Tonight I will be helping out at the Primary 5, 6 and 7 disco. This involves doling out juice and crisps and generally skulking about waiting for an opportunity to be embarrassing.
I have helped at discos before and it's always highly entertaining, not least because of the opportunity to analyse the behaviours of the different sexes. Girls spend a lot of time talking to each other behind their hands and the boys mostly slide about on their knees.
Men and women, boys and girls. Nature versus nurture. Skipping stones or shell collecting. How many words, how many prayers, how many sleepless nights of tortured thought have been devoted to unpicking the intricacies of the attachment between men and women and how to sustain it?
A few years ago I was lucky enough to witness a brief exchange between some children of my acquaintance which told me everything I needed to know. (Names have been changed to protect the innocents.)
The scene: A holiday cottage. Three families are staying there over Christmas. The children have known each other since they were very small, but see each other rarely. Two girls of about five are seated in companionable silence at the kitchen table, drawing, cutting out etc. Then;
Alice: We are really good friends aren't we Jane?
Jane: Yes Alice. You are my best friend. Are you my best friend?
Alice: Yes Jane. We are very best friends. Best friends in the world.
Jane: Yes. We are such good friends people think we are sisters don't they?
Alice: Yes! We like all the same things and we play together all the time don't we?
Jane. Yes. We do. And that is why we are best friends.
Alice: Yes:
The following day Alice and a little boy, also about five, are sitting at the kitchen table in companionable silence drawing, cutting out etc. Then:
Alice: We are really good friends, arent' we John?
John: Eh?
Alice: We are best friends.
John: leaning away from Alice and looking spooked, "Whaaaaaaat!?!"
Alice: We are best friends. We are like brother and sister.
John: Oh, MAN.
John pushes his chair away and gets down from the table and goes to the sitting room.
Alice: Oh.
A grown-up suggests Alice take some sweets through to John and that they watch "The Incredibles" together.
Five minutes later, John and Alice sit together watching "The Incredibles". They laugh together and occasionally comment on the action. When it is finished John jumps up:
John: Alice, do you want to come upstairs and see my GoGos? I've got MILLIONS.
Alice: Sure.
They head upstairs. John can be heard excitedly telling Alice about his GoGo collection and the special bag he has for them. Alice is laughing.
And there you have it. Putting it into practice is, of course, another matter.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Porn Again: An Innocent At The Home Office
The current edition of the Radio Times carries an interview with former Home Secretary Jacqui Smith to promote her forthcoming Radio 5 Live programme on porn. In it she talks about the scandal which erupted when it was revealed that she had claimed for pay-per-view porn watched by her husband.
It's fascinating stuff. But there is one disclosure in particular which brought me up short. The article states:
"...Jacqui Smith's most startling revelation is that she had no idea porn was so widely available on line. "I thought the attraction of porn was that it's illicit: you go into a private shop to buy a DVD. But what the Internet has done is to open up free, hard pornography to anybody of any age. I found that quite shocking.""
Gosh. What I find quite shocking is that a former Home Secretary was apparently unaware of the Internet's function as a giant porn machine.
What other miracles of the modern world might Ms. Smith be unfamiliar with? Squeezy bottles of tomato sauce? Pentapeptide skin technology? The horseless carriage? It does make one wonder how the conversation went when news of her husband's indiscretion was brought to her attention .... *screen goes wavy*
INT: The Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith, is seated at the desk, her head in her hands. She sighs, turns, picks up a small stick and loudly beats a gong positioned behind her chair. Almost immediately the door opens and two men enter. They are Sir Farquhar Monro, Permanent Secretary of the Department and the Minister's PS Bernard Sillitoe.
Sir F: You rang Minister?
BS: (Pointing gingerly at the desk.) You do remember Minister, you have the buzzer?
JS: Oh for the love of God Bernard! I've told you, I've no truck with the damn thing. It's just something else is going to break down on you. Now sit, please. I'm afraid we, I, have a situation.
Sir F: Is it, by any chance Minister, a matter relating to your husband and what one's aide de camp might refer to as "gentleman's entertainment"?
JS. Good God. Yes. How did you know?
Sir F: Ah, the jungle drums Minister, the jungle drums.
JS: For Christ's sake Farquhar! I may not be into Bebo and whatnot but surely we can use a bloody telephone!
Sir F: Ah yes, figure of speech Minister. I merely meant that such news tends to travel fast.
JS. Oh. Right. Well you probably know I've mistakenly claimed for some er, entertainment through pay-per-view. God knows how that works. Maybe it's a collector's thing like in the Sunday supplements. You know, where you buy one DVD and then you get a set in a ring binder. And the magazine comes with it. I got a very good offer on Little House on the Prairie.
Sir F: I'm sorry Minister, I don't follow.
JS: Pay-per-view Farquhar! They said he got it pay-per-view! You must pay per DVD you view! Or for every peek through one of those little holes in the wall, or something. I thought you were a man of the world!
Sir F: Ahem. I see. No Minister, pay per view refers to a service offered by satellite and digital broadcasters where one pays to view a particular, er, item on the television.
JS: What!? You can get a porno on the telly?! But that's ludicrous!
BS; Well, indeed Minister, given what you can get on-line for free, and with a bit of forethought not even your mother would know what you'd been looking at especially not if you...
Sir F: (Hastily) Yes, thank-you Bernard. Ah, Minister, I must inform you that we men about town, we blades, we tomcats, as it were, are no longer restricted to a fly blown Penthouse wedged under the tennis club hut. No, no, these days most pornography is viewed via the Internet.
JS. Oh don't be ridiculous Farquhar. The Internet is for terrorists and swimming hamsters and that sort of thing.
Sir F: That may be Minister, but I can assure you that if you have an interest in erm, carnal matters, the Internet is the best thing since sliced bread.
JS: What do you mean sliced bread?
Sir F: (Starting to look really quite concerned.) Again it is a figure of speech Minister. Used to denote a breakthrough, a user friendly innovation akin to the introduction of ready sliced bread.
JS: I'm not familiar. I always buy a nice cottage loaf.
A silence descends. Sir F and Bernard are at a loss.
JS: (Sadly) I've never understood what people see in these films anyway.
Sir F: Well, they can be a boon to those who live a lonely existence Minister.
JS: No I mean I don't know what they can see. How do they know what's going on when it's in the dark? Even if you had your shorty nightie on, you're under the covers two minutes in.
Sir F: Ah. I think Minister the makers of such entertainment are perhaps economical with the actualite when it comes to the depiction of..., of..., an act of love. It is likely, for example, to be unnaturally well lit.
JS: (Wringing her hands) Stop! Please! I have no desire to look into the mouth of the beast!
Sir F: (Gently) Yes Minister. This is all most trying for you. We must of course issue a statement as a matter of urgency..
JS: Of course, of course. (Checking her watch) The girls in the typing pool will be keen to catch a tram before nightfall.
BS: Actually Minister, I may have mentioned we no longer have a typ...
Sir F: Yes Bernard, we must not become mired in inconsequential detail at this most difficult and sensitive juncture.
JS: Thank you Farquhar. You have been very kind. Now I must fix myself up a bit before I face the press. (Thoughtfully..) Perhaps I should give an interview to the Manchester Guardian, they've always been very supportive... I shall plug in my Carmen rollers and be with you in a jiffy...
BS: I'm not sure if you're aware Minister but if it's big hair with a salon finish you're looking for the Babyliss Big Hair is getting a very good press at the moment...
Sir F: Yes. Thank-you Bernard. Now about those expenses for the Heads of Department strategy weekend, I think it might be best if the claims are sent direct to me....
ENDS
It's fascinating stuff. But there is one disclosure in particular which brought me up short. The article states:
"...Jacqui Smith's most startling revelation is that she had no idea porn was so widely available on line. "I thought the attraction of porn was that it's illicit: you go into a private shop to buy a DVD. But what the Internet has done is to open up free, hard pornography to anybody of any age. I found that quite shocking.""
Gosh. What I find quite shocking is that a former Home Secretary was apparently unaware of the Internet's function as a giant porn machine.
What other miracles of the modern world might Ms. Smith be unfamiliar with? Squeezy bottles of tomato sauce? Pentapeptide skin technology? The horseless carriage? It does make one wonder how the conversation went when news of her husband's indiscretion was brought to her attention .... *screen goes wavy*
INT: The Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith, is seated at the desk, her head in her hands. She sighs, turns, picks up a small stick and loudly beats a gong positioned behind her chair. Almost immediately the door opens and two men enter. They are Sir Farquhar Monro, Permanent Secretary of the Department and the Minister's PS Bernard Sillitoe.
Sir F: You rang Minister?
BS: (Pointing gingerly at the desk.) You do remember Minister, you have the buzzer?
JS: Oh for the love of God Bernard! I've told you, I've no truck with the damn thing. It's just something else is going to break down on you. Now sit, please. I'm afraid we, I, have a situation.
Sir F: Is it, by any chance Minister, a matter relating to your husband and what one's aide de camp might refer to as "gentleman's entertainment"?
JS. Good God. Yes. How did you know?
Sir F: Ah, the jungle drums Minister, the jungle drums.
JS: For Christ's sake Farquhar! I may not be into Bebo and whatnot but surely we can use a bloody telephone!
Sir F: Ah yes, figure of speech Minister. I merely meant that such news tends to travel fast.
JS. Oh. Right. Well you probably know I've mistakenly claimed for some er, entertainment through pay-per-view. God knows how that works. Maybe it's a collector's thing like in the Sunday supplements. You know, where you buy one DVD and then you get a set in a ring binder. And the magazine comes with it. I got a very good offer on Little House on the Prairie.
Sir F: I'm sorry Minister, I don't follow.
JS: Pay-per-view Farquhar! They said he got it pay-per-view! You must pay per DVD you view! Or for every peek through one of those little holes in the wall, or something. I thought you were a man of the world!
Sir F: Ahem. I see. No Minister, pay per view refers to a service offered by satellite and digital broadcasters where one pays to view a particular, er, item on the television.
JS: What!? You can get a porno on the telly?! But that's ludicrous!
BS; Well, indeed Minister, given what you can get on-line for free, and with a bit of forethought not even your mother would know what you'd been looking at especially not if you...
Sir F: (Hastily) Yes, thank-you Bernard. Ah, Minister, I must inform you that we men about town, we blades, we tomcats, as it were, are no longer restricted to a fly blown Penthouse wedged under the tennis club hut. No, no, these days most pornography is viewed via the Internet.
JS. Oh don't be ridiculous Farquhar. The Internet is for terrorists and swimming hamsters and that sort of thing.
Sir F: That may be Minister, but I can assure you that if you have an interest in erm, carnal matters, the Internet is the best thing since sliced bread.
JS: What do you mean sliced bread?
Sir F: (Starting to look really quite concerned.) Again it is a figure of speech Minister. Used to denote a breakthrough, a user friendly innovation akin to the introduction of ready sliced bread.
JS: I'm not familiar. I always buy a nice cottage loaf.
A silence descends. Sir F and Bernard are at a loss.
JS: (Sadly) I've never understood what people see in these films anyway.
Sir F: Well, they can be a boon to those who live a lonely existence Minister.
JS: No I mean I don't know what they can see. How do they know what's going on when it's in the dark? Even if you had your shorty nightie on, you're under the covers two minutes in.
Sir F: Ah. I think Minister the makers of such entertainment are perhaps economical with the actualite when it comes to the depiction of..., of..., an act of love. It is likely, for example, to be unnaturally well lit.
JS: (Wringing her hands) Stop! Please! I have no desire to look into the mouth of the beast!
Sir F: (Gently) Yes Minister. This is all most trying for you. We must of course issue a statement as a matter of urgency..
JS: Of course, of course. (Checking her watch) The girls in the typing pool will be keen to catch a tram before nightfall.
BS: Actually Minister, I may have mentioned we no longer have a typ...
Sir F: Yes Bernard, we must not become mired in inconsequential detail at this most difficult and sensitive juncture.
JS: Thank you Farquhar. You have been very kind. Now I must fix myself up a bit before I face the press. (Thoughtfully..) Perhaps I should give an interview to the Manchester Guardian, they've always been very supportive... I shall plug in my Carmen rollers and be with you in a jiffy...
BS: I'm not sure if you're aware Minister but if it's big hair with a salon finish you're looking for the Babyliss Big Hair is getting a very good press at the moment...
Sir F: Yes. Thank-you Bernard. Now about those expenses for the Heads of Department strategy weekend, I think it might be best if the claims are sent direct to me....
ENDS
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Food Perversion That's A Real Turn Off
Today I mentioned on Twitter that I had eaten banana on toast. I am sorry to bring this up, particularly because it will confirm the prejudices of those who think that Twitter is a stream of inanities such as "Just had banana on toast.", or "Off 2 work! LOL!!" or "Cutting up dead bodies is harder than you think." But in the end the need to share my story with the world appears to have gotten the better of me, so here we are.
My tale of banana on toast got quite a reaction I can tell you. Very soon literally* scores** of tweeters were sharing their banana on toast experiences. And there I was at the epicentre of it, like Nigel Slater at a greasy hair convention.
I'd like to be able to say that it was heartwarming and made me go all fuzzy inside, like when I see James McAvoy's forearms, but the truth is I was left rather disturbed by the whole thing. Why? Because of what it revealed about my fellow tweeters' eating habits.
For example, one person responded that they hoped I had put sugar on it. Sugar. On banana on toast. Er, yeah. Great idea. Why not go the whole hog and sprinkle it with DIAMONDS?!
This got me thinking about Great Food Perversions of Our Time. Not obvious perversions like a daylight kebab. No, something much darker which, once discovered, cannot be wished away.
You might be rubbing along quite nicely with some new acquaintance, discovering a shared love of the Doobie Brothers and candlewick dressing gowns, when they mention casually that they put garlic in their carbonara. There's just no coming back from that is there?
Growing up in Scotland the greatest barometer of food perversion was mince, for no two Mums' minces ever taste the same. It is also a truth universally acknowledged that one Mum's mince is another child's nightmare. It is the epicurean equivalent of the "smelly lobby"; that strange smell of "otherness" that hovers on the landings of certain houses not your own and enables you to experience anew the intoxicating, familiar scent of home.
For a child missing home, different foods only add to the heartache. When my Mum was in hospital having my little brother, my elder brother and I were farmed out to neighbours who, very kindly, gave us our tea. I remember well the look of anxious distress in my brother's eyes when we were given spaghetti hoops on toast. " This is all very well, " he whispered, "but where is the meal?"
It was an important milestone in our young lives to realise that not everyone ate oxtail stew with prunes on a regular basis.
I leave you with some of the food perversions which have made a lasting impact on me. I'd love to hear about yours.
When Sweet Turns Sour
Inappropriate sugaring looms large in my food perversions. Sugar on bananas on toast we have already discussed. Sugar on french toast (or "eggy bread" if you must) is another. I am not averse to french toast with, say, a caramelised pear or a wee bit of chocolate sauce, but a naked sprinkle of sugar is prime perversion.
Likewise of course sugar in porridge. If God had wanted you to put sugar in porridge he wouldn't have invented Ricicles.
Tommy Sauce; The Rules
Tomato sauce is acceptable thusly: on burgers, with chips and in macaroni cheese. That's your lot. Tommy Sauce particularly has no place near an egg of any description.
A Has-Bean Friend
I once went on a cottage holiday in the far north west of Scotland with a group of lifelong friends. Those of you who have done this will know that there is nowhere to hide a culinary peccadillo. I could only watch with horror as a woman I had known all my life tipped a tin of baked beans into, yes, you've guessed it, the mince. To say that it caused a rift would be something of an understatement.
Scotch Broth: Barley Making Sense
Scotch Broth without barley is like making love without hot buttered toast. I rest my case.
*by literally I mean not at all literally
**by scores I mean "one or two"
My tale of banana on toast got quite a reaction I can tell you. Very soon literally* scores** of tweeters were sharing their banana on toast experiences. And there I was at the epicentre of it, like Nigel Slater at a greasy hair convention.
I'd like to be able to say that it was heartwarming and made me go all fuzzy inside, like when I see James McAvoy's forearms, but the truth is I was left rather disturbed by the whole thing. Why? Because of what it revealed about my fellow tweeters' eating habits.
For example, one person responded that they hoped I had put sugar on it. Sugar. On banana on toast. Er, yeah. Great idea. Why not go the whole hog and sprinkle it with DIAMONDS?!
This got me thinking about Great Food Perversions of Our Time. Not obvious perversions like a daylight kebab. No, something much darker which, once discovered, cannot be wished away.
You might be rubbing along quite nicely with some new acquaintance, discovering a shared love of the Doobie Brothers and candlewick dressing gowns, when they mention casually that they put garlic in their carbonara. There's just no coming back from that is there?
Growing up in Scotland the greatest barometer of food perversion was mince, for no two Mums' minces ever taste the same. It is also a truth universally acknowledged that one Mum's mince is another child's nightmare. It is the epicurean equivalent of the "smelly lobby"; that strange smell of "otherness" that hovers on the landings of certain houses not your own and enables you to experience anew the intoxicating, familiar scent of home.
For a child missing home, different foods only add to the heartache. When my Mum was in hospital having my little brother, my elder brother and I were farmed out to neighbours who, very kindly, gave us our tea. I remember well the look of anxious distress in my brother's eyes when we were given spaghetti hoops on toast. " This is all very well, " he whispered, "but where is the meal?"
It was an important milestone in our young lives to realise that not everyone ate oxtail stew with prunes on a regular basis.
I leave you with some of the food perversions which have made a lasting impact on me. I'd love to hear about yours.
When Sweet Turns Sour
Inappropriate sugaring looms large in my food perversions. Sugar on bananas on toast we have already discussed. Sugar on french toast (or "eggy bread" if you must) is another. I am not averse to french toast with, say, a caramelised pear or a wee bit of chocolate sauce, but a naked sprinkle of sugar is prime perversion.
Likewise of course sugar in porridge. If God had wanted you to put sugar in porridge he wouldn't have invented Ricicles.
Tommy Sauce; The Rules
Tomato sauce is acceptable thusly: on burgers, with chips and in macaroni cheese. That's your lot. Tommy Sauce particularly has no place near an egg of any description.
A Has-Bean Friend
I once went on a cottage holiday in the far north west of Scotland with a group of lifelong friends. Those of you who have done this will know that there is nowhere to hide a culinary peccadillo. I could only watch with horror as a woman I had known all my life tipped a tin of baked beans into, yes, you've guessed it, the mince. To say that it caused a rift would be something of an understatement.
Scotch Broth: Barley Making Sense
Scotch Broth without barley is like making love without hot buttered toast. I rest my case.
*by literally I mean not at all literally
**by scores I mean "one or two"
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
FIRST KISS
For some reason my first kiss popped into my head today.
It wasn't like first kisses in the movies which happen at the Prom, or on the bleachers bathed in golden twilight. I didn't have a crush on the boy. He didn't pass me notes in class or carry my books home.
He was German and was on holiday in the little seaside town I grew up in. I think I was 13, maybe 14. We had gone to the beach, my friends and I, because someone said there were German lads staying in the Church of Scotland holiday home. This would not have been my idea. I wasn't interested in boys. (I wasn't interested in girls either). I had a proper crush on Paul Newman after watching "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" and it was pretty hard to compete with that, to be honest.
I found my friends' endless discussion of boys mind numbingly tedious. I thought it was phoney and idiotic. I just didn't get it. I always wanted to say "No, he's not looking at you. Now can we go for chips?" But I didn't because I was a coward and I knew that the path of truth would lead to long lunch hours on my own at the social suicide end of the tennis courts.
Anyway, it was just as well I wasn't interested in boys because they weren't much interested in me. I had long brown hair in plaits, wore vests, played the violin and looked about 11. Let's put it this way, I was no Julie Wallace. (She became an air hostess.)
So it was all the more perplexing when we arrived at the beach and found the German boys and one of them was interested in me. I can't remember how this became apparent but it did. I don't' remember his name. I know I didn't fancy him and was frankly terrified because he was 15 or 16 and was wearing clogs.
After my friends got over their astonishment, they quickly made it their business to steamroller my increasingly desperate objections and force me at hissing point into a walk along the cliff top path with clog boy.
We walked along in silence. I don't remember how good his English was, but my German, gleaned from my brother's "Battle" comics, consisted mainly of "Raus!" and "Schnell!" which my nascent sense of diplomacy told me was probably best avoided.
We stopped at the end of the path. Panic and embarrassment swelled in my vest clad chest as I sensed that the time was nigh. I remember closing my eyes and thinking "Okay. Let's get this over with." I think I stopped just shy of holding my nose.
And then he kissed me. Who knows what it was like really? In my memory it has become a classic teenage teeth grinding nightmare, like pressing your lips against the boring machine that dug the Channel Tunnel. I do remember that he smoked and that the taste of stale, tarry cigarettes was overwhelming.
A few minutes later it was over. I said goodbye and ran home, the taste of ashes in my mouth.
It wasn't like first kisses in the movies which happen at the Prom, or on the bleachers bathed in golden twilight. I didn't have a crush on the boy. He didn't pass me notes in class or carry my books home.
He was German and was on holiday in the little seaside town I grew up in. I think I was 13, maybe 14. We had gone to the beach, my friends and I, because someone said there were German lads staying in the Church of Scotland holiday home. This would not have been my idea. I wasn't interested in boys. (I wasn't interested in girls either). I had a proper crush on Paul Newman after watching "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" and it was pretty hard to compete with that, to be honest.
I found my friends' endless discussion of boys mind numbingly tedious. I thought it was phoney and idiotic. I just didn't get it. I always wanted to say "No, he's not looking at you. Now can we go for chips?" But I didn't because I was a coward and I knew that the path of truth would lead to long lunch hours on my own at the social suicide end of the tennis courts.
Anyway, it was just as well I wasn't interested in boys because they weren't much interested in me. I had long brown hair in plaits, wore vests, played the violin and looked about 11. Let's put it this way, I was no Julie Wallace. (She became an air hostess.)
So it was all the more perplexing when we arrived at the beach and found the German boys and one of them was interested in me. I can't remember how this became apparent but it did. I don't' remember his name. I know I didn't fancy him and was frankly terrified because he was 15 or 16 and was wearing clogs.
After my friends got over their astonishment, they quickly made it their business to steamroller my increasingly desperate objections and force me at hissing point into a walk along the cliff top path with clog boy.
We walked along in silence. I don't remember how good his English was, but my German, gleaned from my brother's "Battle" comics, consisted mainly of "Raus!" and "Schnell!" which my nascent sense of diplomacy told me was probably best avoided.
We stopped at the end of the path. Panic and embarrassment swelled in my vest clad chest as I sensed that the time was nigh. I remember closing my eyes and thinking "Okay. Let's get this over with." I think I stopped just shy of holding my nose.
And then he kissed me. Who knows what it was like really? In my memory it has become a classic teenage teeth grinding nightmare, like pressing your lips against the boring machine that dug the Channel Tunnel. I do remember that he smoked and that the taste of stale, tarry cigarettes was overwhelming.
A few minutes later it was over. I said goodbye and ran home, the taste of ashes in my mouth.
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
How to Have the Best Burns Night Ever, Eh No?
Today's the proud day when the eyes of the world are upon my own wee home country of Scotchland. Och Aye and, let us not forget, the noo. All over the globe men, women and transgender folk are gathering round their i-pads to celebrate the birth/death/life (Note to research: check that will you? I've got cocktails at six, then Brahms at the Usher Hall) of our greatest shagger and poet/lyricist.
Yes, it's Marti Pellow Night! When citizens of the greatest small non-sovereign nation north of and attached to England join together to take heroin and sing "Ilikekickinginthegutter and-a Wishin' Ah Wiz Lucky", while mincin' aboot like they've goat a bad case o' piles.
But jings! Ah'm huvin ye's oan, so ah am! Marti Pellow night's no' till the morra right enuff, eh no? Tonight is of course Burns Night when, just fur a wee change, "supper" consists of oatmeal and the heart and lungs of lamb chopped and nestled in the stomach of a sheep, then boiled for 8 hours. I can see youse ur thinkin' "Oh, fur a nice bowl of Special K and a wee Blue Riband!" eh?
Noo, noo, dinnae get your sporran up yer erchie, sure the haggis n' neeps n'tatties is pure delish and us lot eat it a' year roon' (Ed: Good Christ, can you imagine?!)
But it has come to our attention here at The Absurdist Tartan Towers that a guid wheen o' folk dinnae ken how to put oan a Burns Supper! Michty! Whit would Andrew O'Hagan say? So, we've goat the gither to bring youse the pure definitive guide to the best and brawest Burns Night EVER!
The Food
Of course the traditional and aforementioned haggis (or in the plural haggisarium) is the centrepiece of the feast. Remember that it must be de-boned and thoroughly plucked before serving. Ask your local specialist Gaelic butcher to do this for you. Next the neep (or neeps, plural). Neep, more commonly known as turnip or "boak", is an orange root vegetable which should be vigorously boiled until it achieves the consistency of lumpy wet cardboard. You can smother it with butter and salt to bring out/disguise the flavour, but where's the fun in that? Finally, champit tatties which even youse eejits fae doon south surely cannae balls up.
Everything must be served either piping, PIPING, hot so that it sticks to the roof of your mouth, scarring the tender flesh thereof quite hideously, or, stone cold.
The Speeches
The most celebrated part of Burns Night where the works of the Great Brad (short for Bradley, Burns' middle name, not many people know that...) are given voice and life, and have been passed down through the generations like a peculiar genetic disorder.
Address to the Haggis
First The Address to the Haggis when a portly gentleman with a sizeable beer gut must bring on a minor stroke by bellowing "Fair fa' your honest sonsie face, Great Chieftain O' the Puddin Race" at the guests before stabbing the haggis, or haggisariearium if it's a large gathering, in the buttocks until blood is drawn or until the haggis concedes defeat. You can place a photo of First Minister Alex Salmond on the haggis if you wish, and if that is not freely available a picture of look-a-like X Factor contender Wagner will do just as well.
After the haggis has been disemboweled, the sheep's stomach casing is placed on the head while the assembled company sing "I Love a cookie, A Co-Operative cookie, You can tell it's Co-Operative by the smell. " (It is of course essential to correctly pronounce Co-operative, as "CO-PER-AY-TIVE"; or the thing doesnae scan and you will sound like a numpty.)
Toast to The Lassies
It's now time for a toast to the lassies. This is the point at which Andy Gray and Richard Keys denigrate the ladies present, ridiculing the notion that there were ever any great woman poets, ending with the famous line, "Emily Dickinson? Do me a favour love."
Response to the Toast to the Lassies
The women then respond to the toast either by giggling, feeling Andy's biceps and offering to give him his favourite fish tea, or by punching him to the ground, depending on whether or not the event is being held in the 21st century.
Finally all guests must stand and shout "Weel Done Cutty Sark!" while pulling the pony tail of the person to their left and sooking a Lee's macaroon bar.
And so, with the formal part of the ceremonies over, the company can now let their kilts oot and get on with the serious business of getting hammered on Scotmid blended whisky.
You do have some leeway in terms of entertainment for this final part of the evening. Old favourites include a screening of "An Audience with Billy Connolly", burning an effigy of Thatcher or a classic cabaret with Lulu belting out Deacon Blue's "Dignity" from atop a giant Tunnock's Tea Cake.
And so, as the evening draws to a close, all that remains to be done is join in one last rousing chorus of that great romantic ballad, "Stop Your Tickling Jock" and to take pride in this great and forward looking nation of ours, soon to have its very own digital TV channel if somebody would only stump up the readies.
Yes, it's Marti Pellow Night! When citizens of the greatest small non-sovereign nation north of and attached to England join together to take heroin and sing "Ilikekickinginthegutter and-a Wishin' Ah Wiz Lucky", while mincin' aboot like they've goat a bad case o' piles.
But jings! Ah'm huvin ye's oan, so ah am! Marti Pellow night's no' till the morra right enuff, eh no? Tonight is of course Burns Night when, just fur a wee change, "supper" consists of oatmeal and the heart and lungs of lamb chopped and nestled in the stomach of a sheep, then boiled for 8 hours. I can see youse ur thinkin' "Oh, fur a nice bowl of Special K and a wee Blue Riband!" eh?
Noo, noo, dinnae get your sporran up yer erchie, sure the haggis n' neeps n'tatties is pure delish and us lot eat it a' year roon' (Ed: Good Christ, can you imagine?!)
But it has come to our attention here at The Absurdist Tartan Towers that a guid wheen o' folk dinnae ken how to put oan a Burns Supper! Michty! Whit would Andrew O'Hagan say? So, we've goat the gither to bring youse the pure definitive guide to the best and brawest Burns Night EVER!
The Food
Of course the traditional and aforementioned haggis (or in the plural haggisarium) is the centrepiece of the feast. Remember that it must be de-boned and thoroughly plucked before serving. Ask your local specialist Gaelic butcher to do this for you. Next the neep (or neeps, plural). Neep, more commonly known as turnip or "boak", is an orange root vegetable which should be vigorously boiled until it achieves the consistency of lumpy wet cardboard. You can smother it with butter and salt to bring out/disguise the flavour, but where's the fun in that? Finally, champit tatties which even youse eejits fae doon south surely cannae balls up.
Everything must be served either piping, PIPING, hot so that it sticks to the roof of your mouth, scarring the tender flesh thereof quite hideously, or, stone cold.
The Speeches
The most celebrated part of Burns Night where the works of the Great Brad (short for Bradley, Burns' middle name, not many people know that...) are given voice and life, and have been passed down through the generations like a peculiar genetic disorder.
Address to the Haggis
First The Address to the Haggis when a portly gentleman with a sizeable beer gut must bring on a minor stroke by bellowing "Fair fa' your honest sonsie face, Great Chieftain O' the Puddin Race" at the guests before stabbing the haggis, or haggisariearium if it's a large gathering, in the buttocks until blood is drawn or until the haggis concedes defeat. You can place a photo of First Minister Alex Salmond on the haggis if you wish, and if that is not freely available a picture of look-a-like X Factor contender Wagner will do just as well.
After the haggis has been disemboweled, the sheep's stomach casing is placed on the head while the assembled company sing "I Love a cookie, A Co-Operative cookie, You can tell it's Co-Operative by the smell. " (It is of course essential to correctly pronounce Co-operative, as "CO-PER-AY-TIVE"; or the thing doesnae scan and you will sound like a numpty.)
Toast to The Lassies
It's now time for a toast to the lassies. This is the point at which Andy Gray and Richard Keys denigrate the ladies present, ridiculing the notion that there were ever any great woman poets, ending with the famous line, "Emily Dickinson? Do me a favour love."
Response to the Toast to the Lassies
The women then respond to the toast either by giggling, feeling Andy's biceps and offering to give him his favourite fish tea, or by punching him to the ground, depending on whether or not the event is being held in the 21st century.
Finally all guests must stand and shout "Weel Done Cutty Sark!" while pulling the pony tail of the person to their left and sooking a Lee's macaroon bar.
And so, with the formal part of the ceremonies over, the company can now let their kilts oot and get on with the serious business of getting hammered on Scotmid blended whisky.
You do have some leeway in terms of entertainment for this final part of the evening. Old favourites include a screening of "An Audience with Billy Connolly", burning an effigy of Thatcher or a classic cabaret with Lulu belting out Deacon Blue's "Dignity" from atop a giant Tunnock's Tea Cake.
And so, as the evening draws to a close, all that remains to be done is join in one last rousing chorus of that great romantic ballad, "Stop Your Tickling Jock" and to take pride in this great and forward looking nation of ours, soon to have its very own digital TV channel if somebody would only stump up the readies.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
A Taxing Problem For Us All
So the Scottish Parliament has flexed its muscles in order to administer a rap on the knuckles to a somewhat penitent SNP Finance Secretary John Swinney over the Scottish Variable Rate (SVR) tax stushie.
Despite early attempts by the SNP to tough it out, yesterday in Parliament Mr Swinney expressed regret for an "error of judgement", acknowledging that the Parliament should have been informed from the beginning of the negotiations with HM Revenue and Customs (HMRC) over the cost of collecting the tax.
It is true that some commentators, and no doubt a fair few voters, are struggling to care about who said what to whom over the Bill for an IT system to collect a tax that none of the major Scottish parties have any intention of implementing. It is also true that claims that the power had been "lost" or even that it had "lapsed" were inaccurate. The tax varying power remains a power within The Scotland Act. The issue is one of technical capability, not legal competence.
Still there is also force in the counter argument that a power in principle is no more than wishful thinking if no practical means of exercising it exists; and that a fundamental power such as this should not have been allowed to wither on the vine, certainly not without full democratic scrutiny.
The issue of funding for HMRC to support the collection of SVR appears now to be more complicated than was obvious from Scottish Secretary Michael Moore's initial letter. In some ways this plays strongly to the advantage of the SNP since it highlights the difficulty of a devolved Government achieving its objectives when the agencies tasked with delivery are not under their control.
Conversely however, the extent to which an apparently simple and clear objective (the ability to vary tax by 3p) has become mired in administrative detail is also a timely reminder that Governments can have all the legal powers their hearts desire, but they don't amount to a hill of beans without effective policy execution.
No doubt lessons will be learned from this saga to inform the implementation of the tax provisions contained in the forthcoming Scotland Bill, (which takes forward the proposals of the Calman Commission). Not least that a detailed and public memorandum of understanding about the roles of the Scottish Government, HMRC and the Parliament might be useful.
There is now talk of an inquiry by the Parliament's Finance Committee. Many issues are yet to be clarified, but it does seem that the funding decisions were complex, and quite finely balanced. You might well disagree with Mr Swinney's decision not to commit the necessary funding, but it is more difficult to see it as entirely unreasonable.
It is on the question of transparency that Mr Swinney and his Cabinet colleagues were arguably most vulnerable, and indeed in expressing regret he has acknowledged as much. It does now seem that his statement to Parliament that he did not intend to raise the Scottish variable rate was a little like proclaiming "Don't worry, I won't shoot!" when in fact there were no bullets in the gun.
However, the way in which this tale has unfolded also raises wider issues of transparency in the political context. Specifically the extent to which the business of politics can make honesty a risky policy. Had Mr Swinney come to the Parliament seeking views on the HMRC funding request, would this have been treated objectively and sensitively by the opposition parties? Maybe. Maybe not.
If the SNP had proposed refusing to provide funds their opponents could have challenged their credentials as the party seeking greater powers for Scotland. If they had argued in favour of funding, they might have been criticised for wasting public funds on a vanity project; shelling out cash in order to retain a power they had no intention of using, (partly because the new Calman inspired tax powers are waiting in the wings).
I have written before about how hard it is for politicians to meet the expectations of the electorate. We claim to want politicans who listen and respond and yet often they are castigated for indecision, "u-turns" or "flip-flopping". Senior politicans may be many things but most of them are not daft. They behave the way they do, they play politics they way they do, because they are rewarded for it.
We may decry knockabout politics but it gets headlines and it lands electoral punches. The difficulty is that clarity, openness and honesty can be the first casualties. To return to SVR, it has been very difficult as an interested, never mind casual observer, to follow the facts of this story.
The initial letter from the Scottish Secretary, whilst opening the issue up for debate, was scant on detail and arguably rather partial when it came to the facts of funding negotiations. For their part the Scottish Government were slow to release written details of what had gone on. At the time of writing, I have still not been able to find any mention of the SVR stushie on its website. It may be there, but it's certainly not easy to find.
All of this makes it pretty tough for a concerned voter to get a handle on the facts and who to believe. Why does that matter? It matters because it is an issue of trust. We are forever being told that trust in politicans is at an all time low. Much of the blame for that can be laid at the door of Westminster politicans who behaved so badly over their parliamentary expenses.
But trust is also a problem because too often the politicians seem only to be talking amongst themselves. The focus of their energy is on winning the argument, making a case, dodging a bullet. Sometimes you can do all of these things very successfully, but is that the same as making things better?
This week saw the broadcast of "Mandelson -The Real PM?" where the arch politician of our times described himself as a "professional politician". And perhaps that sums it up. That word, "professional". It prioritises politics for its own sake, rather than as an agent of positive change. I don't mean to suggest that politicians don't care about voters. In my experience they do. Only that sometimes they may need to be reminded not to behave as if the politics is an end in itself. And that's a taxing problem for us all.
Despite early attempts by the SNP to tough it out, yesterday in Parliament Mr Swinney expressed regret for an "error of judgement", acknowledging that the Parliament should have been informed from the beginning of the negotiations with HM Revenue and Customs (HMRC) over the cost of collecting the tax.
It is true that some commentators, and no doubt a fair few voters, are struggling to care about who said what to whom over the Bill for an IT system to collect a tax that none of the major Scottish parties have any intention of implementing. It is also true that claims that the power had been "lost" or even that it had "lapsed" were inaccurate. The tax varying power remains a power within The Scotland Act. The issue is one of technical capability, not legal competence.
Still there is also force in the counter argument that a power in principle is no more than wishful thinking if no practical means of exercising it exists; and that a fundamental power such as this should not have been allowed to wither on the vine, certainly not without full democratic scrutiny.
The issue of funding for HMRC to support the collection of SVR appears now to be more complicated than was obvious from Scottish Secretary Michael Moore's initial letter. In some ways this plays strongly to the advantage of the SNP since it highlights the difficulty of a devolved Government achieving its objectives when the agencies tasked with delivery are not under their control.
Conversely however, the extent to which an apparently simple and clear objective (the ability to vary tax by 3p) has become mired in administrative detail is also a timely reminder that Governments can have all the legal powers their hearts desire, but they don't amount to a hill of beans without effective policy execution.
No doubt lessons will be learned from this saga to inform the implementation of the tax provisions contained in the forthcoming Scotland Bill, (which takes forward the proposals of the Calman Commission). Not least that a detailed and public memorandum of understanding about the roles of the Scottish Government, HMRC and the Parliament might be useful.
There is now talk of an inquiry by the Parliament's Finance Committee. Many issues are yet to be clarified, but it does seem that the funding decisions were complex, and quite finely balanced. You might well disagree with Mr Swinney's decision not to commit the necessary funding, but it is more difficult to see it as entirely unreasonable.
It is on the question of transparency that Mr Swinney and his Cabinet colleagues were arguably most vulnerable, and indeed in expressing regret he has acknowledged as much. It does now seem that his statement to Parliament that he did not intend to raise the Scottish variable rate was a little like proclaiming "Don't worry, I won't shoot!" when in fact there were no bullets in the gun.
However, the way in which this tale has unfolded also raises wider issues of transparency in the political context. Specifically the extent to which the business of politics can make honesty a risky policy. Had Mr Swinney come to the Parliament seeking views on the HMRC funding request, would this have been treated objectively and sensitively by the opposition parties? Maybe. Maybe not.
If the SNP had proposed refusing to provide funds their opponents could have challenged their credentials as the party seeking greater powers for Scotland. If they had argued in favour of funding, they might have been criticised for wasting public funds on a vanity project; shelling out cash in order to retain a power they had no intention of using, (partly because the new Calman inspired tax powers are waiting in the wings).
I have written before about how hard it is for politicians to meet the expectations of the electorate. We claim to want politicans who listen and respond and yet often they are castigated for indecision, "u-turns" or "flip-flopping". Senior politicans may be many things but most of them are not daft. They behave the way they do, they play politics they way they do, because they are rewarded for it.
We may decry knockabout politics but it gets headlines and it lands electoral punches. The difficulty is that clarity, openness and honesty can be the first casualties. To return to SVR, it has been very difficult as an interested, never mind casual observer, to follow the facts of this story.
The initial letter from the Scottish Secretary, whilst opening the issue up for debate, was scant on detail and arguably rather partial when it came to the facts of funding negotiations. For their part the Scottish Government were slow to release written details of what had gone on. At the time of writing, I have still not been able to find any mention of the SVR stushie on its website. It may be there, but it's certainly not easy to find.
All of this makes it pretty tough for a concerned voter to get a handle on the facts and who to believe. Why does that matter? It matters because it is an issue of trust. We are forever being told that trust in politicans is at an all time low. Much of the blame for that can be laid at the door of Westminster politicans who behaved so badly over their parliamentary expenses.
But trust is also a problem because too often the politicians seem only to be talking amongst themselves. The focus of their energy is on winning the argument, making a case, dodging a bullet. Sometimes you can do all of these things very successfully, but is that the same as making things better?
This week saw the broadcast of "Mandelson -The Real PM?" where the arch politician of our times described himself as a "professional politician". And perhaps that sums it up. That word, "professional". It prioritises politics for its own sake, rather than as an agent of positive change. I don't mean to suggest that politicians don't care about voters. In my experience they do. Only that sometimes they may need to be reminded not to behave as if the politics is an end in itself. And that's a taxing problem for us all.
Monday, 15 November 2010
Why TV Eye Candy is About More than Botox
So, do you think John Craven has had botox? Or Huw Edwards? Or maybe Jeremy Paxman and Mark Lawson have been having fillers? What do you reckon? Maybe Kevin McCloud and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall are devotees of the chemical peel?
But what if I said that Fiona Bruce or Kirsty Wark or Mariella Frostrup had been botoxed up? Or that Sarah Beeny and Nigella had been having sneaky injections to plump out those frown lines? That doesn't seem so ludicrous does it? In fact it seems perfectly credible, if not extremely likely.
The need for regular injections of botulinim toxin if you are to have a successful career in televsion, has been in the rather unforgiving spotlight recently thanks to the age and sex discrimination case being brought against the BBC by former Countryfile presenter Miriam O'Reilly.
The ongoing employment tribunal has seen claim and counterclaim traded, with O'Reilly claiming that she and other 'older' female presenters were axed to make way for younger, prettier faces, while BBC executives have insisted that the issue was about relevant experience for the programme's new primetime slot.
The need for regular injections of botulinim toxin if you are to have a successful career in televsion, has been in the rather unforgiving spotlight recently thanks to the age and sex discrimination case being brought against the BBC by former Countryfile presenter Miriam O'Reilly.
The ongoing employment tribunal has seen claim and counterclaim traded, with O'Reilly claiming that she and other 'older' female presenters were axed to make way for younger, prettier faces, while BBC executives have insisted that the issue was about relevant experience for the programme's new primetime slot.
Whether or not there was a breach of employment law by the Beeb in this specific instance is for the tribunal to decide. But the general question of whether there is increasing pressure on presenters to keep looking young, and whether that pressure is greater for women, is surely worth peering at in the magnifying mirror for a moment or two.
Why does it seem ridiculous to suggest that Jeremy Paxman or Mark Lawson might have had botox? Why is it not so for Kirsty Wark or Mariella Frostrup? They are all experienced, heavy hitters in their chosen field. They all work largely in 'serious' programming where commisioners might feel confident that audiences were willing to tolerate the odd grey hair and crow's foot.
One inevitably comes to the conclusion that the key difference is gender. We expect women in the public eye to go further in pursuit of eternal youth, or the best approximation of it that can be had by having your forehead frozen by a dentist in his lunchbreak.
On one level this is hardly news. We all know that most women put more effort into looking good than most men. As former Crimewatch presenter Nick Ross put it in a Daily Mail piece inspired by the O'Reilly case "We all know women are objectified more than men...it is women who reveal their breasts, midriffs and thighs, who wear the make-up, go to beauty salons, totter on high heels and are generally held up as the personification of beauty." In summary, since women's looks are more important in real life they're bound to be on TV too. Charmingly put I'm sure you'll agree. However there is no denying that factually he's pretty much correct. While recognising that some good looking women also have talent (round of applause) Ross goes on to take a swipe at "autocuties" who leap-frog more deserving male journalists because of their televisual appeal.
But hang on a minute here. The implication of the view set out by Nick Ross is that it is somehow inevitable that women will be judged on their looks to a greater degree and that this in many respects gives women an advantage.
But where is it written that women are to be judged on their appearance more than men? And why should the fact that you have to be pretty to get a job be seen as an unfair advantage rather than unfair discrimination?
I don't want to be flippant about this because the fact is we know it does happen. We know that sometimes, particularly in jobs where appearance is important, pretty women might get a job ahead of more deserving men and, indeed, unattractive women. And that does arguably give those women an unfair advantage even if they do not want it.
But that advantage given to a very few simply enshrines a wider discriminatory attitude that women have to be able and attractive in order to get on.
To return to the very wonderful Mark Lawson. Why does it seem ridiculous that he might have fillers or botox or a chemical peel? Well, the lovely Mark wasn't really going to be in the running for People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive title in any event was he?
But much more importantly, it's just not about the way he looks. He didn't get the job because of the way he looks. His looks are irrelevant. No-one would be so crass as to assume that because Mark Lawson had put on a bit of a timber or was receding a bit or getting jowly that he wasn't still an intelligent, insightful, engaging and charming broadcaster. His age and attractiveness are not significant in determining his professional worth.
That's not the case for Mariella Frostrup. And that, in my view, is wrong.
In any event, I have a problem with the suggestion that having botox or fillers is simply an extension of everyday grooming, like applying make up or plucking your eyebrows. A friend of mine, a former GP, now conducts minor cosmetic procedures for a very upmarket chain. If I were going to have botox I would go to her in a heartbeat. She has spoken eloquently about how safe it is if properly administered and how natural it can look and for a period I thought, yeah, why not? In five years time everyone will be doing it. It will be just like dyeing your hair or wearing contacts.
Except that it's not really. I've seen some people who look fabulous after Botox. I've seen many more who look frankly, a bit bizarre.
Often people don't look younger, they just look like someone who has had botox. It can alter your face quite fundamentally. It is also rather disconcerting to see the mismatch between the bits that have gone under the needle and those that haven't: a glassy forehead untouched by the hand of time and jowls like Marlon Brando in the Godfather. Likewise with fillers which give the face an odd spongy quality, as if your cheek bones were in training to form the base of a sherry trifle.
I'm not having a go at people who choose to do it. I have never subscribed to the view that plastic surgery is simply a sticking plaster for deeper emotional wounds. I knew a girl at school who had the most absolutely enormous comedy nose which was the bane of her life. I met her many years later after a really super nose job and she looked amazing and was 200 per cent happier.
I certainly gave serious thought to botox myself. And maybe if they did it better and you still looked like you, I'd still give it a go. But when I thought seriously about having it done it struck me that that I wouldn't want to to tell my daughter. I spend a lot of time telling her that what matters is being kind, and working hard and that good nail varnish and shoes and fabulous jewellery is the very nice icing on the cake. And how does Botox sit with that philosophy? And when I realised I would be embarrassed to tell her I realised I probably shouldn't be doing it.
I'm also not averse to a bit of eye candy. No-one is suggesting that Mary Beard should be a judge on the X Factor. I get that for some jobs being beautiful and/or young is pretty essential. There's no dignity in playing the ingenue if you're knocking on 45. Though interestingly, in cinema and TV drama there does seem to be more room for diversity, for a range of facial and body types which help convey the emotional complexities of different characters; - you can be Keira Knightley or your can be Christina Hendricks; you can be Julia Roberts or you can be Julie Walters. Lets face it would Tommy Lee Jones be Tommy Lee Jones if he looked like a catalogue model? No, and we'd all be the poorer for it.
Perhaps that's my beef with Botox, it seems to me to be anti-complexity, Botox is both a symptom and a cause of the homogenisation of beauty. But then maybe, like McDonald's, they're only giving us what we want? It's all very well blaming the media for the promotion of unrealistic physical role models, for presenting us only with images of impossibly perfect human beings, but we collude in the odd mass delusion that these paragons are what humans should look like, denying the evidence that is all too obvious every time we step out the door.
That's why it is claimed that we only want to look at beautiful people, that we don't want ugly buglies cluttering up our screens. But I don't actually believe that's true. Apart from the number of national treasures who are not beauty queen material (Jo Brand? John Sergeant?) we love, and love to look at, people in every day life warts and all.
I look at my daughter with her grandparents. At the way she gazes at them and strokes the papery skin on their hands as they tell her a story or read her a book. She does not care that they are not young or conventionally beautiful. I spoke recently to a lady in her late 70's. She was very smart and entertaining company and when she smiled her age fell away and you could see in her smile and her intelligence and the animation of her spirit, the beautiful woman she still was.
It's easy to become blase about the increasing prevalence of cosmetic surgery, particularly that designed to keep us youthful. It's tempting to just rattle off a joke about wind tunnels or staples in the hair line.
But the question of whether we can live with ourselves as we grow older speaks to a deep and fundamental need in us. It is about the acceptance of ageing as a part of living and a recognition that we can be loved, liked and respected past our accepted sexual sell by date.
If we want storytellers and narrators of substance and value, on TV or elsewhere, why can we not be trusted to find that in men and women of all ages and appearance?
Except that it's not really. I've seen some people who look fabulous after Botox. I've seen many more who look frankly, a bit bizarre.
Often people don't look younger, they just look like someone who has had botox. It can alter your face quite fundamentally. It is also rather disconcerting to see the mismatch between the bits that have gone under the needle and those that haven't: a glassy forehead untouched by the hand of time and jowls like Marlon Brando in the Godfather. Likewise with fillers which give the face an odd spongy quality, as if your cheek bones were in training to form the base of a sherry trifle.
I'm not having a go at people who choose to do it. I have never subscribed to the view that plastic surgery is simply a sticking plaster for deeper emotional wounds. I knew a girl at school who had the most absolutely enormous comedy nose which was the bane of her life. I met her many years later after a really super nose job and she looked amazing and was 200 per cent happier.
I certainly gave serious thought to botox myself. And maybe if they did it better and you still looked like you, I'd still give it a go. But when I thought seriously about having it done it struck me that that I wouldn't want to to tell my daughter. I spend a lot of time telling her that what matters is being kind, and working hard and that good nail varnish and shoes and fabulous jewellery is the very nice icing on the cake. And how does Botox sit with that philosophy? And when I realised I would be embarrassed to tell her I realised I probably shouldn't be doing it.
I'm also not averse to a bit of eye candy. No-one is suggesting that Mary Beard should be a judge on the X Factor. I get that for some jobs being beautiful and/or young is pretty essential. There's no dignity in playing the ingenue if you're knocking on 45. Though interestingly, in cinema and TV drama there does seem to be more room for diversity, for a range of facial and body types which help convey the emotional complexities of different characters; - you can be Keira Knightley or your can be Christina Hendricks; you can be Julia Roberts or you can be Julie Walters. Lets face it would Tommy Lee Jones be Tommy Lee Jones if he looked like a catalogue model? No, and we'd all be the poorer for it.
Perhaps that's my beef with Botox, it seems to me to be anti-complexity, Botox is both a symptom and a cause of the homogenisation of beauty. But then maybe, like McDonald's, they're only giving us what we want? It's all very well blaming the media for the promotion of unrealistic physical role models, for presenting us only with images of impossibly perfect human beings, but we collude in the odd mass delusion that these paragons are what humans should look like, denying the evidence that is all too obvious every time we step out the door.
That's why it is claimed that we only want to look at beautiful people, that we don't want ugly buglies cluttering up our screens. But I don't actually believe that's true. Apart from the number of national treasures who are not beauty queen material (Jo Brand? John Sergeant?) we love, and love to look at, people in every day life warts and all.
I look at my daughter with her grandparents. At the way she gazes at them and strokes the papery skin on their hands as they tell her a story or read her a book. She does not care that they are not young or conventionally beautiful. I spoke recently to a lady in her late 70's. She was very smart and entertaining company and when she smiled her age fell away and you could see in her smile and her intelligence and the animation of her spirit, the beautiful woman she still was.
It's easy to become blase about the increasing prevalence of cosmetic surgery, particularly that designed to keep us youthful. It's tempting to just rattle off a joke about wind tunnels or staples in the hair line.
But the question of whether we can live with ourselves as we grow older speaks to a deep and fundamental need in us. It is about the acceptance of ageing as a part of living and a recognition that we can be loved, liked and respected past our accepted sexual sell by date.
If we want storytellers and narrators of substance and value, on TV or elsewhere, why can we not be trusted to find that in men and women of all ages and appearance?
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