The Unholy Grail

Dear girls, listen up

• Look at the above picture. Try to disassociate any preconceptions you may have of who she is and what you may think of her. She is a 19-year-old girl who went into rehab this year for self-harm and eating disorders, and suffers from manic depression: a serious and destructive mental illness. This week, her looks and weight were cruelly savaged and scrutinised publicly by hundreds of people just like you or me.
• If she walked past you on the street, you would probably stare in awe at her beauty. Yet, so many of us seem to relish in pointing out any flaw in her physical appearance under the transparent shield of social media.
• One thing about human nature that I find both laughable and saddening in equal measure is the fact that women continue to hate on their own kind. Fair enough, Gwyneth Paltrow exists, some people are truly terrible and if we all liked each other all the time life would be a tedious stream of blue skies and niceness. Yet, we seem to relish in labelling other women fat, ugly, unfunny, incompetent, slutty, unattractive, annoying, stupid, bitchy or prudish. By saying these things about other girls, we are restricting ourselves under entirely self-inflicted chains. If I say that all women are unfunny or stupid, then, logically, so am I. So is my mother, so is my best friend. If I call another girl a slut, then I am implicitly conceding that it is morally wrong for a girl to have a lot of sex, and perpetuating an absurd double standard. By saying these words, we are placing limits on what we can do and what we can achieve, and constructing a glass ceiling above our own heads between ourselves and the sky.
• The more we prescribe that women should be or act a certain way, whether it is virginal or promiscuous, a full-time mother or workaholic, curvy or skeletal, the more we are outlining a very specific course of action for ourselves that we have deemed the right way to live. So, we restrict our own freedom.
• You know it, I know it. Hell, Charlie Sheen or Hugh Hefner or that guy that whistles at you as you walk down the street knows it. Women are pretty fucking incredible as it goes. Girl power, girl virus, whatever floats your boat, it doesn’t matter. We’re not better than men or worse than men, but we’re just as good. It goes without saying that many among us are exceptionally brilliant, intelligent, strong, talented and beautiful. So please help unleash the chains: live and let live and channel the hate into creativity. Don’t reach for the keyboard to tell the world that Demi Lovato has fat thighs.

Sincerely, 

Unholy Grail

London’s Burning

In one year’s time, London will host the Olympics and become the world’s stage. Over the past few days, it has been a battlefield. The riots that have plagued the city have taken livelihoods, businesses and a man’s life, and have pierced the air of one of the world’s greatest towns with trepidation and rage. Some have taken to Twitter and Facebook to express their disgust with those who have burnt down homes, injured policemen and civilians and looted shops in a three-day-rampage fuelled by anger, disadvantage, Blackberry Messenger and sheer human stupidity. Some say the rioters should be round up and shot. Others have pleaded that we should pity young people who feel so disenfranchised by the so-called ‘welfare state’, that they would risk everything to loot a HD-ready widescreen TV, or, in some cases, a 30p packet of Tesco Value Basmati Rice. They argue that although these incidents are inexcusable, we shouldn’t take them as an example of the sheer greed and senselessness of an entire generation London’s youth, but as a wake-up call of the deep poverty that lies hidden beneath the London of Richard Curtis films and MTV Cribs. For many who live teetering on the poverty line, a life assaulted by images of luxury by the media on a daily basis when they live on a pittance is nothing short of agonising.

The riots began with the death of Mark Duggan, a man shot by police in an incident that sparked off the unrest in Tottenham on Saturday. But most have been quick to dismiss the idea that the rioters are in any way revolutionaries. They seem to be fighting for no one cause, but led by pursuit of material goods, a relief from the boredom of a life of little purpose, and the feeling of being part of something. What that something is none of them seem to be quite sure. The saddest thing is that if these people are fighting for anything, they can’t seem to articulate it, resorting to mindless violence and shouting statements as senseless as “we’re taking our taxes back!” as they loot Currys for a free microwave.

What is quite clear is that it is terrifying that so many young people (over 400 have been arrested so far) feel that they have so little stake in society that it is worth putting everything on the line for so little gain. With the rates of unemployment and university fees growing higher while the level of support for disadvantaged young adults sits stagnant, the level of latent anger that this demonstrates is terrifying but not entirely surprising.

It seems that just being young, particularly young and black, has an undue stigma in our country. Even the word “youths” seems to carry its own degree of prejudice, so often prefixed by ‘hooded’, ‘selfish’ or ‘angry’. I understand that we should go no way towards forgiving such feral and remorseless behavior on the part of young people who should be building the future of our country, not soiling it. Alienating themselves is no solution to the alienation many have faced their whole lives from both society and the state. Yet, as the unrest winds down, we should take what has happened as a sign that we should offer more assistance to helping young people break through the cycle of hate, instead of feeling cheated by a world that doesn’t offer them the same luxuries they see on MTV and hear about on Capital Radio. As a young person myself, I hope that the word ‘youth’ loses its associations with violence, anti-social behaviour and hooded sweatshirts. If we expect teenagers to act this way, if we cower as they pass us on the street and denigrate them as selfish and worthless, it is unsurprising that they will live up to expectations, smashing the communities they have grown up in, leaving them to burn to the ground as they run away with the computers, trainers and widescreen TVs.

Recipe for the perfect Hollywood rom-com

YOU WILL NEED:

• 1 goofy-but-loveable lead, with the charm and good looks of bread, but it doesn’t matter because he’s loveable and there’s enough of him to hug even though he seems like the kind of guy that would always rather be watching sports and re-gifts books. Not Adam Sandler but might as well be.
• 1 best friend, preferably gay/ethnic enough to be non-threatening to the lead, basically just a vehicle for brilliantly witty and vaguely offensive one-liners for the trailer that just by living your life in the world you will hear about 300 times.
• A sprinkle of a wacky parent to add spice, who wears animal prints and still talks about sex even though they’re older than forty because their just so WACKY, usually played by Patricia Clarkson. Appears whenever the story starts to flag to remind lead what is important and be inappropriate.
• 82 lbs of some shit-I’m-hot girl with perfect hair and expensive clothes but slightly offset by dead eyes and the personality and like-ability of rust. Preferably Katherine Heigl.
• 1 ‘bad-guy’ fiancee, with good-looks, nice suits and probably a steady job but is so douchey I mean he just doesn’t get her and probably doesn’t even know the colour of her eyes or the way she brushes the hair off her face when she laughs I mean come on! He’s just so douchey! I mean he probably has good credit and a nice apartment and gym membership! Twat.
• 1 pathetic friend for the leading girl who is bitter and tells it like it is and has a favourite strong drink and is totally wild and sleeps with a lot of men and is bitter. Usually played by Judy Greer. 
• OPTIONAL: A friendly pet/critter (to taste), a wise child who says rude things and is wise, a cameo from Jennifer Coolidge/Eugene Levy, an Asian cab driver.
• 5 smart seven-year-olds to draft the script.
• 1 tagline. 
• $20 million.

Stir the mixture in a New York or Los Angeles setting. Add to heat for about 3 months as the movie is over-advertised and overhyped. Leave to cool when the reviews are released. Serves 15 million.

How to… go to a teenage party

Get invited through a Facebook event promising “only a small thing”, a house with no adults and more alcohol than Keith Chegwin’s wine cooler. Sigh as you scroll down through the guest list at how much you hate most people but remember this is the only thing you’ve been invited to in the past 6 months so click “attending” after waiting a couple of hours so as not to be the first to reply because that looks desperate. Convince yourself it will be good for you to spend a Saturday night not playing Risk with your parents and counting down the minutes until the beginning of Deal or No Deal. Your friends text you how they excited they are and how good it’s going to be even though you and they know from experience that the most anyone will gain from the evening is an emotional hang-up and a minor STI. 

When the night comes, you pull everything out of your wardrobe and decide that all the clothing you own is terrible. You decide on something suitably slutty and generic, usually polyester and “formfitting”, that you will hate yourself for wearing but put on anyway because dignity’s for old people. You try to make your hair go down but its been acting like a bitch since it started getting hot outside and so you punish it with a flat iron so it knows its place. You spit on your dried-up mascara wand until it gives and hope for the best and paint on enough eyeliner to look like a metrosexual Egyptian pharoah. You brush yourself down as you wonder why you’re putting yourself through it again, put on tacky high-heels and walk out the door.

As you run for the bus, you remember that you look like an flamingo hopping on hot coals when you wear high heels. When you arrive at the party, you see no-one you recognise and so stand awkwardly with a slight smile that says “it’s cool”, pretending to text and trying not to look too alone. You look at pictures of the party host from their childhood frolicking in a paddock and wish things were simple like that again. You see someone you think you know even though you’ve probably only stalked them on Facebook. Luckily she’s too drunk to care and so greets you with open arms, a declaration of love and a short list of her biggest insecurities. You reassure her and you’re best friends. She gets you a drink and you start talking to an awkward guy whose eyes are looking with suspicion at the opposite wall. You are doing most of the talking. Your new BFF returns and you dance, briefly forgetting that you’re not Shakira. Eventually come to your senses, go sit on the sofa to fantasise about Deal or No Deal and the cereal you’d be eating if you were at home. You feel awkward as the backs of two people start leaning into you as they make-out. You wonder what you’re being punished for as Kesha comes on the speakers and everyone around you sings the words and not even slightly ironically. Your friend is now grinding with some guy with gelled hair wearing a Jack Wills rugby hoodie and fist pumping for no reason. You hear someone yell “BANTER!” and slowly start losing the will to exist. You go to the bathroom to check your make-up, and end up playing “Angry Birds” to pass the time.

When you come out you see your friend in tears, screaming “where were you!” with bloodshot eyes. She drags you to the bathroom and suddenly you’re holding her hair back as she throws up, whining about how she barely drank anything and you wonder why you’re suddenly in a Lifetime movie starring Sally Struthers. You come out and pose for a picture because everyone has cameras and it is absolutely necessary that every part of this night must be recorded for posterity. You feel hungry and queasy, wonder what you’ve been drinking and think how you’d kill a cat for a light hors d’oeuvre. 

You see the host of the party crying and comfort them, they get snot all over your top as they moan about how it was only supposed to be a small thing and I don’t know any of these people and why me! Eventually, as things start getting smashed, you call your parents to pick you up a block away from the house. Once home you make food, watch Deal or No Deal, and wonder why you ever left.

The next day, you will think up hilarious comments to post on the albums from the night before, and join in talking about how much fun it was and wasn’t-it-great-when and how we should do something like that again.

Things that will definitely happen on a long-haul flight

Got off a red-eye flight from LA to London yesterday. I feel like there are a couple of unavoidable things that will always happen on a long flight, no matter who you are or where you’re going:

THINGS THAT WILL DEFINITELY HAPPEN:

1) There will be at least one moaning, snivelling child. 

2) Someone from the wrong side of Crazytown will try and talk to you. You will smile and nod and agree with whatever they say, and eventually you will put in headphones and/or read the ‘flight safety’ manual. They won’t comprehend this social cue to “shut the hell up” and will persevere in asking you what you plan to do when your plane lands and make false assumptions about your relationship with the person sitting next to you.

3) You will smell sick / you will sit in sick / someone will be sick on you. Either way you’ll get off that plane stinking of someone else’s digested mac-and-cheese.

5) The airhostesses will try to physically lynch you with their eyes behind soul-less smiles as they hand you your coffee.

6) About an hour into the flight, you will be punched in the face by the chair in front when some guy decides that it is really important for him to recline an extra thirty degrees. 

7) No matter how old you are, the flush on the aeroplane toilet will scare the hell out of you.

8) You will pack some hardback book you promised yourself you would read to kill time, but will end up watching Cher’s face try to have expression in Burlesque. You will keep watching no matter how much the film and its plot points annoy you.

9) You will regret ordering the beef.