Moving Blogs.

                  THIS SITE HAS MOVED! 

                                 Still lots of grumpy blogging, on a slightly more grown up blog. 

Courting the media: sorry not sorry, but I don't quite get it.

There are countless arguments for and against social media. It's a great way to keep in touch, but it makes us a bit rubbish at talking. It gives us a free, democratic platform from which we can voice our opinions, but what if those opinions are intolerant, offensive, even illegal? Does it contribute to an already image-obsessed society, or does it encourage a positive self-confidence exhibited by the thousands of people who tag their photos with #shamelessselfie? It's a digital-age old argument, but for now I'm particularly interested in the role social media plays in promotion, or self-promotion to be exact.

First things first, I should probably address the fact that I am writing on a blog that carries my name, and later I'll share this on a public Twitter account, and probably on Facebook for good measure. I use the internet to promote what I write, even who I am - though I haven't quite 'branded' myself across the internet yet, I am in my own way contributing to this culture of promotion. In all honesty, it makes me feel a bit weird. Lots of blogs come with a caveat - 'this blog is more of a self-preservation thing, I write for myself, I shun the social media spotlight' etc etc, but even with those intentions, the blogoshpere is a public place, and by writing a blog, you are putting yourself out there. I am sat on a fence constructed of high horses when it comes to this dilemma - I like it when people read what I write, but I feel a bit grubby asking people to do so. And, in today's technological climate, how else can you make yourself heard? 

Most, if not all aspiring authors, journalists, designers and musicians have social media accounts on which they are required to self-promote. Hell, even the successful ones do. It's particularly telling when one reads the tweets of well-received debut novelists as they attempts to do the whole media promotion thing for the first time - they are often coy and self-deprecating, because let's face it, this media courting lark is all bit mad. That's probably a bit harsh, but I'm starting to think that people do it because it's just necessary nowadays. The brand rules all - we don't just want to know about a product, but about the whole identity behind it. The curation of the online personality is one of the most unsettling things about social media - carefully composed Tweets and insta-snaps create a masterful gallery of ME or YOU, and anyone, neigh everyone, is invited. It's compulsive viewing, and I alternate between being jealous of the lifestyles of others, and jealous of their mastery of filtering. To really sell yourself of on the internet, you have to be dominant, brazen and, to use the oft-dredged up hashtag, you have to be shameless. 

Now, I'm not necessarily saying that this is a bad thing, even if it does go through me like nails down a chalkboard. In many ways it's just an online version of elbowing your way into conversations between important types at wine and cheese events - it's not a new concept. However, what I find fundamentally odd is the tension between this idea of confident self-promotion and the deep-seated sense of guilt that seems to go with it. #sorrynotsorry and #shamelessselfie are screamingly inane phrases - surely if you genuinely weren't sorry, or your really were shameless, there'd be no need to broadcast it. I feel like screaming IS IT ME from the rooftops, then tweeting about it later. Or maybe just tweeting it. 

So instead I write a blog on my blog to share with all my imaginary internet friends. Ah it's all so bloody weird. 

Canongate Lates: Manchester Literature Festival 2014

Young Digital Reporter Alexandra Sutton reviews our Canongate Lates event with authors Emma Jane Unsworth, Zoe Pilger, Anneliese Mackintosh and singer-songwriter Karima Francis…

Upon arrival at the International Anthony Burgess Foundation, I bought my self a large glass of wine. I then nursed that glass of wine for the following hour – I was so excited to be in a room with four great, great women, that I had arrived comically early. Fortunately, I was not to be disappointed. Canongate Lates, featuring three groundbreaking writers and one strikingly original musician, was the type of event I’ll still talk about in years to come.

There was a lovely feeling of camaraderie – I got the sense that everyone was as geekily excited as I was to be there, including our tip-top host, Katie Popperwell. She welcomed us with a wise and witty speech about common depictions of women writers (let’s all stop using the phrase ‘chick lit’, please) and how the writing presented at the event felt like a ‘shift in the literary landscape.’

First up was Zoe Pilger, art critic for The Independent, PHD student and author, reading an excerpt from her debut novel, Eat My Heart Out. A tale of ‘modern hipsterdom’ and second wave feminism, her novel explores what it is to be a young woman caught between a hardcore feminist mentor and a love of Queen Bey (amongst other things, of course). Pilger noted how she and her fellow women writers are often referred to as ‘literary bad girls’, and questioned whether this was at all appropriate. I’m with Zoe on this one – these women are not ‘bad girls’, they are just women, honest, open women writers whose works are not close to the bone, rather they hack through the bone altogether.

After Zoe came Anneliese Mackintosh. Annaliese read from her collection of short stories, Any Other Mouth, and her reading was for me the most beautifully intimate and poignant of the night. She reads like a seasoned performance poet – her writing is epigrammatic, enticing and endearing, and is perfectly suited to a night of live literature. She carried us all with her through a list of funeral requests – a Roald Dahl revolting rhyme to be read, her 6 most recent lovers to attend, how she above all wants her mum – and it was just superb. ‘Each little one a howl’, said Annaliese of her stories. For me this one was a beautiful, painful swan-song.

Our final reading of the night came from Manchester’s own Emma Jane Unsworth. At risk of sounding like a complete fan-girl – I love, love, love her book. After the gentleness of Mackintosh’s reading, peppered with moments of hilarity, Unsworth’s reading was the perfect follow up. After listening to her read from Animals, my face was actually aching with laughter. I could whip out all sorts of deep, intellectual comments on her work, but surely that has to be the biggest compliment. Unsworth’s fabulously familiar accent, self-deprecating delivery and assertion that she really did meet a man in the Village named ‘Chicken Sandwich’, had us all hooked. Animals is the story of an aspiring writer and her manic-pixie-nightmare best mate, tearing through the streets of Manchester and through each other. Her novel is messy, methy, Mancunian magical realism – read and be amazed.

In a lovely end to the evening, Karima Francis played a very special acoustic set. She came straight from the studio and belted out several never-before-played songs like a complete dream. Her voice is simultaneously powerful and vulnerable – it doesn’t tug at the heartstrings, it positively tears them out. I sat back and let it all wash over me – she was the perfect counterpoint to an evening of laughter, intensity and personal insight. Ultimately, that’s what live literature should be all about – connecting with an audience who usually only feel you through the pages of your writing.  As Katie Popperwell noted, these writers offer us ‘political portraits’ that are often shattering, powerful and entertaining, but above all they are intimate and personal – these qualities shone through at this cracking event.

Literary Walker: Inua Ellams and The Midnight Run

For centuries poets and artists have taken to the streets for inspiration, wandering both city and country in order to seek a sense of the other, and a sense of self. From Wordsworth’s rural strolls to Thomas de Quincey’s opium-fuelled ventures into London’s darkest haunts, literary walks are part of our cultural inheritance. Inua Ellams - performance poet, playwright and graphic artist – is tapping into this history and re-inventing it for the modern city-dweller.

Ellams is an artist of all sorts – his poetry draws together rich-voiced romanticism, hip-hop, jazz and the silkiest of lyrics, his scriptwriting is mature and refined, and his graphic art is strikingly inventive. To add to this, he is now the curator of a physical exhibition that stretches across the streets of cities world-wide. In 2005, Ellams and a friend became impatient waiting for a night bus, and decided to make their journey across London on foot. Enraptured with the nocturnal cityscape and the darkened alter-egos of the night-time streets, Ellams dreamed up The Midnight Run. The project is a literal example of poetry in motion, as Ellams and his magican-poet-performer friends lead groups of people around the city by night, exploring ideas of communal space, identity, and urban development, and creating art as they go. The idea is for people to view their own streets, their run-friends and themselves with a fresh pair of eyes, in a playful process of defamiliarisation. From the perspective of a literary critic, Ellams’ eco-critical explorations are right on trend, and from the perspective of an art-lover, they are simply groundbreaking.

In his mission statement, Ellams explains the influence of The Situationalists, a political and artistic movement which rejected the commercialism of art in 60’s France, and sought to replace it with ‘real’ experience. The Midnight Run is just that – a physical, immersive, artistic experience. For Ellams, any city, anywhere can be a poetic playground, from impromptu story-telling in a darkened alley, to sunrise tai chi, to group writing tasks. I organised a poetry workshop with Ellams whilst at university, and got a sense of his innovative and inviting style. He has a natural talent for drawing out the poet in everyone, whether he’s performing himself, working with musicians, or gently teasing out ideas from his audience.

This gentle teasing is at the heart of The Midnight Run; the project asks us how we interact with our environment, and encourages us to do so differently. So many cities are increasingly filled with private spaces and private people – a fact of life connected to the ethics of The Midnight Run. For me, Ellams seems to be suggesting that private, restricted city space is closely linked to both spiritual and economic poverty. Even on a short bus ride in London, one can weave through many different communities of enormously different wealth, sandwiched uncomfortably together in disparity. By inviting us to look closer, Ellams is exploring some of the most pressing social and political issues in modern society, whilst creating a piece of peopled art.

Over the last ten years, The Midnight Run has spread from an independent London movement, to Spain, to New Zealand, to work with the Tate and the Southbank Centre, with the founders striving towards building a global urban movement. This is a growing piece of performance art like no other, with Ellams, a 21st century flaneur, at its helm.

Originally published in XXY magazine.

Top Ten Things About Being Unemployed, or, Hire Me Please God Hire Me.

I am unemployed. I am bored. I am spending A LOT of time on Buzzfeed, and when my boyfriend/mum/cat isn't looking, on the Daily Mail Sidebar of Shame. It's like crack, only more vulgar. My 'Motivation Coach' from the Jobcentre is my new bestie, and I am averaging two baths a day. I'm not stupid though - I know have it pretty cushy, this job-seeking malarkey. I am a university graduate, I'm living at home, home happens to be Manchester, and although I am thus-far unsuccessfully trying to get a job in media (ho, ho), it's not like I am going to be victimised for being on the dole, unlike many of my fellow Jobcentre frequenters, or anyone featured on hellish shows such as Benefits Street. Anyway, less of the ranting, more of the list-making denial fun. 

Thus far I have been fluctuating between tirades about the perils of graduate unemployment + unpaid work experience, and telling myself to stop whining. Today I am going to do a mixture of the two, with this super internet-y list of unemployment wins:

1) I get to be a full-time parent and life-coach to my cat. I WILL win her back from my mum. 

2) I have time to fine-tune my argument against Jennifer Lawrence and Chris Martin's new found love. She is a QUEEN and he is a mere peasant. 

3) I can reconnect with Buffy the Vampire Slayer in an important way. Anything Buffy Can Do...

4) I have perfected my Paul Hollywood inspired White Cob Loaf.

5) I am now on familiar (albeit one-sided) terms with all of BBC News' presenters, as I have it on pretty much all of the day to retain a link to the outside world.

6) I can legitimately be on the internet all the time because that is where the jobs are. 

7) I have overcome my phobia of the dishwasher in order to contribute to a more pleasant home environment in which no one shouts at anyone for refusing to fill and/or empty it. 

8) My nosy neighbouring is off the frickin' chain. 

9) I can blame all of my problems on the DEFICIT and the JOB MARKET and the TORIES. 

10) I can make self-indulgent blog posts like this instead of getting on with stuff. 

Yours sincerely, 

SOMEONE WHO WANTS TO BE EMPLOYED NOW PLEASE. 

This one is a winner.

Cigarettes + Revolution: thoughts on PERSEPOLIS, by Marjane Satrapi

Slowly but surely, I'm learning how to read graphic novels. It's a complex affair, drawing together words and images. In my head, it's a skill you naturally have as a child, but one you lose as you start exploring fat books full of words. Unless you stick with comics throughout life, which I regret not doing. My first graphic novel was Watchmen - I got too excited and powered through it without really appreciating the story being told in the images. Next I tried a couple of books Neil Gaiman's Sandman series - the art was so great that I couldn't concentrate on the wordy bits.

Persepolis, however, required no work whatsoever. Marjane Satrapi's tale of a girlhood in and out of Iran is a wonderful synthesis of simple text, minimalist imagery and complicated political, philosophical and familial themes. Marjane is the daughter of middle-class, left-wing parents. She is fond of the word 'dialectic', she wishes to be a prophet, she is sad because her maid does not eat with her family. She is a precocious young girl, and though this is an autobiographical tale, the well-read and super-curious novel-Marjane is reminiscent of Hodgson Burnett's Mary Lennox, transplanted from the gardens of Yorkshire to the unsettled landscape of Iran.

Marjane takes us along with her as she witnesses her country change around her. First it is the protests, then comes the new regime, the war with Iraq, the enforcement of religious law, the closure of her school, upheaval, death, travel to Europe and all of a sudden we realise that Marjane is no longer a young girl. She's a chain smoking young woman left confused by her country's transition from liberal nation to extremist state.

People my age have grown up with Iran in the news. We know Iran as the state it becomes toward the end of this novel - a state of unrest, both political and cultural. A state in which Western countries have involvement in, though we may not always understand why. When I first saw 60's images of Iranian women in mini-skirts I was ridiculously confused. I don't profess to know the ins and outs of Iranian politics, and I know even less about Iranian culture, but Marjane Satrapi teaches us about both, from the perspective of a girl who is undergoing many changes herself. In a subtle act of show and tell, we learn about the modern history of Iran, and how its people have influenced and been influenced by this history, whilst learning about the life of one little girl.

I think we all attempt to relate literature to our own lives, it's only natural. In the case of Persepolis, the bits I found most striking were the alien ones. What it's like to live in a war-torn country, for example. What it's like to leave home and be unsure of your return. However, key tenets of the novel transcend political or national specificity - family, perhaps being the most prominent. Personally, I found Marjane's exploration of what it is to be a woman in a restrictive environment fascinating. Even though Marjane's experiences are at an extreme end of the spectrum, the inherent attitudes found in them are very relevant in societies across the world today.

It's touching, dark, funny, and it's as much a tale of growing up as it's a tale of politics and philosophy. A rare treat of a tale, offset with simple and striking illustration. I really think young girls of all nationalities should read this book, especially in the context of today's perceptions about the Middle East. Satrapi is an inspirational writer and woman -  I can't wait to pass her work on.

What are your recommendations for a novice graphic novel reader? Lots of suggestions welcome.

Marjane Satrapi - picture: persianfilmfestival.com

ANIMALS, by Emma Jane Unsworth

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild,

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping

than you can understand.

W.B Yeats, The Stolen Child

Laura Joyce is an occasional writer, a regular drinker, a lover of Yeats and unfortunately she isn’t related to James. Tyler is her best friend, her housemate, a bon viveur and Laura’s enabler. Together they tear through relationships, Manchester, each other, and the pages of Emma Jane Unsworth’s Animals, and we are invited to act as both the intrigued voyeur and the potential participant. What liberty! What liability.

Unsworth’s novel is an exercise in narrative seduction. We meet Laura during a particularly ginny hangover, which is to my mind the peak of human vulnerability. We know the colour of her piss – ‘white piss good, amber piss bad’ - before we know much else – and a bizarrely familiar bond is established. She’s engaged to a teetotal concert pianist, she’s writing a novel about a priest who’s in love with a pig and she’s desperately trying to balance a life of hedonism with an impending life of fine home furnishings. She is every bad hangover we’ve ever experienced and now we’re friends, we’re witnesses, already we are in on something. However, the beauty of Unsworth’s second novel is that the ‘something’, the secret, turns out to be nothing at all. We are all aspiring writers, we are all stuck in dead-end jobs, we are all disappointed and we all of us want to pretend that we are otherwise. And so, we meet Laura and we see ourselves, from the drinking habits, to the Mail on Sunday reading parents, to the secret love for Take Me Out.

The first-person narration superbly draws out this powerful, painful sense of familiarity, whilst the quick-fire dialogue, dirty humour and the assumption of an accomplice-reader keeps us on side through the messiest moments. It’s an obvious statement, but Laura Joyce is a fundamentally enjoyable character to act as a confessional for – not always the case when you’re in someone else’s head for a novel. In Laura, Unsworth has created a character that is part Holden Caulfield, part Bridget Jones, with a twist of Plath, spiked with stolen meth. She is ‘one part optimism, two parts masochism, like all the best cocktails.’ I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a bit of Unsworth too, There was certainly a bit of me in there, and probably every other reader who’s downed a bottle of rose because they couldn’t decide between white or red, or told someone to royally toss off for assuming they have a say in your lifestyle choices.

Tyler, on the other hand, is pure legend. Whilst Laura reaches out of the novel, Tyler explodes it. She is a mythological demon-goddess luring in the human child (me, you, Laura, everyone) like one of Yeats’ goblins. She doesn’t belong in this novel, in anyone’s life, in this plane of reality, which is precisely why she is such a perfect foil to Laura. A manic-pixie-nightmare-girl, and make no mistake. Tyler turns a gritty and realistic novel about the (societally-inflicted/bullshit) perils of being thirty and unsettled, into a tale of messy, meth-y, Mancunian magical realism. Well, almost. There’s vomit, sex, drugs and decisions, peppered with literary allusion and classical tragedy - Laura’s love of Yeats is very apt indeed. You need a bottle of something to soften the assault.

Animals explores tricks, trips (both sorts), bad habits, and what-happens when-you-leave-uni-without-a-publishing-deal, but for me it boils down to a sense of disillusion, even down to the reified setting of city famed for it’s 20 year old cultural wealth. What do we do now? Why didn’t my degree get me anywhere? Why should I care? Why shouldn’t I tell you about the time I had a tick in my groin, why shouldn’t I keep my ‘wreckhead friend’, why should I give up drinking, why should I behave, why should I have kids, why should I have you, why should I give a fuck?

I do give a fuck, especially about this book, but I don’t have the answers, and that’s fine. None of Unsworth’s characters do, nor does Unsworth profess to. We’ve all been given a bit of a shit deal at one point or another, and how you make do is your own business, whether it’s ploughing on with that novel you’re writing or easing yourself in with a quick bev or five at the pub. There’s hope at the end of the hangover, o human child. This is a brilliant, prescient piece of writing, and will need to be read twice – you’ll spend the first time texting your mates all the best lines.

         Be sure to read with wine, especially on trains.

Valparaíso - how absurd you are...

Valparaíso, 'how absurd you are, you haven't combed your hair, you've never had time to get dressed. life has always surprised you…'


Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet and Valpo-lover, wrote these words about the port city which became his home. Friend of poets, painters and philosophers, Valpo is a curious little place which sits in a rather haphazard fashion on the hills of the Chilean coast. Over the last century, half-undressed with tangled hair, it went from being the richest city in Latin America to one of the most dilapidated, and has now settled into the architectural and cultural equivalent of distressed leather - run down, but unashamedly, and increasingly intentionally, cool. It's the haunt of bohemian Chileños, or people who want to be bohemian Chileños, of muralists and graffiti artists, and of enamoured travellers who stumble across it all, like myself. 


I'm not really a travel writer so I won't be writing about all the places we visited in South American over the last summer, but this one really stood out. The city consists of several cerros - hill villages - each with their own identity, culture, and pack of stray dogs. Each hill is connected by narrow passageways and staircases - which some crazy kids bike down - and century old ascensors. In fact, the whole city feels like a pedestrian adventure playground. There's even a slide next to one set of stairs on Cerro Alegre, just in case you're not a stairs-kind-of-commuter. Read; hipster. 

It's a city that has been furiously claimed, reclaimed, and claimed again. First the giant, colonial houses which were home to the wealthiest expats in the land. Then, when the opening of the Panama Canal diverted the monies away, came the city's darker years, with civil disruption and gang control in many parts of the city. Meanwhile, Chilean hazards such as earthquakes and fires in the hills destroyed much of the architecture. But, then came the most recent claim on the city - a joint bid from the city's artists and the city's elders. In reaction to a (really very bulky) glass building in the port's main square, Valpo was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2003. The Historic Quarter is now caught between its past and present - a memorial of the fantastic pastel-coloured architecture of the colonial period, and the run down building which now, due to the tricky UNESCO rules, cannot be restored. 

However, the art-filled streets are what make Valpo such a gem. These houses do not house art - they are art. Brightly-coloured murals of all shapes and sizes plaster the houses on the hills - art fights art as the home-owners invite muralists to paint their homes in an attempt to deter the more common and far less attractive 'tags' found on some buildings. Local legends such as the muralist INTI have displayed their work all over the city, and its as though the porteños (people of the port) have finally been able to reclaim their city as they wish it. 

From a culinary perspective, it's all about seafood and chorrillanas. The former takes its best form in empanadas filled with sizzling shrimp washed down with an ice-cold beer, the latter in a dingy port bar, where one is confronted with a mountain of fries, onions, pork and cheese. For the sake of your cholesterol - share.

Of the five South American countries we visited, and of the countless places, Valpo was the one which really got to me. I felt for its unsettled history, I wanted to know its people, and I am fairly sure that we will be returning in the not too distant future. Like many South American cities it is one of many juxtapositions; cosmopolitan with a bit of an edge, wearing its heart and its history on its sleeve, inviting you to simply wander around and see for yourself. Pablo Neruda said it better than I ever could, but for my part, it's just bloody lovely. 

All images my own. 

In which this blog takes a turn for the unemployed.

SO. I always think it's good to start with a SO. It gives this ramble an edge of purpose. SO. This blog began as a way for me to think on the page, as it were. To hash out my ideas and then look back at them after six months with a slight cringe at what the gin-soaked-part-time-hipster-student mind can create. Basically, a handful of okay not-quite articles. It all kind of petered off when university exams came about, then I buggered off to South America for two months (more on that at some point) and now I am unemployed. Tip top! SO. I'm going to endeavour to start rambling at nothing and no one again, in a bid to break up the daily routine of pestering my cat, signing on and looking for jobs. 

Here we go...

Fresher to Finalist - a tale in which time gets the better of you.

Just a quick blog post to leave an explanation to those who meander through the internet's tendrils and come across this page. It has, quite sadly, become defunct in recent months. Once I was a Fresher, full of gumption and spunk (in the idealistic, Hollywood leading lady sense of the word) and now, all of a sudden, I am a Finalist. A Finalist at Oxford. Alas, my time is not my own. So! Apologies to the people who ever look at this blog; Mum, Dad, Significant Other. I'll come back at some point with stories and ideas and my natural inclination toward fond misanthropy. Meanwhile, I'm on Twitte @suttonspeak. Ta.x

Show and Tell: the ethical issues behind documentary films

Originally published in The Oxonian Globalist

Alexandra Sutton explores the ethical issues behind humanitarian documentaries, and questions their ability to facilitate change

Whose voice are we hearing? Photo by Jonathan Smith.

The humanitarian documentary is a double-edged sword of communication and narrative. It serves both to inform and to raise awareness, but it does so through a medium which is necessarily subjective, emotionally manipulative and most importantly, aesthetically produced. So, when it comes to documentaries which focus on human rights issues and campaigns, there appears to be a serious ethical problem in their nature. This problem then forces the question – what do these documentaries actually achieve?

The dichotomy between communication and narrative can be broadly broken down into the idea of “show and tell”. Do these documentaries show us problems, or do they tell us about them? The answer is almost inevitably “tell” – the most powerful documentaries tend to be ideological in their foundations, not only alerting people to serious human rights issues, but exploring the reasons behind them and positing the possibilities for change. This is by no means a bad thing – whether a documentary is led by one strong voice, or features a panel of insightful talking heads, it is often enlightening to have problems which may seem initially very alien relayed to you by those who know the subject.

Although it is arguable that ideology should be the motivating force behind documentary, that argument is contigent upon what we believe the documentary can and should achieve. For example, the basic concept of a documentary would be “to document”, to simply chronicle information and then relay it, leaving room for personal interpretation and reflection. However, humanitarian documentaries, which are heavily stylised and persuasively emotive, aim to create food for thought without actually leaving any room to taste it. A notorious exemplar of this is Invisible Children’s much debated Kony 2012 short film. With its heartbreaking images and moving soundtrack, it struck a chord with the public (not unlike charity adverts) and immediately went viral, before being quickly denounced as flawed, partially false and worryingly evocative of militant propaganda.

Why then were so many people taken in by it? Perhaps it was the aesthetic qualities of the video, perhaps it was the rush of virtual activism (or “slacktivism”, if you will), or the extremely simplified message of Good vs. Evil. However, the most revealing form of persuasion was actually the most unsettling: Kony 2012 made people feel good. Much of the appeal is inherently self-centred – it told us that we could achieve great things by doing very little, that we were an empowered generation of connected social media activists, and crucially, that we in the liberal West had the power to solve the problems of everyone else. It was all about us.

The assumption that documentaries are actually all about the viewer isn’t necessarily wholly negative; learning about and attempting to understand human rights issues requires empathy as well as sympathy. It’s just that the documentaries rarely present situations that we can even attempt to empathise with. As soon as we start trying to, the films risk becoming ethically flawed, and frequently Western-centric – both in terms of moral values and presentation.

For example, recent documentaries such as Girl Rising and Half the Sky – both about women’s rights in India, Pakistan and Africa, amongst other countries – relay personal, first person narratives through the medium of celebrity monologues or interviews. Girl Rising calls for female education and empowerment, but good intentions are dampened by the film’s execution – liberties are taken with the girl’s stories, and their voices are essentially drowned out by a Western imposition of morality, and the famous faces we implicitly trust to deliver said moral judgment. The difficulty with this imposition is that it requires us place a value judgement on cultural norms. In these documentaries, the general solutions are wound up with Westernisation, suggesting that countries should not only assimilate our societal structures, but assimilate the cultural values that go along with them. The question is, where does this end? What happens in countries where religion and state are one and the same? In this respect, the documentary can become overtly political, and once again lose sight of the nuances in these issues, and in each nation. Obviously, there are elements of Western society that are objectively beneficial, and among these education is chief. However, human rights issues cannot be diluted into abstract “pillars of society”; these ideals are fundamentally subjective as culture and morality are not easily separated.

Half the Sky is similarly concerning, in which several Hollywood women meet female victims of persecution and attempt to relate to them. The actresses epitomise the flaws in these kinds of films – the interviews blur into psuedo-docu-drama, and in the attempt to connect with the women, the film ends up alienating them even further. Their very real histories of oppression and trauma are glossed into a simplified story female troubles the world over.

However, idealistic though it may be, behind the majority of these films are people who are intending to achieve something positive. In many cases this goes beyond raising awareness, to actually facilitating change. For example, They Go to Die, a film about the links between tuberculosis and the South African mining industry, led to an All Party Parliamentary meeting in the UK to discuss the issue, and the film received a Global Health Award. The person behind the documentary, Jonathan Smith, was not a filmmaker, but rather a student of the Yale School of Public Health. Smith approached the issue by using his academic background of health and social policy, but rather than letting social theory dominate the film, he let the victims of the mining industry explain the issues themselves. Equally, the award-winning documentary on sexual assault in the US military, The Invisible War, led to an almost immediate directive ordering all sexual harassment cases to be handled by senior officers, issued by Secretary of Defence, Leon Panetta. According to the New York Times, the film has been credited with both encouraging victims to come forward, and galvanising procedural changes within the military itself.

Documentaries such as these appear to operate on both a deeply personal level, whilst effectively working to make definitive change. Although they may be a rarity, it is certainly encouraging. Despite the fact that humanitarian documentaries can be extremely flawed in their composition, the argument ultimately boils down to the way we perceive change. Is change restricted to formal, legislative action, or can it also refer to a change in attitude? Raising awareness is the germ of change, even if that change is a gradated one, beginning with a person who watches a documentary at home, and is inspired to seek out answers by themselves. However simplistic it may seem, any narrative that at least raises a few questions, or sparks interest in a previously unknown topic, can only be a positive thing. When the glossy veil of film is stripped away, the human rights issues at their core still remain – as long as we become aware of that, the documentary may still have the power to make a difference.

Hunting for Humour, Rape Jokes and Reginald D.

Reginald D. Hunter has been accused of many ‘isms’, but with increasing success and several awards to his (now household) name, he appears to be thriving off the attention. Indeed, his current tour, “In the Midst of Crackers”, kicks off with a few jokes about recent criticism, including allegations of anti-Semitism, and ubiquitous quibbles about use of the N-word.  Halfway through his set at the Pleasance Grand Theatre, Edinburgh, I flattered myself in fearing that I may turn out to be the opening joke in his next show—the grumpy feminist who accused him of misogyny.

I somewhat missed the boat with Hunter’s rise to notoriety, catching only snippets of his shows on television, and hearing rave reviews from many sources—even my boyfriend’s grandmother is a fan. So, I went along to see him with an open mind, confident in the knowledge that he’d be a suitable inaugural Fringe experience—interesting, intelligent, and the only artist I’d spend more than a tenner on all week.

To be fair to Mr Hunter, he had the audience hanging on his every word, speaking interestingly on family life, honesty and male fantasies. Retrospectively however, the set was peppered with warning signs of the impending descent into what I felt was an incoherent and ignorant commentary on feminism, rape and sexualisation. Hunter spoke about his own infidelities and the needs of women with an amiable style that hid an inherent disrespect, telling us how he’d cheated in most relationships. After making a joke about Bernard Manning’s bigotry, he preceded to morph into a more articulate, more intelligent, and thus far more dangerous version of him.

Discussing rape jokes, a salient issue at the Fringe and in the media, Hunter said the following: “rape jokes [are] one of the few safe ways you can push back”. In Hunter’s opinion, it is important that comedians openly discuss issues such as sexism and racism, and I respect him for that. However, Hunter also riffed off the idea that an audience member hearing a rape joke will not immediately decide to go out and commit the offence. Sexism and misogyny aside, the comment was just ignorant. Of course that probably wouldn’t happen, but rape jokes are a huge part of the systematic trivialisation of rape—if we can joke about it, it can’t be that bad, right?

Unlike Frankie Boyle or Jimmy Carr, with their ironically predictable shock tactics , Hunter is praised for an provocative style that actually provokes something – discussion. On top of that, his style is ruminative and  treacherously charming, and as he admits, his rich drawl has a “tonal quality” that “makes everything [he says] sound like it’s true.” Of course it often isn’t, and admirably he acknowledges that. However, during a Fringe festival which saw a feminist comic take the Foster’s prize, an incredibly harrowing play performed by  Indian rape victims, and a whole string of women “shouting back”, Hunter’s musings were more than uncomfortable, they were outdated and uninformed.

More than that, his suggestion that “pseudo-feminists” were claiming rape as a wholly female issue (followed by a tasteless joke about male rape on navy boats) ignores the fact that modern feminism is about equality, and that rape is a human issue. For a man who warmly slips into philosophical musings on “oneness”, the last five minutes of his show were uncharacteristic, and delivered with a far darker tone than his material earlier in the set.

His final offence was perhaps his worst, and epitomises why he is so unsettling. In a joke about a friend’s “sexual desperation”, he alluded, albeit briefly, to the sexual appeal of scantily clad women and the way in which men react to them. The joke drew us in, encouraging us to laugh at the friend who felt compelled to shout “WOMEN!” whenever he saw them, but the implication that men need to control themselves around the opposite sex was uncomfortably close to the idea of  female sexual responsibility. Leaving the theatre I was offended and angry, and found it frustratingly difficult to explain why.

Hunter’s greatest skill lies in his comedic ability to make you question your boundaries, your sensibilities and yourself. Opening the show with a response to critics forces you to question your own reactions, lest you too become one of the easily offended, politically correct types who don’t ‘get it.’ Before writing this I got in touch with Hunter, who was very lovely and happy to respond. He wrote:

‘I’m genuinely disappointed to know that my rant “seemed” misogynist to you. It wasn’t. Nor am I, ma’am.’

His surety made me question my own reaction even more, but I suppose that is the point of comedy such as this – to create questions. In truth, I am not sure I would label Hunter a misogynist, but in each brief allusion, joke or nugget he made a slight contribution to a culture of misogyny that I, among many others, no longer have time for. I’m disappointed too, Reginald.

Originally published by Bad Housekeeping. 

Singers who can't sing and cultural (s)expectations

Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Nick Cave, Joe Strummer, and Shane McGowan have something in common. They are the distinctive voices 20th century music: raspy, gravelly, soulful, familiar, they can each be recognised after a only a few notes, and we love them for it. They have interesting voices. But, interesting covers all manner of sins, doesn't it? In this case, it's a sort of euphemism. It means, amazing and wonderful and striking, but let's face it, it also highlights the fact that none of these singers are exactly pitch perfect.

Now, I'm not saying that every musician must be tuneful - singing is a very personal thing, voices can be loved or hated, and many of the chaps I just listed are bluesy storytellers, whose voices preach like performance poets, much like modern hip-hop artists. However, there does seem to be a bit of a double standard when it comes to female artists and the quality of their voices.

We have our soul singers, Dusty Springfield, Etta James and the gang, we have pop princesses like young Miley and Taylor Swift, or folksy alternatives such as Laura Marling, amongst many, many others. The difference is, the majority of successful, mainstream female artists are just, well, in tune - at least to my untrained ear. They may have unusual styles and be distinctive, they may not all sound like Disney princesses, some of them may be autotuned (Britney, I'm looking at you here) but it's extremely rare to find a famous female singer who corresponds with the rough and ready boys club. 

Perhaps its a self-perpetuating thing. Liam Gallagher loved The Beatles, and teenage busker-boys the world over love to play Wonderwall in return for spare change and the hearts of teenage gals. If I had a pound for every indie boy I've seen mumble gruffly into a microphone, I'd be able to buy myself an auto-tune machine. 

Obviously, this isn't a catch all theory. Every now and again we get a lady-singer with a weird and wonderful anti-voice. Janis Joplin sounded like sandpaper, steel and whisky, Patti Smith like an ethereal-but-angry-Cate-Blanchett-as-Galadriel-style-wonder-woman, and Karen O, well, she takes the stage like some kind of amplified banshee goddess. These women are iconic and they are interesting, but most notably, they are marginal. You're far less likely to see a young girl take the stage at a local music night professing herself to be the new Bjork, than you are to see a gangly four-piece lad-band attempt to harmonise the latest Arctic Monkey's track. NB: A strong accent does not necessarily a solid performance make. 

An exception to this rule, as ever, is the punk scene. Bands such as Los Campesinos!, Sonic Boom 6 and the US noise-group Sleigh Bells feature female singers whose voices are completely tuneless, and it completely doesn't matter. Their voices texture the music - it just wouldn't be the same with a sickly sweet pitch perfect voice. 

However, the double standard still remains in prominent solo artists - women are expected to have either powerful voices, or sweet voices - anything less and they'll edit yo' tuneless ass. Maybe it's a relic of an angelic-voice ideal, maybe people believe that girls really can charm birds from trees with their vocal chords, or maybe, just maybe, it is yet another example of cultural (s)expectation. It's a shame really - I quite like my dulcet tones. 

Top 5 Singers Who Can't Sing

1) Bob Dylan

2) Janis Joplin

3) Los Campesinos! 

4) Tom Waits

5) And finally, Phoebe Buffay. The bad singers' singer. 

Writing obituaries - a strange old part time job.

Recently I've been writing obituaries for The Times. Odd, but ridiculously exciting. I got into it after doing an internship in which I landed on the lovely Register desk, home of interest pieces, society announcements and obituaries, not exciting in an obvious way, like, say, Home News, but interesting nonetheless. After a week I was proven completely wrong. Obituaries are amazing. You take the life of a person who, though not always hugely famous, has achieved something wonderful, or quirky, or lasting. They made a mark, and you get a chance to honour that in a 600 word celebration of their life. I am hooked - I get to write creatively, and at the same time it feels like I am doing a nice thing. Plus, continuing it (for a fee) after the (unpaid) internship is helping me save for an adventure.

As The Times have an online subscription fee, I cannot reproduce the obituaries on here, but I'll put the links up in case any of you have forked for out the online edition. I have. Reluctantly. If not, then have a google of some of the people - they really are a pleasure to read about! Currently writing on Sushmita Banerjee and Sunila Abeysekera - both important, influential and inspiring women.


Jim Buck, the first professional dog walker 

Dixie Evans, Marilyn Monroe burlesque dancer 

Margaret Pellegrini, actress 

Leslie Land, garden writer and locavore 

Sathima Bea Benjamin, jazz singer 

Wu Dengming, environmentalist and activist 

Thoughts on Festivals

Festivals are weird, aren't they? On the one hand, they are a beautiful concept; people coming together to share music, take a break from day to day life, meet people and experience a different outlook on things. On the other hand, they are completely bloody stupid; 15,000 people chucked together in a field, laced with an increasing variety of intoxicating substances, poor sanitation and insufficient wet wipes. It's like paying £150, not to mention shaving a few months off your life expectancy, to be kettled.

However, it is this bizarre juxtaposition that makes the festival such a fascinating human ritual. Rarely do you experience a totally heavenly, or a totally hellish weekend. There are glimpses of both, from the euphoria of seeing your favourite band play against the back drop of a sentimental sunset, to watching a stranger be put into the recovery position and left, alone and vulnerable, at the side of the stage. It's unnerving. It's also exhilarating. 

This unique feeling of exhilaration found at certain festivals is also what fuels (and perpetuates) a lot of the madness. At this point I should say that I have been to several smaller, family friendly folk festivals (Shrewsbury and Cropredy, you paragons of goodness) but here I am referring to the larger and slightly wilder institutions such as Leeds, Reading, Latitude, Boomtown and the like. Everyone has their own festival nightmare tale, be it tents on fire, belongings stolen, or in some very sad cases, serious illness and even death. The majority of these incidents, alongside the wonderful experiences, are the results of a series of choices. So, just what is it that makes festival behaviour and the choices we make at them such a seemingly idiosyncratic phenomenon?

Well firstly, it isn't that idiosyncratic. In any large group of people there can be hints of the old mob mentality model - in a highly concentrated festival environment this can either lead to a pseudo-dystopian every-camper-for-themselves nature, or, rather more cheerfully, an inflated sense of camaraderie, company and body glitter all over everything. The way people behave at a festival can usually be traced to everyday human traits, it's just that in an enclosed space, a short time period and an extremely stimulating environment, everything becomes heightened. For example, when I attended Boomtown Fair this year, I was aware of its reputation at "The UK's Maddest City", but I was surprised to realise that the catchy tagline was, if anything, an understatement. It was bloody mental - anarchy exemplified, tucked away in a pleasant Winchester field. Waiting beyond the sniffer-dog-guarded gates was a sensory assault; too much colour, too much noise, too much alcohol and, if the citizens of this festival town were anything to go by, too many drugs, but it sucked you in within seconds and spat you out in an alternate reality.

I think for many people, that's what the modern festival is; a disordered, alternate reality, free of the constraints of everyday society - a diluted 21st century answer to Bacchanalian revelry. It's about more than music, it is about the character you can be come when you're there, and the boundaries you can push that just wouldn't be acceptable anywhere else. Or at least, that is the romanticised ideal. Often there are darker aspects. Amidst the colour and the music and the realm of the "free-spirit" (a part-time role that can be discarded come the next working Monday), you'll find a few people staggering about, a few people lost, and occasionally a few lay on the floor that won't be able to get up again. During this year's Boomtown Fair, me and my pals saw a man collapse during a gig, and though people stood around and helped as much as they could, there was a sense that, well, there was no sense - people had become totally desensitised to some of the more disturbing sights. Half an hour later and the gig was cancelled, the crowds were herded away and an ambulance had carted the man off. I felt a bit weird, but I carried on into the night and had a great old time. I'd gotten over seeing someone have a potentially life-threatening collapse in an hour or two because the rest of the festival was still so exciting. The next day rumours spread, two, three, possibly four dead, bad batch of ketamine, etc. It was an eye-opener to say the least.

It turned out that not all the rumours were false, and that one girl did die at the festival. Obviously, it could have happened in a variety of other situations, but it gets you thinking. Are more risks taken? Do people behave differently? On the whole, I would say yes. From opportunistic theft, to risk of injury, to dressing more outlandishly, people are affected by the environment. There are seemingly less consequences and almost no visible authority, and people thrive off it. Now, this isn't a morality tale and I'm not suggesting that festivals are completely unsafe. In many ways the change in character can often be liberating, exciting and above has the appeal of being temporary. Indeed for many people the festival experience genuinely is a way of life, and catching a glimpse of that every summer is a wonderful thing.

For me, the festival will always be an intoxicating vignette; vibrant, immersive, but above all fleeting. I have had some of my most important experiences, conversations and memories at festivals, and I genuinely don't think they would have happened were it not for the particular chemistry of that environment. For better or worse, it is something to see, so for all the behavioural analysis one can muster, I think the best thing to do is take a step back now and then, talk about it, think about it, then get back in the mud and the music and the dirty, glorious nature of it all. On reflection, I'll be doing just that.