I Get Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman!

Feminism is a curiosity for many young people today; something ugly that's curled in a corner, to be prodded with a stick because they don't quite know how it's going to react. To be honest the extent of my knowledge of what feminism stands for, or who a feminist actually is, goes no further than expressions of powerful female iconography that I've been exposed to through pop culture whilst growing up. Madonna grabbing her crotch whilst wearing underwear as outer-wear. The Spice Girls pulling peace signs whilst declaring 'Girl power!' Lady Gaga being... Lady Gaga. But is Madonna really a feminist when she's still having to sexualise her performances by having her tits peeking out of a blazer? Surely the five 'categories' that the Spice Girls were organised into only serves to present woman as a one-dimensional being? And as much as I love Lady Gaga, she has settled herself so snugly in an alternative niche - through her imagery particularly, often standing outside of what could be easily classed as any clearly defined gender - that is she really representative of a modern woman? The stereotypical bra-burning movement was a little before my time, and so with a liberal mind and heart my interpretation of what feminism stands for is restricted to what I've absorbed from the early 90s onwards.

Obviously there's room for debate within any of those claims, but then thank God for Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman for helping clear up some of the hazy finer points of feminism. With chapter headings as pronounced and loud as her Twitter posts ('I Start Bleeding!', 'I Don't Know What To Call My Breasts!'), it essentially goes like this:

Put your hand in your pants.
a) Do you have a vagina? and
b) Do you want to be in charge of it?

If you said 'yes' to both, then congratulations! You're a feminist.

It's not exactly earth-shattering stuff, but then what's enjoyable about How To Be A Woman is that it focuses on one much-needed thing: clarity. Moran writes in a brash, over-exaggerated tone that is accessible to all. In fact, it reads like it's basically just you and her, in some dingy little pub, putting the world to rights after too many bacardi and cokes. Part autobiography, part feminist mission statement, you stumble through each chapter confronted by various feminist issues, such as sexism in the workplace or the trickiness of high heels, until Moran pulls you back and says: 'Do you know what? None of this really matters. As long as you're doing it because you want to, then it's neither here nor there.' She quickly denounces the ridiculousness of Katie Price and her alter-ego Jordan as a successful businesswoman as little more than a phoney and a fraud; dismisses girls who are paying their way through university by stripping for money; and exposes the absurdity of spending £6,000 on a designer handbag ('If I'm honest, the handbag I would probably like most is a big, hollowed-out potato with handles on it. A giant King Edward with satchel straps. Then, in times of crisis, I could bake and eat the handbag, and survive the winter. That is the way of my people.")

All this is done with so much loling and roflment - indeed, the chapter 'I Get Married!' reduced me to such hysterical giggling as Moran documents the developing armageddon that was her wedding day, that I genuinely thought I was going to have to pop a valium - that it is a joy to read. It also reinforces the notion that Moran believes we should approach 'serious' topics such as feminism with a good smattering of humour, thrown in for healthy measure.

But it is the last few chapters that talk about giving birth, question the assumption that all women will have children, and Moran's decision to have an abortion upon discovering she is pregnant for a third time which are the most revealing. The biggest challenge of the 21st century will be shattering pre-conceived ideas of not only women and feminism but identity in general, focusing on offering anyone, whether female or male, the respect and opportunity to make their own choices, free from any set agenda. Upon discovering Germaine Greer, Moran invites all women to stand on a sofa and shout, 'I AM A FEMINIST!' By the time you've reached the end of How To Be A Woman, it becomes clear that Moran is simply advocating anyone and everyone to have the balls to stand up for themselves and purely create themselves in their own image. To this end, I will go one better than Moran. I will gladly join her up on that sofa but instead I will scream, 'I AM A FEMENIST!' Not to change the term to include the word 'men', but rather to change the term to include the word 'me'. See - free from any set a-gender.

Expecto patronum!

Harry Potter is the story of a generation's childhood. Watching the final installment in the franchise on this ordinary, muggy evening, I was taken back to just how enraptured I was with Philosopher's Stone when I first read it. Enamoured with the idea of Quidditch, I would sit on the back of my parent's two-piece sofa (which required quite a bit of balance and, thus, made it more realistic in my mind that I was really on a broomstick) and pretend to catch the golden snitch. Like many children around the world, I deliberated over which house I would belong to and what my favourite Hogwarts class would be. Even the holidays I went on whilst growing up were defined by what Potter book I was reading at the time: Goblet of Fire in the Isle of Man; Order of the Phoenix in Crete; Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows in Portugal.

Transforming the books into films was never going to be an easy task but the later films in particular have been very strong, and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 was a complete triumph in my opinion. I feel privileged that this series was written directly at my generation, with the books progressing in both style and subject matter as readers have got older.

Finally, imagine putting yourself in J. K. Rowling's shoes and carrying that weight of responsibility when crafting a fitting conclusion to such a well-loved story. I do not believe the best stories ever leave you, which is why I'm so glad Hogwarts will always be there to welcome me home.

Albus Dumbledore: "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?"



(Watch from the four minute mark)

Automatic writing

I was lazily flicking through my autumn/winter 2010 copy of .Cent magazine last night and stumbled across this extract from Richard Milward, incidentally the guest editor for the issue. It's taken from the writer's second book Ten Storey Love Song and demonstrates something called 'automatic writing'. A continual flow of seemingly arbitrary words, it's completely natural rather than painstakingly put together to resemble a stream of consciousness piece like, say, Virginia Woolf did.
Anyway, I love it and am now off to order Milward's first two books immediately.

'One psychedelic afternoon in September Bobby the Artist accidentally swallows ten tabs of acid while sitting on the toilet. He starts mumbling to himself, gurgling, the shapes of sinks becoming white elephants with beady winking eyes, and the clownfishes on the bath curtain darting about chattering to each other. For a minute he thinks he's Salvador Dali, growing a curly moustache in the mirror. Hola! Salvador laughs - he can't even tell if his eyes are open or shut or not. Freaking out, Salvador put his head in his hands, serving another gust of Chanel into his sleeve. Watch out Sal, here comes the automatic writing! Holistic chicken made tea don't you hedgerow all oil trousers ink sprayed salmon on its chest possibly a frog leopard print snout man looking grumpy boulevard legs eleven prostitute hamsters won fifty pounds at a masquerade after leaving four cups of juicy lemon spiked a nut on the dame of Duke York post-natal dream dismay and a forehead keeps singing on the phone to conker forest of evil and wormy stretch ouch bastard gondolier tra la la Cornetto Tonga hand grenade hooray hippo snarling under grasp only showing no remorse for the budgie that sung sweetly so sweetly but died after having injection to the neck holy water tomato onion banana ketchup see-saw then Ellen Ellen Ellen. "Bobby, what are you doing?" Ellen asks, stepping into the bathroom and it's really her, not a mirage...'

AMAZING.

Journey's End feature

It seems only appropriate that I am forced to go on a literal journey of discovery for the text Journey's End.
Rising at 6am on a dark January morning to travel to Vimy, north France, was certainly an eye-opening experience.
It was to be a tour of the locations that had inspired the monumental play by R. C. Sherriff, Journey's End. From the dramatic Vimy Ridge to the awe-inspiring Notre Dame de Lorette, the sights that had such a vital impact on Sherriff's text were all explained with the aid of David Grindley, who is directing the upcoming stage production.
Brought to life in 1928 by R. C. Sherriff, Journey's End is an important play. Its insistent tension, which quietly bubbles under the surface throughout the three acts, and astonishing commentary on the human condition is, even today, movingly pertinent.
Set in the trenches of Saint-Quentin, Aisne, in 1918 before the end of the First World War, Journey's End consists of a group of British officers on the front line. The play begins with the arrival of Raleigh, an 18-year-old officer fresh out of English public school, to the besieged company, which is led by a man named Stanhope.
As the plot unfolds, we discover Raleigh knows Stanhope from his former public school days. Three years older than Raleigh, Stanhope was previously his 'hero'.
The central crux of the story is driven by the transformation that Stanhope has undergone during his time on the front line...



Stanhope, left, and Osborne in Grindley's production

Journey's End has had an enormous influence on director David Grindley.
Following its original success when it was performed in 1928 (with Laurence Olivier at the helm as Stanhope, no less), the play became a staple in theatre for some time. However, each progressive interpretation of Journey's End gradually became tired and a little uninspired.
It wasn't until Grindley successfully revived the play in 2004 that the production breathed a stunning new lease of life.
The production received rave reviews, ran in London for many months, went out on tour twice and even travelled to Broadway.
Now, Grindley is bringing Journey's End back to theatre-goers who wish to have a second helping. Under an entirely new cast, Journey's End will be showing at Stoke's Regent Theatre from Tuesday, March 29 to Saturday, April 2.
"It's an amazing piece and I can't seem to leave it alone," says David. "It's been such a big part of my life. With the first production we were only meant to play eight weeks - in the end we played 18 months!"
It was David's original trip to Vimy himself that inspired his re-telling of the story to such a powerful extent.
"If you look at pictures of the original production, it's quite spacious and has a theatrical feel. I was very keen to make it real. It's a play with a very real context and that's something I've researched with my designer, going out to France, visiting Vimy Ridge and other sites. We wanted to know just what Sherriff's battalion had been through."
The intense power of Journey's End lies in the fact that Sherriff himself served in the First World War.
He went to war with his local regiment as a 20-year-old subaltern. Arriving in France in September 1916, Sherriff was stationed here for ten months before he was invalided home with facial wounds received in the opening battle of Passchendaele.
The play is founded upon his experiences while fighting alongside 'C company' of the 9th Battalion of the East Surrey regiment.
Importantly, it is worth noting that this trip did not take me to where Journey's End itself is set but rather where Sherriff himself fought.
"When I first did the play I came back in an absolute blind panic that I didn't know enough about the First World War," explains David. "Fortunately I realised that I just need to know about what this group of men went through. I'm not wanting to be ignorant, but I want their knowledge to be very specific. I don't want them to know everything."
As I disembark at Vimy Ridge, the colossal effect of war is still marked across the landscape.
In March 1916 the trenches here were taken over by the British. The area had been one of aggressive mine warfare between the French and Germans, and this bombardment continued to ravage the site.
Each side continually tunnelled under enemy lines in an attempt to create underground chambers that could be filled with explosives, destroying whatever lay above them.
The ground has been utterly disfigured by the intense mine warfare. Craters litter the land; huge depressions in the earth that expose the strength of the explosions.



Craters made by shells and mines at Vimy Ridge

Gazing out across this battle-scarred scene, I can't help but feel incredibly small. How soldiers managed to stand up against this level of bombardment is baffling.
"When I was there for the first time, I really had a sense of looking out over the distorted landscape," David considers. "At the time, it would have just been mud, no greenery, desolate and completely devastated. Your senses would have to negotiate with the smallest bit of beauty: bird song, blue sky, beautiful sunlight on your face...
"The smallest things will become absolutely essential to maintaining your humanity in that hell hole."
The main impression Vimy Ridge forces upon the mind is just how all-consuming the war environment must have been; attacking the senses and playing cruel tricks on the mind.
This is demonstrated to great effect in the underground tunnels of Vimy Ridge. The chalk in the ground below made it an ideal area for tunnelling and extensive networks were constructed, eventually creating a system that extended for many miles and included headquarters, hospitals and communication centres.
These tunnel systems allowed troops to move about in safety below ground, and it was possible to accommodate 11,000 men in underground barracks. Conditions were dank, cramped and cold.
At one point while I traverse the confined tunnels, the lights are switched off. Suddenly, it is as if all that is good has been sucked out of the world in the fraction of a second; it is disorientating and, quite frankly, frightening. An unpleasant reminder of how bleak life must have been in these conditions, the descent into darkness is only temporary as the switch is quickly pressed back down and light floods the underground trench once more.
"The intimacy of the living conditions, the oppressiveness, the claustrophobia..." David Grindley struggles to convey the physical and mental challenges that the soldiers would have had to face. "The British and Germans have absolutely distorted and re-created that landscape. It is a completely different environment now than it would have been before the war."
The director feels the play is one of endurance.
"I'm very aware of seeing these characters as ordinary people. Cultural and social barriers break away. They recognise that the only people they can trust to survive is each other. This is a play about these men binding together in the light of these psychological pressures to make the best out of the situation they're in."



Trenches at Vimy Ridge

When Raleigh enters the company in Journey's End, the character Osborne warns him that he will find his childhood hero Stanhope much-changed from how he remembers. 'You know you mustn't expect to find him quite the same,' Osborne utters in one telling line of the text. 'You see, he's been out here a long time. It tells on a man - rather badly.'
As a coping mechanism, Stanhope has sought comfort in an unrelenting supply of whiskey.
"We can't imagine what it must have been like for Stanhope: all the losses he encountered, all the men that served under him and had been slain on his watch," says David.
"It's a tipping point, and only whiskey can insulate him from his experiences. It's not fear, it's just the sheer weight of responsibility that he feels for all the men serving with him."
Each individual copes with the terror of the front line in a different way.
Osborne listens. He emerges himself in other's tales, so as to direct his thoughts away from the horrors of the war.
The character Trotter tells jokes. Laughter is his medicine, a means of escaping the stark reality the soldiers find themselves in.
And then there is Hibbert; someone who finds the ordeal of war impossible to comprehend. In one of the most unnerving scenes of the play, the primitive instinct of fight or flight is tested between Stanhope and Hibbert.
"Hibbert is utterly desperate," says David. "He has no moment-by-moment diversion, so he can't find any way of mitigating his fear.
"A salient point to remember is that these are men and women, just like us, who find themselves at the front line."
As we move on to the the Notre Dame de Lorette, this becomes ever more obvious.



The Notre Dame de Lorette

The Notre Dame de Lorette is a huge ridge that, at its peak, stands at 165 metres high.
During 1914 and 1915, the French fought a series of battles in the area, known as The First, Second and Third Battles of Artois. In 1916 the British took over from the French, fighting a series of local engagements and then launching a crucial attack on the Germans during The Battle of Arras in 1917.
Now, the Notre Dame de Lorette is also the name of the site for the French National Memorial and Cemetery.
Shockingly, the cemetery contains almost 40,000 graves - half of which are unknown soldiers - and an ossuary containing the bones of those whose names were not marked.
The chapel and lighthouse tower dominate the ridge, which was one of the major objectives for both sides due to its vantage point.
Seemingly limitless lines of graves have been erected with a simple cross headstone. Even now, it is as if these soldiers killed in the war are standing to attention in strict, regimented rows, with the proud buildings acknowledging their sacrifice at the front.



40,000 graves in the cemetery at the Notre Dame de Lorette

"That concentration of the dead really affects me," comments David.
In one scene in Journey's End, Stanhope speaks of looking up at a wall of mud compacted in front of him. He sees 'the worms wandering about round the stones and roots of trees'.
"He's not just talking about worms," David says heavily. "The earth is alive. He's talking about worms going through the eye-sockets of skulls. He can see bones... the dead that's accrued over the last four years of the war. It's that kind of visceral impact that I had when I was in the cemetery for the first time."
To the rear of the cemetery is a war museum, containing the rusted artefacts of artillery and barbed wire that were used during the First World War.
"The sheer physicality," David stresses. "The metal is so heavy, so dense. If you had that exploding and any small bit hitting you, the potential damage is very difficult to come to terms with."



The kind of heavy machinery used in the First World War

The trauma that everyday men must have faced is unimaginable.
In Journey's End, the two central protagonists Stanhope and Raleigh are only 21 and 18-years-old respectively, a fact that is brutally hammered home by the young cast that performs Grindley's intense production.
"It was very important in the casting that hopefully young people will come to the show and recognise Stanhope and Raleigh are representing them," says David. "It's a moment to reflect on what you would do if you were put in their shoes."
Stripped to its core, David claims Journey's End is the story of two boys. "It's about Raleigh having a baptism of fire where he realises Stanhope is as human as everyone else. He's flawed, and not as perfect as you think he is. It's their story."
As my time in France comes to an end, I cannot help but think it is 'our' story. Journey's End is a play that speaks of camaraderie, trust and asks just what makes a 'hero'.
The tale of these two young men is a concentrated story of experience that expands from one to the many; not only the numerous brave men that fought in the First World War, but to all of us as ancestors of these great men that created our life as we know it today.
Surveying the great sea of graves at the peak of Notre Dame de Lorette, it is clear that their story needs to be told.



18-year-old Rayleigh in Grindley's production

Journey's End is showing at Stoke's Regent Theatre from Tuesday, March 29 to Saturday, April 2. To book tickets, visit www.ambassadortickets.com/stoke or call the box office on 0844 871 7649

The black billowing cloud

I always tend to be wary of things when they're considered popular. There's something inside me that ticks like a bomb, albeit one that is cushioned by a hundred used mattresses, or spun in bubble wrap and then discarded at the bottom of nobody's basement; but my body still tenses at that consistent, however muffled, ticking. It's as if I think no-one and no thing can be truly popular without some form of deception or cruelty or foul-play taking place. I don't judge myself to be naturally distrustful. I believe in many things, I suppose - what about you?

Upon waking to the news of the volcanic ash that's drifting ever closer, my immediate thought was of Don DeLillo's White Noise, and the airborne toxic event that he describes.

'...we saw a remarkable and startling sight. It appeared in the sky ahead of us and to the left, prompting us to lower ourselves in our seats, bend our heads for a clearer view, exclaim to each other in half finished phrases. It was the black billowing cloud, the airborne toxic event, lighted by the clear beams of seven army helicopters. They were tracking its windborne movement, keeping it in view. In every car, heads shifted, drivers blew their horns to alert others, faces appeared in side windows, expressions set in tones of outlandish wonderment.

The enormous dark mass moved like some death ship in a Norse legend, escorted across the night by armored creatures with spiral wings. We weren't sure how to react. It was a terrible thing to see, so close, so low, packed with chlorides, benzines, phenols, hydrocarbons, or whatever the precise toxic content. But it was also spectacular, part of the grandness of a sweeping event, like the vivid scene in the switching yard or the people trudging across the snowy overpass with children, food, belongings, a tragic army of the dispossessed. Our fear was accompanied by a sense of awe that bordered on the religious. It is surely possible to be awed by the thing that threatens your life, to see it as a cosmic force, so much larger than yourself, more powerful, created by elemental and willful rhythms. This was a death made in the laboratory, defined and measurable, but we thought of it at the time in a simple and primitive way, as some seasonal perversity of the earth like a flood or tornado, something not subject to control. Our helplessness did not seem compatible with the idea of a man-made event.'

So, I guess I believe in fiction.


Banksy: 'They exist without permission. They are hated, hunted and persecuted. They live in quiet desperation amongst the filth. And yet they are capable of bringing entire civilisations to their knees. If you are dirty, insignificant and unloved then rats are the ultimate role model.'

I've always been a fan of Banksy's art, and not just the curious suspicion it evokes in modern-day principles, but the means in which Banksy as an artist operates. To work with the medium of graffiti should be problematic for an artist, what with the obvious time pressures and legal issues that abound, not to mention the notion of whether it should be deemed 'art' at all by many individuals ('People look at an oil painting and admire the use of brushstrokes to convey meaning. People look at a graffiti painting and admire the use of a drainpipe to gain access'). I'm sure Banksy doesn't call it art. And yet it is obviously the means itself with Banksy that imbues his pieces with something more pertinent. His work is raw and angry, terse but suggestive. They stand as venomous advertisements, motifs of disillusionment and quiet violence. By scrawling it across a battered tube train on the District Line, or the empty canvas of a forgotten white-washed wall in Bristol, Banksy is asking for our distrust to the same degree as all those big-buck businesses are crying out for our hand via their next advertising campaign. His role as a graffiti artist is as much about reclaiming the streets from the rodents as it is about letting them loose from the stinking sewers. Are the rats those corporate companies and politicians that run riot, or is it the ordinary man, left squatting in his own mess? Surely it can't be a coincidence that 'rat' is an anagram of 'art'?


Tonight I will be watching the first televised political debate between the three main parties. I don't know who to vote for. I've questioned whether to vote at all. Then I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't know or understand enough, which basically translates as they haven't tried to know or understand enough. I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't believe it will make any difference, which actually means they don't want things to be any different. Everyone is claiming that this is the most exciting election in a long time because the race is so narrow but, when you think about it, it's actually the most unexciting because people just don't care who wins. The state of things hasn't quite reached the level of an 'airborne toxic event' yet, but it's certainly more than a 'feathery plume'; I'd say it's at the stage of a 'black billowing cloud', but one that is getting progressively closer and darker.

Banksy: 'Imagine a city where graffiti wasn't illegal, a city where everybody could draw wherever they liked. Where every street was awash with a million colours and little phrases. Where standing at a bus stop was never boring. A city that felt like a party where everyone was invited, not just the estate agents and barons of big business. Imagine a city like that and stop leaning against the wall - it's wet.'

Red

Yesterday afternoon I finally laid to rest my copy of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. It's a beautiful book about the state of the mind, the ways in which it pulls and pushes, and the fluidity with which this can rush. The fact that it's semi-autobiographical is simply the marrow inside the bone.

Late last night I picked up the Ted Hughes poem collection Birthday Letters, and sat poised in bed flicking backwards through the anthology and sporadically stopping on one of the 88 poems. On my part, Birthday Letters was a complete whim of a purchase from Waterstones a couple of years back. Poetry isn't like a novel or play, where there's a resolution of some kind towards the end, it's a chunk of language that can be entered from any angle and can pass straight through you. So to that end, I've always found poetry less gratifying than other strands of literature. But I think some of Hughes' pieces are really wonderful, and you get a real grasp of the weight that his relationship with Plath had upon him.

'Red' is one of my favourites. It comes last in the collection, and so there's a part of me that believes it is last for a reason and out of all the verses this should seemingly present a conclusion of some sort. It doesn't any more than any of his other poems, but, as Seamus Heaney quotes of the text, "To read Birthday Letters is to experience the psychic equivalent of 'the bends'. It takes you down to levels of pressure where the under-truths of sadness and endurance leave you gasping."


Red

Red was your colour.
If not red, then white. But red
Was what you wrapped around you.
Blood-red. Was it blood?
Was it red-ochre, for warming the dead?
Haematite to make immortal
The precious heirloom bones, the family bones.

When you had your way finally
Our room was red. A judgement chamber.
Shut casket for gems. The carpet of blood
Patterned with darkenings, congealments.
The curtains - ruby corduroy blood,
Sheer blood-falls from ceiling to floor.
The cushions the same. The same
Raw carmine along the window-seat.
A throbbing cell. Aztec altar - temple.

Only the bookshelves escaped into whiteness.

And outside the window
Poppies thin and wrinkle-frail
As the skin on blood,
Salvias, that your father named you after,
Like blood lobbing from a gash,
And roses, the heart's last gouts,
Catastrophic, arterial, doomed.

Your velvet long full skirt, a swathe of blood,
A lavish burgundy.
Your lips a dipped, deep crimson.
You revelled in red.
I felt it raw - like the crisp gauze edges
Of a stiffening wound. I could touch
The open vein in it, the crusted gleam.

Everything you painted you painted white
Then splashed it with roses, defeated it,
Leaned over it, dripping roses,
Weeping roses, and more roses,
Then sometimes, among them, a little bluebird.

Blue was better for you. Blue was wings.
Kingfisher blue silks from San Francisco
Folded your pregnancy
In crucible caresses.
Blue was your kindly spirit - not a ghoul
But electrified, a guardian, thoughtful.

In the pit of red
You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness.

But the jewel you lost was blue.

Book off

I had the oddest thought today, and it simply came from the act of carrying a couple of books around. That's right: books, in my arms, being carried. It gets no more complicated than that. This seemingly redundant process of movement (WITH BOOKS!) reminded me of my BA days. Oh, I was an English student, put on this earth for one reason, and one reason only... to learn in the ways of the Literai! The crumpled pages of a beaten-up second-hand volume of Gaskell's North & South, the hard-bound spine of a text by some wonderfully arbitary author ruminating on the structures of power in a Pinter play, the piles of books discussing Wilde, and Faulkner, and Joyce, and Eliot... This excess that I lumbered around was an armour that swelled up in my chest and the layered pleats of the pages were my protection, voicing the sentiment that 'I was learning!' I was learning, and even as I moved the pressure points of my fingertips were drinking all that inky knowledge up, where it would lie dormant in my mind as tiny fractured splinters of wisdom until I needed to call on them to support an exclamation of swaggering and moving importance...

Then I realised I was walking, carrying some books.