As usual, today's edition of the Guardian flopped into my inbox. One of the stories is an issue that makes me furious.
Gender pay gap amongst executives.
On a side note, it always amazes me how these stories pop up in the media so often. People seem to react as if it's a big surprise and how can this be happening with the Equal Pay Act in force? The excuses given in the article are pathetic. "There are more female executives in some sectors." And your point is? Just because you are a woman doesn't mean you should be getting paid less than a male counterpart for the same job. Again, one of the downfalls of living in a patriarchal, capitalist society.
Still on topic, I went to a talk at the Edinburgh Book Festival. It was a discussion about feminism and the panel consisted of Lynn Segal and Laura Kipnis. The former a British academic who was part of second wave feminism in the 70s, the later an American academic who seems to equate sexual identity with gender. It was a lively discussion but seemed to be dominated by audience members asking questions about child rearing and so on. For me, the subject of children is a battle ground for heterosexual couples, less so with same-gender couples.
The decision to have a child ultimately lies with the woman, this cannot be a truly equal decision made between the biological parents. The female can decide to remain pregnant or make decisions to remove that feature. Legislation caters more to females remaining the care giver after the child has left her body. Paternity leave for a father is, on average, two weeks whilst the mother is entitled, with recent legislation, up to nine months. Why should one assume the mother wants to remain the primary care giver? But, as Lynn Segal at the above talk argued, being a mother only lasts proximately 20 years of an estimated 60-80 year life span. It can be easier for the male to walk away. After all, he doesn't have it growing inside him. In the first 9 months of development, the mother suffers and this suffering is continued through to the birthing process. Talking to friends who have given birth, it sounds like a humiliating experience. Your body is no longer your own property, it is given over to midwives and nurses to stretch and tear and rip and pull and force. No orifice is safe, the body expels some matter through every one. Then there's dangers of your entire body going into shock after the birth which can lead to death. Meanwhile, the father struts around the waiting room, wondering if handing out cigars is a little ironic. And please let it be a boy so they can do worthwhile bonding activities like attend sporting events and learn it's not masculine to show your emotions.
Both genders suffer in this life but I feel that women are paid less, treated badly and generally fucked over because they had the rudeness to come into this life missing balls. And that's partly why I'm a feminist. Rant over.
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
I met one of those people with heavy souls today.
Glasgow has been enjoyed a spell of gorgeous weather so, as karma for tells, it was time we encountered a downpour. By the time I got on the bus I was soaked to the skin. Most of the windows had been opened so I shut the one closest to me to prevent me getting a draft. At which point the gent who had been muttering to himself at the back of the bus apologised for opening those windows.
Now the gent had been read a book so I assumed he was one of those people who quietly reads out loud. He made a comment about the weather and we batted casual conversation back and forwards. Previously such conversations have been interesting. Once I spent three hours talking to an Israeli in the Pret in Sauchiehall Street. This time perhaps I should have read the signs when he made a comment about Jimi Hendrix and the price that gifted individuals may pay in return for having such delights. He was reading a book about Alexander the Great and the conversation (well, monologue on his part) turned to the gold standard and how we're getting screwed out of 2 grams every 10 grams or so. Suddenly, he asks me "Do you know what it's like to see a man starve to death?"
Alarm bells start ringing and are briefly drowned out by the thought 'Not recently, no.' I went for shaking my head in case my tongue slipped that comment out. He then precedes to tell me about a friend in India who starved to death. Bus Man had been stealing food but his friend refused to take it due to religious reasons i.e. God might be pissed. When he went to get some money to give to him instead, he came back to see his friend covered with a white sheet. By this point, tears were pouring down his face. I didn't know what else to do. I did the only thing I could do - I gave him a crumpled tissue from my pocket. All of a sudden he leapt to his feet and kept talking as he walked down the bus and got off at what I presume was his stop.
An interesting after affect was watching the reactions of the passengers. When Bus Man initially started his monologue, an elderly man got up and moved further down the bus. A woman stared at the window at him and shared a glance with the same elderly man, strangers before this moment. Myself? I sat there, a little shell shocked from what had happened. Touching a shell that heavy leaves you dazed for a while.
Glasgow has been enjoyed a spell of gorgeous weather so, as karma for tells, it was time we encountered a downpour. By the time I got on the bus I was soaked to the skin. Most of the windows had been opened so I shut the one closest to me to prevent me getting a draft. At which point the gent who had been muttering to himself at the back of the bus apologised for opening those windows.
Now the gent had been read a book so I assumed he was one of those people who quietly reads out loud. He made a comment about the weather and we batted casual conversation back and forwards. Previously such conversations have been interesting. Once I spent three hours talking to an Israeli in the Pret in Sauchiehall Street. This time perhaps I should have read the signs when he made a comment about Jimi Hendrix and the price that gifted individuals may pay in return for having such delights. He was reading a book about Alexander the Great and the conversation (well, monologue on his part) turned to the gold standard and how we're getting screwed out of 2 grams every 10 grams or so. Suddenly, he asks me "Do you know what it's like to see a man starve to death?"
Alarm bells start ringing and are briefly drowned out by the thought 'Not recently, no.' I went for shaking my head in case my tongue slipped that comment out. He then precedes to tell me about a friend in India who starved to death. Bus Man had been stealing food but his friend refused to take it due to religious reasons i.e. God might be pissed. When he went to get some money to give to him instead, he came back to see his friend covered with a white sheet. By this point, tears were pouring down his face. I didn't know what else to do. I did the only thing I could do - I gave him a crumpled tissue from my pocket. All of a sudden he leapt to his feet and kept talking as he walked down the bus and got off at what I presume was his stop.
An interesting after affect was watching the reactions of the passengers. When Bus Man initially started his monologue, an elderly man got up and moved further down the bus. A woman stared at the window at him and shared a glance with the same elderly man, strangers before this moment. Myself? I sat there, a little shell shocked from what had happened. Touching a shell that heavy leaves you dazed for a while.
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
No Karaoke please, we're Scottish.
I've returned from a week in Sunny Beach, Bulgaria. My parents were fond of taking holidays in very quiet areas of Portugal. Very quiet areas where a passing horse and cart is big news. OK I may exaggerate but I've rarely been to a big resort location such as Spain. Bulgaria was suggested to us by the travel agents and I heard it was reasonably cheap. Of course that looks like it is about to change because Bulgaria joined the EU at the beginning of this year.
One day Him Indoors and I decided to take a tour to the cities of Nessebar and Burgas. Both places were an experience. Burgas made me feel like I was in a production of 'The Third Man' and I kept expecting to see Orson Welles strutting around the square and muttering something about cuckoo clocks. The experience of that city made me feel like a fat and reasonably wealthy European. There was a small family of beggars wandering about. One little girl tried to take a tourist's ice cream cone headed for the bin and was loudly told to 'Fuck off' by the six foot English inbred idiot who possessed it. Myself I was pissed off by the kids coming up to me whilst I was trying to read my book but I ignored them. I had used up all my energy glaring at someone on the tour bus who used the word 'Pikey' to describe the Gypsy population.
Our tour guide was a charming Bulgarian girl who Anglicised her name to Daisy. This was a common occurrence amongst the Bulgarians I encountered in hotels and restaurants. On the transport between Burgas and Nessebar she offered up a Q& A session and answered some rather interesting questions. One was about the EU and she remarked that it was becoming more expensive to live in Bulgaria. The average Bulgarian takes home around 300 levs a month which is approximately £100. I'm sure Mr West could explain the ins and outs of requirements countries need to fill before being allowed EU membership better than I can. According to Daisy the cost of living and essentials such as water and electricity are going up but the wages are not rising to cope with this. She commented that most of the farm land in Bulgaria is going to waste due to the ghost of the Communist regime. Very little of the younger population has any interest in farming so most of the land is being sold for property development. Our hotel was across the road from a very busy building site so I can testify to that. To give you an idea of the development, our hotel was near the back end of Sunny Beach. Here are some photos taken from our balcony and the restaurant:
Please note this is only a small sample but there are literally hotels as far as the eye can see. Of course, tourists bring money with them. There were hundreds of restaurants and bars yet most of them seemed to tout one USP.
Karaoke.
Nearly every bloody bar we went to had sodding karaoke. One night we were having a meal in a local restaurant and, halfway through our dinner, a musician (I use that term loosely) struck up his guitar and started belted out classics such as 'Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?' and 'Stairway to Heaven'. The drunken English party sitting beside him were lapping this up and screeching along with him. Him Indoors reported one half of the restaurant was loving every minute of this 'entertainment' whilst the other half look horrified they had ordered desserts and had to prolong this agony. The food was very nice but I am an old fashioned fart in that I like to have conversations with the person I am having a meal with. I do not want to have to raise my voice over 20 drunkards and 1 very bad musician.
Rant over. Having said that Bulgaria is a rather charming country and tipping is not expected. In a country where a good cup of coffee costs 60p I felt rather guilty if I didn't tip the waitress the extra few levs from my change. A decent three course meal with wine can be bought for under £20, again in the more expensive areas. The bar and restaurant staff seem genuinely grateful for any tips, no matter how small. One waitress seem positively puzzled when I handed back my 2lev change. I hope to return to Bulgaria in a few years to see how much, or how little, it has changed.
One day Him Indoors and I decided to take a tour to the cities of Nessebar and Burgas. Both places were an experience. Burgas made me feel like I was in a production of 'The Third Man' and I kept expecting to see Orson Welles strutting around the square and muttering something about cuckoo clocks. The experience of that city made me feel like a fat and reasonably wealthy European. There was a small family of beggars wandering about. One little girl tried to take a tourist's ice cream cone headed for the bin and was loudly told to 'Fuck off' by the six foot English inbred idiot who possessed it. Myself I was pissed off by the kids coming up to me whilst I was trying to read my book but I ignored them. I had used up all my energy glaring at someone on the tour bus who used the word 'Pikey' to describe the Gypsy population.
Our tour guide was a charming Bulgarian girl who Anglicised her name to Daisy. This was a common occurrence amongst the Bulgarians I encountered in hotels and restaurants. On the transport between Burgas and Nessebar she offered up a Q& A session and answered some rather interesting questions. One was about the EU and she remarked that it was becoming more expensive to live in Bulgaria. The average Bulgarian takes home around 300 levs a month which is approximately £100. I'm sure Mr West could explain the ins and outs of requirements countries need to fill before being allowed EU membership better than I can. According to Daisy the cost of living and essentials such as water and electricity are going up but the wages are not rising to cope with this. She commented that most of the farm land in Bulgaria is going to waste due to the ghost of the Communist regime. Very little of the younger population has any interest in farming so most of the land is being sold for property development. Our hotel was across the road from a very busy building site so I can testify to that. To give you an idea of the development, our hotel was near the back end of Sunny Beach. Here are some photos taken from our balcony and the restaurant:
Please note this is only a small sample but there are literally hotels as far as the eye can see. Of course, tourists bring money with them. There were hundreds of restaurants and bars yet most of them seemed to tout one USP.
Karaoke.
Nearly every bloody bar we went to had sodding karaoke. One night we were having a meal in a local restaurant and, halfway through our dinner, a musician (I use that term loosely) struck up his guitar and started belted out classics such as 'Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?' and 'Stairway to Heaven'. The drunken English party sitting beside him were lapping this up and screeching along with him. Him Indoors reported one half of the restaurant was loving every minute of this 'entertainment' whilst the other half look horrified they had ordered desserts and had to prolong this agony. The food was very nice but I am an old fashioned fart in that I like to have conversations with the person I am having a meal with. I do not want to have to raise my voice over 20 drunkards and 1 very bad musician.
Rant over. Having said that Bulgaria is a rather charming country and tipping is not expected. In a country where a good cup of coffee costs 60p I felt rather guilty if I didn't tip the waitress the extra few levs from my change. A decent three course meal with wine can be bought for under £20, again in the more expensive areas. The bar and restaurant staff seem genuinely grateful for any tips, no matter how small. One waitress seem positively puzzled when I handed back my 2lev change. I hope to return to Bulgaria in a few years to see how much, or how little, it has changed.
Sunday, 27 May 2007
STOP PRESS! WWAO agrees with Iain Banks
It must be compulsory for wannabe writers in fifth year at school to read The Wasp Factory and marvel at it.
It's not very good. Perhaps I was somewhat jaded when I read it for the first time. The book was the same age as me when I picked it up from the 'Older Students' section of my school library. The slim book was finished in a weekend and I was not left very impressed. In 1984, the year Orwellians were doing Jones impressions of "We're all doomed!", readers may have been more shocked at images of maggots feeding off living brains. And the brains of children for that matter.
Next came an attempt to read The Crow Road. Twice I picked up that heavy volume and twice it was returned to the library unread. It was not until this year that I finally finished a copy. Again the story was about nothing. I may have missed out on some wonderful metaphor for life but, honestly, it was really about the main character getting his hole wasn't it? But it was well written and had enough interesting plot twists to keep the reader engaged. Better than some of the painfully written tripe that appears on the lists of book trendsetters such as Richard and Judy.
And your point caller? I was reading through yesterday's email edition of The Guardian. The bibliophile's dirty weekend, or the Guardian Hay Festival, is under way and Mr Banks is appearing at it. Having published his first novel in years he needs to do something to promote it. Hence the article I read in this weekend's Guardian. Unlike some writers who like cowering away from politics, Banks makes no qualms about it. He famously ripped up his passport when Blair went to war against Iraq (please note, Britain didn't go to war) and stamped his literate foot in Dead Air.
One thing annoys me about Guardian interviewers is the immature attitude they take. Honestly, why would you suggest weeing in a swimming pool to a man in his 50s? However, there are some gems in this article. The following quote sums up a lot of my feelings on America:
"Personally, I believe when faced with an imperial power - and let's not kid ourselves, that's exactly what the USA is - one ought to do everything nonviolent one can to resist it, just on principle. The USA is a great country full of great people. It's just their propensity as a whole for electing idiots and then conducting a foreign policy of the utmost depravity that I object to."
The full article is here for anyone who is interested.
It's not very good. Perhaps I was somewhat jaded when I read it for the first time. The book was the same age as me when I picked it up from the 'Older Students' section of my school library. The slim book was finished in a weekend and I was not left very impressed. In 1984, the year Orwellians were doing Jones impressions of "We're all doomed!", readers may have been more shocked at images of maggots feeding off living brains. And the brains of children for that matter.
Next came an attempt to read The Crow Road. Twice I picked up that heavy volume and twice it was returned to the library unread. It was not until this year that I finally finished a copy. Again the story was about nothing. I may have missed out on some wonderful metaphor for life but, honestly, it was really about the main character getting his hole wasn't it? But it was well written and had enough interesting plot twists to keep the reader engaged. Better than some of the painfully written tripe that appears on the lists of book trendsetters such as Richard and Judy.
And your point caller? I was reading through yesterday's email edition of The Guardian. The bibliophile's dirty weekend, or the Guardian Hay Festival, is under way and Mr Banks is appearing at it. Having published his first novel in years he needs to do something to promote it. Hence the article I read in this weekend's Guardian. Unlike some writers who like cowering away from politics, Banks makes no qualms about it. He famously ripped up his passport when Blair went to war against Iraq (please note, Britain didn't go to war) and stamped his literate foot in Dead Air.
One thing annoys me about Guardian interviewers is the immature attitude they take. Honestly, why would you suggest weeing in a swimming pool to a man in his 50s? However, there are some gems in this article. The following quote sums up a lot of my feelings on America:
"Personally, I believe when faced with an imperial power - and let's not kid ourselves, that's exactly what the USA is - one ought to do everything nonviolent one can to resist it, just on principle. The USA is a great country full of great people. It's just their propensity as a whole for electing idiots and then conducting a foreign policy of the utmost depravity that I object to."
The full article is here for anyone who is interested.
Friday, 18 May 2007
Because it's Friday
I wish I had been older to appreciate Dennis Pennis when I was younger. The best bit is the copyright section. I remember people talking about doing that at a creative writing lesson. However I don't know how true it is.
Tuesday, 8 May 2007
Middle Class Doctors = Responsible Parents?
I should really post my thoughts on the recent shambles that was the Scottish Elections. However, the university system has decided this is exam season so my brain is too fried to start making sense of that chaos. For the moment I shall direct you to Mr Buckland's for some on the spot reporting of this incident.
So I am going to turn my thoughts to, in my opinion, a rather interesting sociological occurrence via the media. I am a great lover and critic of the media. It can be a wonderful outlet which opens an individual up to new ideas and opinions. Or it can be biased rot like the recent story of a child who has gone missing in the Algarve. First up, I will admit my own bias which is I love the Algarve. I have been going on holiday there for a number of years which has somewhat influenced my opinion on this matter.
For those unfamiliar with the story (or too damn lazy to click on the link) a young toddler has gone missing in Portugal. Her parents showed wonderful parenting skills by leaving three toddlers, alone in a ground floor apartment, whilst they went out for a lovely meal at a tapas restaurant. Goodness, I hear you cry, this must be some awful working class chav family who don't know how to look after their children. Er, nope. They're a middle class family and both parents are doctors. Not your typical 'Mum buggers off on holiday and leaves latchkey kids behind' headline. As a result (the BBC has been particularly bad at this) the media have been pointing out what the Portuguese police have been doing wrong and how the restaurant was 'only' a few hundred yards away.
Correct me if I'm wrong but there wouldn't be a problem if the parents had taken some responsibility for their children. Earlier news reports said there were NINE adults in the group. Nine?! And out of that nine NONE of them could avoid this fantastic dinner? Not one of them could have a lonely microwave meal for one and the company of three sleeping toddlers. Or here's a radical thought: take your kids with you! What gets me is that if this was a working class family from a 'rough' area the tabloids would be hounding them for neglecting their child. But we don't expect that behaviour from middle class families do we? So, the media has to take a different approach. Let's point out everything the Portuguese police have done wrong (in our eyes) and hopefully everyone will ignore the parents are entirely to blame for their child going missing. Toddlers are notorious escape artists and can get into trouble in a matter of minutes.
An extract from the above article "The police had not issued a description of what Madeleine had been wearing, one of the first things a British force would be presumed to have done." She was wearing pyjamas. I'm not a kidnapper of small children but wouldn't logic deem that the culprit (if there was one) would have removed the obvious nightwear as soon as possible? Despite the crazy things Brits do on holiday, a child wearing pyjamas in the middle of the day would stand out like a sore thumb. The urban legend behind my argument is false but there is some logic there.
In the long run, a child has gone missing and I truly hope she turns up in a relatively undamaged way. The longer this goes on, the more I think this missing case is going to turn into another investigation beginning with M.
So I am going to turn my thoughts to, in my opinion, a rather interesting sociological occurrence via the media. I am a great lover and critic of the media. It can be a wonderful outlet which opens an individual up to new ideas and opinions. Or it can be biased rot like the recent story of a child who has gone missing in the Algarve. First up, I will admit my own bias which is I love the Algarve. I have been going on holiday there for a number of years which has somewhat influenced my opinion on this matter.
For those unfamiliar with the story (or too damn lazy to click on the link) a young toddler has gone missing in Portugal. Her parents showed wonderful parenting skills by leaving three toddlers, alone in a ground floor apartment, whilst they went out for a lovely meal at a tapas restaurant. Goodness, I hear you cry, this must be some awful working class chav family who don't know how to look after their children. Er, nope. They're a middle class family and both parents are doctors. Not your typical 'Mum buggers off on holiday and leaves latchkey kids behind' headline. As a result (the BBC has been particularly bad at this) the media have been pointing out what the Portuguese police have been doing wrong and how the restaurant was 'only' a few hundred yards away.
Correct me if I'm wrong but there wouldn't be a problem if the parents had taken some responsibility for their children. Earlier news reports said there were NINE adults in the group. Nine?! And out of that nine NONE of them could avoid this fantastic dinner? Not one of them could have a lonely microwave meal for one and the company of three sleeping toddlers. Or here's a radical thought: take your kids with you! What gets me is that if this was a working class family from a 'rough' area the tabloids would be hounding them for neglecting their child. But we don't expect that behaviour from middle class families do we? So, the media has to take a different approach. Let's point out everything the Portuguese police have done wrong (in our eyes) and hopefully everyone will ignore the parents are entirely to blame for their child going missing. Toddlers are notorious escape artists and can get into trouble in a matter of minutes.
An extract from the above article "The police had not issued a description of what Madeleine had been wearing, one of the first things a British force would be presumed to have done." She was wearing pyjamas. I'm not a kidnapper of small children but wouldn't logic deem that the culprit (if there was one) would have removed the obvious nightwear as soon as possible? Despite the crazy things Brits do on holiday, a child wearing pyjamas in the middle of the day would stand out like a sore thumb. The urban legend behind my argument is false but there is some logic there.
In the long run, a child has gone missing and I truly hope she turns up in a relatively undamaged way. The longer this goes on, the more I think this missing case is going to turn into another investigation beginning with M.
Wednesday, 2 May 2007
Scottish Christian Party
I received a 'personal' letter from the Scottish Christian party this morning. Needless to say it has been ripped up and put to better use in my recycling bin. Sadly I couldn't find the campaign video from a few years ago (which is more shocking and hilarious than this one) but feel free to enjoy the one I've posted below.
800% increase of breast cancer if you have an abortion!
250% increase of attacks on teachers!
Do you know 897% of statistics are made up on the spot?
And what the fuck? Comparing Nazi persecution of Jews to what's happening to Christians in a secular society? The two don't even compare. Consumerism is the God we worship now. Get over it.
Percentage of me voting for them tomorrow? Fuck all.
800% increase of breast cancer if you have an abortion!
250% increase of attacks on teachers!
Do you know 897% of statistics are made up on the spot?
And what the fuck? Comparing Nazi persecution of Jews to what's happening to Christians in a secular society? The two don't even compare. Consumerism is the God we worship now. Get over it.
Percentage of me voting for them tomorrow? Fuck all.
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