Once, in the dim and distant past, I had a different blog.
This blog was of the “and today I had tea” variety.
Because of this, and because at the time I was much less circumspect about the kind of information I gave out, I am slowly deleting my old blog.
It didn’t matter at the time what I said about my family, or my friends, or just my life in general, because the only people who ever read what I wrote were my friends. But now, I’m a lot more cautious. Just in case my readership increases vastly.
You never know.
However, this old blog saw my transition from drunken teenager to angry feminist, a transition that sometimes – rather frighteningly – made me a drunken, angry, teenaged feminist.
Which means that for the next little while, I’ll be reposting things that have appeared elsewhere in the past.
Be afraid, be very afraid!
And so I leave you with a picture that I originally posted a long time ago, having found it gracing the wonderful Fat Rant Blog:
… In which to find and regurgitate posts like this from the infinite reaches of the blogosphere.
I have a sad feeling that the blog is no longer active, as they haven’t posted much (and not at all since February of this year) so I’m going to do something I don’t ususally do, and copy the whole thing here.
Just in case the blog disappears. Which happens sometimes.
“The comments upon self-identified feminist blogs tend to follow a typical pattern. In fact, any blog post that identifies the routine sexism of Western civilization seems likely to generate the same pattern of responses.
- I am female. Your post describes my experience also. Thanks.
- I am male. I feel threatened by your words.
- I am male. I feel extremely threatened by your words.
- I am male. I don’t get it.
- I am male. I don’t get it, but I do feel threatened.
- I am male. Won’t you please say something nice about men?
- I am male. I command you to say something nice about men.
- I am male. If you don’t say something nice about men, I may stop reading your blog.
- I am male. If you don’t say something nice about men, I may stop reading your blog. I really mean it!
- I am male. If you don’t say something nice about men, I definitely will stop reading your blog. Ha! So there! See if I don’t!
- I am male. Have you acknowledged my superior intellect yet?
- How about now?
- I wish to debate with you about something you’ve written.
- I wish to debate with you about something I assume you’ve written.
- I wish to debate with you about something I assume you believe.
- I wish to debate with you about something I believe.
- I wish to debate with you about how smart I am. Feel my rhetorical wrath!
- I wish to debate with you about … anything! I just like to debate. Call me Mr. Devil’s Advocate.
- Spam, spam, spam, spam…“
Looking back over blog archives, I came across a post written by the wonderful Kate Harding entitled Twenty Ground Rules for the Wedding I May Never Have.
It is very funny, and should be read.
And it is a very good idea, and should be stolen! But I can’t think of twenty without stealing all of hers outright, which kind of defeats the point of it being mine….
- There will be no church. I am the kind of heretic that in ye olden times would have been burned at the stake as a witch, and there’s no point in deliberate provocation. Because, after all, just because I think God doesn’t exist, doesn’t mean that God feels the same way! (I mentioned this theory to a colleague, who looked very confused and was still saying “but… but…” when I got called away)
- There will be no flowers attached to my person, as they make me sneeze. In fact, there will be no smelly flowers anywhere near me. Huge plastic sunflowers all the way, ’cause I’m sophisticated!
- Photographs of the bride will be taken when the bride permits it. And not before. On pain of much pain, possibly involving a blunt spoon. Or a tuning fork (thank you, Kirsten!)
- The only things resembling meringues at my wedding will be meringues.
- Invites to my wedding will be awarded on a merits system; ie, if you don’t merit an invitation, you won’t recieve one. Relatives do not merit an invitation simply because I share some of their genes. I share what, 50% of my genes with the banana in my fruitbowl. It doesn’t merit an invitation on that basis. Although thinking about it, it might merit an invite by being a food product!
- If it’s not fun, it’s not happening (this one is entirely stolen, but who wouldn’t agree with it?!)
- I don’t need presents.
- No, not even a little one.
- Everybody can be nice to me instead😛
- And indulge me when I go and get my third helping of dessert😀
My computer thinks that I am spyware. If I try to access blogger, I get this message:
… but your query looks similar to automated requests from a computer virus or spyware application. To protect our users, we can’t process your request right now.”
So, although – bizarrely – it will let me post, I can’t read what I’ve written, and nor can I see anybody else’s sites if they use Blogger.
Anyway, if I’m quiet for a bit, that’s why.
I want to blog about so many things right now that I can’t settle to blog about any of them. Which is annoying.
I want to talk about the way that there’s an evil child terrorising my brother, and the way that I simultaneously blame the parents and the patriarchy.
I want to talk about the utter relief that I don’t have to deal with the Evil Porter that J rather uncharitably christened Nobby Nobbs. J is of the opinion that Evil Porter, like Nobby, should be “disqualified from the human race” – more because Evil Porter annoyed me than because he “shoved”, though, it has to be said.
I want to talk about the way I am continuously getting away with calmly telling people that actually, I’m a clever person, and how happy that makes me. Especially since it happens to be true.
I want to talk about sexuality again. I know that I once said that surely there must be other things to talk about, but hey, if there’s only seven types of story to be told, I think I can be forgiven for returning to sexuality as a topic to rant about.
I want to talk about the forthcoming London Mayoral Elections, and the way I get to vote for the first time. And I want to mention the discussion over dinner, which culminated in my sister saying in frustration, “women didn’t chain themselves to railings to give me the vote. They did it to give me the choice!“.
And I want to talk about the way I’m going to university, and what that might mean for me.
Right now, though, I’m going to read.
…. The Apprentice.
Bloody awful, curiously addictive TV series in which a group of eight men and eight women compete for a 6-figure salary working for Sir Alan Sugar, entrepeneur extraordinaire.
Split, for competition’s sake, into two teams.
The ‘Girl’s Team’, and
The ‘Boy’s Team’.
It’s a small thing, I know, but really? Does it have to be this way?
These people are all of ‘management’ stock, meaning that realistically, they’re power-hungry egomaniacs without a clue of what happens in the real world. However.
This doesn’t mean that they should be infantalised, for goodness’ sake.
Can’t we call them ‘men’ and ‘women’?
….. Our “fruit of the week” report that we receive from our fruit and veg suppliers at work was yesterday extolling the virtues of a particular type of orange.
Apparently, men need it because there is a vitamin in it which, and I quote, “helps to flex muscles”.
Oh, and pregnant women need it because it’s good for your folic acid intake. Or something.
So I got the chef to edit that bit before we used it. Because, you know, women have muscles too. At least, I hope like hell we do, otherwise how do those babies get out??
….. I have shocked Evil Porter to the core. But he started it; he came to sit with me at breakfast and asked me if I was Christian…..!
So, as anybody who’s seen Avenue Q will know, everyone’s a little bit racist (no, please don’t shout at me for this one. Just go to YouTube and have a listen. It actually has a point. In a strange, muppet-show kind of a way).
But apparently, everyone’s a little bit fascist, too.
Take the Shannon Matthews case. The key facts?
A young white girl goes missing
[English journalists everywhere high-five for getting a “good” story]
from somewhere up North
[English journalists tone down their response a bit, as obviously, living up North, you’re common and speak with a funny accent].
Her mother makes numerous TV appeals for the safe return of her daughter
[English TV programmers high-five for stealing the story from their old -fashioned colleagues who work with the printed word, a day behind the scoop]
but is hindered by the fact that she has a total of seven children fathered by five different men [English journalists in every media pause to decide which way to spin this story]
and that her newest husband is only 22, 10 years her junior
[English media provokes that monster, Public Opinion, which starts to decide that they’re common as muck, ought to be sterilised, look a bit inbred anyway – but that’s hardly surprising as they come from up North – and what on earth are they doing together considering the weirdness and the age difference?]
and then the fact that Shannon is found, safe and unharmed as far as anybody can see, hidden under a bed in the house belonging to her young stepfather’s uncle.
[English media bands together with Public Opinion to ask just what the fuck is going on in this bloody strange case anyway?]
The last I heard, Shannon’s mother was arrested for attempting to pervert the course of justice, having told a police liason officer that she knew where the girl was all along. Shannon herself is reported to have said that she’d rather stay with her foster parents.
And absolutely everybody that I’ve spoken to has been frighteningly militant about the case.
What can I say? Bleeding-heart liberal that I am, I don’t understand how people can so easily slip into the train of thought that leads to cruelty and intolerance.
There are some people who make decisions in life that I could never envisage making myself, that I would never want to make myself.
But surely, there are worse crimes in life than to have seven children and be a bit odd? Even to have seven children and be more than a bit odd.
It was only a generation or two ago that having seven children wouldn’t have been uncommon (all hail the Catholic Church!). The “five different men” thing – well, that’s not so common, for any age. On the other hand, at least two of the children must have shared a father, so it’s not all so scary, really. And to be honest, who’s to say now, when there are so many families that aren’t the nuclear version, what is right?
I could, in my smug, Southern, middle-class superiority say that she’s not a good mother, that she’s mad, or strange, or stupid, or promiscuous or grasping for money, or that she had so many children because of the benefits.
But that wouldn’t make me right. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I – or anyone else – can suggest that she be sterilised because of it.
Besides, what with our declining birth rate, and these same lovely, little-bit-fascist people slating any immigrant that comes their way, we need somebody to be popping out the kids.
Because otherwise, when they’re old, and draining the economy, I might turn out to be a little bit fascist too, and have them all put down.