I Know Not What

Rise Up

Yesterday, well, the day before yesterday, now, something happened that was truly awful.

A young man was hacked to death, in front of many witnesses, in a London street.

My condolences, my heart, go out to his family and friends. I wish that they did not have to.

He died in an area that I know well. My daughter attended the nearby school for three years, some time ago. Woolwich was, for the first thirty of my forty years, a central hub in my life. I have walked along that very road many hundreds of times. Much of my family still resides in the area.

I am aware of the problems that Woolwich is beset by, and ever wishes to overcome. But I do not want to speak of these further, today.

Lee Rigby was a soldier in the British Army, and was apparently targeted for this very reason.

I am simply not interested in the social, political, or theological arguments that confer a twisted and wrong ‘justification’ onto such an act.

He did not deserve this terrible ending.

And the sad truth is that, globally, there were probably many people that met a similar end, on this one day.

The situations will be manifold, and the reasons, also.

But the fact is that nobody deserves to fall prey to such violence.

Nobody deserves such a terrible ending.

Nobody.

Ever.

If we want to be truly civilised, as a people, as whole species, we must reject extremist views that promote violence, where ever they may hail from. Be they from far across the world, or on our own doorsteps.

We do not have any weapons, other than our voices. But we are legion. Even those of you that do not wholly agree with my (surprisingly pacifistic, even to me, right now!) views, know that, surely, if enough of us speak loudly enough, for long enough, perhaps a change can be wrought that will lessen the burden that violence brings down upon us all.

All we have to do is stand. And speak.

Remembrance for young Mr Rigby.

And peace.

Me, out.

The Small Things

I have often spoken, in this small blog, of the fact that I am mentally ill. 

I choose to do so, not as a strange act of therapeutic exorcism, or for pity. I do so because the area of mental illness is still misunderstood by many people. 

This lack of understanding is rarely based in an outright, prejudicial malice. We all relate to the world, and to other people, using our own lives as a yardstick. This can only lead to those fortunate enough to be free of this particular burden, using a very different experiential scale to those of us that are not.

I no more expect the people who have not felt the true impact of mental illness to understand it, than I can, myself, hope to truly understand the trails endured by those with severe physical impairments. I can attempt to empathise, yet I have no honest means by which to accurately grasp the everyday issues of those faced with being physically different, in an able-bodied world.

Though I suspect that, just as with mental illness, it is often, though not always, the smallest things that bite the hardest. 

I could speak, of course, of the crushing fear and despair that is paired with the arrival of the (all too familiar) black dog. But there are many people that have written on the matter, with far more eloquence and feeling than I can hope to dredge up.

What is sometimes left unsaid, however, is the importance of the small things.

Dependent on my mental state, the merest stirring of a teacup can have drastically different effects. When I am an unwell, the clink of a spoon on china rings as a large bell, shocking in it’s intensity. It can trigger shaking, flashbacks, even full-blown hallucinations. Conversely, when I am well, I welcome this sound as an extremely pleasant prologue to a wished for beverage.

This is the same for countless other small things. 

Sunshine can be a terrible force, gratingly bright. Too, too much to cope with, involuntarily clamping my eyes shut with brutal force. Yet it can still, on those happier afternoons, be something welcome, warm, imbuing a languid and elegant sense of comfort. 

A sharp shout, outside, in the street.

Watching the tide come in, the waves lapping ever further up the beach, until my toes are washed with sea foam. It can induce panic, or wonder.

Hearing a child cry.

A hot water bottle against my lower back.

The awkwardness of trying to understand the unhappiness of a friend, a truly good person, who happens to have a ‘yardstick’ so short, that I find their pain small. Even though I know that, for them, it isn’t.

The taste of sage and onion stuffing.

Trying, desperately, to answer a question, when I’m not sure what the answer ‘should be’.

Tea. Once more.

Unwanted introductions to people I wasn’t expecting to meet.

Even worse, a sudden hug that is meant kindly, but makes me shiver.

Drinking Bovril at a football match, though I will only be alone momentarily, in deepest, darkest December.

The ‘phone ringing.

It is in the small things that barriers can be found. But also, lost. I know not what people do in their own, particular, darkest days.

But I try to do something very simple. I hang on to the knowledge that the things that hurt me, at times, also have the power to be positive. That I will, when I am better, long for the sound of a teaspoon, stirring my cup of tea.

I have to, naturally, hang on to other things as well. Given my mild layer of autism, and the fact that my little tellybox/DVD set-up in my kitchen may have only ever, pretty much, played one shiny disc, I am not sorry that my next viewing of the 2009 ‘Star Trek’ movie will be it’s 238th showing.

That’s just the routine thing. Also, I rather like cooking, so I am just in there a lot.

But ridiculous and geeky non-sequiturs aside, I merely wish to say that whilst I am currently not comfortable with the idea of speaking fully about the deeper nature of mental illness, those of you that are living with somebody that has to wrestle with it, should look to the small things.

We may be mental. But it is the small things that really count.

More often than you’d think.

Thank you kindly.

On Equality

I have only a little to say on this matter.

Nonetheless, it is only fair that (should you be reading this), I clarify my own particular grounding of bias, before going on.

I am 40 years old. I am working class, though not currently working. I am classed as disabled, because I have moderately severe mental health issues. I am female. I am white. I have no official religious affiliation. I am from a very poor social background, as those of you familiar with this blog will already be aware. My immediate family counts as both multi-ethnic, and multi-faith.

That’s enough of the yammering about me.

How about I skip to the question of equality?

I have found much of what I have seen on the tinternets, of late, most disturbing.

It seems that the topics of feminism and, to a lesser degree, racism, in particular, have recently fallen somewhat into disrepair. Not out of a lack of caring. Quite the opposite.

People feel as strongly as they ever have. This is good. But many great people, who only want to do the right thing, are getting bogged down in most minuscule of arguments. There is an enormous amount of bickering going on, over minutiae. This is fine, and necessary, for future progress. Yet the wider public perception of these issues is being negatively affected by the tone of these ‘discussions’.

There is an unfortunate side effect from this splintering of views.  Some of what is being said is extremely bitter, and sometimes verges into the inappropriate realm of personal insult.

I will not pretend to know the differences between the various different factions on the side of progress, out there. Technically speaking (and truly, without undue boastage) I am a genius, yet I could not hope to construct a flowchart that would allow me to enter into any of these conversations, without fear of my offending somebody with a misplaced word.

Please get over it, people.

I’m not saying that I even want to engage on these subjects, or that you should be waiting, breathlessly, for me to speak, because I’m so ‘brilliant’. All I’m saying that if I sit there, and look at your tweet or blog, and think ‘wow, I wish I could reply to that, but…erm…no’, there are probably many other people that could, and choose not to do so, as well.

And the cause of equality may be missing out, because some of those may be other, really grand people. Better ones than me, most likely.

Basically what I’m saying is that most of us want the same thing. A little kindness. Some comfort. People’s achievements being based on nothing other than merit (in whatever form that may take), without reference to any possible feature that is currently treated in a derogatory fashion.  The value of a human life not being based on hard currency, because the poorest of us can be amongst the very best. 

Equality.

I do not know where I stand in your spectrum of beliefs, and wishes.

I know only this.

A person should only ever be seen for what they are, as a person. I know we aren’t doing that yet, and it hurts. But if we want to move forward, and make things better for those to come, this is not the time to argue over trifles.

And no, I really don’t mean the trifles with custard.

Bestest wishies to you all.

On Atheism

I wish to speak about faith, which is a thing I usually speak publicly about only sparingly. 

But there appears, at present, to be an unmerry war betwixt people who have faith, and those that are thought to have none.

I shall be upfront. I am an atheist. This will not be news to those of you that follow this tiny, wee blog, but it is not impossible that there are new folk, having a quick looksee at what I have to say. Hello, and welcome, to you all.

So. An atheist. What right do I have to speak on the matter of faith? More than you’d think. Perhaps.

I find it befuddling that a lack of religious faith generally equates, in the wider public mind, to an assumption that a person lacks some vital ingredient in their inner life. That this lack of belief in a benevolent (or otherwise) greater power means a dilution, or negation, or a person’s spiritual worth. That somehow, not believing in an intelligent source of our being even makes, on occasion, the atheist an object of pity. I have experienced this.

Please do not mistake me. You may have whatever faith you choose. I will not berate you for it. I am certainly not here to try to change your faith, as I think the freedom to allow people choice in belief is one of the greatest gifts that we, as humans, can give to one another.

Yet I must speak.

Merely to explain what being an atheist means, to me.

To say that I think that limiting ‘spirituality’ to those who choose to to follow a religion is innately unfair. When people achieve great things, or survive terrible events, it is often spoken of as a ‘triumph of the human spirit’. This is, without doubt, true, and is most often used without reference to religious belief. 

I do think that we folk are capable of the most extraordinary things. I do believe that our drive to achieve, or survive, can make us wonderful. 

And I think that it comes from us.

If anything, it elevates my view of us. Of people. I view this as a form of spirituality, because when we choose to be (and we do, for the most part, have to choose it), we can be amazing.

What about our place in the universe? 

I believe in what science has shown us, though we still understand so little.

We are lucky. Oh, but we are lucky!

Even those of us that do not gamble have already won a cosmological lottery so vast and all encompassing, that it is wondrous that we are here at all.

We are so small.

Just look at night sky, for more than a passing moment. You’ll see some stars.

Keep looking. More will appear.

Keep looking. Still more.

In fact, if you keep on looking, the depth and the vastness of ‘out there’ will hit you, ‘down here’.

You will likely know this. You might not know that for me, an atheist, this sheer, seemingly (but not actually, of course!) endless depth, the scale of this beautiful universe, is most deeply moving. It is, for me, as close as I think I can ever get to a religious experience, in the traditional sense.

It may be trite, but we are, after all, made of stars.

What about the afterlife?

Well, to be short, I do not believe that there is one.

Does this make me lacking, spiritually?

Not if we are talking about my belief in the human spirit as a thing we can see, in those that do the incredible, from those who endure grievous illness, to those who manage to struggle to live every day, some in the most abject poverty.

But I do believe that we are organisms, that have a (more or less, without interference) natural lifespan. Whatever our personal situation, when we die, we die.

How does this affect my view of life?

You may think, if you are of a religious persuasion, that my atheism, my sureness in our tiny presence in this here universe, would make me careless, maybe even cold.

This is not so.

In my view, this life is all that any of us will ever have.

This makes it rather important.

When a child is reported dead, it cuts to the bone. For me, this is a tiny one of us that has lost the opportunity to grow, to become the person they could have been.

Natural disasters and acts of aggression are deeply hurtful. So much pain is, and should always be, a source of real distress to those of us who believe that once even a single person is gone, we have all lost a great deal.

With only one such fatality, a person has suffered, and we have all lost, suddenly and without good reason, someone like us.

What about me?

Well, I’ll peg it, soon enough. I shall, I should imagine, pass into history unnoted. This does not cause me concern. All of my forebears have done so, and I’m pretty sure some of them were much better folk than I could ever hope to be.

From the atheist perspective, I merely hope that, in a couple of generations, I will be a peculiar footnote in family history. My only grab for ‘eternity’ is that this footnote might be kind.

You reap what you sow, as one of your weighty theological tomes says, and I have always tried to aim for kindness, at least.

I, personally, do not have a book.

That is a lie. I have many books. But I don’t have a belief in an organised faith.

I have my own faith.

I believe in us.

Because I, sitting here, writing this blog, and you, sitting where ever you happen to be, reading it, are so very lucky to simply be doing so.

Why don’t we make the very best of it?

I wish you all well.

A Nod To A Visionary

I have nothing of any great import to say, other than the fact that I heard some news that made me, quite unexpectedly, very sad today.

Iain Banks is dying.

Though he’ll always be Iain M. Banks, to me.

I am a sci-fi geek, of the female variety. Not rare now, by any means, but when I was at least couple of decades younger, perhaps more unusual.

My son, aged nearly eighteen, is named Cheradenine, a fact that will only mean anything to readers of his older, Culture works. For realsies. A name he is very fond of, as it turns out. Reading ‘Use of Weapons’ utterly changed my view of space opera, as it often so damningly called, but also of the scope that can be captured in more complicated narratives, of any sort.

Mr M. Banks (yep, I’m keeping that ‘M’!) showed me that women in science fiction can be strong and  admirable characters, and more importantly, that their sexuality was allowed to be present, or not, without this impacting on their usefulness, simply as people. At that time, it felt revolutionary. At least, to me.

He has also shown us that an enormously broad field of vision does not, in the written form, necessarily mean a lack of human interest. A concept can be vast, yet Mr M. Banks seems to have always understood that the devil is truly in the details. That what really makes us think, what honestly drives us to thinking about specific and difficult subjects, are the scenarios that involve individuals. He has never stepped back from those, even when they were ghastly. Through this knowledge, he has made us engage with many ideas that are more than worth our consideration. They may even, as the world turns, prove important to us all.

If you have not read his works, I urge you to do so, with the warning that they often make for uncomfortable and tricky reading. This is, maybe, what makes them crucial.

As for Mr M. Banks, himself?

Well, sir.

I hope you (and your newly minted ‘widow’!) are enjoying your honeymoon. Have a fantastic time, insofar as that is possible.

I hope your last days are as comfortable and as pain free they can be, and that your final hours will be peaceful.

I hope that you, and your goodladywifeperson (yes, I called her that!) Adele have all the support you need, at this difficult time.

I hope you go into the big sleep, knowing that you have changed the world, for a good number of us.

Thank you, Iain M. Banks.

You are, and will continue to be, actually awesome.

Me.

*Buggers off to make some ‘FTT’ shirts*

About A Girl

And here we are. Yet another trigger warning, my dreams of a blog entirely devoted to the latter years of the weirdness of George Lucas, once more shifted onto a grimmer tangent.

I am sorry.

Yet, I am not.

Today, something happened to me that, quite extraordinarily, provoked a response that was extremely strong.

I heard the news.

Let me explain. Those of you that have read my blog will know that I have various mental oddities that render me moderately unable to relate to people. It isn’t that I don’t like all you folk. I simply cannot, on occasions, grasp your thinking.

Not your bad. Not even mine, really,  but I’ll take that hit.

But today, the newly released news of the passing of Frances Andrade made me weep. And I don’t mean a few tears. I mean I wept like the metaphorical girlchild, chest heaving, limbs flailing, breathing uncontrollable, and eyes still puffy many hours afterwards.

I was shocked at my reaction. I thought it, initially, selfish, and there is a very good argument to say that me even writing about it now, may be so.

In fact, I am not ashamed that most of my said reaction was a trigger for me to speak out, and in writing, even now, I am not thinking of Frances’ family and friends, even though their pain feels sharp to me, raw. It bites.

Please believe me when I say that I really do feel for them, and their terrible pain. That, for me, is unusual. I will be honest, however, and say that I am mostly thinking of her.

I will not pretend to speak of Frances, as a girl. Or even as an adult. Though she wielded a violin most admirably. To do so would be insulting to her, and to those that have known and loved her. I will not even speak of me, as a girl, because I simply can’t yet. But I can speak of the courtroom experience, with some measure of authority, and I can tell you that the reason that I cried today was the fact that I absolutely know that the court process was deeply mentally traumatising in the 1990’s. And it broke me that it is equally traumatising now.

It has become brutally apparent to me that it is still the case that those men and women (or sadly, those boys and girls) who suffer sexual violence, or repeated sexual violence, are the most vulnerable, of all victims of crime, during the process of cross questioning in our courts of law.

There is a real, a very real, problem here.

I have always supported people looking for justice in this field. I always will. But this is the one area of criminal law where it is routine for the victim to feel like they are the one on trial.

From the point of view of somebody that suffered many years of sexual abuse, as I did, as Frances did, it begins before the trial even kicks off. When you realise that a ‘sample case’ will be chosen, from more than one, from tens, or even hundreds of actual events, to represent a particular type of abuse. Everything becomes unwieldy to handle, when you are hit with the fact that one charge, one ‘event’, as such, is suddenly held up as an example. And none of the rest matters. All you have to do is remember the precise details of that one time, see? Yay. But forget about those other times. They don’t count.

They’re nothing.

Harsh, no?

Then there’s the whole courtroom experience.

It is genuinely terrifying.

Rape or sexual assault charges will almost always end up in a general trashing of the complainant. I am not exaggerating when I say that I was told that the fact that I had pretty much died (and been dragged back, thankfully!) when giving birth to my daughter, without telling the doctors that I had had a previous pregnancy kicked out of me, made me a terrible person. At the time of the trial, I had just stopped being a teenager. My daughter was nearly three years old at that time. I know I wasn’t terrible person. I was simply hurt, and deeply ashamed.

And that is the thing. Sexual violence is about shame. The defence of a possible perpetrator of such a crime will, without actual physical evidence, always, always be based on the idea of the alleged victim being morally or mentally flawed in some fashion.

And there’s the kicker. If you have ever been assaulted so detrimentally, if you have ever been vilely dominated so, it is monumentally hard to publicly stand up for yourself. These most harsh questions cut much more readily when you already have an inbuilt state of shame.

So, what are we to do?

Those accused of crimes need proper defence. Yes. All day long, I agree.

But the victims of sexual crimes need better help.

In my own case, my particular abuser was found guilty in five charges of ‘indecent assault’, and no decision was reached in two counts of rape. Perhaps that was the thing that hurts me still, so greatly, today. I am aware of the sheer numbers of incidents that were probably boiled down to what must have felt like nothing, in the case of Frances Andrade.

And what I know, more than anything else, is that supporting justice is costly. I will not lie to you. After my own case, I was barely able to form a coherent sentence for something close to six months. But it eases.

Yes, seek justice. It seems that, right now, it is not easy. But we must stand. It is my only hope, at this time, that we can find a way to ease the path for those who choose to do so.

The Cup On The Table

Let me preface this entry with a trigger warning. Ptew! Ptew!

As seems to be my wont, at the moment, this entry may involve upsetting issues. Fret ye not, I’ll go back to yammering about sci-fi, soon enough. In the meantime, all of you likely to be distressed by…distressing issues, look away now. But don’t look at the news. That has been totally grim today. I’d suggest a bit of early ‘Red Dwarf’ for a bit of light entertainment, at this time of night. Find the episode ‘Queeg’, if you can. Man, that was all of the funny. Have at it!

For those few of you remaining, I merely wish to speak of a matter of mental health. Only one aspect of it, mind you.

OCD.

The difficulty here is that people are affected by it for many differing reasons. I have it (and if you’ve read my prior posts, I am sure you will be in no doubt as to why), though mine has lessened in recent years, due to my having married a human tornado. I mean that in the very best way…he is marvellous, but can bring a room to rack and ruin in under twenty seconds. Hugs, my feller!

Some people seem to innately have it. Some have it trained into them, not necessarily badly. Others have an unfortunate incident, or incidents, that trigger it.

It is the last one that interests me, and not just because it concerns me, but because I know one person that has suffered, for years, from OCD, most extremely.

I will make the point now that if you dislike the use of repetitive phrases in prose, again I shall ask you to find something else to do with your time. I have no interest in publicly exposing this person, so ‘this person’ and ‘my friend’ are phrases you are about to hear a great deal. I will give no details to allow you, as the reader, to identify my friend. I do value your taking the time to see what I have to say here, so I am sorry about that.

My friend has spoken to me about OCD, a number of times, over the years.

This person told me that obsessive cleaning was no longer a strange oddity. It was the only possible way of life. He/She has described to me a need to use, on occasion, up to eight bottles of bleach a day, just to clean surfaces in his/her home. And that, sometimes, that didn’t even feel like enough.

It only became clear, after the normal processes of becoming friends, that the reason was truly saddening. This individual had lost a child, and in no ordinary fashion. This person’s beloved daughter had been abducted, abused, and murdered, at quite a young age. 

It left me absolutely sickened, because knowing the age of the child, and knowing that I was being abused at the same age, there is simply nothing good there. There is nothing to be said to make it better.

Yet I was lucky enough to live. Despite this, I could offer no words of comfort, regarding the fate of this one, poor child. 

But I could, at least try to help my friend.

And this is where you have to divorce yourself from the initial horror. You cannot change the past.

You can hope to change the now. Perhaps the near future.

For my friend, to some degree, the horror was still going on. Because here was a parent, bereft of a dearest child, who could only manage to operate in any cogent way by controlling his/her environment.

And that, quite simply, is what OCD is. 

An attempt, however ultimately futile, to take the power back.

I cannot throw stones at my friend for trying. I certainly do it, too. And when you have experienced a catastrophic loss of control, be it so personally crippling or otherwise, this is where it can lead you to.

It is, in and of itself, not a bad thing. Being clean is good, right? But when the routines and demands upon yourself become too much, something much sadder is starting to happen.

The person that took the power from you in the first place is controlling you again.

You are still letting them rule your life. What you do. How you feel.

It is as simple as that.

I have explained this to my friend on a number of occasions. It helps him/her, for a while. I have then taken myself home, and given myself the same talking to, though perhaps more sternly. Again, it works. For a while.

The OCD tends to come back. Then the talks happen once more. But it doesn’t matter, if you can rein it in.

The thing with this particular condition is that it is about small steps. If you can take them. 

Here’s something I like to do, anyway.

Leave the cup on the table.

Not for days, you know…nobody wants a cup with a ghastly brown-green beard, that has named itself Horace. But start with walking to another room and back. Go through the walking to the corner shop, to get milk, phase. My friend has done this a couple of times, and I’m rather proud of him/her. I am currently more than happy to leave the cup on the table until I come back from the pub. Get me.

That’s about my limit, though. I’m not keen on meeting a Horace.

Look at us. Taking the power back.

Yay Team OCD!

Trigger Warning

It is only proper that I head this entry as I have. I will be speaking on the issue of childhood sexual abuse. If you are likely to be distressed by this subject, please do go away now. I wish to cause upset to no-one.

Seriously, watch some original ‘Star Trek’ instead. Or YouTube ‘Gangnam Style’. That sort of wonderful silliness often works a treat when cheeriness is needed with a modicum of speed.

So. I wish to speak about the abuse of children. My point of view is informed by experiences of my own that, sadly, are not unique, but may serve to shed a different light on the issue than the slightly hysterical glare overwhelming our media at the moment.

For the record, however little heard it will be, I was sexually abused, by a member of my family, many times (over many years) during the course of my childhood. I say this neither for sympathy, nor for shock value, but to qualify the fact that I went, with some success, through the police and court process.

My abuser was not famous or publicly powerful. But I can say, with absolute authority, that the process of speaking to the police (despite their professionalism and kindness) and going through the court system (ditto) as a witness, was, in itself, a deeply traumatising period of my life, that left scars of its own. Worthwhile? Yes. Absolutely. I would do it again, and I would encourage victims to report this kind of crime, because being an unknown victim, to be unheard, is far worse. There is no shame in speaking out. In saying ‘this is what happened to me’. But it is, by no means, easy.

It is from this, admittedly deeply biased, viewpoint that I should like to comment on the current scandal involving the BBC and, as seems likely, prominent figures in other institutions, including, at least in the past, members of the Government.

Primarily, it must be said that it is good that such vile abuses, often of the most vulnerable children, are being brought to into the wider public knowledge. Whilst the fact that people with power have used it to blatantly subvert trust in this most horrifying of fashions has, perhaps, surprised me less than it should, the number and apparent organisation of the people involved in this scandal has shocked me in its brazenness, as well as its innate horror.

I genuinely hope that, with the advent of social media and other new technologies, alongside the role we can now all choose to take up as ‘journalists’ (of a sort!), the rising levels of accountability we can all be subject to will aid in efforts to prevent such large scale abuses in future. It is about time that Big Brother did something useful for us. Tempering masses of speculation about the hairline of Wayne Rooney with some information that may actually help people would be a blast.

Though maybe I’m just being, momentarily, wistfully naive. Don’t fret. It won’t last.

My ever so fleeting girl feelings aside, I honestly want to believe that this scandal will usher in a new attitude amongst those in positions of power. For too long, the public perception of a personality has allowed the powerful too much leeway in private behaviours, be they financial, sexual, or in any other area you can amass a dubious reputation. That is unacceptable. We should all be held responsible for our actions, especially when they so grossly cross moral boundaries. It shouldn’t matter who you are. As time goes on, I don’t think it will. This is right.

The media coverage has reached fever pitch, of course. In many ways, this is very good indeed. It has dragged the issue of childhood sexual abuse, somewhat screamingly, into the bright daylight, making it a subject that is no longer as taboo as it once was. All recognition of victims helps to lift the shame felt, and it has been noted that many victims unrelated to the public scandal have finally felt strong enough to come forward. There is no way that can be seen as anything other than beneficial to us all.

My only concern, as far as the almost blanket coverage on the news channels is concerned (and who’da thunk that the American Presidential Election would currently be serving as light relief?), may seem a minor one. I merely wish to note something from the point of view of someone who has been through the trying process of giving a statement to the police. I am certain that if video footage of my own abuser had been randomly popping up on the television, on many channels, quite regularly, during the police process, I would have found it profoundly, deeply distressing.

So do talk about this scandal. All day long, if you must. That is a solid public service and one I can only support. But do the victims of the disgraceful Savile (and any other perpetrators that may emerge in the general kicking over of rocks) a favour, please, Mr and Mrs Tellybox. Pick a still photograph. Stick with it. Drop the moving pictures of the man in his shorts. Or with children. Or breathing. I’m quite serious. I’m fairly convinced you’ll be doing a good thing for a large number of his victims. Thank you.

As for the many victims themselves, I can only say this. 

Hang in there. We can hear you. We believe you. It won’t ever entirely go away, but it does get better. Hold on.

The horrors of the past cannot be fixed or erased. But acknowledging, as a nation,  that these abuses occurred, and by examining the social peculiarities that allowed them to happen in the first place, we may well be able to prevent at least some of these outrageous crimes from happening again.

I would like to say all. But perhaps I am simply too cynical, too jaded for such a wonderful thought. I told you the wistful naivete would wear off with astonishing swiftness.

That is all. Now I need cheering up. I’m off to watch ‘Journey To Babel’. Again.

This Headiest Of Summers

So, here we are.

I sit, watching the Men’s Marathon on the final day of the thirtieth modern Olympiad, being held in our ‘Isles of Wonder’. A term that I, and many others, had thought almost embarrassingly sentimental but a mere fornight ago. 

What a difference two weeks can make.

I shall admit it. As a person that feels deeply cynical about a great many things, I had been expecting this grand affair to be an eccentric shambles at best.

I was wrong.

From the Opening Ceremony, which was certainly eccentric, but as far from shambolic as it was possible for it to be, these Olympics have been a touching spectacle in so very many ways.

That very first Friday evening, my dour expectations were turned, with great abruptness, entirely on their head. Under the directorship of Danny Boyle (hats off, feller!) thousands of volunteers provided us with an extraordinary show that was brilliantly odd, quirkily humorous, and really rather emotional. Even for a old cynic like me.

As the days have passed, we have seen so many things that I had previously thought impossible to even conceive of in our country. We have, en masse, reclaimed our own flag, and our patriotism, from the bigoted minority that have blighted the term ‘national pride’ for so very long.

People have emerged from their homes, in their millions, to watch sports: some of which they may never have encountered before, whether they were ticketed events or free ones, such as the marathon which is being so warmly supported at this very moment.

Tens of thousands of ‘games makers’ have given their time freely, and have been outstanding in their cheer and helpfulness, telling the world that it is welcome.

The athletes themselves, from 205 nations, have performed feats to amaze.

From the names who achieved their aim of glory; Bolt, Rudisha, Ainslie, Ennis, Adams et al, to those who won in different ways; Hammadou Djibo Issaka, Liu Xiang, Sarah Attar and so many more. These games have been filled with human stories of warmth and strength that cannot do anything but move us.

As for Team GB, well…if you had said before the Olympics began that Britain would, at this point, have 62 medals, 28 of them gold, I would have snatched your hand off. And very likely the hands of anybody standing in your vicinity. I am proud of our greatest team.

I like the fact that Sports Personality of the Year will be a tough one this year…though as a life-long cycling fan, I shall be voting for King Bradley’s sideburns.

The social networks have been alight with these Olympics, and the mood shift has been notable there. A sense of disquiet and pre-emptive scorn has been transformed into a more or less celebratory air. In fact, the only downside to all of this seems to be that it must come to an end.

But never mind the fast approaching emotional hangover that will come tomorrow.

We still have today. Not to mention the start of the Paralympics on the 29th.

Oh, look!

Steven Kiprotich has just won the Marathon.

For Uganda.

‘Isles of Wonder’, indeed.

In Defence Of ‘A Scandal’

We all, pretty much, love ‘Sherlock’. As we should. Because it officially qualifies as really very awesome.

However, there was quite a reaction to the first of the episodes in the second series, ‘A Scandal In Belgravia’. Some of the reaction was astonishingly negative. There were accusations of sexism and rank sensationalism aplenty. 

The reasons for these accusations were, from a certain point of view, moderately sound. But I would counter these with ideas that I think are relevant, because I feel that many of the (quite heartfelt) reactions of many, were coloured by inbuilt prejudices that are antiquated, or at least should be considered so, in our modern world.

Let us look at Sherlock himself, for a moment.

Truly, the transplanting of The Great Detective into a contemporary setting was an absolute masterstroke by The Mofftiss. It is mostly forgotten by us, in our sometimes terribly technological world, that the stories of Sherlock were originally read by the Victorians. Victorians whom would’ve regarded many of his methods as fantastical. Frankly, had the term been invented then, science fiction would have fitted. He was (and, as a character, of course, is) brilliant. He was odd, different. He was, mostly, futuristic. He was, if you like, the Gil Grissom of his day. But better, naturally.

So moving Ms Adler into a similarly contemporary setting was never going to be easy.

A great deal of scathing has been thrown around about her being a dominatrix, much of it by women. Which is very disappointing. There is, I feel, a great deal of scorn poured on people who work in the area of sexuality, which is unnecessary, and frankly cruel.

Sex, or the field of it, has pretty much always been here, is here, and will always be here, as a workplace for some.

Get over it, people.

So, a Dominatrix?

I thought it a genuinely interesting choice for the character, as an occupation. For all of the debating about the rather more chaste personage of the original Ms Adler, what seems to have been forgotten is the fact that she was involved in a scandal of (at least) a mildly sexual nature. There were photographs to this effect. She was never lily white.

To the Victorians, she would have been a socially groundbreaking woman. A female of (to them) extremely dubious reputation? Considered an equal by Mr Holmes? I am sure there was a great deal of hushed yammering for weeks, nay months, perhaps years, over tea and cream scones about this social oddity.

It has been clear throughout that although ‘Sherlock’ is modernised, it is being tied as closely to the original as is possible. I do not see how the writers of a modern version of a Holmes tale could have updated her, whilst wishing to retain this sexual dubiousness, without making her as shocking to us as the original would have been to her first readers.

Hence, the riding crop.

More disdain, however has been poured upon three aspects of the ending, as far as I can determine.

I am happy to deal with these in moderately short order.

Irene Adler mentions getting ‘help’ from Moriarty.

Social mobility, though still not exactly a free for all in our fine country, was desperately more restricted in the age of Conan Doyle. However, the first Irene was an American opera singer of some note, giving her easy access to the upper classes. Hence her also becoming a ‘adventuress’. Sort of a courtesan. And you know what that means.

The world is simply not the same any more. There are so many more people, and all of them are networking. Knowledge is now power, more than it ever has been. So Ms Adler gets some information, by hook or by crook. It isn’t as if she can find out anything about the Holmes boys, realistically, through her work, is it?

Irene Adler loses.

Yes. She does. And yes, in the original ‘A Scandal In Bohemia’, she does not. I don’t think it matters. Enough has been shown in the episode to illustrate that she is a more than worthy ‘adversary’, if that is even the right term for her.

I felt that they were portrayed as intellectual equals. Though not in the same areas of expertise. Because that would be statistically unrealistic, not to mention a tad dull. 

The most telling thing that made me think of them as equals, however, is to many the most contentious point of debate.

Irene Adler is rescued by Sherlock Holmes.

Yes. She was. ‘Damsel in distress!’ was the outraged cry. From many.

Sheesh. Not the point, people. First of all, women still sometimes need rescuing. So do men. It is just a general human thing. Yes, it was overly dramatic and a bit flouncy. It was almost more than verging onto the territory of a ghastly romantic stereotype.

Still not the point.

The point was that Mr Holmes was there at all.

He detests people. Openly. He will not give people the time of day, if he’s not looking directly at a clock. Probably not, even then. For him, people are barely worth listening to. Let alone saving. And yet he does.

He travels to the ends of the world, at great personal risk, and yes, he rescues her.

He doesn’t have to. In fact, he may well be far better off if he leaves her to die. 

But it turns out that he is there. Despite his nature.

So in the end, Irene Adler wins. 

Which is nice.