As every child who's ever been bullied will know, the most effective way to deal with the perpetrators is to ignore them. Don't give them any more airtime than they've already got; they'll soon get bored and go away.
This morning I read an article that made me huff, roll my eyes, toss my head and go, 'Oh for fuck's sake' about six time while I was sitting at my desk. And normally I'd ignore it. Normally I'd think such rubbish is not worth my time. But this article was written by a young man in The Daily Telegraph, the (sole) paper my parents read, and it is so blasély one-sided, so irritatingly and confidently partisan, that if it were your only source of opinion, it would be almost impossible to see the other side. As my parents' only child, I feel it is my duty and my right to stick up for my side of things. Unfortunately, this means engaging with Milo Yiannopoulos, the man described by Nationaltreasurestephenfry as a "cynical, ignorant fucker."
The background: Milo was on last Thursday's Ten O'Clock Live, an unapologetically left-leaning current affairs show that goes out once a week on Channel 4. As a writer for the Telegraph, and one who's no stranger to controversy, he was clearly drafted in to represent the right on a panel that was to discuss the recent spate of public protests in Britain. Following Milo's short appearance on the show, he was subjected to a barrage of angry messages on Twitter and Facebook, and this morning the Telegraph published an article he'd written about this incident.
The piece starts with Milo claiming that people had decided to hate him because he had said that protesting "has been historically ineffective" in Britain. First mistake. People weren't angry because he said that polling isn't a big deal. People were angry because he was utterly dismissive and patronising to Tamsin Ormond, and because in the few seconds he was on air, he managed to come across like the worst type of privileged know-it-all, utterly unable to engage with the average Joe. His presence on the panel did nothing to change the view that the right in this country is a collection of grandiose bigots who are convinced that They Know Best. The opinion that protesting may be ineffective is a fine and valid one to hold. But if you speak like Hugh Grant, you should know if you decide to go on live TV and laughingly scoff at your opponents as if they're flies on your caviar, you're going to ruffle a lot of viewers' feathers.
My parents won't ever see Milo's performance on Ten O'Clock Live. They'll read his article and think he's right, that he's being unfairly vilified by the naughty Left for holding utterly normal views.
My parents won't know the original context of the Jan Moir incident - Milo empathises with her as she was similarly victimised on Twitter. Poor old Jan, whose article suggested that there was something inherently "sleazy" and unnatural about the death of Stephen Gately, the gay member of Boyzone who died in 2009, and then managed to connect the incident to a paragraph questioning the validity of civil partnerships for gay couples. Yes, poor Jan, victimised so unfairly for such unprejudiced open-mindedness that she eventually won Stonewall's Bigot of the Year award. Now I'm not the brightest bulb on Harrod's, but if you're ever reduced to thinking, "Now I know how Jan Moir must have felt," it might be time to question the validity of your original quest.
Having explained what happened to him, Milo then warms to his theme. How, he asks, can the Left think it is acceptable to publically bully those with whose views they disagree? "How come it always seems to be the Left doing the shouting?" he asks, with staggering blindness. So there are no right wing bigots stirring up hatred online? He's clearly never come across Guido Fawkes or Sarah Palin. And I'm not actually sure that calling users of social media "this congealed clump of morons", as Milo does in his conclusion, shows much generosity of spirit.
Yes, Milo, the left are shouting online. Why? Because the Right are in control. The people who lead our country are rippling with privilege, the people who run our economy are wealthy to the point of immunity, and our current electoral system is fundamentally unfair. The Left is shouting because they're unhappy, and they use social media because, for many, it feels like the first time they've been heard. Like it or not, their voice is valid - but to say that social media is dominated by the Left is a little silly. There are over half a billion people on Facebook: approximately one twelfth of the world's population. Do you think they're all Marx-reading commies? Because they really, really aren't. You can slag them all off as a congealed clump of morons, Milo - or you can try to find the huge and wonderful variety within. But then, I guess that an appreciation of difference isn't one of the Right's special skills.
Milo won't read this blog, but my parents will. Every time I wince at their Telegraph-reading habits, I know they're mentally doing the same, thinking that my Guardian experience is just as biased. They're right - the views I share with my friends, and the newspapers I read, lean further to the left than the tower of Pisa. I'm not trying to persuade my parents to abandon Cameron - I'm afraid I've given up wasting my breath. But I hope they can be aware that there are two sides to every story - and, on this occasion, Milo's version was as wilfully blind as a bat in a backwards balaclava. We didn't scoff at him after Ten O'Clock Live because we disagreed with his opinion. We scoffed because of the patronising way he expressed it, and then we scoffed again about his article this morning because he missed the point so spectacularly. Social media is modernity, and slagging it off is to whine "I do not like reality": unconstructive, anachronistic and guaranteed to make enemies. Which, the cynic within points out, is exactly what sells papers.
I don't think Milo should have a bath with a toaster. I don't wish he were dead and I don't want to cause him physical pain. I don't really even care what he thinks. I just want my parents to know that, on this topic, The Torygraph got it wrong. I'm politically left, and I love social media, but I'm not a moron, mummy, I promise. Please still love me.
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Envy, needles, walking, fat, Egypt, patience
So like I said, I don't read other blogs very often because I feel lame and unsuccessful in comparison, and yesterday I discovered this one and I know my parents wouldn't approve but I have been laughing like a drain at her brilliant writing and it's made me think 'Meh, why do I even bother?' because there is SO much fantastic stuff out there. But then, it's fun to write. Even if she gets a gazillion readers and I get nine. And actually, I'm being a bit hard on myself, I haven't had a day with only nine readers for a long time. Years. Usually I at least get into double figures.
The fact is, this blog could definitely be a lot funnier if I decided to write only about funny stuff. But I like the mix. Life is a mix. We can't all be hilarious all the time. Well, Becky can, but she's a rare case. Besides, she has pets and a brother and sister and a mother, all of whom make regularly funny appearances. I would be much funnier if I had a pet or siblings, or a funny mother. As it is, I have a regular mother who only occasionally provides me with material. We have to play the cards we're dealt.
So, where were we? Acupuncture. It was un-fucking-believable. Its effects have faded now, but I swear, for about 36 hours, my new shoulders were a smooth river rather than their usual gnarled bit of driftwood. They don't half give you the hard sell, though, trying to get me to sign up for a course of ten and telling me I absolutely had to start coming weekly to feel the full benefits. I resisted because I am spending my money on other vital things like BOOZE and MORE CLOTHES. It doesn't hurt when they put the needles in, although it doesn't feel great. There's a little fumble, a bit like when your mum's doing the breaking-an-egg-on-your-head thing and is trying to get her nails to flick against each other to simulate the shell cracking, and then the needle goes in. It hurts 1/10, where getting your finger pricked pre-blood-donation is 4/10 and stubbing your little toe on the corner of your bed, unexpectedly first thing on a Monday morning, is an 8. And then you lie there, face down on the bed, and it's freaking weird because you know you've got twenty long needles sticking out of your back and neck, but you can't rise up and twist round to have a look because you think that any wiggle might drive the ones in your neck so far in that you might die, or maybe they'll just fall out and you'll have to lie there getting reduced benefit, so you stay completely and utterly still for thirty minutes, with a heat lamp pointed at the uncovered area, and it's freaking pleasant just lying like a beached whale and having an excuse to do so. And then she comes back in and quickly pulls out the needles and then gives you an acupressure massage, which is amazing, and then you go home and even the whole of the next day, all the muscles feel as new. For £15 on a Groupon voucher I thought it was unparalleled. For the regular price of £50, I'd never justify it unless something was seriously wrong, like I was so cramped up that I looked like a sexy hunchback. Gurgle. God it was nice.
24 hours later it was Tuesday evening and I went on a walking tour with a handsome friend round St. James' and we had a really seriously lovely evening, nattering and drinking and eating and laughing, until he decided to be a bit mental, but what was great is that Old Jane might have blamed herself and been like, 'Eeek, he's being mental, but if he thought I was amazing, he'd never risk our friendship by being mental, so clearly he thinks I am FAT and doesn't care about my opinion and so isn't bothered about coming across as a nutcase.' But on Tuesday I thought 'He is mental. I am a goddess, the little-known Goddess of Cellulite and High Priestess of Egos That Oscillate Between Over-Confidence and Crippling Insecurity. Bow down at my altar and weep, ye minions!
So after Tuesday night's mysterious shenanigans, I woke up yesterday feeling exhausted and ropey, and once I'd agreed with Emily that Erfan would take her to the restaurant instead of me last night, I then decided to use my day's fat allocation on a hangover lunch at Pret. I bought the following: a smoked salmon sandwich and a Pret Choc Bar, which, for the uninitiated, is a rectangular slice of what looks like chocolate biscuit cake, about the size of a Crunchie. I went back to my desk knowing that these heavenly items would be enjoyed and over all too soon. I swallowed them. Interested in the damage I'd just caused my weightloss intentions, I looked up the value of these items on the Weight Watchers website. The sandwich was worth nine points, the same as half a bottle of wine, and just under a third of my daily allocation of 29 points. That was a little galling. I'd definitely rather have had half a bottle of hair of the dog than a stupid sandwich. Then I checked the Choc Bar. Bear in mind that a Mars bar is eight points. The Choc Bar contained sixteen points. SIXTEEN. The total point count for my lunch was 25. I could have had a bottle of wine and a Twix for that. I'd have probably got fired for drinking that much during working hours, but at least I would have consumed some fat that made things fun, rather than fat that makes you feel guilty.
Meanwhile, Egypt is FASCINATING. Well actually, the whole Middle East is getting pretty feisty. I am following developments on Twitter and staring in awe at Jon Snow's feed, not merely because it is very interesting, but because I will never fail to find it amazing that some people are prepared to risk everything and go to these places and report on things, and yes, Jon Snow has fame and fortune and respect, but for every Jon Snow, there are hundreds of others who are taking the same risks but in a much lower-profile capacity, all doing their bit for global democracy, while I sit here eating fresh baby figs imported from South Africa and wondering whether to wear the aqua or grass-green eyeliner to the party tonight.
Yesterday afternoon, I had a gripping therapy session where I updated her on Tuesday night's weirdnesses, a couple of other ongoing sagas and my weekend in t'country. I told her how impressed I'd been with Lucy's mothering patience.
"I just could not have done it," I said, and explained how I'd have been more inclined to say 'Pull yourself together' than be endlessly supportive. My therapist was quiet for a bit and then suggested that I saw the Three Year Old Jane in Lucy's daughter, and that I had been told to pull myself together when I was being needy or unfun as a toddler. I thought that was possible. Later on, I checked with my mum, who said that it was more than possible, and was in fact extremely likely. And I think it's what I'd do in the same situation. Oh, I'd be a shit parent. Later on, the daughter had said to Lucy,
"Are we going to get out of the car when we get to the train station?"
"Yes, darling," replied Lucy.
"Will you look after me?" she asked.
"Darling, it's my job to look after you. I will always look after you, for ever and ever and ever."
The daughter sat in contented silence, swinging her be-tighted legs and silver glitter Mary-Janes from the safety of her carseat. I told this to my mum later, adding that I thought what Lucy had said had been just right, that every three year old wants to hear their parent say they'll always be there for them.
"What would you have said in her position?" asked Mum.
"I dunno. Probably something like, 'Look, I'll do my best to look after you, nutcase, but if you jump onto the tracks, you're on your own.'"
She laughed. I laughed. It's what my parents would have said to me. And look how I turned out. Shit. I should be sterilized.
The fact is, this blog could definitely be a lot funnier if I decided to write only about funny stuff. But I like the mix. Life is a mix. We can't all be hilarious all the time. Well, Becky can, but she's a rare case. Besides, she has pets and a brother and sister and a mother, all of whom make regularly funny appearances. I would be much funnier if I had a pet or siblings, or a funny mother. As it is, I have a regular mother who only occasionally provides me with material. We have to play the cards we're dealt.
So, where were we? Acupuncture. It was un-fucking-believable. Its effects have faded now, but I swear, for about 36 hours, my new shoulders were a smooth river rather than their usual gnarled bit of driftwood. They don't half give you the hard sell, though, trying to get me to sign up for a course of ten and telling me I absolutely had to start coming weekly to feel the full benefits. I resisted because I am spending my money on other vital things like BOOZE and MORE CLOTHES. It doesn't hurt when they put the needles in, although it doesn't feel great. There's a little fumble, a bit like when your mum's doing the breaking-an-egg-on-your-head thing and is trying to get her nails to flick against each other to simulate the shell cracking, and then the needle goes in. It hurts 1/10, where getting your finger pricked pre-blood-donation is 4/10 and stubbing your little toe on the corner of your bed, unexpectedly first thing on a Monday morning, is an 8. And then you lie there, face down on the bed, and it's freaking weird because you know you've got twenty long needles sticking out of your back and neck, but you can't rise up and twist round to have a look because you think that any wiggle might drive the ones in your neck so far in that you might die, or maybe they'll just fall out and you'll have to lie there getting reduced benefit, so you stay completely and utterly still for thirty minutes, with a heat lamp pointed at the uncovered area, and it's freaking pleasant just lying like a beached whale and having an excuse to do so. And then she comes back in and quickly pulls out the needles and then gives you an acupressure massage, which is amazing, and then you go home and even the whole of the next day, all the muscles feel as new. For £15 on a Groupon voucher I thought it was unparalleled. For the regular price of £50, I'd never justify it unless something was seriously wrong, like I was so cramped up that I looked like a sexy hunchback. Gurgle. God it was nice.
24 hours later it was Tuesday evening and I went on a walking tour with a handsome friend round St. James' and we had a really seriously lovely evening, nattering and drinking and eating and laughing, until he decided to be a bit mental, but what was great is that Old Jane might have blamed herself and been like, 'Eeek, he's being mental, but if he thought I was amazing, he'd never risk our friendship by being mental, so clearly he thinks I am FAT and doesn't care about my opinion and so isn't bothered about coming across as a nutcase.' But on Tuesday I thought 'He is mental. I am a goddess, the little-known Goddess of Cellulite and High Priestess of Egos That Oscillate Between Over-Confidence and Crippling Insecurity. Bow down at my altar and weep, ye minions!
So after Tuesday night's mysterious shenanigans, I woke up yesterday feeling exhausted and ropey, and once I'd agreed with Emily that Erfan would take her to the restaurant instead of me last night, I then decided to use my day's fat allocation on a hangover lunch at Pret. I bought the following: a smoked salmon sandwich and a Pret Choc Bar, which, for the uninitiated, is a rectangular slice of what looks like chocolate biscuit cake, about the size of a Crunchie. I went back to my desk knowing that these heavenly items would be enjoyed and over all too soon. I swallowed them. Interested in the damage I'd just caused my weightloss intentions, I looked up the value of these items on the Weight Watchers website. The sandwich was worth nine points, the same as half a bottle of wine, and just under a third of my daily allocation of 29 points. That was a little galling. I'd definitely rather have had half a bottle of hair of the dog than a stupid sandwich. Then I checked the Choc Bar. Bear in mind that a Mars bar is eight points. The Choc Bar contained sixteen points. SIXTEEN. The total point count for my lunch was 25. I could have had a bottle of wine and a Twix for that. I'd have probably got fired for drinking that much during working hours, but at least I would have consumed some fat that made things fun, rather than fat that makes you feel guilty.
Meanwhile, Egypt is FASCINATING. Well actually, the whole Middle East is getting pretty feisty. I am following developments on Twitter and staring in awe at Jon Snow's feed, not merely because it is very interesting, but because I will never fail to find it amazing that some people are prepared to risk everything and go to these places and report on things, and yes, Jon Snow has fame and fortune and respect, but for every Jon Snow, there are hundreds of others who are taking the same risks but in a much lower-profile capacity, all doing their bit for global democracy, while I sit here eating fresh baby figs imported from South Africa and wondering whether to wear the aqua or grass-green eyeliner to the party tonight.
Yesterday afternoon, I had a gripping therapy session where I updated her on Tuesday night's weirdnesses, a couple of other ongoing sagas and my weekend in t'country. I told her how impressed I'd been with Lucy's mothering patience.
"I just could not have done it," I said, and explained how I'd have been more inclined to say 'Pull yourself together' than be endlessly supportive. My therapist was quiet for a bit and then suggested that I saw the Three Year Old Jane in Lucy's daughter, and that I had been told to pull myself together when I was being needy or unfun as a toddler. I thought that was possible. Later on, I checked with my mum, who said that it was more than possible, and was in fact extremely likely. And I think it's what I'd do in the same situation. Oh, I'd be a shit parent. Later on, the daughter had said to Lucy,
"Are we going to get out of the car when we get to the train station?"
"Yes, darling," replied Lucy.
"Will you look after me?" she asked.
"Darling, it's my job to look after you. I will always look after you, for ever and ever and ever."
The daughter sat in contented silence, swinging her be-tighted legs and silver glitter Mary-Janes from the safety of her carseat. I told this to my mum later, adding that I thought what Lucy had said had been just right, that every three year old wants to hear their parent say they'll always be there for them.
"What would you have said in her position?" asked Mum.
"I dunno. Probably something like, 'Look, I'll do my best to look after you, nutcase, but if you jump onto the tracks, you're on your own.'"
She laughed. I laughed. It's what my parents would have said to me. And look how I turned out. Shit. I should be sterilized.
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Goodbye Dolly
Now Nic, if you're reading, please be assured that I think you are absolutely amazing and I loved every moment of the weekend. But flipping heck, how do these people do it? Nicole is my flatmate from university, who now lives on a farm in the middle of almost nowhere, with her husband, her three dogs and three daughters aged approx. 3.5, 2.25 and 8 months. Her life is fully content and almost incessantly wonderful, and she is mostly a pretty happy bunny, but it is absolutely certain that, were I in her position, I would be locked up. Firstly, I simply cannot imagine living in the countryside and not going insane - although I reserve the right to reverse my position on that statement for any of a variety of reasons at some unspecified point in the future. But secondly, I am clearly, categorically, not ready for motherhood.
I suppose no one is really ready until it happens (and often not until some time the event), but my goodness, the relentlessness of it never fails to shock me. I think I'm going to be prepared, but every single time I spend even a couple of hours in the company of kids, I am stunned anew at the patience and resilience of all these people who manage to parent them, full time, for decades. It is just staggeringly tiring. Rewarding, I'm sure, but oh! The exhaustion. I truly don't know if I would ever be able to cope. And then, when you're at your most tired, they don't let up - they get louder. It is really quite extraordinary. Nic's eldest, Alice, is absolutely gorgeous but let down by the fact that she is obsessed with her doll, Dolly, and, when it suits her, treats it like a real baby. It's the inconsistency that would drive me to distraction - if she's going to bathe it, request real nappies and real baby food for it, request its face to be washed, request real muslins, request it to be swaddled before she'll sleep etc., then I'll do my best to take it seriously - but not when she also leaves it face down on the floor by the fire and doesn't flinch when the dog starts licking the encrusted food off its face. I know, I know, it's tough to expect a three and a half year old to exhibit tenacious parenting skills when I'm nearly ten times her age and still doubt my own capacities in that field, but hey, it's a tough world out there - if you can't do the time, don't do the crime.
The other eye-opener for the weekend was that the family's euphemism for the girls' rude bits is 'storecupboard'. I've heard other families call them fuffies, noonies and lalas but storecupboard is a new one on me, and lends a new, rather sad and unpleasant meaning to my mother's lovingly labelled 'Cary's Storecupboard Chutney'. I'm not sure what route I'd take if I had a daughter, but I suppose the important thing is to make sure a word is found that's not too embarrassing to be said in public, because sure as eggs is eggs, I'm pretty sure it's something you'll get sick of hearing over the years if you get it wrong.
On an unrelated note, I watched this home video by Russell Brand last night and got really sad. I've linked to it to spare you the irritation of not being able to watch it yourselves, but please, if you aren't inclined to click on the link, then don't. It's really very depressing. He's a nice guy, I'm sure, and I am not about to do some sort of rabid character assassination, but really, I don't want the film to get any more views than is absolutely necessary. About a minute into the footage, Russell decides to ask his mother a question, and goes out in the garden where she is making a phonecall on a mobile. He smilingly takes the phone out of her hand, assures the caller that it's Russell speaking, asks if his mother can ring her back in a few minutes and, hardly pausing for breath, snaps the phone shut, ending the call. Throughout this episode, Russell's mother giggles adoringly and unquestioningly: ultimate priority is given to his desire to film an entirely pointless exchange. Beneath the widget showing the film are comments from adoring fans squealing about how cute Ma Brand is and how lovely the mother-son relationship seems to be. But for goodness' sake, how rude! I simply cannot imagine a situation where someone is filming me for a BBC documentary, let alone some entirely random blog posting, and I walk out into the garden where my mum is chatting to a friend, extract her phone and end the call. I am a boisterous, sometimes tricky only child, and even I wouldn't dream of that. Clearly Russell's own mother, her friends and his fans are all in awe of his celebrity, and I think this is a sad thing. That said, I've just been rabbiting on about it myself for the past few hundred words, so I don't have a leg to stand on. Ah, hypocrisy. What would I do without you?
I suppose no one is really ready until it happens (and often not until some time the event), but my goodness, the relentlessness of it never fails to shock me. I think I'm going to be prepared, but every single time I spend even a couple of hours in the company of kids, I am stunned anew at the patience and resilience of all these people who manage to parent them, full time, for decades. It is just staggeringly tiring. Rewarding, I'm sure, but oh! The exhaustion. I truly don't know if I would ever be able to cope. And then, when you're at your most tired, they don't let up - they get louder. It is really quite extraordinary. Nic's eldest, Alice, is absolutely gorgeous but let down by the fact that she is obsessed with her doll, Dolly, and, when it suits her, treats it like a real baby. It's the inconsistency that would drive me to distraction - if she's going to bathe it, request real nappies and real baby food for it, request its face to be washed, request real muslins, request it to be swaddled before she'll sleep etc., then I'll do my best to take it seriously - but not when she also leaves it face down on the floor by the fire and doesn't flinch when the dog starts licking the encrusted food off its face. I know, I know, it's tough to expect a three and a half year old to exhibit tenacious parenting skills when I'm nearly ten times her age and still doubt my own capacities in that field, but hey, it's a tough world out there - if you can't do the time, don't do the crime.
The other eye-opener for the weekend was that the family's euphemism for the girls' rude bits is 'storecupboard'. I've heard other families call them fuffies, noonies and lalas but storecupboard is a new one on me, and lends a new, rather sad and unpleasant meaning to my mother's lovingly labelled 'Cary's Storecupboard Chutney'. I'm not sure what route I'd take if I had a daughter, but I suppose the important thing is to make sure a word is found that's not too embarrassing to be said in public, because sure as eggs is eggs, I'm pretty sure it's something you'll get sick of hearing over the years if you get it wrong.
On an unrelated note, I watched this home video by Russell Brand last night and got really sad. I've linked to it to spare you the irritation of not being able to watch it yourselves, but please, if you aren't inclined to click on the link, then don't. It's really very depressing. He's a nice guy, I'm sure, and I am not about to do some sort of rabid character assassination, but really, I don't want the film to get any more views than is absolutely necessary. About a minute into the footage, Russell decides to ask his mother a question, and goes out in the garden where she is making a phonecall on a mobile. He smilingly takes the phone out of her hand, assures the caller that it's Russell speaking, asks if his mother can ring her back in a few minutes and, hardly pausing for breath, snaps the phone shut, ending the call. Throughout this episode, Russell's mother giggles adoringly and unquestioningly: ultimate priority is given to his desire to film an entirely pointless exchange. Beneath the widget showing the film are comments from adoring fans squealing about how cute Ma Brand is and how lovely the mother-son relationship seems to be. But for goodness' sake, how rude! I simply cannot imagine a situation where someone is filming me for a BBC documentary, let alone some entirely random blog posting, and I walk out into the garden where my mum is chatting to a friend, extract her phone and end the call. I am a boisterous, sometimes tricky only child, and even I wouldn't dream of that. Clearly Russell's own mother, her friends and his fans are all in awe of his celebrity, and I think this is a sad thing. That said, I've just been rabbiting on about it myself for the past few hundred words, so I don't have a leg to stand on. Ah, hypocrisy. What would I do without you?
Monday, 29 October 2007
A Few Lessons
Management-speak seems to find that the noun ‘lesson’ is inadequate and has replaced it with a new bastardisation of the verb ‘to learn’, as in ‘What learnings can we take from this meeting?’ It drives me mental and I have previously felt very superior to such office gimps – but then I caught myself almost titling this blog ‘A Few Learnings’ and then felt suicidal. How quickly it seeps in…
I’ve had an interesting few days and feel like I’m on a strange new path. In a good way. On Saturday I went to The Institute of Ideas’ third annual Battle of Ideas – a weekend of talks with a broadly liberal theme. Assuming you didn’t fork out £45 to attend, I’ll give you the choicest nuggets from each of the four talks I attended.
Talk 1 was ‘Demonising Parents’ about how mummy and daddy are on the receiving end of a lot of blame, from lunchbox contents to story time, and how crippling this can be. My favourite comment from this session was on a grammatical issue when one speaker pointed out that ‘parent’ is a noun. The verb form (ie. ‘parenting’) is a relatively recent development; the verb used to be ‘child-rearing’ and the speaker made the point that the focus has largely shifted from the child to the parent – a lexical example of how language echoes our culture. Gripping?
Talk 2 was Eat, Drink and Be Merry: Banned, all about how everything is too regulated and we’re victims of a nanny state who won’t let us smoke or have any fun. The arguments usually run that healthy, clean living types shouldn’t have to pay their taxes so that irresponsible libertines can go to the NHS to have their problems solved. But really, where do you draw the line between self-inflicted illness and the other? The ‘learning’ here was that, before any new legislation is passed, we need to ask ourselves, ‘Is this law worth the loss of freedom that will occur as a result?’ – the implicit answer being, of course, ‘No.’ What was interesting was looking throughout British history and seeing that there were clearly defined periods of libertinism versus periods of dramatic self-flagellation and we’re obviously firmly in one of the latter. Can’t wait for the tide to turn – hopefully I’ll still be able to walk.
Talk 3 was The Resurrection of Religion: Moving Beyond Secularism or Losing Faith in Politics? And weirdly, even though this is probably more my ‘area’, I slightly flagged at this point. I think the highlight for me was the discussion of faith schools – one speaker made the point that if one were to insert the word ‘politics’ in place of ‘faith’ and imagine an institution where one political leaning was espoused and all others were demonised at worst, barely tolerated at best and where certain texts were banned while others were held up as unassailably true – well, we’d never allow it. Religious followers on the panel held that religion and politics could not be equated but I’m not so sure… Ooh, the other gripping thing was that Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t believe in blood transfusions – and don’t allow their children to have them. As a liberal atheist, that’s pretty hard to take – but should we step in or is it their right to make such decisions on the part of their children? Surely the latter – if only because legislating on such an issue would open a vast can of worms that could only end in Big Brother disaster.
Talk 4 was my favourite. Rethinking Immigration: The Unheard Debate covered a huge and persuasive area – kicking off with a statistic that surprised me: apparently only 3% of the world’s population live outside their birth country. One of the speakers put a convincing case for opening all borders and allowing totally free immigration worldwide, something that, in my ignorance, I’d never even considered before. They also argued comprehensively against using a points system to predict who will be a useful addition to a country, citing the examples that Barack Obama’s father was a goatherd and that Sergei Brin, the founder of Google, was a first generation migrant to the US from Russia.
As a bonus, I also caught the tail end of Age of the Metropolis: What is the Future of Cities? and heard this gem: ‘If you would dare to know, live in a city. If you would rather be known, but not know, live in a village.’ Brilliant.
I had planned to go to a triple bill of French films at Riverside Studios last night but felt so virtuous after Saturday’s knowledge-fest that I ended up watching a video of the X Factor and eating Skippy peanut butter off a knife. You win some, you lose some.
I’ve had an interesting few days and feel like I’m on a strange new path. In a good way. On Saturday I went to The Institute of Ideas’ third annual Battle of Ideas – a weekend of talks with a broadly liberal theme. Assuming you didn’t fork out £45 to attend, I’ll give you the choicest nuggets from each of the four talks I attended.
Talk 1 was ‘Demonising Parents’ about how mummy and daddy are on the receiving end of a lot of blame, from lunchbox contents to story time, and how crippling this can be. My favourite comment from this session was on a grammatical issue when one speaker pointed out that ‘parent’ is a noun. The verb form (ie. ‘parenting’) is a relatively recent development; the verb used to be ‘child-rearing’ and the speaker made the point that the focus has largely shifted from the child to the parent – a lexical example of how language echoes our culture. Gripping?
Talk 2 was Eat, Drink and Be Merry: Banned, all about how everything is too regulated and we’re victims of a nanny state who won’t let us smoke or have any fun. The arguments usually run that healthy, clean living types shouldn’t have to pay their taxes so that irresponsible libertines can go to the NHS to have their problems solved. But really, where do you draw the line between self-inflicted illness and the other? The ‘learning’ here was that, before any new legislation is passed, we need to ask ourselves, ‘Is this law worth the loss of freedom that will occur as a result?’ – the implicit answer being, of course, ‘No.’ What was interesting was looking throughout British history and seeing that there were clearly defined periods of libertinism versus periods of dramatic self-flagellation and we’re obviously firmly in one of the latter. Can’t wait for the tide to turn – hopefully I’ll still be able to walk.
Talk 3 was The Resurrection of Religion: Moving Beyond Secularism or Losing Faith in Politics? And weirdly, even though this is probably more my ‘area’, I slightly flagged at this point. I think the highlight for me was the discussion of faith schools – one speaker made the point that if one were to insert the word ‘politics’ in place of ‘faith’ and imagine an institution where one political leaning was espoused and all others were demonised at worst, barely tolerated at best and where certain texts were banned while others were held up as unassailably true – well, we’d never allow it. Religious followers on the panel held that religion and politics could not be equated but I’m not so sure… Ooh, the other gripping thing was that Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t believe in blood transfusions – and don’t allow their children to have them. As a liberal atheist, that’s pretty hard to take – but should we step in or is it their right to make such decisions on the part of their children? Surely the latter – if only because legislating on such an issue would open a vast can of worms that could only end in Big Brother disaster.
Talk 4 was my favourite. Rethinking Immigration: The Unheard Debate covered a huge and persuasive area – kicking off with a statistic that surprised me: apparently only 3% of the world’s population live outside their birth country. One of the speakers put a convincing case for opening all borders and allowing totally free immigration worldwide, something that, in my ignorance, I’d never even considered before. They also argued comprehensively against using a points system to predict who will be a useful addition to a country, citing the examples that Barack Obama’s father was a goatherd and that Sergei Brin, the founder of Google, was a first generation migrant to the US from Russia.
As a bonus, I also caught the tail end of Age of the Metropolis: What is the Future of Cities? and heard this gem: ‘If you would dare to know, live in a city. If you would rather be known, but not know, live in a village.’ Brilliant.
I had planned to go to a triple bill of French films at Riverside Studios last night but felt so virtuous after Saturday’s knowledge-fest that I ended up watching a video of the X Factor and eating Skippy peanut butter off a knife. You win some, you lose some.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)