On Fat Shaming - Guest Post

This one is from a very good friend of mine who wishes to remain anonymous.

Very personal and very powerful. It is a must read.

Hi. My name's [redacted]. I'm 29. And I'm fat. And I don't mean model fat. I don't mean feeling a bit bloated today fat. I mean fat fat. I'm 5'4, I currently weigh 19st 4.5lbs (or I did on Monday) and I wear a size 24. I'm fat fat. And I refuse to apologise for the fact. Because you know what, I'm happy. Or I was until I read this article in the Daily Mail. Admittedly, that was my first mistake. Reading the Daily Fail. But it passes time in work, and it often posts articles about cute animals that make me happy, like the one about Budi, the baby Orangutan. It started sad but it's getting good. And look at the concentration on his little face while he eats that orange. Adorable! But yeah, I read the Mail, whatever. But today I read the article about that atrocious little man and his 'constructive fat shaming'. It enraged me. It made me furious. Allow me to explain. Fat shaming is a subject that has pissed me off for my entire life. I could write volumes on it. On how it has personally affected me, and how I know it affects friends and family. I won't. But I could. And yes, I'm fat. It's not a new thing. I've always been fat. And I've always been fat shamed. So have my parents, on my behalf. When I was little, the dentist couldn't figure out how I could weight as much as I do and have perfect teeth, not a single cavity. I mean, my parents were obviously filling me full of sugar right? I had to get that size somehow (FYI it was cheese, not sweets. Cheese is AWESOME!). The doctors accused my parents on more than one occasion of over feeding me, abusing me. They told them to make me exercise, eat less, everything. They didn't need to. When I was little I did ballet, tap, swimming, cycling, went to Brownies and was always doing something with my friends in the outside world, involving moving around. I was a kid for fucks sake. I was doing kid stuff. But I remained fat. I got bullied in school. I don't mean some kid called me names and I got upset. I mean begging not to go to school, making myself ill bullied. I'm talking parents going into school to discuss the situation with teachers. It was serious. And it started when I was 5 and it finished when I was 18. And it only finished then because I left school. It was the worst kind of fat shaming. From the kids stating the obvious, to the ones discussing the food on my plate in secondary school. It was awful. But it was bullying and I had an understanding of that. I could manage my way through the little fuckwits I was forced to be around ever single day of my life for 13 years. It was a thing. It isn't now. Now it's sneaky. It creeps up on you out of nowhere. Because we're adults now and it's not socially acceptable to walk up to someone and call them names (or, it isn't for the most part. I can't account for everyone, unfortunately). When you're an adult, it's for your own good. You need to be told. Whether it's the doctor informing you that the cold you have is due to your weight, or the sales person telling you, with inevitable disdain (imagined or real) that the item of clothing you want doesn't come in your size. It's there and it's meant to make us change our fatty little ways. Enter 'Life Bitch' Steve Miller. What an odious little creature he is. He believes that calling a spade a spade, or in this case, a fatty fat, will make them change their ways and lose weight. Telling them that their weight will kill them will make them slim down. It'll save their life! Woo, go Steve. Or not. If that shit worked, I'd be a size 0, minimum! Because that's all I've heard all my life. He claims it's for health reasons that he does this. And admittedly, I am trying to lose weight for those reasons. I'd love to walk somewhere without my ankles, knees, hips and lower back giving out because they've carried almost 20 stone around for too long. I'd love that. But don't come all saintly when you're bullying and shaming people into conforming to your norms. Remember, it's the slim and healthy people who pay for your treatment when your health fails. Why should we pay for your lack of self-control? That SCREAMS helpful, constructive slimming aid doesn't it? I mean, I certainly feel inspired. Not inspired to lose weight mind, more inspired to see if all that time spent watching Sherlock and Dexter would make it possible for me to actually murder someone and get away with it. I think I stand a fair chance. I actually hate the assumption that fat people have no self control. I have tried every diet known to man. Atkins, Low GI, Rosemary Conley, WeightWatchers, Slimming World, calorie counting, fasting, 5:2, Slim Fast...I could go on and on for DAYS! Following all of that shit takes control. Masses of control. Especially when all you want is something yummy, a sweet maybe, a bag of crisps, pick your poison. You get it in your head and you need it. You obsess about it. You consider fashioning a shiv out of a biro and shanking a co-worker in the kidneys just to get that bar of chocolate they have in their drawer...I mean, you obsess over it. But it falls outside of your current torture of choice and you refuse yourself it. Not giving in to the ensuing obsession takes every last bit of control in your body. Don't tell me I lack self control. He's even written a book for fatties like me. 'Get off your arse and lose weight'. Well fuck, I never thought of that! Kindly fuck off you horrendous excuse for a human being. Take your pseudo-compassion with you. Then there's Katie Hopkins. I won't lie, I didn't watch her show about getting fat and losing it. Isn't she wonderful though? Her high metabolic rate makes it really hard for her to gain weight, so she really stuck with the weight gain to prove a point that it's super easy to lose four stone. Yup. Now make that eight stone. Or fifteen. That 'little bit' of weight is suddently Everest and it's impossible to climb. Even with your desire to prove the world wrong fueling you, and that image of a pretty frock dancing about your head. It's Everest. And you struggle to hit base camp. But I won't dwell on her. She isn't constructive. She doesn't even pretend. She's just a twat. Back to using health against us. Fake concern. My weight concerns me when it comes to my health. I'd like to not be punished by my ankles or other joints for walking about too much. I'd like to not be surprised by how swollen my toes can get after exercise. And by God, I would love to have less natural insulation because fuck me it is WARM up in this bitch! I've had friends tell me how badly they need me to lose weight. How worried they are. And it's sweet of them but it's not their concern. They just hang around with the fat, they don't live inside it. It's not like I love living here. But you know, there are worse places to live and I'll take it. Maybe do a bit of remodelling. Whatever. But, of course, the horrid little man has a success story to go with his article on the correct way to mentally abuse a friend or loved one. Tracy, 34, 19st, size 24 clothes. Having read her testimonial I prefer to think that it was in spite of Steve and not because of him that she lost weight. After all, if having a nasty little man telling you how fat and awful and lazy you are was enough to make you lose weight, I honestly would never have gotten fat in the first place. But what I'm trying to say here, in a rather rambling, largely angry way, is that hurting someone's feelings, belittling them and making them feel less of a person is not constructive. Its abuse. It's bullying. And you wouldn't allow your child to behave in that manner. So set a good example. Don't be a twat. Be helpful. Be supportive. Be nice, it takes absolutely no effort on your part. So go forth, lovely people, and don't give side eye to that fat bird or bloke you walked past, wearing something you feel is inappropriate for them. If it makes them feel good, feel happy for them. Don't be that guy. Don't be a dick. Don't be Steve Miller.

Slap *is* a Feminist Issue - Guest Post

So the wonderful Ang is back! This time on make up.
Enjoy!

Slap *is* a Feminist Issue,
(or Just *how many* eye liners are *too many* eyeliners...?)

So, here's the upfront anti-spoiler alert. The 'Slap' in this GoddessDeeva guest blog isn't about domestic violence or violence against women, against men or any people of trans- or non-binary gender.  No, no, no.

For the record, by 'Slap' I use the word here in the sense that most women I know, plus how various actors, dancers, wardrobe mistresses and several transvestites of my genuine acquaintance use it, namely make-up, beauty products, that stuff.  You know - the mascara, lippy, eye liner (guy liner) bit of face-colouring goo? Yes, that.  Everyone sitting comfortably?  OK, let's move on...

I'll 'fess up. I have an absolutely *HUGE* collection of Slap.  Monumental.  Trays, boxes, bags, metric feck-tonnes of the stuff. Lots of my Slap haul has been gathered through free samples and gifts from tactical buying on posh beauty counters over the years, where samples are loyalty currency, but I confess that I have spent a small fortune on the stuff. (And yes, I know that there are several teenage daughters of my friends who are actively lobbying to inherit said Slap collection when I die. Hum.)

As an aside, I remember in the early 1980s (when I was an undergraduate university student) that The Slap was a front-line feminist issue.  In the sense that, on one side, there were women living in bender camps in freezing conditions surrounding the US nuclear missile base at Greenham Common, and it was cool, right on, not to indulge. Armpit hair was A Thing, almost trendy.  And yet, at the same time when I was a student,  when the New Romantics were "It", and those first year uni bands like The Cure, My Bloody Valentine, The Wedding Present, Pixies, were super cool, uni students wore more Slap than I'd ever seen or knew how to deal with at that age. You can't be a proper pale-faced Goth without a trowel-load of The Slap, right? (Not as if I liked most of that music, but, hey, I duly back-combed my hair and learned how to do proper eyeliner. Ish.  I was rubbish at it, and I looked crap.)

So what changed over 20+ years?  I realised that The Slap has proper super-power, true purpose for most women. Let me be clear, this isn't at all about wearing makeup to look pretty for a man, for a partner, for a date, for sex.  No. Can't be arsed.  Sod off with that. I wear my Slap for myself alone, with no obligation towards anyone else. (And let's face it, my husband Clive has seen me more often Without than With The Slap.  No probs. He used to wear more Slap professionally (and with four inch heels) than I ever have, but that's another blog story...)

However, I'll put it out here that there's a HUGE confidence boost for all women that comes from The Slap. Just ask Macmillan nurses why they take bags of lovely lipstick into hospital wards to help women recovering from cancer and chemo. It helps women who feel like shit feel as if they can face the day, face life again.  It has power, in the way that gravity as the weakest force in the universe has power. Huge power.

So here it is. I'm just laying it out here in GoddessDeeva space that Slap is a deeply feminist issue. It allows, it facilitates, it strengthens so many women to go out daily into the (mostly male-dominated) workplace and (dominated by the patriarchy) world feeling just that bit more confident, that bit more Can Do, maybe a little bit more Empress of the Universe. It says soft,y, so quietly "Yes, Khaleesi, you can rule the world. I understand you may have needed a bit of Slap to stand up and claim your rightful place in the world order.  That's OK. Nice shade of lippy, btw.  OK, let's go rule the world."

That's all OK by me. Excellent, in fact.  Why not?

So I'll reserve my right to paint my fingernails some dark, gothic colour while yelling at Newsnight or Question Time. Nail polish does not dim my intellect. Nor does it impair my dim view of selfish, bigoted, money-driven politicians on all sides. I can wear this season's most fashionable shade of Chanel nail polish and still argue the political toss.

If I have a Big Meeting to go to, one where I need to be shiny and full of win, I'll Slap Up.  Skin-matched base, concealer, neutral blended eye, mascara, eyeliner, lip liner perfect. The Works.  No shit. I got this.  And frankly, I know it works. I'll go into that meeting feeling just that bit better prepared, better armoured. Teflon on.  And I'll win.

Game on. So, get that mascara and lippy on. Let's go run the world...

Ang, known in some online places as Lady Clanger, is an atheist, Socialist republican, a keeper of parrots and humongously large felines.  She's an activist in mind and at heart, who strives to Do The Right Thing, even if daily life sometimes gets in the way. Views here exclusively her own. 

On No Platforming

Have spent the weekend in hospital with little else to do than read the internet. This is good because it means I won't die (not today) and bad because it means I have little else to do but read the internet.

So. No platforming Greer, Bindel, Ditum et al.

How much fucking privilege do you have to have to EXPECT to be invited to speak at universities? It's fucking breathtaking how fucking ARROGANT you would have to be to complain that no one wants to listen to you speak in an open letter in the Guardian.

Fucking WAHMBULANCE for people throwing their toys out of the pram because it means that there won't be a free exchange of views.

Fucking newsflash.

I already know what your views are as we have these things called books and the internet. Lots of us have the internet now. Its ever so clever. Can tell us what you have said about your views on sex workers and trans women without us actually having to physically see you.

Free speech doesn't guarantee you a platform. If it did I would be demanding I get to go to Oxford to discuss my views on keeping male Roborowski Hamsters in the same cage.

What? You're not interested? You already read it on the internet? WATCH ME WRITE AN OPEN LETTER TO THE GUARDIAN TO PROTEST THAT YOU HAVE CURTAILED MY FREEDOM OF SPEECH!!!!

You see how silly that sounds?

The reason you are being no platformed is not because what you have to say is so scary, so incisive that we worry you will spark minds to unhitherto thought.

It is because what you have to say is damaging and dangerous and to be honest we have heard it all before.

You are that uncle who doesn't get invited to dinner anymore because he goes on about bloody immigrants every time.

So you are not being invited. It is not your right to be invited. Freedom of speech does not guarantee you a platform.

Nor does it mean I have to listen to your vile, bigoted opinions.

Now off you pop. There's a love.

Depression Part 2 - Guest Post

When I wrote part 1 of this guest blog, I thought I had a pretty good knowledge of the subject. Having suffered my own dark time and had previous discussions with friends and acquaintances, I saw myself as some kind of all-seeing eye,  I can now admit that I did not know as much as I thought!

I received many comments, it definitely split opinion. Everyone agreed about the value of talking and being supportive of your friends, but that is something that I think everybody should do as a matter of course in everyday life. The main thing that split opinion was the value of medication.

The trouble with it seems to be, that no two people are the same. What works for one person doesn’t for the next. Much like the cause of depression, the number of potential remedies seem enormous. I have since spoken with people who spend large chunks of their life switching meds trying to find one that works for them, others who have found what works for them and are much happier because of that fact. There is also the group  who decided meds weren't for them and tried to wean themselves off, to varying degrees of success.

Suffice to say I opened up the proverbial can of worms. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that you have to find your own path. If something doesn’t feel right to you, change it, seek the advice of friends, family, a doctor... There are very many support groups available, be it NHS or privately run community groups. Hell, even at your local church! These are all places you can go to meet like-minded people who are going through or have been through a similar situation. Sounds easy right? I think not.

 A friend of mine made a good point about their particular experience of group meetings. Whereas his experience was a positive one and he found that these groups really helped, he also felt due to his working class background, that it was hard to talk about it with work colleagues, associates etc. due the stigma attached. I'm inclined to agree with him. However, I don’t think it is confined to the working classes. It is, I feel, a general almost fear of people who suffer with depression, like it might rub off on you, which of course it won't.

He went to an NHS group and only had good things to say about it. Which of course is not always the case with said organisation. Other people's experience was that you got treated in a matter of fact way and got rushed through as if it was a case of one cure for all. It tickled my interest so I started looking in to the cost of mental health care in the UK. The first thing I came across was an article by Charlie Cooper of the Independent.

I was shocked to read that "There are 3,640 fewer nurses and 213 fewer doctors working in mental health in April this year compared to staffing levels two years ago" (the article was written august 2014) and that funding had been cut by 2.3 per cent. This equates to £253 million! So it is no wonder people's experiences have not all been good. It is, I feel, important to point out that the NHS is not at fault, they have to work within the constraints dictated to them by the government... But that’s a whole new can of worms so I'll leave it there.                                                                                                                
Coincidentally, I'm writing this on the 5th of February, Time To Talk Day! Such things as Time To Talk Day can only be a good thing as it raises public awareness and goes some way to reducing the stigma. We should all get on board with it. Social media should also be put to positive use. I know that there is a certain cynical group who use it as a tool to inflict harm, however the more socially aware of us use it for good. Take the sad passing of Robin Williams for example. I believe he would have been proud to see the amount of people who started writing and talking about their own problems after his death. Would a more open and aware society have prevented his death? Who knows. We must strive to be open, aware and above all sympathetic to our fellow human beings.

As a final word for now on this matter, a good friend came to me after my previous piece was published to say how touched they were to read it and how good it felt to see that they where not alone, that it was good to see that there are ways to get through. To see that other people had been through this before them. They could see that there is light at the end of the tunnel and you don’t have to spend your life in the dark.

It's good to know you're not alone!

The caveat though, is that 'The black dog,' as Deeva so succinctly put it, will always be there for most of us, we just have to find a way to make it behave.

Drake, formerly of another name. Green fingered life enthusiast.

Hotel Bristol Royal Infirmary

Well good evening! Have had a bit of an up and down day today. Up because I have been for a short walk and down coz I am knackered.

I seem to have a knack of finally falling asleep EXACTLY when they want to take my blood pressure or give me my drain cleaner antibiotics. Or my dad will call from Trinidad. Or it is time to stick another needle in my stomach so I don't get a DVT.

Today I am going to talk about the food.

If I'm honest it is a bit shit. Unless it is the pudding and the pudding has custard. That has taste. 

Today I have had lentil soup and a road beef dinner. Luckily I have been saving the pepper sachets so I managed to get it down me.

The lentil soup was described as spicy. I suppose it was if you were born without taste buds. However it was thick and only took one sachet of pepper to be vaguely edible. 2/5 stars.

Roast beef dinner was a travesty. Needed 3 pepper sachets. 0/5 stars for that.

Pudding was a plum crumble and custard. Plums were slightly under cooked but it didn't need pepper so 4/5 stars.

The service has been brilliant though which is what I expect from the NHS. It's the people who make it and I am being very well looked after.

Yet another reason we should fight to save it.

And increase the pepper budget 😉

On Catching My Breath

*waves foot* Hello from my sick bed at the Bristol Royal Infirmary!

Had a massive asthma attack last night and it turns out its because I have had pneumonia for a fortnight without realising it.

I also may have sarcoidosis so am staying in till I have had all the tests and can, you know, breathe and shit.

Will be blogging from my mobile while I am here so please pay no attention to photo placements as I cannot choose where they go on email. Exciting!

Just a short post to say hi, I'm not dead, though it was close, and to thank the amazing NHS staff who saved my life last night.

And the amazing Abbi who called the ambulance.

More tomorrow!

On My Love For All Things The Archers

At 2 years a listener I am still a newbie to the docu drama about all things Ambridge that is The Archers.

I wasn't there when Grace and the barn went. I was not there when John met his grisly end under the tractor nor when Nigel plummeted from the roof.

Helen's turkey baster pregnancy that ended in the demon spawn that is Henry? Nope. Ditto Ruth's cancer, Brian's affair and Peggy's predilection for men named Jack.

I didn't grow up listening to The Archers at my mother's knee. It was all radio one in my house and I will be honest, I was scornful of those who worshipped at the altar of Alan's giant organ.

These days? Can't get enough. I hear the opening strains of Barwick Green and my whole body relaxes. I know it's time. That glorious hour and a quarter on a Sunday morning where I join with my #thearchers twitter family and submerge myself in the goings on of the week.

So what changed my mind? Mainly @yokelbear @allthisandless and @BLUESKY20. They are very good friends of mine of years standing and as long term listeners they all said I would love it.

Yet still I resisted. I have quite an addictive personality (totality of Breaking Bad in four sittings)  and I was worried it would be something else for me to get sucked into.

And I was right.

Am I sorry about this? Hell no. My Sunday morning and Monday night (more on @Dumteedum shortly) have never been so much fun.

Here is my Sunday morning ritual. Alarm goes off at 9.30am (yes I have an alarm so I don't miss it. What?) and I get up, put the kettle on, go to the loo and have a ciggy. Make coffee. Go back to bed with said coffee. Headphones and radio on. Open Twitter. Listen to last five minutes of Broadcasting House and tweet 'Signing in. #thearchers'.

For the next hour and a quarter my fingers are a blur of tweets, RTs, favourites and replies. It is my church and this is my Sunday service.

But why? I hear you ask. Well there are a few reasons. Here are some of them.

The writing. It is sublime. Beautifully crafted. When Jack 2 died I cried at the tenderness. When Phoebe gave Kate both barrels I shouted my joy. I screamed when Tony got flattened by Otto the bull. I cried at Johnny's panicked and plaintive "grandad!".

Because it is on the radio and possibly because I listen on headphones it is close. Intimate. Personal. And all the more absorbing for it. When Otto lost it (because Henry was using his Omen powers I reckon) I couldn't see anything. It was all noise and screaming and panic and fear and noise and, and, and...

It was perfect.

Because I care about them. I care that Helen is being gaslighted by the abusive Rob. I care that Lillian is being abandoned by Matt. I even care about Shula and Alice's fight for domination over the direction of the Christmas show.

I care about who wins at the Flower and Produce Show. And I am not sorry. Not even a little bit.

It is bloody hilarious. The innuendo (taking Pavel up the polytunnel) the comedy (yes, when it suits you dear) and the ridiculous (Jolene and Harrison in the shower jumps to mind. Then won't leave. Ever.)

Lynda Snell's sniff.

I actually learn about farming. No, really. I know more about robotic milkers, herringbone parlours and anerobic digesters than you. Suck it up.

Plus there is a real community of listeners. The AmbridgeFeministCollective is a thing. We have our own nicknames for the characters, Piggy, Hellon, Titchynob and PC Harassment Carpet Burns being a few. We have our own in jokes, most of which are filthy and we have the marvellous @Dumteedum podcast that feels like a family.

Dumteedum.com is pretty much my favourite place on the internet. Run by @Roifield and @lucyvfreeman it is a raucous, irreverent and yet loving look at the goings on in our favourite village.

They are lovely. Ridiculously so. And funny. Side splittingly funny. And they genuinely care about their listeners and caller innerers.

They are family. I have met so many people through our love of Jolene and Kenton and they have been there for me through non Archers related trauma.

We even got together for an award ceremony last November where I fell a bit in love with Radio 4 goddess Susan Rae and scared the shit out of the actor who plays Rob Titchenor.

Good times.

So why not give it a go? What's the worst that can happen?

Well you could end up stuck in a conversation with Charlie Barber Spreadsheet about field rotation...

On Vaccination

Lots of my friends are tweeting and facebooking their dismay at parents who are refusing to vaccinate their children.

I add my voice to theirs. It is unthinkable to me to have not had my children vaccinated even though it was right at the time when there were questions over the safety of doing so.

I did not want any of my children to either die from a preventable disease nor to cause harm to any other child through my negligence.

However, I have another layer to add to it and that is anger at the inherent ableism wrapped up in the idea that it would be better for your child to be dead than to be autistic.

Let me make this clear, there is NO LINK WHATSOEVER between autism and childhood vaccination. None. Not one iota.

But even if there was, if you think that autism is the worst thing that your child could have, worse even than mumps, measles or rubella then you need to have a word with yourself. Seriously.

Since my daughter person has had their Aspergers diagnosis I have been asked more than once if they had the MMR jab.

The answer is yes.

This has been greeted by sad looks and one idiot asking me if I felt responsible for them being mentally deficient.

The answer is no.

Firstly, they are not mentally deficient. Not in the slightest. Secondly, the MMR jab had nothing to do with their autism. Thirdly, fuck off you ignorant piece of shit and do some research.

So go vaccinate your kids and recognise that you are selfish, abusive and ableist if you don't.

I'll take autistic over that every day of the week.

UPDATE: Have spoken to someone since posting this that had VERY good reasons for not vaccinating her son and I totally respect her reason for not doing so.

I wish to make it very clear that I am talking about the selfish gits that won't do it because they don't believe in it. Or that don't care about the safety of their kids or the safety of others.