Interview With A Menz #prochoice

Last night I had a conversation with someone who is not just a colleague but a friend of mine. A male friend of mine.

He is a good person, does lots of good work for the community, and is a regular Mr Nice Guy.

But he had been reading about girls as young as 13 getting contraceptive jabs at school And he had questions.

What follows is a transcript of our conversation. I reproduce it to show two things. One, there is still a LOT of misinformation out there and two, everyone can be taught if they ask and are prepared to listen.

Oh and that feminism isn't about treating men as if they were stupid.

I know that's 3 things. Shut up. It's been a long day.

What to call him? Don't want to say 'him'....

Dave, we'll call him Dave.

Dave:
6.5% of 15 year old girls in Bristol are given a contraceptive jab in school.... hmmmm

Me:
Should be all of them who request it. Teenagers will have sex. If we educate them there will be less teenage pregnancy and fewer abortions.

Dave:
and more STDs as they will be using the jab instead of condoms

Me:
Nope. The evidence suggests the opposite. Young women who are given the jab along with education about contraception in general are MORE likely to insist on condoms.

Dave:
so why have the jab then? am I just thick?

Me:
The jab makes things double safe. No contraception is 100% Condoms do split. It's like wearing a jumper and coat.
Also the bigger picture is that there will be some of these young women who will be crying with relief because they now can't get pregnant by abusive family members.
Of course the biggest picture is that of a woman chooses to have the jab it is her choice alone and whatever the reason we have no right to interfere.

Dave:
Fair enough, just seems to be encouraging them to break the law
(obviously there are some, as you have said, who have no choice... but I'm not on about them)

Me:
It's also protection from pregnancy through rape.
It's not encouraging them to break the law. It is encouraging them to take ownership of their own reproduction.
Another interesting fact is that most under 16 year olds who have it will still wait till they're legally old enough.
It is a back up plan.
Sometimes it is used to regulate periods.
Having the jab isn't about license to shag.

Dave:
ok, its just the article suggests that the jab has led to a drop in teenage pregnancy
so presumably before a lot of them were having un-protected (or failed-protected) sex

Me:
Yep. But they don't just hand out the jab. It comes with education and counseling.
They're also tested for chlamydia and the like.
It's a real program of prevention being better than cure.

Dave:
cool

Me:
I think so!

So there you have it. Questions asked, answered and understanding reached.

If only some other Menz were like 'Dave'.

On Savile And Victim Blaming

Things have been bothering me ever since the Savile story broke.

It would seem that everything about it, the coverage and the commentariat, has been specifically designed to piss me the fuck off.

So I'm gonna list what has me so wound up that I can't sleep despite the industrial strength Horlicks and why below.

JUST THE WOMEN

Apparently that's *all* the BBC had to go on. *Just* the women. This boils my piss like you wouldn't believe. 'The women' would have been the correct answer to the question 'what evidence do you have?' It would have been an answer that was accurate, honest and didn't have a dismissive, apologetic tone to it. The women was answer enough. To put *just* in front of it is an insult. To all of us.

SOMEONE'S DAUGHTER

Biologically I am someone's daughter. My mum and dad's actually. But is that how I am named? 'daughter of Pat and Lloyd'? Fuck no. I am someone in my own right. I have my own worth, my own name and my own identity beyond being the product of my dad's loins. It is the same for the women. When we amplify this wrong by reducing her to being someone's daughter rather than a person in her own right we do a disservice to us all.

BUT HE'S DEAD, THERE CAN BE NO JUSTICE NOW

Yes, Savile is dead. He died at 84 having abused what is now thought to be upward of 300 children. Yes he is dead. But two things here. One, HE SHOULD HAVE DIED IN FUCKING PRISON, and two, justice comes in many forms. It isn't always about prosecuting the offender. Oft times it is about people just knowing what scum they were. Sometimes the justice comes from being believed. So if you can't see what good it does anyone to talk about it now he's dead, do me a favour and fuck off.
WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?

Ah the plaintive cry of the celebrity who was either witness, victim or had suspicions at the time. You were supposed to report it to the police you scum fucks.

NOBODY ASKED FOR BIRTH CERTIFICATES BACK THEN

Hey, guess what? We don't ask for them now. A simple 'how old are you?' suffices now, and would have back then too.

THINGS WERE DIFFERENT BACK THEN

Fuck off were they. A nonce was still a nonce. They still got the shit kicked out of them if they were caught.

All of this shows an attitude of 'yes, we're dreadfully sorry about what the girls went through, but this is getting massive now, fuck, we thought it was just some dead guy and Glitter. Fuck, there's gonna be some big names coming up aren't there? Shit, maybe we should just start posting articles saying, leave it now he's dead, it was a different time, these poor men weren't to know they were fucking CHILDREN as they didn't have birth certificates with them.'

No.

Not on my watch. To my mind this is victim blaming. I won't have it.

We need to make sure that how ever big this shit hill of abusers is that we track them all down. And that all of them are held to account, living or dead.

To *just* the women, #webelieveyou

Loathing And Loathing In Liverpool

I am not a happy bunny.

As many of you will know, I travel a LOT in my work. I visit branches and attend meetings up and down the country, visiting towns, cities and sometimes villages.

It's true that I get lost every time I go to Southampton and there is a faint (and sometimes not so faint) aroma of wee and cabbage on the buses.

Yes it is true that I have never seen the sun (big yellow thing int sky for my Yorkshire readers) in Leeds and the toilets at the station are horrendously expensive (for 30p you can be damn sure that I'm going to have a poo).

It is true that it took me a soul crushing TEN HOURS to get to St Austell. On a Sunday.

But I have traveled from Dundee to Southend and without exception I have come away with a fondness for the place I have been.

Until Liverpool.

I am aware that this blog is likely to upset Scousers. I'm hoping that they won't hate me by the end of this, but if they do, I will shrug it off as I couldn't be more miserable anyway.

I also have to say that I have been looking forward to this trip FOREVER. Liverpool has a great reputation and everyone enthuses about how great, how friendly, how BOSS it is.

When I started to put my experiences on Twitter last night, Scousers (none of whom actually still live in Liverpool) told me that it was the greatest city in the world and that it was because I was in the wrong hotel! (The Adelphi. More on that later). In fairness I have to say that most were horrified that I was having a horrible time but one told me I was 'bang out of order'. Was I? I'll let you decide.

Apparently what happened to me could have happened anywhere.

But it didn't. It happened in Liverpool.

In the spirit of believing in second chances I was even prepared to let yesterday go, but I'm not convinced I will ever love Liverpool.

Here's why.

The Rain

It was pissing it down when I arrived. Yes, I have been rained on before and I am aware that it also rained in other parts of the country. But I wasn't in other parts of the country, I was in Liverpool. And it was incessant. Soul destroyingly incessant. No wonder so many comedians come from Liverpool. I firmly believe that they do a public service in keeping the suicide rates down. This rain was so pernicious it leached the colour out of my hair. So, not a great start, but not the end of the world.

The Hotel

I was genuinely excited about staying at The Adelphi. For a soft southern bastard (something else I was called) it's an iconic building. That and the Liver Building were the images conjoured up when I thought of the city.

It was horrible.

I went to check in and for the first time ever I was asked to state my nationality. This was in the 'overseas visitors' bit of the check in form. I pointed out that it didn't apply to me as I wasn't an overseas visitor and was quietly hissed at that it was a legal requirement (it isn't) and that if I didn't like it then I could always stay elsewhere (I couldn't due to lack of funds and their cancellation policy as it happens). I was livid. But as I was soaking wet and running late to meet the lovely @littlebroad84 I let it go. Britannia Hotels will be getting an email though, oh hell yes they will!

My room was a dirty cupboard with a bed. I can only assume I was in the Overseas Visitors section of the hotel. But there was a radiator to put my wet things on. It was even warm. 6th floor, but 2 of the 3 lifts worked. I consoled myself with the delusion that I was in the penthouse and got ready. In a tiny, filthy bathroom.

So I went out to meet my mate and introduced her to some more mates and we laughed and drank and a thoroughly good time was had by all.

As an aside, there was an incident in the newsagents which was nice which I feel I should include for balance.

I only had a ten pound note to pay for my filters, so nice Yorkshireman gave me 40p so the woman behind the till didn't have to empty it of change.

Oh, and the kebab on the way back was made of OSSUM. But that was it.

Got back to the hotel and as I was having a ciggy outside a man walks past (not, I hasten to add, one of the multitude who had asked me for 40p. Pan handlers in Liverpool have a very specific need which costs 40p it would seem. Six of them asked me for it. Maybe it is for filter purchase rescue. But I digress.) and belches.

I'm not disgusted by burps. I have the skill of doing them at will which The Lovely is totally jealous of and I was having a competition with my mate walking down the road.

But the first thought that went through my head was 'that sounded a bit wet'.

When I got back to my room I discovered that I had been puked on.

I'll let you take that in.

I. Had. Been. Puked. On.

But we'll come back to that as I had an incident on the way back to my room that I must tell you about.

When I exited the lift there was an imperious looking scouser woman. Probably mid sixties. This is the conversation we had.

Her: (imperiously) You.
Me: Hello.
Her: Do you work here?
Me: No, I'm a guest here.
Her: (pointing imperiously at her bag) Only I need that carrying.
Me: I. Don't. Work. Here.
Her: Tut.

Now, let us remember that I have been puked on. She's lucky I  walked away without telling her to fuck off. But just because she was being an old wanker it didn't mean I had to be a young one. So I walked to my room.

Which was freezing and full of slightly miffed ghosts.

It was actually the wind blowing around the top of the hotel but the bloody Woooooooooooo kept me awake half the night. And I couldn't wash my puke covered jumper as I couldn't dry it now the radiator was off so I had to just wipe it down and hope for the best.

It was so cold that I wore a (second, clean) jumper and socks to bed. I could have complained but I was so miserable by then that I just tried to sleep in what I was now thinking of as the garret rather than the penthouse.

Then the heating came on. At about 3am. So I ended up stripping off. This angered the ghosts and the Woooooooooooo got louder.

The breakfast was shit and I threw it up while cleaning my bag which I hadn't noticed the night before had also been puked on.

And when I checked out, it was the same woman who had checked me in.

And her demeanor hadn't improved overnight.

She barely looked at me as she hissed her thanks for staying. Maybe that is in the training manual for Overseas Visitors.

So is there some truth to the hypothesis that it was just because I was in the wrong hotel?

I'd say yes if it wasn't for the following.

Lunch in The Crown took 35 mins to arrive, with nary an apology for having to wait. It was burned.

People who bumped into me expecting me to apologise then screeching 'RUDE!' at me when I didn't. This happened twice.

Being ignored in shops. This happened three times.

The totally unlovely Lime St station.

And in case I didn't make it clear, I got puked on.

So with half an hour to go before my train there is now a thunderstorm. I bloody love thunderstorms, but this one feels wrong. It feels like it hates me. But then it is a Scouser thunderstorm.

Bang out of order?

You decide.

Slut Shaming - My High Dudgeon Explained

Woke up in a very good mood this morning. Read an excellent blog on the slut shaming of Sarah Catt by the fantastic @magiczebras (Link should now be active, have a look, it rocks) and settled into a 4 hour train journey.

Then I got into a discussion with someone on Facebook about her.

It wasn't a flame war, it was, and continues to be a calm, rational debate, but the more I replied, the more annoyed I got.

Here is why.

Sarah Catt has been sentenced to 8 years for inducing labour with poison. Not gonna condone or even comment on that. That is a whole other discussion and very likely a whole other blog. What has induced the rage is the way teh meeja has painted her past actions as abhorrent and 'proof' that she is evil, and really, her past actions made this act, for which she has been sentenced for EIGHT FUCKING YEARS an inevitability.

Let's break it down.

She had an affair with a co worker. *shrugs* So what? Oh, I see this makes her a slut doesn't it? Silly me for not remembering that the co worker was to be absolved of all responsibility for contraception and shizz because she is a bad woman. Beware, anyone who is having an affair, you might end up in prison because obviously you are an evil woman who teh menz can't resist with your evil, wiley ways because they are, like, men.

She put a child up for adoption. Legally.

She had an abortion. Legally.

Listen carefully, because this is important. Women do this all the time. It does not lead to inducing labour with poison, nor does it equate to it. There, that was easy wasn't it? You're welcome.
Why I am so fucking angry is because, regardless of what she did, the meeja are painting a picture of Sarah Catt as without remorse, using the affair, the abortion and the adoption as 'evidence'.
Patriarchal bullshit. Women make legal choices about their bodies and lives every fucking day. Some of them are sad about them, some are nonchalant. None of them should ever have to be sorry for them.

Expecting women who make these choices to forever wander the streets heads shaved, wearing sack cloth, wringing their hands while crying mea culpa is misogynist, smug and undermines everything I stand for as a woman.

Shove your slut shaming. And fuck off while doing so.

Sometimes

Earlier this evening I wrote a blog on the kick ass summer I have had and how happy I am. And I am you know. A whole 99% of the time.

But sometimes I'm not. Even when I should be. Weirdly enough, it's when I'm at my happiest when I get my saddest. Tonight for instance, The Lovely said something in his sleep. It was innocent and MORE IMPORTANTLY it was his subconscious that said it but it still stopped me from getting to sleep till I'd woken him for reassurance and cuddles.

In the spirit of always being honest on this blog, I thought I'd tell you how I feel. Sometimes.

Sometimes I feel like I'm on the outside of my life looking in. Like the happy, smiling kickass woman isn't me. I feel detatched and numb and undeserving.

Sometimes I feel like I don't deserve the love I have in my life, like at some point they will all laugh and tell me they we're only joking. Haha!

Sometimes I feel like it's all going to come crashing down around me, that I'm not a good person and that I will be revealed as the awful, toxic person my psyche is sometimes sure I am.

Sometimes I just cry coz I feel so numb.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone would miss me.

Sometimes I feel so ugly and worthless.

Sometimes I wonder why anyone bothers with me. I'm so insecure. So needy. Such a pain in the arse.

But that is depression and a shit childhood for you.

My life is good.

I don't feel like this all the time or even most of the time.

Just sometimes.

What Else Should I Be? All Apologies.

Been a while since I blogged and lots has happened so rather than do separate ones I thought I would blog a kind of update.

Been living with The Lovely for 10 weeks now and I have been through some changes. New flat, new office, new beginnings. So many new experiences. Only thing that hasn't changed is essentially who I am.

I know it sounds like a cliche to say I have found myself but dagnammit I have. And I'm not sorry. And over the past weeks I have found myself not being sorry for a lot of things.

Here is a list of things I am not sorry for.

This list is not exhaustive.

Being angry about rape apology.

I spent days on the internet arguing with rape apologists over the whole Assange thing. I am disgusted by all of them and my Twitter block button went into overtime. At one point I had to PUT THE INTERNET DOWN and go and have a cuddle. I just couldn't understand those idiots who

a) couldn't separate Wikileaks (A Good Thing) with Assange himself (Man Who Needs To Face Trial For Rape In Sweden)

b) bought into the whole conspiracy theory thing about it being a plot to extradite him to the USA while totally ignoring the facts, the law and the point that it would be far easier to extradite him from here.

c) perpetuated the myths surrounding rape and sexual assault, made excuses and victim blamed for all they were worth and showed themselves up to be the misogynists they were. They disgusted me then and they disgust me now.

Like I say, my block button went into overdrive.

Peeing into a bottle in a tent.

After years of putting it off, and being put off by my ex (you'd never hack it, you wouldn't be able to straighten your hair) I went to my first music festival. Those of you who read of my adventures at Tolpuddle will be glad to hear that I learned my lessons and there was no Jaffa Cake disaster this time. I had the time of my life with the greatest bunch of people ever and ticked loads off my 'to do at a festival' list.

1. Wear a festival hat... It was big and black and I thank Kerry for lending it to me.
2. Have my face painted... I had a flower on my cheek. Thanks Fiona for drawing it.
3. Go to the front of a gig... I did so at Random Hand, a band who I had seen only 2 days earlier and it was brilliant. It also lead me to...
4. Go in a mosh pit... broke my favourite shades. Didn't give a shit.
5. Bought a tshirt off the band and wore it.
6. Danced barefoot in a field. To Greenday. 
7. Got really drunk and slept in a tent. Eventually. What with the 3am row about Religion v Abortion, and the guy in the tent next to me getting a very loud, very prolonged blow job, sleep was at a premium. Didn't give a shit.
8. Saw the Foo Fighters. With the best group of people ever. In shorts and wellies. 
9. Got festival flu so bad that it took me a week to recover. Had it killed me, it still would have been worth it.
10. Peed in a bottle in a tent. And didn't spill a drop. Yay me and my fabulous pelvic floor muscles!

So what else am I not sorry for?

Ah yes...

Dyeing my hair bright pink. 

I get really bad hair boredom. And these days I have the freedom to express it. In the past year I have had pink bits, purple bits, blue bits and green bits. I decided this week to go the whole hog. I now have all over pink hair. Got some strange looks. Didn't give a shit.

Saying that line at the TUC. 

I was a delegate to TUC this week. This is my third year attending and each year I have had a speech to make. This year about cuts to the Equality and Human Rights Commission. I spoke about David Cameron (disgusting specimen of a human being) and his policies killing 32 disabled people a week. Then I said that Ed Miliband would kill them slower and less deeply. There were some giggles, some gasps and some said I shouldn't have been allowed to say it. But I stand by it. Unless Labour stand up against all cuts and embrace the alternative that the unions have put forward then people will continue to die. Faster or slower, it's still dead. If you are interested, the video of my speech is here.

Laughing at Ed Balls.

Last year I shouted at Ed Miliband. I am even on Japanese web sites doing so. It was kind of expected by Twitter followers, Facebook friends and even some from my own union that I would shout at Ed Balls too. But I didn't want to be 'the shouty woman' for no reason. I didn't want to be the heckler who does so for the sake of it.

As it turned out I didn't shout at him at all. I laughed at him. When he started talking about how we had to trust in each other I laughed. When he said he and Milliband had stood side by side with the unions I laughed. And when he was dodging questions and saying he knew how we felt, I roared.

It was still spontaneous, it was still effective. It rattled him. Really rattled him. He lost his place in his speech and the moment he realised it wasn't going to be some sort of Union/Labour Party love in wank fest was a joy to behold. It is about time they realised that we won't sit still while they shit all over us. Sometimes just laughing in their faces is better than shouting. Though the heckles came, they weren't from me.

Got some REALLY dirty looks for it, and have probably put the kibosh on working for the TUC ever. Didn't give a shit.

Being happy.

Not sorry for this either. I have had the most incredible summer with more ups than downs and I am comfortable in my own skin and not scared of loving The Lovely. Happy is good. I should have tried it years ago.

Being me.

Main thing I'm not sorry for. Loving, loyal and kickass when needed. I am me. I will always be me. Whatever else changes, that won't.

And I'm not sorry.

Confessions Of A Festival Virgin - What Goes In Tolpuddle Stays In Tolpuddle

I have a confession to make. I have been shallow and judgemental in my time. I have derided a certain group of people without taking the time to try to understand them.

You know those people who wear their festival wristbands until they are literally rotting off their wrists? It was them. I laughed at them, considered them posers. Thought them the kind of idiots who thought they were too cool for school.

I am sorry. I now get it. For now I am one of you.

I'm 42 in a couple of days and I had never been to a festival. Oh, I'd always wanted to, always thought I'd get round to it one day. And then I made the mistake of thinking I was too attached to luxury to hack it.

My ex used to take the piss when I expressed a desire to go. 'They won't have hair straighteners there.' He used to say.*

*those of you who know me well, let's be honest, those of you who have known me for more than five minutes know I am vain over one thing only. My hair.

But I digress. I wanted to go be a tree hugging, welly wearing, face painted, pissed out of my SKULL festival goer but I never had the guts. At least not while I was with the ex.

This weekend I broke my festival cherry.

Me and The Lovely went to the Tolpuddle Martyrs Festival. And I bloody loved it.  

After an epic journey which saw us take nearly 2 hours to get out of the city despite the train stopping at the station 5 minutes from home (don't ask) we arrived looking a little bedraggled into a field next to the Tolpuddle Martyr's Museum.

Sorry for messy linkage. Doing this via email.

Anyhoo... www.tolpuddlemartyrs.org.uk

It was chucking it down with rain. I was very glad I had bought my sassy sparkly leopard print wellies. The Lovely being the wonderful man he is bought brownies and coffee and we warmed up.

We got the tent up in minutes (two words, pop up) and I went to introduce myself to Den who was running the bar.

I probably should explain. I was there to work two shifts behind the bar for the Workers' Beer Company. You don't personally get paid, but your wage goes to your organisation. In my case the money is going to the PCS hardship fund so that those who have real financial difficulties when we go on strike can get some help.

So what made the weekend so amazing? Various things. I'll try to cover them below in no particular order.

THE PEOPLE
So many people I caught up with, met so many more, and had random conversations with others only to discover we had been following each other on Twitter for ages. No one was cliquey. No one was unfriendly. Everyone made me feel welcome. Even with the blazing row I had with @swdrake about the Labour Party at one in the  morning when we were both pretty cidered up. Even in the pouring rain the people were smiling.

THE DEBATE
Oh yes, there was debate. I managed to get to two of them. One was chaired by The Lovely and featured TUC General Secretary in waiting Frances O'Grady (who was great but whose name unfortunately reminds me of a Viz character). I have a feeling that if she manages to keep the fire she showed she may well just turn out ok. The second one was about protesting. Chaired very well by @jokbristol I was chuffed to share a jaw drop and eyeroll with Owen Jones but annoyed that I had to put Eva from Unite rights on just how much trade unionists ARE involved with protests, even at the risk of their own jobs. My irritation didn't last long though and I was proper pleased that the PCS women got right into the heart of the debate.

THE MUSIC
Well. Yes. Have to admit that Billy Bragg type guitar shouty tunes are not my cup of tea. And I missed The Selecter and Thee Faction as they played while I was behind the bar. I was gutted about that. But there was singing and dancing and I appreciated that people were having a good time. I did not appreciate the guy who woke me up playing the guitar at 6.30 am. Dear guitar playing man. Three cords is only ok if you are Status Quo. Learn some more. Ta. Love everyone x

MY GENERAL UNPREPAREDNESS
I am rubbish. Like, proper rubbish, though in my defence I hadn't been camping since I was 12. While The Lovely bought things like toilet rolls and shower gel and useful stuff I bought Jaffa Cakes. More of which later. I also didn't bring anything with long sleeves. This led to me nearly crying with cold and waking The Lovely at 4am to beg for a hoodie. Which he gave me. Then bought me an even warmer one the next day. (I had also forgotten that there was no cashpoint for at least 150 miles) But me being rubbish added something to it, not least The Lovely getting to look after me. I like that sometimes.

THE TENT
I named our tent 'liccle iccle' as it seemed so tiny surrounded by the gargantuan bio domes that the SERIOUS CAMPERS had brought with them. Some of them were bigger than my old flat. Some of them had four bedrooms. Ours had a single skin which meant that EVERYTHING had to go in bin bags every night because of the condensation and the first morning we woke to a tent covered in soggy Jaffa Cake where I hadn't packed them away properly. It looked like a dirty protest in a MacVities factory. But I wouldn't have swapped Liccle Iccle for anything. It was dry and cosy and ours.

THE HUMOUR
Trade Unionists are bloody funny. Even, nay, especially when they are in a field and knackered. I couldn't explain how or why they were so funny as you kind of had to be there and there is nothing worse than someone else's in jokes. All I will say is that @tolpuddletim @yokelbear and @ropercarl all had me running to the portaloos before I peed myself laughing.  

THE SENSE OF BELONGING
This was the big one. Being surrounded by people who though their political leanings may differ from yours, though their methods may differ from yours, though you may scream and shout at each other in the wee hours, you are there for the same purpose. To celebrate the lives and bravery of six men who risked everything for fairness. Together.

So hail and farewell till next year Tolpuddle.

Just hope my wristband doesn't rot too soon.