On New Year’s Eve my family and I sat watching the BBC’s review of the year. In between resigned mumblings about how we were all “too old for this” and my mother’s general tuttings at people having done stuff of import without having consulted her first, my partner and I noted some glaring omissions. Yes, it’s all very well to get excited about London 2012, the US elections and the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. But what about my partner starting his new job? And our three-year-old getting potty trained in record time? These – alongside our five-year-old getting a speaking part in the school nativity play – have been the key events of our year.
Media narratives are always shamefully selective, aren’t they? I’ve never forgiven Channel 4 News for not mentioning the death of Hollyoaks’ Dan Hunter in 2004, despite the fact that the headlines came on immediately after we’d watched the horror on Debbie Dean’s face as Dan’s rally car exploded. Seriously, priorities, people! If you’re wondering why viewers switch off, look no further. If we can’t see a narrative that’s relevant to us then the whole thing is pointless. Continue reading
Today I am wearing my Fawcett Society This is what a feminist looks like T-shirt. I don’t wear it often, mainly because I fear it makes a hostage to fortune of both feminism and me. While wearing the damn thing I feel doubly sure I’ll be unable to park my car, or perhaps I’ll fail miserably to laugh a joke which was, by all objective standards, hilarious. I just can’t risk inadvertently confirming a whole range of anti-feminist stereotypes so generally the T-shirt stays in the drawer. Today, though, I’ve been staying in so it’s felt reasonably safe to give it a go (hence this is what a feminist looks like: someone who spends a Saturday afternoon cleaning the bathroom while listening to a That’s Christmas! double CD).
The best thing about my feminist T-shirt is that it makes my tits look ace. No, seriously. I look hot in this thing!* Perhaps I should wear it in public, just to mess with the heads of sexists, who will be extra-specially inclined to objectify me and yet be simultaneously repelled by the words emblazened across my ample bosoms. Ha! That’d show them! (I’m not sure what, but it would.) They would learn, if nothing else, that feminists, given the right T-shirt, can have ace tits. Then perhaps they wouldn’t notice me failing to park my car or being unable to laugh at hilarious jokes.