Pimp Debate” article in Wednesday 22nd’s ‘The Independent’ “Home” section very much and would like to take this opportunity to expand on some of the statements and ideologies expressed in the piece.

Of the six women who were allowed to voice their opinions on ‘pimp-chic’, all but one, Joan Smith, gave entirely predictable views; indeed, any semi-intelligent person would, and could, have given a fairly accurate resume of the views those five others expressed just by looking at the names and occupations of those represented. Stereotyping, you, Doris? ‘Fraid so.

Firstly, as with all things “personal”, vested-interest will always play a part, hence the offerings of Max Akhtar, Dawn Porter, Caroline Coon and Alexia Loundras were completely foreseeable in their direction of travel and destination. Could you really see any of them ever saying anything other than reported? No, nor me.

Secondly, intelligence, and social and cultural position of those interviewed will influence the outcome and opinion garnered from “the street” in any straw-poll, so in a case such as this it really wasn’t a lot of use asking the aforementioned, London Dinner-Party-Set to comment on something that’s so far removed from their id that the only possible answer you’d get, all-in-all, would be a text-book-block of self-oriented and sectionalised reply; the replies we got in fact.

It would have been far more interesting if you’d’ve asked six, 10-year-old girls from a Sunderland housing estate, from a Swansea back-to-back terrace, from a Kent council estate, or six twenty-something mothers from those same places, for this is the shop front the pimp-wares are peddled in; this is their most lucrative sales area. These people, adults and children alike, use these “styles” as a gateway into a world where they can act like they think the real people act, mimicking their style, their behaviour, their mores, their lifestyle; the Yolanda Martin-Smith’s, Runcible Mivarnna’s and Creanna DeMowlow’s from the semi-rough end of Chelsea are just playing at it………hanging out with a bit of rough, if you get my drift.

It’s the ‘Soap’ generation the cheap-end manufacturers are peddling to, and they’ll lap it up not because it’s 'chic' or because they really think this is how the world works…but because many, many people lack the necssary skills of self discipline and regulation required by anyone wishing to negotiate safely through life and instead choose to believe and go with the far more exciting option; that what’s pushed at them through their daily contact with our media is their release point into a better world…………

You can tune into any T.V. Soap at any time of the day and I’ll guarantee that, if there’s not one person shouting at another, if there’s not a woman or young girl dressing and behaving in a sexually provocative way or being abused, lied to, shagged or murdered then hold on, there’ll be a couple along in a minute. Push this button often enough and, like Pavlov's dogs it becomes the norm, these lives they read about; who’s shagging who, divorcing who, cheating on who, beating on who in Celeb Street? To the Red Tops, TV drama commissioners and MTV and other music sites it’s a staple; their execs call it, “pushing the boundaries” but we know that’s a euphemism for being more risqué than the other outlets so as you can lift the viewing figures, particularly that of the young audience; and it is predominately young.

We see Beyonce, Madonna or Jordan strutting their stuff on the various media and we know they are at work, playing a part, earning a crust, but children don’t because they haven’t developed the skills necessary for this sort of discrimination and, through our dereliction as parents we deny them the opportunity to develop those skills. We short-circuit what was once a gradual growth through childhood to adulthood and the concomitant development of the sociability, integrity and personality necessary to become a responsible adult, by allowing them to parody the “celebrities” of our substance-starved culture. When we let them dress in the clothing of the style-celebrity pimps we hold up as desirous of our attention, in spite of all the warning signs we see along the way, and by doing so we reinforce the positive application of both the style and lifestyle that supports this ideology. We choose to ignore these signs when we buy them the base-ball caps and hoodies of the Beckhams of this world, the décolletage fashions of the Jordans and Emma Buntons; we encourage our children to gob on the football pitch "like Wayne", by-pass the social skills of discussion and compromise and start punching, dispute all and every ruling given against them……in short, we get what we deserve.

The most worrying thing in all this is that every child has a parent/s that supports this ‘pimp’ industry ……and it’s a considered and calculated choice of theirs. That is to say, in case it’s unclear, people go out and buy this fashion for their children, sift through racks and racks of the stuff and suddenly cry, “Eureka!” (or more probably, “Fuck, this is fuckin-A!”) and then buy it.

So, what does this say about society? Well, unfortunately it says that those of stunted social growth think the celebs in this world have got it right when they dress their children in adult costume. They support the projected front of ‘cool’ and ‘fame’ that the newspapers and celeb mags pick up and show as “the way to go”. But the celebs of this world have the money, position, privilege and staff to be able to counter these things when they go wrong, are able to buy their way out of trouble; 22-year old Stacey from the council estate in some inner city flat with two kids and a husband/partner who is conspicuous by his absence (has been for three years now) can’t. Once she’s bought into it then the demands of a child on an already overstretched parent will form the basis for perpetuation. Lacking the intellect to realise that the “Transport Café” advert, with Joanna Lumley as a “privileged” insurance customer is not reflection of social good taste but in fact reinforces the 'coal in the bath' legend, they mimic this “celebrity” behaviour in their own way with the money they have and the goods that are pushed…or peddled…or pimped at them. We see a Jordan, Madonna or Beyonce wearing the stage clothes of suggestion on TV one day, the next day a sweat-shop somewhere in Burnley is churning that same fashion out for a fiver……..

So we get children dressed (or undressed) in clothes that are far beyond their years, wearing inappropriate clothing bearing inappropriate statements. To see the many inner-city centres thronged with skimpily-dressed, 8-10-12 year old girls bearing the logos of FCUK or statements such as “100% WOMAN-100%SLUT” written on the front of a mid-riff framing “T” shirt has all the aspects required by a poulation with more than its fair-share of freaks and sexual predators; we denounce the crime but supply the trade for it. These tribes of pre-pubescent girls can be with or without parents, it matters nothing. Their parents choose to ignore, or simply cannot see, the risks of this character formation that their children are entering into. They have neither the intellect, experience nor time to understand its implications because, in many cases the parents themselves are the result of the ‘Soap’ generation. Weaned on a diet of dysfunctional lifestyles, characters and families that our media, particularly those of the film and TV variety, have posited, and a level of social creativity that emanates from the Attila the Hun school of charm, these parents choose not to explain the behaviour and strategies used by these “actors” (key word there) that their children adulate and emulate.

Much of what Anita Roddick talks about in your article is pretty standard fodder and has been the perceived opinion of concerned people for many, many years, from when performers (and I use this phrase in its loosest possible term) like Madonna or the Spice Girls first came on the scene what, 20 years ago? The moving picture, in all its forms is a very, very powerful tool, we all know that. What is recognised but not voiced is that, in 95% of cases, the advertising and imagery that comes from and through it is man-driven. It suits men to keep women in subservient positions, to keep them undereducated, underachieving, under them…………and we choose to ignore it and maintain the status quo through our projection of "good taste" as exhibited by our children. Not surprisingly, 'Grease' is supposedly the “nations favourite musical”; it’s the one where she has to dress like a whore to get her man; I know, I know, there is willing participation from the women in the adverts and media representations that perpetuate the “female” as an “object”, but what we must remember and disseminate is that these things are only become 'real life' if we take them out of context and onto the streets; unfortunately our children are the ones that carry the billboard of our carelessness.

A Short Story for Summer

Gloria woke a little before daybreak her eyelids tearing open like a fore-shore dawn and, even before matt-grey vision had claimed her senses her head was full of the day's significance.

She closed her eyes tight; tighter as if trying to squeeze out all the juice from the bloated fruit of today's choking realisation; to drain the vessel dry then curl up in the empty-shell womb; shed off responsibility. Become foetal. Protected. Detached; and in that first split-second of what was ostensibly a prolonged blink it almost worked. The simple movement of eyelids over eyes almost wiped away the reality of the awesome burden that she was about to shoulder......... Why was she?

"Why am I doing this?" thought Gloria? "I don't have to. It's not as though it's compulsory or anything. It's not against the law if it isn't done today.... it can wait; 'til tomorrow...."

The relief came flooding over her as the gap in the hedge of her moral maze was spotted leading straight to the freshly laundered fields of 'procrastinate'. It was only after Gloria had been in these imaginary fields for a few seconds that she spotted the coils of barbed-wire that had snagged her before and their idle meanderings spelt out the words, 'yesterday' and 'the day before' and 'the day before that' and Gloria knew their thorny scrawl was true.

"I can't." she thought. "I can't put it off for another day. I can't. It has to be done today; now........"

Decision catapulted her to a sitting position, her legs scything the bedclothes into rippling ecstasy as she swung them over the bedside and her groping fingers snapped on the bedside table lamp as her toes found the familiarity of slippers in residence. The lamp's blinding ferocity penetrated her skull, strobing her eyelids as the light became the chalk on night's blackboard forcing her to freeze in her actions. And as she did so, like ice creeping over a pond thoughts stole their way back into her conscious and she sat, owl-like, blinking at the inner vision of her plan's self-created deformity.

"I can't! How can I? Hm? I mean, how can I? I was the one that reared her. I saw her through all the troubles that came her way. She's only ten years old for goodness sake! It's no age! She's only ten......."

The force, the effort, the sheer bloody hard work that had gone into those ten years that Gloria had dedicated to Sandy, willingly dedicated to Sandy, rose up in her breast and showed themselves as one, single, large tear in the corner of her left eye.

"Oh please." she groaned as her throat closed in readiness, "Not tears. Not crying. Not again. I can't do it all again.........." Gloria fiercely wiped her eye with the back of her hand, pushing the tear back into its hose. She swallowed hard in an effort to close the weir gates.

"I can't do it all again." she repeated out loud as her thoughts motored on. "It has to be today; and anyway, why should I kid myself. It's what she wants, I know it is; hasn't she said so.....? Not cruelly, not unkindly, she hasn't a cruel or vindictive thought in her, not one. But it's been there. Inevitable. The barrel filling. Filling. Me, knowing that it'll overflow soon and all the time delaying the process. Tomorrow. Tomorrow; scooping out handfuls whenever I thought the distraction was sufficient to keep her mind off what I was doing. A game here, a treat there. Leaving late, leaving early...... sometimes not leaving at all......"

Those last ones Gloria regretted. Those were the times she couldn't excuse. It was a day lost for Sandy. An experience missed. But Gloria's courage was not sufficient, her resolve only front-door-famous. Once it was exposed to the sunshine of actuality, it melted like August dew.

"How can I do this wittingly? Hm? Knowingly? Well? How can I? I know what it holds. I know its brutality. Its carelessness its suddenness. I didn't get to thirty four and learn nothing." The thoughts came tumbling out as her eyes locked on to their echo in the wardrobe mirror.

"Thirty four! Gloria, you're thirty four! You can't do this! This is the way children behave when they have to go to the dentist. You can't place your palm against the door jamb, 'Mum, I've got a head-ache, Mum, I feel sick, Mum, it doesn't hurt any more.......' You're a mother... a house owner, tax-payer, all-round good egg....."

Her shoulders dropped as her mental and physical meanderings joined forces and she spoke their conclusion out loud.

"But I do feel sick, my head does ache...."

Gloria paused just a little too long for comfort and the time-space quickly had cheeks, throat and eyes well primed as she eventually said,

"........and Mum, it does hurt......"

Once more the tears enveloped her sinking eyes as Gloria sat slumped, the rivulets coursing down her face as she cried silently, just for herself........

Gradually the stream dried and she lifted her eyes from slippered toes back to her reflection in the truthful mirror. Their eyes locked once more as Gloria and her reflective self sat on the bed-edge staring through and beyond each other's expression of reflected emptiness.

'She has to go today, Gloria. You know that, don't you?' said her reflection. 'Well? Don't you?' Gloria nodded. "Yes. I know. I know I can't keep her forever....I know." She sighed, lifting the bed sheet to dry her eyes. She refrained from blowing her nose on the sheet, though the temptation was as strong as her present position was as comfortable, and sniffed her way along the landing, past Sandy's bedroom and into the bathroom where she blasted a wad of toilet roll.
"I can't put it off any longer." she repeated. "It's not fair on Sandy." With that she made her toilet and shuffled back to her bedroom.

"Choose something bright, extravagant." she thought. "Something that stands out, easily seen in the crowds. 'Oh yes; there'll be crowds.' " she repeated out loud. She flicked through her meagre wardrobe. "Hardly the Spring Collection." she murmured. Gloria finally fished out a linen frock with full skirt and busy purple-green flower pattern on top of a shot-blue backdrop. "Needs a volume control this one." she thought. "Just right. Now, make a real effort with y'self. Look good, confident, relaxed and bright." She paused, and then her thoughts ran on. "Confident, relaxed and bright? Where do I get a psychology transplant at this time of the morning?"

Gloria dressed carefully, slowly, hoping that her structured movements would alter her heartbeat from a rumba to a slow foxtrot. No such luck. When she had applied the final touch of discreet lipstick she sat back on the bed and took stock in the mirror again.

"You look pretty." said a voice behind her. Gloria turned. It was Sandy, standing in the doorway in her pyjamas. Their eyes mirror-met as she added, "Something special going on today?"

Gloria felt her inner-self burst into tears and rush into her daughter's arms, holding her so tightly that Sandy would have had difficulty breathing, as her outward-self showed this rush of adrenalin by Gloria shrugging her shoulders and giving Sandy a beaming smile.

"'Course not. No. What? Something special? No. I just haven't, you know..... haven't worn these for ages.....shame to let them grow away from me, you know?" She changed the subject with all the tact of a gin-trap. "You're up early. What's up? Can't sleep?"

Sandy yawned and stretched her arms above her head. "Not with you prowling about to and from the bathroom like a starving leopard, no, I can't. You got a tummy pain?"

"Just a bit."

"Women's 'things'." said Sandy in a peculiarly grown-up and conspiratorial way.

"Yeah." replied Gloria, not wishing to pursue this one.

There was a short pause. Sandy took a step into the room. "Or is it Dad again?" she asked.

"Whatever makes you think that?" asked Gloria, her voice showing signs of strain as her forced joi de vivre cracked at the edges.

"'Cos you've been crying." replied Sandy simply.

Gloria looked back at herself in the mirror. "And I thought no one would notice." she said. "Yes, it's a bit Daddy too. You know........"

Sandy nodded as she struggled to gather up her badly wrapped juvenile knowledge and scramble over the hurdle into the open fields of adult thinking. "I know you miss him." She stopped, frowning a little. The pause lengthened and Gloria was unwilling to break the silence. Eventually Sandy spoke. "I never knew him. I know I was only just born when he…… you know? But sometimes I can feel him, Mum. You know? Sort of part of me, in my head...." she slowed and stopped, looking at Gloria. "You know?"

Gloria gently shook her head, a fresh spring just on the verge of destroying her mascara. "Ohhh, Sandy." She smiled at her daughter. "Come here. Let me give you a hug."

Gloria opened her arms and Sandy walked across into their feminine folds as Gloria's arms entwined her and smothered her with the lifelong scent of White Musk and Camay. Sandy knew that for the rest of her life that smell would always conjure up the spirit of her mother; even then she knew it. After a long pause, Sandy lifted her head away from her mother's shoulder. "I can't ever know what you lost, but I know what he took with him." she said slowly.

Gloria held Sandy at arm's length and stared at her. "I don't know where you get these things from. I sometimes think you've never been a child, just a little adult. And what do you think he tookwith him then, Miss smarty-pants?"

"All your confidence." said Sandy.

Gloria placed the back of her crooked forefinger onto her pursed lips like a substitute dummy and closed her eyes for a second, then swallowed hard once more. Finally she raised her eyes to meet Sandy's and sighed deeply. "Am I that bad?" she asked.

"No." replied Sandy, too quickly then she carried on reflectively. "Well, yes. only sometimes you know. Not really.....just....."

"OK. OK." said Gloria. "I get the picture, you hid it well but for the pauses; I'm an untrusting, possessive mother....."

"Only sometimes." said Sandy.

"Thanks." replied Gloria. "That helps a lot. Don't forget you've a birthday in three weeks time and I'm present-buyer-in-chief. Just remember that and be nice to your ageing parent." She smiled at Sandy. "Well, like I said, it's also 'Mummy’s things' as well. Dressed and breakfast?" This second abrupt change was even less subtle that the last, but Gloria knew she didn't have the emotional make-up to be any more conversationally creative.

"But it's only ten past six." said an aggrieved Sandy as she looked across at the alarm clock that was showering under the light from the bedside lamp. "We've got ages before school." she continued. "I'll need two breakfasts before we go if I get up now."

"Well that's OK." said a slightly relieved Gloria. "You go back and snuggle down. You don't have to sleep if you don't want to. Have a doze or read a little. I'll give you a shout about half seven. OK?"

"Well, what are you going to do?" asked Sandy.

"Oh, I'll tidy up a bit, you know. Get a bit ahead. I'm really not tired. Now, you go back to bed. Go on. Off y' pop.” Gloria ushered Sandy back to her bedroom, glad of the opportunity of further time alone. "I'll give you a shout at half seven. Promise."................


"Sandy?....... Sandy! It's half seven. Walkies time."

Gloria was standing half way up the stairs, her voice directed towards Sandy's bedroom at the head of the landing. Sandy appeared from the bathroom on the right-hand side of the stairway, a towel in one hand her toothbrush in the other.

"No need to shout." she replied. "I'm in the bathroom."

"How long have you been up then?"

"Oh, 'bout ten minutes. I read a bit, then I heard you start up the washing machine..........."

"Yeah." Joined in Gloria. "I wanted to get those sheets washed and out. The forecast's good for the day........"

".......then you started washing up and I thought there'll be no hot water if I don't get up now, the rate you're going."

"Sorry." said Gloria. "Was I very noisy?"

"Enough." replied Sandy. "Anyway, I'm just going to get dressed and I'll be down."

"You want breakfast?" asked Gloria.

"Yeah. Toast 'n' Marmite."

"OK." said Gloria. "I'll start it now?"

Sandy moved back to the bathroom and called over her shoulder. "Yeah. I'm only going to be a few more minutes." She was gone.

Gloria turned back down the stairs and entered the kitchen. The knot in her stomach was as big as a pullet.

"Oh God." she thought. "I can't go through with this. If I'm like this now, what am I going to be like in....." she looked at her watch "......an hour's time?" She stood by the sink and held on to the edge of the draining board, her white-knuckle ride for the day starting just about now. "You're going to be a gibbering wreck, that's what. Now get a grip!" she said sternly to herself.

Gloria lifted the lid on the bread-bin and took out two slices from the packet. She opened the grill section on the oven and put the bread in, turning the grill on and all the while scolding herself inwardly for her attitude.

"Gloria, you have to follow it through. She has to be given a chance; Sandy has to learn to swim where there are sharks. You've not even let her dip her toe in the water up to now, have you? No. Well, you can't keep up the pretence any longer. You'll be just on the shore....."

Sandy entered the kitchen; her school uniform lacking a tie but otherwise complete, and moved towards the table.

"...........close at hand......."

Gloria's eyes fixed on her daughter.

"..........ready to dive in if a problem arises. Everybody else is doing it, did it ages ago. Now it's your turn. You have to....."

So involved was Gloria with this inner discussion that, as she was looking at Sandy crossing the kitchen, the words just tumbled out,

"......she's ten now....."

Gloria realised she was speaking out loud and stopped abruptly.

Sandy stood still and looked at her mother for a moment, then said uncertainly,

"Err.....? Yeah. That's right, Mum; I'm ten....I take it it's my turn to answer......unless there's someone else in the kitchen? No? Well, is this a quiz 'cos if it is can I ask you how long it takes for toast to burn under our grill.....?"

"Oh Lord!" cried Gloria as she caught site of the pillar of grey-black smoke emanating from under the grill.

"First sign of madness is talking to yourself." said Sandy as her mother grappled with the grill, the heat, the smoke and the embarrassment. "Second one's green hairs on the palm of your hand......"

"Third one's looking for them, I'm not going to fall for that one, Miss." joined on Gloria. "I'm too old to get taken in by that one."

"But not old enough to have learnt how to do toast." said Sandy, smiling at the burnt offerings that Gloria tossed onto the work surface. "Very reassuring." She sat at the table.

"Where do you get these things from." said Gloria. "Don't grow up so fast."

"I'll never get the chance, the way you cosset me....apart from the meals that is...."

"Sandy." said Gloria deliberately. "I don't cosset. I protect, that's all."

"I know, Mom, I know. I wasn't having a go. It's just....well... It's just....."

"I know. OK. I understand. Do you still want toast, or has my attempt to make diamonds from bread put you off?"

"No. I'll still have the toast." Sandy slipped down from the stool. "But I'll do it. I don't know how but we got up at just gone six and we're still in danger of being late."

She popped the two fresh slices under the hot grill as Gloria moved to the cupboard to retrieve Marmite and the fridge for butter.

"I don't know how we do it. We always seem to leave early or late. " continued Sandy. "There's never a nice, comfortable timing to each day. I either arrive completely out of breath 'cos you've frog-marched me to the gates with only seconds to spare, or I get there to an empty playground and a startled caretaker 'cos there's still thirty minutes to go to start time and you came all the way, but you still have time to wait at the gate for ten minutes until the other's start to arrive even though you're going on shopping or something. You’re the only mother I know, that any of my friends knows for that matter who goes shopping three or four times a week. They all think we're loaded. It's always.......always like that."

Gloria felt the tide of bile wash against the back of her throat as her stomach pumped and the adrenalin gobbled up heart space. She trembled, almost trembled, as she heard herself saying.

"Well, today, Sandy, we'll leave at whatever time you say......you name it.......I'm not going shopping........"

Sandy caught the inflection in her voice and understood the meaning but not what was meant. She needed to test the ground on this.

"Can we leave at half past?"

The request thumped home like grapeshot. There was a long pause, almost too long for comfort. Sandy caught on and tried to cover the tracks.

"It's really OK. If you want to leave at another time." She said simply.

Gloria looked at her daughter and held out her hand towards her. "Oh' Sandy. You really are the sweetest......."

Sandy leaned forward and wiped the heavily buttered blade of the knife onto her mother's open palm. "I know I am." she smiled sweetly.

Gloria looked down at her freshly buttered hand, and then started to laugh. "Sandy! You little toa....."

Sandy joined on. "What happened to 'sweet and lovely' then?"

"Nothing" replied Gloria. "Nothing." She wiped her hand with the dishcloth. "Give me the knife, handle first, please, and I'll finish it off..........."

The rest of breakfast was completed in silence, Gloria every now and then catching Sandy's eye and smiling broadly. An action that, in the present and toatlly new circumstances she hadn't quite mastered inside yet. Gloria span out the simple tasks that followed as much as she dare, but despite her best work, the small remnants of crockery were soon swilled and, before she could delay it, Sandy had grabbed her school bag and was heading towards the front door.

"C'mon, Mom. It's half past." she said.

Before Gloria could do or say anything Sandy was at the front door, its latch clicking open like the sound of the trap-door bolt in a hang-man's rehearsal.

"Wait a second, Sandy, I haven't got my handbag." called Gloria, "or my coat....."

Sandy swung the door open letting in a gasp of air through the doorway. "You don't need a coat, it's a lovely day, and you said you weren't going shopping today so what do you need a handbag for? C'mon......"

Sandy caught the look of indecision in her Mum's eyes as, her hand pressed against the doorjamb, she stood ice-carved in the doorway. Sandy trapped her tongue and moved back to Gloria.

"You Ok, Mum?" She paused a little, waiting for a response. None came. "Do you want to sit down a bit? C'mon. Let's go back into the kitchen and you can catch your breath. You've gone a bit pale. Do you feel sick.....?”

Sandy tried to move Gloria back in the direction of the kitchen, but her Mum's locked arm held her fast and prevented movement either way.

"Mum? Mum? C'mon....."

"No." was all Gloria said.

"No you don't feel sick or no you don't want to go back into the kitchen?" asked Sandy.

Gloria's voice came out flat, like that of a well-programmed automaton. "No I don't want to go back into the kitchen. We have to go to school. You and me. We have to go to school."

With that, Gloria's outstretched arm relaxed and she stepped over the threshold of the door in perfect, plank-walker style.

"Pull the door to, Sandy." she said with great deliberation. "I've got my key."

Sandy did so and then joined her Mum on the short garden pathway that led to the pavement. When she reached Gloria's side, Sandy looped her arm through her Mum's and sort of snuggled it like she would a large teddy-bear.

"Isn't it lovely and warm now?" she asked brightly.

"Yes." Replied Gloria. Her eyes held panic as her well-fooled footstep caught up with her brain and braked hard. "Oh! I've forgotten to pick up your sandwiches for lunch....." Gloria made to turn back towards home.

"No, it's OK. I put them in my bag just before we left." said Sandy.

Gloria's shoulders drooped a little as a further door was slammed on any possible escape route. Her head reverberated to the sound of her inner voices. 'Gloria! Stop it! You've got this far, now see it through and stop acting like a child!' Gloria pulled her arm and thereby Sandy's linked hand close to her side. "Don't mind me." she said. "I'm just a little.....you know?"

"I think so." replied Sandy. "What with Dad and 'women's things'. Will I get this when I'm older?"

"Yes." Replied Gloria. "Some day all this will be yours my child; well most of it anyway but just the good bits, I hope."

They left the short front drive, turned left, and walked up Reynolds Road. With each step the lump of lead inside Gloria’s shoes got bigger and heavier until she was having trouble lifting her foot for each step. By the time they turned the corner into Braydon Road where Sandy's school was it was lucky they still were arm in arm or Gloria would have fallen over with the effort. Now the noise of the traffic got louder, an aural reminder to Gloria of the real world she was entering. Odd pockets of children were around now, the youngest, or the 'snugglies' as Gloria and Sandy called them with parents in tow, others walking in small parties chattering eagerly about last night's T.V. programmes, the state of pop music or whether you could run faster than your mates to that tree and back. As they progressed along Braydon Road, so the number of children and parents grew until the pavement was awash with the heave and swell of schoolbags and caps.

"There's Kim!" said Sandy excitedly.

"Where?" replied Gloria feeling her nemesis approaching. "I can't see her."

"Just up ahead. Look. There!" Sandy pointed ahead of them, over the ocean of bobbing heads. "Can we catch her up?"

Gloria couldn't believe she was saying it, but she was saying it.

"You go on ahead, you'll catch her up a lot quicker without your ageing mother in tow."

Sandy stopped in her tracks, first-year torpedoes bumping into her so suddenly did she stand still. "What, on my own? You mean..... I can walk to school on my own....?"

Gloria bit her bottom lip and forced a smile. "Mmm. You go on........I'll just wait here a little...school's just down the road, I'll just wait here...... a little....you...go on; then I'll head off back home. That OK?"

Sandy stood there for a few seconds looking at her Mum, not recognising the child inside or out.

"Go on." repeated Gloria, "Or Kim'll be too far off and I'll have to come with you and you'll spoil the moment. Go on. This is about as far from the school gates as my confidence will allow me to stay.........."

Sandy gave Gloria a dazzling smile. "Thanks, Mum." was all she could muster. She turned to make her way down the road.

"I'll meet you outside school though." said Gloria. "I have a feeling this confidence is only on loan......OK?"

"OK." shouted the fast disappearing Sandy over her shoulder. "See you at half past....!" she was swallowed up in a gingham sea.

Gloria stared after her. Sandy's height made her visible for some while but eventually, at about the point where the school gates butted onto the road Gloria figured, Sandy disappeared from view. Gloria stepped to the side of the pavement, placing her back against the low garden wall that marked the boundary of number thirty-one's Eden. Children and odd parents were moving past her like the trackside hedgerows seen from a fast moving train. All of it became a blur as she realised what she had done, and where it would inevitably lead.

"Was it this hard for you, Mum? Letting me go?" she heard herself say, "No-one said it was going to be this hard....."

"Ohhh, Richard," she sighed, "Did you see what I did........ did you? You'd’ve been so proud and now you’ve missed it........you bastard. Serve you fucking right………"

A Celebration of Mediocrity – It’s the English Way

Watching the Commonwealth games on T.V. the past few days has confirmed one thing for me; if ever there was a World Championship for “Almost”, then the English would walk away with it and break all previous World Records (held by them for the past twenty years anyway) into the bargain. In most endeavours you have to achieve at some level before you’re feted to the heavens as the second coming but those days, it seems, are gone. Now we’re treated to a string of interviews with the fourth, fifth, sixth placed English competitors and, like politicians losing an election, it’s seen as a victory? I guess the prime examples of this are in the music and sport industry, although film and T.V. soaps have run them a close second…..the only ‘close second’ we’re ever likely to have in any race.

In the music world there was a time when any performer worth their salt would have cut their chops on a gruelling circuit of pubs and clubs over several years before someone in a position of “ability” took notice of them and discussed a possible….that’s a “possible”….. opportunity at cutting a demo tape. Now mega-star singers and performers are churned out via pop shows run by industry insiders who are just chasing money or pussy, or both, and boys and girls are hailed as the greatest singer/dancer/sax player/opera star since…..*fill in your own choice of name here*. That guy who runs these shows, that "Stars in their Eyes" thingy, can’t remember his name, he gets a lot of attention for being unpleasant to people, gets the winner of these things to sign up to his management company…….there’s a great deal, get all the media promotion for free, sell the format of the programmes to other stations, take the money from the text-ins that follow then reap the recording and tour rewards of the performer into the bargain…… well, he may be a slithey tove but here’s a man who sees mediocrity and instead of lionising it, calls it for what it is; shit. We could do with him in the athletics field, methinks.

We’ve done what the molly-coddled generation that we’ve become always promised we’d become; “stars” without effort. Same as we can diet without cutting down on our eating and upping our exercise we believe we can achieve greatness without effort, gain riches and stardom just by being “us”, and we’ll scream and cry and rush out of the room in flurry of crinolines and talcum powder at the merest hint of criticism or any suggestion that we might, just might, need a little something called ability as well. I should have seen the writing on the wall when I went to a week-long drum workshop some years ago. Very good it was too, but, at the close of the week, the organisers had invited three record company A&R guys to come along and talk to those present (the youngsters that is, I, at forty-something then was well past it, trust me, I was) and all of them, that’s all as in “unanimous”, said the last thing they were looking for when signing someone to a contract was musical ability or talent; honest. Of course, those more savvy than me will have known that for years, I’m just a cuddly 57 year-old who still keeps the faith with the inherent goodness of the species.

Back at the Commonwealth Games, the ladies netball match between Wales and Jamaica was a classic in point. If ever there was an object lesson in what happens when the members of a rich, over-fussed, burger-fed, blame-culture reared, celebrity-mesmerised nation (that’s the UK in case you were confused) collides with a relatively poor, undernourished, struggling, career-searching nation (that’s not the UK in case you were confused) was demonstrated to great effect…….Wales lost, by the way, by about six zillion points to none. To watch the flabby, soft, pink, lacklustre performance of these Welsh ladies when placed alongside the sharp, slim, energetic, balletic performances of the Jamaican team was an embarrassment of some magnitude. Here was a team that hailed from a place where gang violence, prostitution, drug proliferation and poverty, all run by a masculine-dominated hierarchy intent on keeping women subservient …..yes, OK, sounds just like Swansea, I know…… and yet they were still able to give “our” ladies an object lesson in the art of sport played with passion, of sport played to win, above all, to win.

In interview after interview with the British contingent in so many of the recent sporting events it was seen as OK to get a fifth place, to get nothing, to “have tried hard”, and so much of this stems from the stupid, idiotic idea championed by the Labour Party and those of the “Ahhhh” society back in the nineties who foolishly believed there should never be ‘winners’ and’ losers’, just ‘competitors’. There was a backlash to this. What was lost was the opportunity for all those children who were running, jumping, skipping on the playing fields of English schools (those that Thatcher hadn’t sold off for housing developments to her cronies, that is) to ever feel the elation of winning and to want to repeat the feeling whenever possible; ever to feel the drive that coming second gives to those who wanted to come first next time and who would go on to become great; and you may not believe this but not everyone can, honest, not everyone can finish first, it’s a fallacy. Just the same as not all of us can go to university and read maths; it may come as surprise to you all……..but some of us just aren’t bright enough, trust me. It doesn’t mean to say we won’t succeed in life, just not at maths…… But by our use of the ‘Ahhh’ factor we’ve given mediocrity a stamp of approval, and so have our children because they saw their parents and teachers, those that were their role models, accept that it was OK to fall short of winning if winning meant you had to be aggressive in your approach to competition and to, in fact, beat someone else into second place. Thank Christ this stupidity wasn’t prevalent in 1939……..

Out of these ridiculous nineties, when our competitors said, “Thanks very much for settling for second place, I’ll just take that first-place rosette, if you don't mind”, the other ridiculous notion took root, namely that maybe we couldn’t win but you had to be seen to be trying hard to win, even if you didn’t. That way, if you could put on this mask of ‘trying’ and still fail then you could blame everyone else for your failures; “It was my trainer, my sponsor, my upbringing, my drug supplier……I mean, crikey, the Conservative Party had made an industry of it throughout the nineties and they were STILL hanging on to power! Nice guys finish first too, but they don’t make good copy (see below). What grew from this stupidity was a void stretching across our shortfall of ability over desire and into this black-hole the media manipulated, get-rich-quick generation that we’ve become flowered; what was needed in this snip-snap, sound-bite culture we’d donned was a face, an expression. We got it with all those pictures of footballers with their eyes bulging, their mouths open in silent screams, the veins standing out in their necks like knotted ropes that represented the ‘face of winning’ and from this platform the mask has spread to all male events on any given track and field competition space in any age group and of any ability.

That’s the problem when the sexually charged, educationally challenged, emotionally and socially stunted young men that have been raised to the podium of greatness by one piece of good work (i.e. some of our footballers that happened to score a goal at a useful time, some of our runners that happened to win an event without all other competitors falling over) become national heroes and multi-millionaires at one and the same time. Too young to appreciate, too young to articulate, too ill-prepared to negotiate they become the epitome of swaggering arrogance, with too much cash and too little sense. Unfortunately these are the very people that the young look up to. Young folk want a life without boundaries where excess is the norm and responsibility comes a very poor second to hedonism.

Seeing the strutting posture of self-obsessed footballing twenty-something’s wrapped up in lives of style but no substance is the goal to aim for and parents, eager to champion their children at all costs and by whatever means (ever been to a youth football match on a Sunday?) create the climate for this step-upon culture, where children dressed in "grown-up" fashion act in seemingly "grown up" ways, emulating the language and posture of their sporting heroes. This has spread and has become more prevalent over the past ten years in the so-called “blue-ribbon” events, in particular the men’s sprinting competitions.

The very level of testosterone fuelled build up that the men have been brought up on (I didn’t notice Roger Bannister screaming his way round the track after his sub-four-minute-mile run shouting “FUCKING HELL, FUCKING HELL, ITS ME, ME, I’M THE MAN, I. AM. THE. MAN!”) means they are primed and ready to blow up before, during and after the event. They’ve been brought up on a belief that, if they haven’t got that level of aggression then they’ll not succeed, won’t deserve to because success isn’t measured by track success but by “marketability”; ask yourself, will what I do on the track in the lead up to and end of my event make good copy? So we see sportsmen (and it is the men) put on the mask of arrogance, posture, anger, aggression, whatever for the photojournalists to capture and print on the back page of our papers. Watch them the next time an event’s broadcast and make your own decisions; there are some uncomfortable facts that can be gleaned from the procession of aggressive men screened on the tracks and fields of competitions.

Now what I’ve scribbled above may make you think that it is a recipe for competing to win? Not so. Where it falls short is the belief that, as soon as you’ve made your pile you don’t have to try any more; my parents called it laziness, we call it success and the ease with which a pile can be made through endorsements, adverts, clothing ranges indeed any other conceivable means that has nothing to do with the enterprise the individual is actually involved in, is staggering; you know the names, you’ll not need me to list them, just start at George Best and work your way forward……… I know, sportsmen are an easy target, but my fears for the future of mediocrity triumphing further over excellence go deeper than that.

I prepare for the inevitable avalanche of death threats, or I would if I thought that anyone else read these notes of mine, but can someone tell me what Keira Knightly had done prior to her appearance in “Pirates of the Caribbean”? Now, I agree, she is a very beautiful woman, she had a fine figure, a dainty turn of foot…..but as ‘an actress’ she has a long, long way to go, yes, even in “Pride and Prejudice”. I’m not comparing her, just drawing parallels you understand, but actresses such as Maggie Smith, Judi Dench and their ilk knock Knightly into a cocked hat and she’d probably admit as much too……..but only in private, you understand, you have to talk-the-talk in this world…….. I know that the others mentioned are much older, more seasoned, but they served their apprenticeship over the years growing and maturing gradually, honing their art for years before becoming that much overused phrase, “brilliant”. Knightly has been branded “brilliant” after a couple of years on screen, no stage work just the false impression of film where arse-doubles, correct lighting and the use of "angles" are the norm. She's been branded as "brilliant" by those around her who have made her what she is (we’re not talking about other actors, directors or writers here, those people who can give her the tools of the trade, no, we’re talking managers, publicists, stylists, media consultants, haute couturiers and all those other hanger’s-on, many who just want to get into her pants). If they fail, if any chink in the armour becomes visible they’ll lose their meal ticket and so the myth is manipulated, the public greed for revelation drip fed and the enigma she has been made is perpetuated until, like the king’s new clothes we believe we can see it too.

Now she may turn out to be as prodigious in her talent and output as those mentioned above, but she has a long way to go to get there in my humble opinion. Unfortunately, like so many sportsmen and on the back of one gig , she is hailed as the new queen of the screen and is hoisted up alongside those of far greater experience and talent; it’s not that she doesn't posses great talent but that she may well be denied reaching it due to being forced to peak well before time that I object to. As it is, by holding her up as “brilliant” after so little work, the bar is lowered. Now celebrity is the desired goal of a majority of youth who don’t want to gain celebrity through achievement, just gain celebrity like their heroes in the soaps, music world and sports arena. We, their audience, lose the ability to distinguish between stuff and substance, they lose the ability to become what they really, truly are, win or lose, and we, all of us, lose an opportunity to find true inspiration for our own dreams.

The Face of English Football - It's white, male and baying for blood

Photo' courtesey of "The Independent" which captures so well the vein of aggression that runs through English football today.

Just think how proud their collective Mums must be. There are just over 50 "supporters" in this photo', together with that bastion of good taste and charity, Wayne Rooney, who thankfully has his back to us. Of that 50+, 5 are showing the two-fingered "V" sign (that's as in "Fuck-Off" not as in "Victory", you understand) 3 are showing the one-fingered "Up-Yours, Pussy" sign, one has his hand in the downstroke of the "wanker" salute, 1 is so incensed that he's confused by what would be the biggest insult and is flashing a three-fingered salute, 13 are at various points of the "Fuck-Off!" shout, 4 are in the various stages of the "wanker" expletive, all of them, to a man (and one woman) have the word "hate" or "kill" running through what can laughingly be classed as their "mind" and one of them is walking home with an extra £80,000 in his bank account after the game. If you could capture and bottle this venom you'd have enough vitriol to clean the rust off'f the Forth Bridge. Oh, and don't tell me, "Doris, it's not just English football that provokes such hatred, it's all over the world, y' know" 'cos that doesn't exactly make me feel any easier, OK.