A momentarily withdraw to a post-existance that is in paradox to our accepted pre-condition

…and now for something completely different.

Those who have met me and discussed with me the complexities of the human condition would understand that i am very anti-intellectual. By that i actually mean the communication between an intellectual and an-other.

Was it Orwell who said that a middle-class socialist will never connect with the working classes because they are so caught up with ideology and they communicate that ideology in a way that no one would understand?? Hence why socialism would not appeal to the masses in 1930s Britian.

This is what i mean when i say i am anti-intellectual – i’m more for speaking clearly and coherently so that anyone would understand. This view is especially prevalent when discussing politics because to get into power you need popular support (well…). There is no way a population of a country would talk with the same conviction of an ideology and then communicate it in a way that not even the narrator understands, as do many who study political theory!

Anyway, i came across a website that republished an article by Stephen Katz called ‘How to Speak and Write Postmodern’. Read,  learn and enjoy:

by Stephen Katz, Associate Professor, Sociology

Trent University, Peterborough, Ontario, Canada
Postmodernism has been the buzzword in academia for the last

decade. Books, journal articles, conference themes and university

courses have resounded to the debates about postmodernism that focus

on the uniqueness of our times, where computerization, the global

economy and the media have irrevocably transformed all forms of

social engagement. As a professor of sociology who teaches about

culture, I include myself in this environment. Indeed, I have a

great interest in postmodernism both as an intellectual movement and

as a practical problem. In my experience there seems to be a gulf

between those who see the postmodern turn as a neo-conservative

reupholstering of the same old corporate trappings, and those who

see it as a long overdue break with modernist doctrines in

education, aesthetics and politics. Of course there are all kinds

of positions in between, depending upon how one sorts out the

optimum route into the next millennium.
However, I think the real gulf is not so much positional as

linguistic. Posture can be as important as politics when it comes to

the intelligentsia. In other words, it may be less important whether

or not you like postmodernism than whether or not you can speak and

write postmodernism. Perhaps you would like to join in conversation

with your local mandarins of cultural theory and all-purpose deep

thinking, but you don’t know what to say. Or, when you do

contribute something you consider relevant, even insightful, you get

ignored or looked at with pity. Here is a quick guide, then, to

speaking and writing postmodern.
First, you need to remember that plainly expressed language is out

of the question. It is too realist, modernist and obvious.

Postmodern language requires that one uses play, parody and

indeterminacy as critical techniques to point this out. Often this

is quite a difficult requirement, so obscurity is a

well-acknowledged substitute. For example, let’s imagine you want

to say something like, “We should listen to the views of people

outside of Western society in order to learn about the cultural

biases that affect us”. This is honest but dull. Take the word

“views”. Postmodernspeak would change that to “voices”, or better,

“vocalities”, or even better, “multivocalities”. Add an adjective

like “intertextual”, and you’re covered. “People outside” is also

too plain. How about “postcolonial others”? To speak postmodern

properly one must master a bevy of biases besides the familiar

racism, sexism, ageism, etc. For example, phallogocentricism

(male-centredness combined with rationalistic forms of binary logic).
Finally “affect us” sounds

like plaid pajamas. Use more obscure verbs and phrases, like

“mediate our identities”. So, the final statement should say, “We

should listen to the intertextual, multivocalities of postcolonial

others outside of Western culture in order to learn about the

phallogocentric biases that mediate our identities”. Now you’re

talking postmodern!
Sometimes you might be in a hurry and won’t have the time to muster

even the minimum number of postmodern synonyms and neologisms needed

to avoid public disgrace. Remember, saying the wrong thing is

acceptable if you say it the right way. This brings me to a second

important strategy in speaking postmodern, which is to use as many

suffixes, prefixes, hyphens, slashes, underlinings and anything else

your computer (an absolute must to write postmodern) can dish out.

You can make a quick reference chart to avoid time delays. Make

three columns. In column A put your prefixes; post-, hyper-, pre-,

de-, dis-, re-, ex-, and counter-. In column B go your suffixes and

related endings; -ism, -itis, -iality, -ation, -itivity, and

-tricity. In column C add a series of well-respected names that

make for impressive adjectives or schools of thought, for example,

Barthes (Barthesian), Foucault (Foucauldian, Foucauldianism),

Derrida (Derridean, Derrideanism).
Now for the test. You want to say or write something like,

“Contemporary buildings are alienating”. This is a good thought,

but, of course, a non-starter. You wouldn’t even get offered a

second round of crackers and cheese at a conference reception with

such a line. In fact, after saying this, you might get asked to

stay and clean up the crackers and cheese after the reception. Go

to your three columns. First, the prefix. Pre- is useful, as is

post-, or several prefixes at once is terrific. Rather than

“contemporary building””, be creative. “The Pre/post/spatialities

of counter-architectural hyper-contemporaneity” is promising. You

would have to drop the weak and dated term “alienating” with some

well suffixed words from column B. How about “antisociality”, or be

more postmodern and introduce ambiguity with the linked phrase,

“antisociality/seductivity”.
Now, go to column C and grab a few names whose work everyone will

agree is important and hardly anyone has had the time or the

inclination to read. Continental European theorists are best when in

doubt. I recommend the sociologist Jean Baudrillard since he has

written a great deal of difficult material about postmodern space.

Don’t forget to make some mention of gender. Finally, add a few

smoothing out words to tie the whole garbled mess together and don’t

forget to pack in the hyphens, slashes and parentheses. What do you

get? “Pre/post/spacialities of counter-architectural

hyper-contemporaneity (re)commits us to an ambivalent

recurrentiality of antisociality/seductivity, one enunciated in a

de/gendered-Baudrillardian discourse of granulated subjectivity”.

You should be able to hear a postindustrial pin drop on the

retrocultural floor.
At some point someone may actually ask you what you’re talking

about. This risk faces all those who would speak postmodern and

must be carefully avoided. You must always give the questioner the

impression that they have missed the point, and so send another

verbose salvo of postmodernspeak in their direction as a

“simplification” or “clarification” of your original statement. If

that doesn’t work, you might be left with the terribly modernist

thought of, “I don’t know”. Don’t worry, just say, “The instability

of your question leaves me with several contradictorily layered

responses whose interconnectivity cannot express the logocentric

coherency you seek. I can only say that reality is more uneven and

its (mis)representations more untrustworthy than we have time here

to explore”. Any more questions? No, then pass the cheese and

crackers.
{Posted to news:alt.humor.best-of-usenet by Andrew C Bulhak on 20

June 1995, found in news:alt.postmodern. – It is also reprinted in “The

Truth About the Truth” (Putnam, $13.95, 1995)}

Interpretations of history

A short idea/extract that randomly popped into my head at work a few weeks back that I emailed to myself:

The reason why there are so many different interpretations of history is because humans and their rule of thought is too complex to generalise. There is no one reason for anything. Everybody thinks differently and everybody acts differently. In this sense, it is amazing that anything progresses at all. And it is no coincidence that it takes ‘big’ events to really change things; and there is no way to predict what big event will happen next and how that will change things. When it comes to describing what society was like during a short period in history, there are no limits to the amount of words that can be used, and to then conclude, summarise and generalise is to forget the fact that everybody is different and everybody acts in different ways. There are no characteristics of a society or a nationality, just assumptions and stereotypes placed upon them. Everybody is different and everybody acts in different ways.

Historical readings from today… and the death penalty

Today I started my preliminary reading for my Master’s dissertation, my chosen topic; to what extent did the Second World War help develop a notion of Britishness (throw into that the question of race during early 1940’s Britain). So the first book I pick up to read is: Forgotten Voices, stories of the Blitz and Battle of Britain. The Forgotten Voice’s series is a fantastic couple of books that take oral testimonies of those who fought or lived in the war and put’s them into chronological order without historical analysis (well, this point can be debated as only extracts of oral testimonies are selected and it could be argued that the author only selected those testimonies that can be moulded around his own view point).

The point of my reading (not just out of interest) was to try to piece together some ideas of what British people during the war thought of their country and some common characteristics of national culture during the war. I have already done some reading into this- Paul Ward and Britishness since 1860 where he claims many West Indians who fought in the British army called their post-war children Winston out of patriotic support. Also Tom Harrisson’s Mass Observation archive has bought up such classics as ‘I don’t consider myself British, [I consider the Scots and Welsh as a different race] but I would die to defend Britain [and my Scottish, Welsh neighbours]‘.

From my brief reading I have discovered that the whole British identity could be summarised by two things: tea (that old Chinese import) and common decency. One story talks about how during the blitz a father lost his child through decapitation, he held his child’s body stroking it and saying ‘So this is how you went, Jimmy’, he then got up and thanked a stranger on the street for handing him a mug of tea. More obscure forms of common decency came during the vacation of Dunkirk. One example is that many French and British soldiers were shot by their own side, without hesitation, because they tried to barge into the queues for the boats (that’s right, during the evacuation of Dunkirk when the German’s were bombarding the troops you were expected to form an orderly queue while waiting to get onto a boat and in some cases wear full clean uniform and have a shave).

Digressing from my reading, some thoughts on the death penalty came into my mind today. I would like to point out first that I do lose a lot of respect for people when they make the uneducated statement that we should bring back the death penalty, even if it were for only the most serious of crimes. These thoughts centred around the obvious- if the death penalty were a deterrent then why are crimes still committed in places that still have the death penalty. Then onto the notion that if the death penalty were the most righteous form of justice, then why do some killers kill themselves before they are caught? As a matter of fact- why did Hitler kill himself before he was caught, even though the Allies would had killed him in the end anyway? Are the majority of these people acting through the will of remorse, regret and justice? I think not.

It maybe holywood but this is the speech of a true leader.

Mattism

The only way to understand the present is by understanding the past, as Tertuliano Maximo Afonso (or should I say Jose Saramago) explained “the only serious discussion to be taken as regards the teaching of history is whether we should teach it from back to front or from front to back”- in that from studing history from front to back you can start to unravel why today’s world is the way it is. That is why I study history. I did so at degree level and I am doing so at masters level. I do this to understand, to learn, to develop, and this is how I see my politics.

Although I consider myself ‘of the Left’ and I full-heartedly disagree with those policies that are associated with those ‘on the Right’, I detest the notion of ‘party line’. As with Orwell, I am unable to find my positioning on the Left, although I am a supporter of the Green Party. I dislike the terminology of ideology, although I believe that ideology is the most important aspect of world development and politics.

It may seem from these comments that I am confused as to my place in the world, but let me assure you I am certain in my standing. We should not be bound by the terms of ideology and the party line. As described I see myself ‘of the Left’, but then the Left can be considered within the bounds of the Communists and Anarchists, to New Labour and arguably (and very loosely) to the BNP- and I feel no affiliation whatsoever to any of these political groupings, especially the later two. My beliefs and political understandings are continuously evolving and will continue to do so throughout my life. So please don’t assert upon me the same views as those on the Left are ‘supposed’ to believe. There is no correct party line to follow to utopia.

Any of those who consider themselves firm in their beliefs or believe they are ideologically sound are denying themselves. They are denying themselves the joys of knowledge, of ideological evolution. They are also denying everyone else of a better life, although this only really applies when in power. Beliefs and ideology should evolve from the ability to learn and to the benefit of society. Of course this does not open the doors from being a Communist one year to a Fascist the next then to a religious fundamentalist the year after. Principles and belief can still evolve along the ideological path you wish to take, but they should not be bound by a particular party line or for what you believe you should believe.

I am forever leaping through spouts of political activism and ‘normal’ life, desperate for things to change but then longing for a simple place in the world I can call my own and live undisturbed by the most serious of stresses of the outside world. I join political activism groups that interest me in which I am mostly active but sometimes dormant but then the affiliation at least feels me with hope in that there are some people out there fighting for what I consider to be right and I am not alone.

Politics is of course about improving the lives of the population and finding the best path to which to do that, so in that sense I believe that the main difference between the left and the right is the disagreement in that path we should take. I do not believe that New Labour and the Tories serve only by self-interest, but at the same time I believe that the electoral system and the attitude of voters (or should I say non-voters) has dramatically changed the shape of what is the majority. Of course it is the voters voice that shapes the country and the less who vote the more direct line the country takes which of course may not suit the population. This is where the self-interest in human nature takes its shape and distorts the reality of the way people really feel.

I also don’t see the country as ‘going down the pits’, this is only the reaction of the right-wing media to issues that are indeed mishandled but not to blame such as immigration and political correctness for example, the later of which I believe is a consequence of right-wing affluence.

I will continue to fight my corner and develop my understanding of the world and what I think needs to be done, but I do ask, before you tell me what you think I believe to ask me first and I will bestow upon you the same graciousness of the absence of ignorance that people tend to forget when discussing politics with a ‘Leftie’.

But until then, please consider my belief’s, my ideology, my understanding as ‘under construction’ for the long foreseeable future.

[Taken directly from the page 'Mattism']

Cultural tales of a European wonderer

I am much travelled around Europe. I have been to countries from the old eastern block, through to ‘the West’, from the warmth of the Mediterranean to the chill of Scandinavia, and everything inbetween. The one thing I have really noticed from these travels is how far we, Britain, are culturally and socially behind European countries. For me to compound this statement consider this fact:

While travelling you are going to meet and speak to [local] people.

To communicate you need to be able to speak a common language and although there are a few Britons who can speak another tongue, there are not many. So this means that you have thousands neh millions of people in other countries who are able to speak our language even though it is not their own.

As said, to communicate you need a common language, so it should not be surprising that a local in say France is very likely to speak English with a tourist from Japan. I have seen this happen. Our language has flown around the world and we should be proud of this. It is this which is our greatest export.

I have noticed on buses in Slovenia that announcements are made in English and then Slovenian and I have noticed on underground trains in Sweden and France for example of signs being written in the local language with the English underneath. Go into a restaurant abroad and you are likely to be given a menu written in both the local language and English (sometimes a few other languages as well).

This combination is carried across into media as well. Go to clubs, listen to the radio or go to concerts in another European country and you can hear scores of songs either from Britain/America being played, or local acts singing in English. When I have been to cinemas in Europe there is often the choice between a film in English with local language subtitles underneath or the same film fully dubbed in the local language.

Everywhere you go you can see how the English language has been embraced, but I must stress, not to the extent where it over rules the local language.

It is not just language. Everywhere you go you will always see the same brands: McDonalds, Starbucks, Tescos, Shell and Ford for example (I know not all these are British and this is a consequence of globalisation). There will always be Irish Bars in the major cities showing Premiership football or England rugby games (I watched the 2009 FA Cup final in Prague). You can easily find the English papers. The British flag can be seen in nearly every street in tacky souvenir shops or even outside restaurants where on the menu you can find ‘traditional English breakfast’ served with ‘English tea’.

Yet despite the British and western invasion in European countries you can still grasp and embrace the local cultures. The people are generally friendly everywhere, but you can tell nationalistic personality types among people from different countries. You will always find the local dishes easy to come by and the local beers strongly advertised. If a country is famed for a siesta you can see it’s impact. If the country is known for a specific drinking style you’ll see it (such as drinking for social enjoyment). Countries and cities may generally look the same in Europe, but you can easily culturally tell them apart from country to country. It is one of the joys of travelling and one of the reasons people do it.

But then transcend this ideology back to Britain. Can you image being given a menu at a typical restaurant written in several languages. Can you see the impact of signs on the buses or announcements on the trains being made in several languages. Can you even imagine many British people communicating to a tourist in a way that is not shouting louder and speaking each word slowly and separately. A lot of British people will not accept this and we have not been bought up to be fluent in different languages.

Now we are not a nation of racists, and I despise the idea that society and culture in Britain is or has collapsed, but as a nation we have such a poor outlook on life and idea on living life. Of course we are the country of business where work dominates our lives, but this is to the detriment of our family, our social and cultural lives. It leads us to binge drinking as a means to divert the mind away from earning money to just pay the bills, lending to the image of drunken Brits stumbling out of clubs and throwing up being screened around the world and acted out by British tourists. It also leads us to not appreciate each other, our family, our friends, strangers, we become more socially reserved, it maybe a cultural trait, but it leads to the British being seen abroad with contempt (it’s not all down to our political leaders). I have walked down streets of the major capitals of Europe and streets of obscure villages in Europe and people walk past me (and travelling buddies) uttering the words ‘British *tsck*’ with so much disgust I fear I may had been singing ‘get ya tits out’ really loud instead of wondering where to get lunch.

We in Britain need to start accepting Europe and European culture. More of us need to properly travel to experience local societies instead of purely sightseeing and spending evenings in a hotel. If there is a fear of our culture being destroyed by such an embrace then I would suggest that those people do not really understand our culture or what it really is. I am not calling for all signs to be written in hundred different languages or even two, but I do think we need to be more open to the possibility of these changes. There should be no excuse as to why more of us cannot speak more languages, even if it is not fluent. While we are at it lets revamp our own society and culture and remove the non-political contempt that a lot of Britain’s seem to be met with by some locals in other countries.

So, i made some lolz

If you know the internet, you’ll know lolcatz and its other such variations. Well, i made some of my own. Obviously they are a bit more political compared to pictures and captions of cats trying to eat cheeseburgers.

Art Class

So I got to school late, my first day teaching art. It took me ages to find a job, especially a job that I had my heart set on for as long as I remember. Excitement led to nervousness the night before; I got little sleep. I felt restless, unkempt. But it was my first day, I thought I was ready. I ran through the corridors searching for the room. I hadn’t even had an interview; I was just sent a room number and the class title ‘life paintings’. I studied a bit of this at university and spent hours the days before putting together lesson plans. The idea was to use the first lesson to introduce myself to the students and get to know what they could do artistically. It did cross my mind that just being given a room number and the lesson title was a very unorthodox way of starting a new job. Perhaps my references where so good I didn’t need an interview? No time to worry about that now. I had to get to class. I had a rough idea where I was heading to, as it was this school that I spent a great deal of my childhood; learning each of the corridors, the shortcuts to the nearest exits, the hideaways when I knew a teacher had spotted me drawing penises on the walls. Room E13. This school didn’t believe in bad luck and rightly so, as it was my good luck that I finally found this job. Those hours spent at university on those art projects, reading about Monet and why van Gogh cutting off his ear was actually a post-modernist expression of how belittling pictures of potatoes and sunflowers had become. This was my time to shine. I just had to get to the class on time, a product of not being able to sleep properly the night before: excitement, nerves, anticipation and relief. I wonder what my student’s will be like. ‘I hope they are the first year’, they haven’t had a chance to develop an attitude. I feel perspiration, but saw no wet patch. I wore a tweed jacket. It was my dream to be a stereotype. Images of my childhood maths teacher walking between desks with spectacles on the tip of his nose and leather patches on the elbows of a green and brown tweed jacket. The patches always made a high pitched wail when he sat back at his desk and reached across the polished surface to grab the box of calculators to pass round the class. Tweed may not be typical art teacher attire; my art teacher had curly red hair with 20 ear rings in each ear, and who always wore the tightest tank top possible in order to not set a bad example to her students but still excite those who she deemed old enough. Running through those corridors made me question my choice of a tweed jacket- it was heavy, and certainly didn’t help with my perspiration, perhaps the reason I could feel no damp patch was because of the thickness of the tweed? I was certainly sweating. Turn the corridor, seconds away. Turn again, the door is in front. Room E13. The room where as a child I made clay statues of people sitting on a toilet reading, where my tutor hung up images of topless women and justified them as a typicfication of the beauty in the eroticism of the female image. I stop outside the door; my hand hovering over the handle. Thoughts were racing through my mind: of erotic images of women, of sweaty tweed jackets, of potatomen with 20 earrings hung on it’s ears. Deep breath. In… out… in… out… Hand twitching over the door handle. Come on, this is your moment. I can hear a mumbling from inside, they certainly don’t sound like first years. Final years, that’s still fine. My hand is on the door handle. In one swoop I turn the handle and push through.

“Ah, Mr Stevens” says an old man, perhaps in his late 60’s, with a pig belly that his jumper only just cuddles and with a receding hairline that has stretched back to the middle of the back of his head but which has forgotten the snow coloured hair on the side of his head. Thick black spectacles are resting on the end of a vein popped nose, clay dusted hand prints are wiped across his front. “It is Mr Stevens isn’t it?” Looking round the room I see paintings of various body parts on the wall directly in front of me, not gory, and huge paintings of animals in erotic humanlike positions covering the wall to the right. I hadn’t time to study what was to my left as my attention was drawn to the seating arrangements, a class of about 12 people in a semi circle, each with an upright canvas, and in the centre of this semicircle was half a bed with pillows occupying one side and a silk sheet covering the rest. “Mr Stevens?” I could hear these words, words, words, “Mr Stevens?” I couldn’t speak, for some reason I had froze, it felt like hours, but it was probably mini-seconds, but my name continued to be uttered from the pig bellied man by the chalk blackboard with a picture of an eye a pair of hands sticking out of it holding onto what I assume are a pair of eyebrows. “Oh yes, yes, I’m Mr Stevens.” Dread filled me. Speaking didn’t make me feel better. Thoughts spread through my mind ‘does he think I am a student?… no, no, I am being paid for this, why would I be paid to be a student?… ah I know he must have just been waiting for me so he could introduce me to the class’. I felt better; he must have just been waiting to introduce me. I head over to shake his hand. “Hi, yes, sorry, I am Mr Stevens, I hope I am not late?”, “Ah no problem Mr Stevens, you are not late at all.” The pig bellied man turned to the students in the room, “class, this is Mr Stevens, he has kindly agreed to model for us.” Silence. My mind stopped. Model? “Mr Stevens, if you could just head into my office to unchange, I’ll get the class prepared and you come out when you are ready.” Unchange? Model? Then it struck me. The bed, the pillows, the silk sheets, ‘life paintings’, no interview. I was meant to be a nude model. I turned bright red. I was a nude model wearing a tweed jacket. Unchange? I couldn’t turn back now. I need the money. I couldn’t say I was not Mr Stevens, I’ve already said yes and shook his hand. I had to do it. It would be a story. I don’t know any of these people. I’ll never see them again. I’ll do it. It would be funny when I tell my mates down t’pub. The pot bellied man ushered me to his office on the left. I walk passed the silk bed and literately stepped into his office. He closed the door behind me. I put my bag on the floor and rubbed my face. Am I going to do this? I am going to do this. I have to do this. Think of the money. Think of the story. I take off my tweed jacket. That’s my teaching dream gone. I saw my shirt, dark sweat patches. Really attractive. I unbuttoned my top, my sweaty hairy chest popping out between the gaps. My shoes, socks, trousers. I’m just in my pants. They have got to come off. I haven’t shaved! It’s natural, it’s natural. It doesn’t reassure me. But they have to come off, down they go. I’m naked. I turn round to the door, there is no bathrobe. I remember staling before I walked into this classroom, I shouldn’t hesitate this time. Pull the knob and go in.

The room looked round at me, all with straight faces, no expressions. This is eerie. For the first time in my life I am naked and the people in the room with me are not making faces. I walk towards the bed; the pot bellied man came over to me and uttered two instructions: get comfortable and don’t move. I choose an angle that allowed me to spy on those who were going to be painting me at my most vulnerable. I lay on my back twisting to the left towards the group, but with my left leg up slightly to try and hide my male passport. The pot bellied teacher reached for my left leg, pushed it down and pulled up my right. “Hope you are still comfy”, “Oh yes, fine”. My member was now laying on my left thigh, pointing and eyeing up the group.

“You may start, you have 20 minutes.”

Twenty minutes lying here, shouldn’t be too hard. Think of the money. Think of the story.

With just the movement of my eyes I started spying the group. I could only see the four people directly in front of me, the others were lost to the temporary paralysis of my head. The first man I saw was older than the teacher. He must be on his last legs. His wrinkles where deep set and looked like a Borrower’s Cheddar Gorge. He had glasses as big as his forehead pushed right back to the top of his nose making his eyes look like pool balls. His hair was thin, and when he lifted up his paintbrush his body hid behind it. The old man put his paintbrush down and this time lifted up his hands. Like his nose and his ears, his hands where well oversized, as if they did not belong on this small man. The only way in which you could link these hands with the man where the wrinkles that acted like supports, connecting his hands to his torso. The old man put his hands together, making an artist’s square out of the thumbs and fingers of each hand. Instead of starting at my feet or my head, the old man went directly for my groin. I was staring straight at an old man who was in turn looking through the square his hands made at my penis. He put his hands down, picked up his paintbrush and started scratching away at his canvas.

I turned to the next man. Perhaps in his midlife, it was difficult to tell. The years have been bad to him, perhaps he smoked, perhaps he drank, but he certainly ate. His belly was hanging well over his trousers making it difficult for him to sit close enough to his canvas. He had to stretch out to make the paintbrush reach, and each time he went to collect more paint he had to wheeze to force his arm to reach and keep it at the canvas. I saw him look down at his belly, I saw him look up at mine, I saw him look down at his body, I saw him look up at mine, I saw him look down at his body, I saw him scratch his groin, I saw him grab his right chest, his moob, I saw him look at my body, I saw him look at his moob. It was about halfway through the 20 minutes, I moved my eyes to the next person.

This person was the total opposite to the old man, the pig bellied man and the moob grabber, not least because they were thin and young, but more noticeably, they were a She. And what a She. She wore the tightest of jeans with the tightest of tops that stopped an inch before the jeans and which allowed a inch high band of golden brown skin to slightly bulge just above the jean line. Her hair came down to the middle of her top and was a highlighted blonde with chocolate brown bursting through the surface. The skin on her face was as golden as the band above her jeans and as smooth as the silk on my bed. She had a petite nose with lips that smacked of lip gloss. She wasn’t a she I would go for, but after looking at a man with moobs scratch his groin and an old man stare at my penis, She was a welcome distraction. I started imagining what She would be like, take her for a drink, have a dance, would She be a tease? Would She insist on starting in the taxi home? Would She demand twice in a night, She deserved a least a second go. What about again in the morning? Would it be a case of do the busy and go, would She cuddle? She looked like a goer. A huge sigh went round the room. I had lost myself in my thoughts. I forgot where I was. Tutting sounds carried around the room. I saw the old man take some white paint from their brush to his canvas. I remember where I was. I jumped back into reality. Then I realised. My member wasn’t pointing to the class anymore but towards my forehead; it was as if it had eyed a weird mole in the middle of my head. I went red. I saw the she giggle.

My mind blanked out, I mentally left the room, my body stayed on the bed. I went to my happy place. This wasn’t happening to me.

As soon as the pig bellied man called time I jumped up off my bed and headed straight for the office, for my tweed jacket, my tweed jacket was safe, my tweed jacket was my aspiration, my hope, my dreams, my future, a happy place, my childhood, my maths teacher in a squeaky leather outfit…

I walked out of the office, hoping for a speedy exit. “Ah Mr Stevens, thank you for your effort. Come and see some of these expressions of your body.” I just wanted to go. Outside the classroom it didn’t happen, I wouldn’t lose control of my body in front of she again, not in front of those moobs, the old man or the pig belly. “I insist, come and look.” Twelve paintings, look at each, smile, nod, leave. Simple.

I walk to the first. It was a stack of boxes, somewhat resembling the shape of a man. There was a small rectangular box between what looked like my boxed legs. I turn next to the painting that the old man drew. There were deep heavy shades all around my body, with dot’s representing the colour of my skin. So I was a stack of boxes and some coloured dots. I moved swiftly onto the next painting. I was smiling. I look again, I had a smile on my face. I look at the rest of the painting. I don’t remember smiling. Not with that much of a grin on my face. I see it. I see a huge exaggerated erection looping over my belly button, and I was smiling. I was surprised this painting didn’t have my hand around it at the same time. I didn’t smile at all. But my erection went noticed. I went red. I felt two foot tall. I wanted to get out. It even detailed the veins, albeit in an inflated sense. Nine paintings left. I shifted speedily along the following paintings, seeing images of me as a horse, with my legs coming out of my head, seeing a painting where I am not in it at all apart from my eye, no eyebrows. Apart from the picture of my eye, they all had my erection painted hastily in, the picture of the eye would had had it if it weren’t for its proximity. The erection had probably only lasted a minute, but they all saw. How could they not? Then I came to the painting the man with moobs did. He painted me the size of Jupiter. With my belly hanging well over my legs, but with stress marks around my groin area, obviously representing what must have been my erection. He drew his moobs as my moobs, hanging down to the left, one covering most of my thigh thick arm and the other hanging into the space left by the former. This was how I felt after a hefty dinner. I felt ill. I’ll move on. It was the She, what had She painted I wondered? A quick glance. It all looked normal. There must be something weird about it. But the face looked right, I wasn’t fat, wasn’t a load of dots or squares. She must like me. She looked at me and saw me. Should I try? I must not have put her off. Then I saw it. No wonder I hadn’t noticed it. At first I could argue She drew it before the incident. But on closer inspection I saw it was pointing at my head. It was comparable to the size of my little finger. She giggled. I died a little inside. One painting left then I could leave. I moved on. I looked at the painting. I looked at the painter. It was my mum.

by Matt Blackall

A day in the life of a voluntary local media officer

From http://blogs.amnesty.org.uk/ (http://blogs.amnesty.org.uk/blogs_entry.asp?eid=2771) Written by, me!

I had one old hectic day on Friday 6 March while I was at work.

I won’t admit on here that I actually spent a good proportion of my work morning working hard for my local Reading Amnesty Group. I didn’t admit it, did I?

Anyway, late on Thursday 5 March I adapted a recent letter I received as part of the media officer’s email list about the map of gaps (http://www.mapofgaps.org/) and services in local areas dedicated to supporting women who are victims of abuse. I then proceeded to send this out as a press release to all the media contacts I have in my local area; newspapers, radio etc. I thought nothing more once I clicked send and rested my little head on my pillow for a night of slumber.

I hadn’t a chance before work to check my emails, oh boy, I wish I had…

My normal routine is that when I get to work, I log onto my computer (takes about 10 minutes!) and while it is logging on I make myself the first of about 20 cups of tea I have each day and then log onto my email account on my phone (I have a huge phone bill as they don’t let me on facebook/hotmail at work). There I found an email from one of my local radio stations, 2ten fm. I won’t write out the email on here, but the gist was, we want an interview!

Ahhhhhh! Panic!

I panicked not because of the prospect of an interview- in fact my vanity obviously craves such attention (tongue in cheek). But firstly, I was at work, and secondly (and more importantly) I shamefully admit that my knowledge of services in Reading for women who have suffered abuse is rather limited, in fact, it is limited to what I put on the press release!

After scrambling around for a few minutes trying to organise my work load for the day I thought of my next plan of attack- should I try and cram in some research from the internet before my big interview? No, too risky, my managers sit behind me. Should I just tell them I am rubbish and can’t do the interview? No, getting the message out is the important thing, it doesn’t necessarily matter how it comes out. Or should I ring up fellow RAI group members and get support? Yes! Perfect!

Then it dawned on me…. I don’t have our Stop Violence Against Women campaign co-ordinator’s number, and furthermore, she works at a school, being able to contact her was hard enough, let alone organise for her to do an interview!

The phone rings *ring ring, ring ring*, I answer….. “Hello I’m XXX ringing from the Reading 107 fm news desk it is about your recent press release…. we would like an interview”

What! Two interviews!

I really needed to get in touch with our SVAW co-ordinator; what to do, what to do! Then it dawned. Alex!! I’ll ring our chairperson, I admit his is the only number I had in the group (yeap, and I’m the group’s media officer!).

I could feel my manager’s eyes burning into the back of my head as I made my third phone call of the morning where I talked about violence against women (something which is in no way a laughing matter, but as an outsider expecting me to be doing my work must had sounded unusual).

Alex was free! He said he’d make some phone calls and see what he can do. Brilliant!

*ring ring, ring ring*

My phone goes again… unknown number

“Hello?….Hi, it’s XXX from BBC Radio Berkshire….”

They wanted me to send the PR again, all they could see was the title and they were very interested in reading what it said….. Hmmm, slight problem; I sent it from my hotmail address, and that is blocked at work.

Second by second crept by until it hit me, my phone! I hate to think of my next phone bill…. I logged onto my email and managed to find my message and forwarded it to my work email (not that I am doing any of this while I am meant to be working…).

My phone stopped ringing for the time being, but now came the messages to my work email. I hope our IS department were not snooping in… I used the words violence and abuse quite a bit, let’s hope they don’t pop up in my work’s filters!

I still had the problem of these two interviews and the possible third interview.

Words and phrases that these radio station’s news desks had used on the phone to me included ‘important’, ‘big news’, ‘a lot of interest’, ‘most listeners’ and ‘major local interest story’. Nice.

*ring ring, ring ring*

It was Alex with some amazing news. He had been in touch with Heather from Amnesty UK who works on the SVAW campaign who has agreed that she would organise for the interviews to be done! Fantastic! This way we would have the best possible person being interviewed who knew what they were talking about!

I have been informed that 2ten fm and Reading 107 fm were planning on running this story on air today (9 March), but unfortunately a mixture of being at work and going straight from work to the local pool place meant I have not had a chance to listen to the broadcasts yet. Despite this, a quick click onto the Reading 107 fm website revealed this as the main story: http://www.reading107fm.com/female-victims-of-violence-need-more-support-446236

There are still 3 hours left of the day, with at least 4 news bulletins on each station, I wonder if they are still broadcasting the story…..?

If you want to have a nosey at the press release then you can see it here: http://www.box.net/shared/pvpco4d5ue

Picture post, and those darn cowboys

This is a really random post. All i really want to say is that I find something extrememly disturbing with most westerns. A majority of which only seem to be about American army units (cowboys) indiscriminately going around and shooting native Americans (indians) with their guns. The native Americans are made out to be savages, yet a lot of the time their only weapon is a bow and arrow. I see something of an ethnic cleansing going on in these films.

Here are some pictures to keep you amused:

For those of you who have made it this far, here is another treat: http://www.qwghlm.co.uk/toys/dailymail/. I should point out that I found all these images via StumbleUpon- it has taken away a good half of my year so far.

Darn Cowboys.