Edited by David Smith, Thursday, 5 Apr 2012, 16:06
I was pointed earlier this week from a link on Twitter toward THAT article in the Daily Mail by Samantha Brick about how she has used her ‘feminine charms’ to her advantage, and how this hasn’t always been well received by other women who have felt threatened by her. It was drawn to my attention via a retweet from ‘Glinner’ (Graham Linehan) who made the observation – as had many others when I looked at the comments on the Daily Mail website – that from the accompanying photo Ms Brick seemed somewhat less aesthetically pleasing than her article might lead one to imagine. Now fair enough, Glinner has never made any sort of claims about his own looks, hasn’t written an article accusing other men of jealousy towards him, and was only voicing a casual throw-away comment on twitter, but I couldn’t help but think that the words ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ might be appropriate, given that Glinner has a head shaped like a bag of brazil nuts.
TBH, I was also a little disappointed, because it seemed such an easy laugh at someone else’s expense (much like that bag of brazil nuts mentioned above, filthy hypocrite that I am) and that’s not what I have come to expect from yer man, who’s generally so very good at mining laughs from cocked up situations and screwed up characters in ways that show enormous levels of empathy, affection and understanding. Because, let’s face it, whatever value this article might have had to the Daily Mail in terms of ‘hits; on their website, from Ms Brick’s screwed up point of view it’s got to be, on both a personal and professional level, the biggest cock up of her journalistic career to date. Dunno, perhaps it’s just my innate sympathy for the underdog, but for me the ‘X-Factor defence’ used by Glinner and many others that she brought it upon herself by putting herself centre stage just doesn’t cut it; the content of the article offered anyone who desired it enough ammunition to criticise without having to resort to comments and personal insults regarding her looks. It just seemed to me a little bit cruel and unnecessary.
And who says you need to be beautiful to flirt anyway? Or to use your sexuality or charm to get your own way? Aren’t those kinds of stereotypes – the ones that claim women who aren’t size eight or who don’t look like supermodels can’t be sexy or charming or interesting – the ones we should be challenging, because to my mind they seem to be doing far more harm to far more women than the idea that fluttering your eyelids at a man can pay dividends, which – however inconvenient or annoying for feminists – remains as true today as it has always been?
And that, of course, cuts both ways too, so this is not the argument of a sexist or misogynist – the simple fact is that men AND women respond more positively to people they ‘fancy’ or who they find charming, and less positively to people they find repulsive or charmless. Whether those people are genuinely charming and attractive or slimy chancers and eyelash fluttering gold-diggers is often a moot point, and so too are ‘looks’ when weighed up against things like confidence (it’s ALL about that, Gok would tell us), timing, opportunity and good old-fashioned ‘lust’.
That genuinely ‘beautiful people’ don’t have to work it quite so desperately or obviously is another moot point – it doesn’t mean they’re not reaping the benefits of their looks, it just means they can delude themselves that they’ve achieved everything they’ve achieved in life regardless of or even in spite of them – which is, let’s face it, as big a crock of shit, given everything we know about human nature and the way we make snap decisions about people within the first few seconds of meeting them and respond accordingly, as the assumptions Ms Brick seems to have made regarding her looks.
Anyhoo...
IN OTHER NEWS:
In my last blog I mentioned that I was taking Ben and his BFF to see a trio of bands at a local music venue / public convenience. This being our first outing of this kind outside of festivals we had no idea that ‘fashionably late’ is still fashionable, so we arrived at the posted opening time to find ourselves the only three people there. Nervous at being the first to arrive we walked around the block a couple of times, which while boring for Ben and BFF was worth it on a personal level for the sighting of three scrawny little knobbly-kneed things in black skinny jeans/and or leggings, who brought back many happy childhood memories of watching Max Wall and Billy Dainty silly-walking around the stage of the London Palladium on various TV variety shows. I pointed this out to Ben and BFF, but of course they had no idea who Max Wall or Billy Dainty were, which brought me back to earth and my ‘oldest swinger in town’ status with a bump.
Getting back to the venue we discovered that a few people had gone in, so we took the plunge, handed over our tickets and collected our stamps on the back of the hand. Inside there were a few small tables, and after I’d bought them a soft drink each and myself a Guinness the boys chose to sit rather than stand, which made sense at this point in the evening but became pretty surreal when BFF elected to sit throughout the entire evening with his back to the stage and a look of complete boredom on his face. Had it been just the two of us I’m sure Ben would have stood and perhaps even pogoed a bit, but solidarity with BFF prevailed and he too remained seated throughout, though he was at least facing the stage and clapped enthusiastically between numbers.
We were rather taken aback when the first band on weren’t the band advertised. We took it initially that this would be an ‘extra’, but subsequently learned that the main support band – the band my son had actually wanted to see – had pulled out at the last minute. Their lead singer showed up to watch the main act and he did, when asked, apologise to Ben and explained that their drummer was sick, but it was a bit of a pisser none the less.
By the time the second band came on the crowd had grown a bit and moved forward, so I stood to get a better view. After a couple of minutes I felt someone poke me on the elbow. I looked round, and a lady at the next table asked me if I could step back a bit as she couldn’t see. I was happy to oblige at first and leaned back against the wall, but then the woman stood up in precisely the same spot I had just vacated and started filming the entire set on her I-Phone.
Despite keeping myself pinned to the wall she managed to elbow me in the chest about fifty times and every time I twitched or took a sip of my drink she rewarded me with a withering look. As she was at least sixty and all of five foot tall I knew any request on my part for a bit more consideration (or personal body space) was going to end up being taken out of context, but I did try to ask her in a brief moment of silence between numbers if she could move up a bit. She barked that the band’s bass player was her son and that he didn’t like her filming him because he got embarrassed, so she couldn’t move up in case he saw her. I suggested in that case that she perhaps should stop filming, which earned me another withering look. I settled back against the wall for the duration, uncharitably hoping that her I-phone might get knocked from her hands and crushed beneath the feet of the crowd or that she herself might slip on some of my spilt Guinness and meet a similar fate. I spilt about a quarter of a pint, but it didn’t work.
The final band was called Exit 10 and was quite good, so Ben didn’t mind missing Intraverse too much. Neither of the other bands were lousy, but next outing to see some live music we’ll arrive late, leave BFF behind and find a comfortable standing space away from any proud mums with I-phones or video cameras so the support acts stand a better chance of creating a good impression.
IN OTHER OTHER NEWS : we’ve just planted two planters with various herb seeds and a good quantity of baby-bio. I’m not very good with plants so I’m not holding out much hope, but who knows, we might get a handful of chives or a few snippets of basil before the soil erodes to sterile dust and blows away on the wind...
That Brick Woman 'n' Stuff...
I was pointed earlier this week from a link on Twitter toward THAT article in the Daily Mail by Samantha Brick about how she has used her ‘feminine charms’ to her advantage, and how this hasn’t always been well received by other women who have felt threatened by her. It was drawn to my attention via a retweet from ‘Glinner’ (Graham Linehan) who made the observation – as had many others when I looked at the comments on the Daily Mail website – that from the accompanying photo Ms Brick seemed somewhat less aesthetically pleasing than her article might lead one to imagine. Now fair enough, Glinner has never made any sort of claims about his own looks, hasn’t written an article accusing other men of jealousy towards him, and was only voicing a casual throw-away comment on twitter, but I couldn’t help but think that the words ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ might be appropriate, given that Glinner has a head shaped like a bag of brazil nuts.
TBH, I was also a little disappointed, because it seemed such an easy laugh at someone else’s expense (much like that bag of brazil nuts mentioned above, filthy hypocrite that I am) and that’s not what I have come to expect from yer man, who’s generally so very good at mining laughs from cocked up situations and screwed up characters in ways that show enormous levels of empathy, affection and understanding. Because, let’s face it, whatever value this article might have had to the Daily Mail in terms of ‘hits; on their website, from Ms Brick’s screwed up point of view it’s got to be, on both a personal and professional level, the biggest cock up of her journalistic career to date. Dunno, perhaps it’s just my innate sympathy for the underdog, but for me the ‘X-Factor defence’ used by Glinner and many others that she brought it upon herself by putting herself centre stage just doesn’t cut it; the content of the article offered anyone who desired it enough ammunition to criticise without having to resort to comments and personal insults regarding her looks. It just seemed to me a little bit cruel and unnecessary.
And who says you need to be beautiful to flirt anyway? Or to use your sexuality or charm to get your own way? Aren’t those kinds of stereotypes – the ones that claim women who aren’t size eight or who don’t look like supermodels can’t be sexy or charming or interesting – the ones we should be challenging, because to my mind they seem to be doing far more harm to far more women than the idea that fluttering your eyelids at a man can pay dividends, which – however inconvenient or annoying for feminists – remains as true today as it has always been?
And that, of course, cuts both ways too, so this is not the argument of a sexist or misogynist – the simple fact is that men AND women respond more positively to people they ‘fancy’ or who they find charming, and less positively to people they find repulsive or charmless. Whether those people are genuinely charming and attractive or slimy chancers and eyelash fluttering gold-diggers is often a moot point, and so too are ‘looks’ when weighed up against things like confidence (it’s ALL about that, Gok would tell us), timing, opportunity and good old-fashioned ‘lust’.
That genuinely ‘beautiful people’ don’t have to work it quite so desperately or obviously is another moot point – it doesn’t mean they’re not reaping the benefits of their looks, it just means they can delude themselves that they’ve achieved everything they’ve achieved in life regardless of or even in spite of them – which is, let’s face it, as big a crock of shit, given everything we know about human nature and the way we make snap decisions about people within the first few seconds of meeting them and respond accordingly, as the assumptions Ms Brick seems to have made regarding her looks.
Anyhoo...
IN OTHER NEWS:
In my last blog I mentioned that I was taking Ben and his BFF to see a trio of bands at a local music venue / public convenience. This being our first outing of this kind outside of festivals we had no idea that ‘fashionably late’ is still fashionable, so we arrived at the posted opening time to find ourselves the only three people there. Nervous at being the first to arrive we walked around the block a couple of times, which while boring for Ben and BFF was worth it on a personal level for the sighting of three scrawny little knobbly-kneed things in black skinny jeans/and or leggings, who brought back many happy childhood memories of watching Max Wall and Billy Dainty silly-walking around the stage of the London Palladium on various TV variety shows. I pointed this out to Ben and BFF, but of course they had no idea who Max Wall or Billy Dainty were, which brought me back to earth and my ‘oldest swinger in town’ status with a bump.
Getting back to the venue we discovered that a few people had gone in, so we took the plunge, handed over our tickets and collected our stamps on the back of the hand. Inside there were a few small tables, and after I’d bought them a soft drink each and myself a Guinness the boys chose to sit rather than stand, which made sense at this point in the evening but became pretty surreal when BFF elected to sit throughout the entire evening with his back to the stage and a look of complete boredom on his face. Had it been just the two of us I’m sure Ben would have stood and perhaps even pogoed a bit, but solidarity with BFF prevailed and he too remained seated throughout, though he was at least facing the stage and clapped enthusiastically between numbers.
We were rather taken aback when the first band on weren’t the band advertised. We took it initially that this would be an ‘extra’, but subsequently learned that the main support band – the band my son had actually wanted to see – had pulled out at the last minute. Their lead singer showed up to watch the main act and he did, when asked, apologise to Ben and explained that their drummer was sick, but it was a bit of a pisser none the less.
By the time the second band came on the crowd had grown a bit and moved forward, so I stood to get a better view. After a couple of minutes I felt someone poke me on the elbow. I looked round, and a lady at the next table asked me if I could step back a bit as she couldn’t see. I was happy to oblige at first and leaned back against the wall, but then the woman stood up in precisely the same spot I had just vacated and started filming the entire set on her I-Phone.
Despite keeping myself pinned to the wall she managed to elbow me in the chest about fifty times and every time I twitched or took a sip of my drink she rewarded me with a withering look. As she was at least sixty and all of five foot tall I knew any request on my part for a bit more consideration (or personal body space) was going to end up being taken out of context, but I did try to ask her in a brief moment of silence between numbers if she could move up a bit. She barked that the band’s bass player was her son and that he didn’t like her filming him because he got embarrassed, so she couldn’t move up in case he saw her. I suggested in that case that she perhaps should stop filming, which earned me another withering look. I settled back against the wall for the duration, uncharitably hoping that her I-phone might get knocked from her hands and crushed beneath the feet of the crowd or that she herself might slip on some of my spilt Guinness and meet a similar fate. I spilt about a quarter of a pint, but it didn’t work.
The final band was called Exit 10 and was quite good, so Ben didn’t mind missing Intraverse too much. Neither of the other bands were lousy, but next outing to see some live music we’ll arrive late, leave BFF behind and find a comfortable standing space away from any proud mums with I-phones or video cameras so the support acts stand a better chance of creating a good impression.
IN OTHER OTHER NEWS : we’ve just planted two planters with various herb seeds and a good quantity of baby-bio. I’m not very good with plants so I’m not holding out much hope, but who knows, we might get a handful of chives or a few snippets of basil before the soil erodes to sterile dust and blows away on the wind...