Does It Have To Be Bad?

I’ve steered away from writing about the forthcoming vote for Scottish independence because (a) I don’t consider myself to be an overtly political animal and (b) despite strong Scottish family blood a-swirling in my veins from my dad’s side of the parental tree I don’t really see how a nurtured Sassenach who’s lived in the heart of England all his life has any right to say yea or nay on the question of whether Scotland should be independent or not.

But it seems everyone has an opinion these days, especially those English politicians who’ve done eff all for Scotland over the years and up to this point haven’t cared a stuff about how it has fared. Geez, even J.K. Rowling has thrown a good wodge of her own money behind support for keeping Scotland forever yoked to the millstone of fake tradition that is British unity.

And I guess that paragraph hints at where my true personal leanings lie though I admit my arguments are purely emotional, possibly romantic, and wilfully have nothing to do with fiscal systems or the complicated bureaucracy of devolved governments.

To me Scotland has always been another country; always been its own country with its own identity and personality. The people, the landscape, the atmosphere are foreign. And I mean that as a massive positive. I like the idea of Scotland being truly independent. If for no other reason than the rather shallow pleasure I will get from the inevitable exoticization that will occur.

But that’s not the real point of this post. For me the central question is this: independent or not, does it have to be bad? All I’ve heard is various bad tempered politicians griping about what Scotland / England will lose if the yays for independence swing the day. And then other infantile politicians spitting their dummies and threatening to take their ball away and not play anymore if Scotland wants to be in charge of supplying their own kit. All blatantly ridiculous. It seems someone has to suffer no matter which way the vote goes and there’s going to be a lot of sulking.

But really? Does it have to be that way? Can’t Scotland have its independence and England and Scotland still work together for the benefit of both? Does it have to be miserable? Why can’t it just be good for everybody? Because at the end of the day life and trade will still need to continue. There will still be movement from across both sides of the border (even if it’s only the Queen digging out her passport before she enters Balmoral). We can all still play and work together.

As in any kind of relationship, a sense of independence is healthy and usually good for both sides. England needs to be less clingy and less possessive. That kind of behaviour always drives a partner away or into the arms of another.

You Have Lovely Eyes But I’m Not Expecting Sex

A friend of mine told how an old workmate of his, hitting retirement age, got himself
into trouble one day whilst carrying out some work he’d been contracted to undertake in a
suite of offices. Apparently he told one of the female workers there that she had “lovely
eyes”.

I must admit my initial reaction was, “there are far worse things he could have said”. My
mate’s reply was, “yeah, he could have told her she was effing dopey”.

I could see this conversation was going nowhere productive fast so I let it drop but
mentally it stayed with me.

Part of me thinks Mr Contractor was plainly of that generation that considered it
normal if not a man’s right to comment positively on a gorgeous filly’s attributes. I’m
sure he meant nothing lascivious about it and imagined himself as being rather charming
and gallant. But another part of me can see the other side of it. He was a stranger to
the office – an outside contractor – and his comments were over familiar and totally
outside the scope of his works... which I’m sure were along the painting and decorating
lines rather than “let me sell the wonderfulness of your own body to you Gok Wan style”.

And old boy or not he cannot fail to have noticed that things have moved on in the world
and people conduct themselves very different these days compared to the Carry On
shenanigans of the 1950’s and 1960’s. He plainly made the girl very uncomfortable and she
complained about it as was her right. And Mr Contractor got the type of dressing down he
wasn’t expecting.

Does this scenario sadden you or not though?

Is it sad that we can’t offer free, gratuitous compliments to the people around us? Lord
knows there’s plenty of people around happy to bestow the fruits of their negativity upon
all and sundry at the merest drop of a hat. Why can’t we offer niceties and good wishes?

The trouble is, I suspect, that deep down, such compliments as Mr Contractor was offering
weren’t entirely free and without imposition. Even if he were the most decent upstanding
guy in the world if you peel back the layers of civility and courtesy I’m pretty sure
you’d get down to the dirty little nub at the core.

Sex.

It’s a sad fact of life that guys tend to not show an interest in a woman unless he, on
some level, fancies her. You might disagree. You might argue. I’ve had this fact of life
told me by several different women who were quite blasé and even accepting of it and I
was hard pressed really to refute their claim. Most men I’ve met have merely replied,
“yeah?” to the accusation in a tone of voice that unmistakably says, “so what?”

So when a man you’ve never met before offers you flowers or smells your hair and asks if
you are or if you aren’t... it’s because deep down he wants to get into your knickers.
He’s looking for the compliment to be well received. He’s looking for that blush response
and a slight coquettishness. Maybe even a giggle and a bit of badinage. He’s looking for
an opening. He’s looking for that little green light which will lead him to imagine that
he is undeniably, irrefutably “in”. He’s still got it. He’s still The Man.

The chances of sex occurring is, of course, for most people absolutely minimal. But it is
sex that is at play undoubtedly.

And in this day and age to do the subliminal sex-thing is bloody dangerous. We, of
course, all know it as flirting.

But you know what? I think flirting should be a privilege of having got to know someone.
I realize context is an issue here and behaviour in a nightclub or a pub is vastly
different to our everyday living and working environments... but on the whole, flirting
should only be done with someone that you’ve already got to know. So you both know how
far you can push it. So you know where the boundaries are. So you are both comfortable
with each other. There needs to already be in place a foundation – an association – that
goes beyond simple caveman boy-girl attraction.

And in this context flirting is fine, healthy and can inject some enjoyment in what is
probably otherwise a very dull day.

If flirting came in a tin is would have the following printed on it: Men! Don’t try this on
strangers, you will merely come off as sleazy.

Flirting still occurs in the modern world but the rules of engagement have changed. And
changed for the better in my opinion.

See, if I tell you that you have lovely eyes I am merely solidifying our friendship. I
don’t want sex of any sort. I just want to buddy you up.

However, if I tell you that you’re effing dopey it’s safe to assume that you are not on
my buddy list at all.

Anger Management Glasses

Anger management classes are all well and good but, really, who has the time? Who has the inclination to sit in a room with a bunch of sweaty people who twitch and snarl every time someone gives them a funny look or grabs the last Garibaldi?

What you need is instant intervention! A personalized buffer zone between you and the object of your justified rage!

I would therefore like to present the patent pending Bloggertropolis Anger Management Glasses (funny nose and fake moustache come fitted as standard).

Simply don these pacific spectacles and instantly see the target of your fury transformed into an object of pity and sympathy – thus circumnavigating the murderous anger that could potentially see you incarcerated at Her Majesty’s Pleasure for the rest of your natural.

Mother-in-law constantly sniping at you and making disparaging comments about how you are raising your kids / making your gravy / baking your cakes / exercising your right as a British citizen to cross-dress in public? Don’t viciously rearrange her expensive vajazzle with a Moulinex hand blender (after all, you’ll need that for the crème brulee later), simply slip on your Bloggertropolis Anger Management Glasses and see her transformed into the needy, unloved child that she really is who was never allowed the pony she dreamed off when she was 5 years old and who was laughed out of the WI in her mid twenties for her grainy scones and her unrisen baps. She does not deserve your resentment; she deserves your compassion and your understanding!

Some loud-mouthed white van driver with a pot belly and nicotine stained lips cut you up on the way to work? Don’t involve yourself in a Dukes Of Hazard style car chase around the industrial estate that ends with you creaming his face all over the bonnet of his car with a handy piece of lead guttering that you keep in the boot of your Peugeot for just such occasions... put on your Bloggertropolis Anger Management Glasses and see him for the inadequately genitalled, illiterate, going-nowhere, cirrhosis suffering nobby-no-mates that he really is. Does this man really deserve your anger and all this passionately expended energy? Surely it is your pity that he really craves? With your Bloggertropolis glasses firmly in place you can at last give it to him!

Colleagues giving you the run around and trying to drop seven kinds of excrement onto you from a great height to cover their own malodorous shortcomings? Don’t push them face-first into the paper-shredder and get mediaeval on their wriggling arses with a staple gun... simply whip out your Bloggertropolis Anger Management Glasses and see them for the pewling, cowardly, passive-aggressive spoilt brats without a shred of true professionalism that they really are. Why waste a good Tippex mouse gouging out their eyeballs when you can empathize with their failed showbiz parent upbringing that saw them on the talent scrapheap at 15 and knocked-up with 4 kids by the time they were 19 with no hope of ever regaining their previous good looks?

Ta da!

Bloggertropolis Anger Management Glasses saves the day once again!

Anger managed!

Bloggertropolis Anger Management Glasses are available for pre-order from Bloggertropolis for the blinding price of £39.99 per pair though a discount of £70 for two pairs is available for married couples.

Disclaimer: Bloggertropolis accepts no liability for sight impairment, retinal damage or moustache allergies that may result from over-exposure to Bloggertropolis Anger Management Glasses and most certainly accepts no liability for any criminal prosecution that may result from the failure of the glasses to prevent outbursts of violent rage in the face of gross stupidity, ignorance and pettiness originating in the people that you choose to surround yourself with.

Reasonable Farce

What a difference an A makes.

Not sure where this came from – just playing with words really – but it occurred to me the other day that the working life of us all (possibly even our home lives too) could be much improved by substituting “force” for “farce”.

Take, for example, using reasonable force. The police encourage the use of reasonable force when making a citizen’s arrest. Hell, they even say they themselves use reasonable force when apprehending members of the criminal fraternity (clearly innocent newspaper sellers lie outside this guideline). But what is reasonable force? A Half Nelson? A kick to the tenders? A quick crack across the cranium with a telescopic truncheon?

It’s too woolly. Too hazy. Someone could still get hurt.

But not if you used reasonable farce.

Arresting someone whilst dressed up as a carnival pirate with an eight foot long feather sword whilst singing an old Gilbert O’Sullivan number would ensure that their human rights are not impinged upon in the slightest and no bodily injury is caused to anybody. Even better if you used a batter pudding throwing machine that you just happened to have about your person. You could even change your name by deed poll to something mildly amusing like “Gay Abandon”. I mean, what self-respecting crim would object to going to the nearest police cell with Gay Abandon?

And instead of forcing the issue in difficult and emotional situations why not relieve the tension and expose the elephant in the room by farcing the issue? Don’t want to interrogate your other half about the affair you think they are having and stirring up a real shitstorm? Just dress up as the mistress / lover in question, add a Groucho Marx moustache and cigar to the whole ensemble and then strut around doing deliberately bad impressions of them. Your other half will certainly get the picture but will have their tongue-tying guilt and shame somewhat mediated by the Music Hall values of your impromptu performance. A major row will be instantly averted allowing you to proceed with an adult and meaningful discourse that could save your entire relationship! Hoorah!

And finally, for those times when the doo-doo really is hitting the fan, don’t bother pining for that sci-fi fantasy – a forcefield – what you really need is a farcefield. A sphere of benign travesty that extends a couple of feet outwards from your person and entangles all who fall within its embrace in bizarre pratfalls and extravagant vehicular chases that involve bathtubs on castors, pantomime horses and custard pie flinging trebuchets. Instant invincibility and a jolly good laugh to boot for all involved!

What a hoot!

So remember folks, next time you are being dogged by the Dark Side...

...just use the Farce.

No Place Of Safety

Domestic violence is an issue that we all, I’m sure, like to keep at arm’s length. It’s something that most of us don’t like to think about. I mean, hey, we know what it’s about anyway, right? We don’t want to be brought down about it. It happens but not that often and it happens to other people; people we don’t know.

Wrong.

I can guarantee that in your surprisingly wide circle of friends and acquaintances you will know several people who have experienced domestic violence in some shape or form. Several; not just one, several. Some will have been affected directly, some indirectly. Either way it leaves you feeling messed up.

My first encounter with domestic violence was when I was 18. I was young and naïve. I’m glad therefore that I was not directly involved because I would not have known what the hell to do about it. I was working at British Telecom at the time and had a friend that I shall only refer to as R. R was sparky, vivacious, funny and totally madcap. She was a couple of years older than me but seemed a lot older than that. She had an Asian boyfriend and both were heavily involved in the local band scene at the time.

One day she came into work sporting a split lip. She talked about it quite freely during a tea break. They’d been set upon, her and her boyfriend, by some white guys. If we thought she looked bad we ought to see her poor boyfriend. It had been a horrible attack. Undoubtedly racially motivated.

We all made the right sympathetic and outraged noises.

All apart from one of the older women among our colleagues who sat very quietly and said nothing.

I only know what happened next because R told me years later. While the rest of us had returned to our duties, this older colleague – let’s call her P – had sat still and asked R to wait. Once they were alone P had simply said, “You need to get out of the relationship now. He won’t change. This will not be a one-off. He will cry and he will apologize and he will swear that it will never happen again but he won’t change.”

When R finally told me the truth of what happened many years later – that her boyfriend had habitually hit her – the relationship was long dead. She’d finally left him after a couple of years. And P had been right. He had hit her again. And again. And again. Each time afterwards he had been sorry. Heart wrenchingly, heartbreakingly, genuinely (I’m sure) sorry. He had cried. He had sobbed. But he had not changed. He had not admitted that he himself needed help.

In the end he had exhausted R’s capacity for forgiveness. Thank God for that (despite the irony).

R had been lucky. She had found the courage to leave him. She had found the courage to admit to herself that it was a bad situation that could not be fixed. Found the courage to admit to me that she had lied about the racist attack to protect not just herself but also her boyfriend.

Because when you are the victim of violence you are hit with a double-whammy. Fear and guilt. And those are pretty effective weapons to keep someone silent. To keep someone complicit.

I often wonder now about P. How did she know? I was too innocent to pick up on the signs that R was undoubtedly giving out but not P. She saw the whole situation in an instant. From experience maybe? It’s hard to speculate. P was a strong character. I can’t imagine her being caught up in a relationship like that.

But why not?

It only takes falling in love with the wrong person. Nobody is born is a victim. Nobody chooses it.

But our most intimate relationships can bind us to the wrong people in ways that are very difficult to break.

And you can’t tell what someone is like just by looking at them.

You have to listen too. And even then, sometimes, that is not enough.

Today I and many other bloggers are Speaking Out about Domestic Violence. I was asked to participate in this campaign by Wanderlust and have been proud to do so. If you also wish to join the campaign or just to show your support it is not too late. Simply visit Wanderlust’s blog and sign yourself up.

Thank you for listening.