A few years ago I did a journalism training course with a news agency. During the week-long course, we covered the ethics of what should be reported and how. One aspect of this was around pictures of disasters which involved human tragedy and the example they used was the 2004 Madrid train bombing which claimed the lives of 191 people, wounding 1800 others.
The trainers started by asking us what kind of pictures we'd be happy to see over the breakfast table and most of us looked at each other and shrugged, having not given it any particular thought until then. So they showed us a picture of some wreckage which we all agreed wasn't too bad and we could still eat our toast if we saw it.
Another picture came up on the screen, showing some wreckage and what looked like scattered luggage and personal belongings. Again, we agreed it was more or less OK.
The next picture had a shape crumpled next to the bent tracks which was hard to make out, but we were silent, looking at each other uncertainly.
The final picture showed dead bodies, their clothes blown off in the explosion, some dismembered, some face down, a jumble of hands, shoes and cloth. No-one spoke. I've never forgotten it.
Today, MH17, a Malaysian airliner carrying 295 people from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur has allegedly been shot down over Ukraine, presumably and tragically killing everyone on board. No-one knows what happened yet so I'm going to refrain from speculation. But the news agency I did my course with has tweeted pictures in which dead bodies are clearly visible. The BBC broadcast pictures from Russian TV where a woman's passport was open at the photo page. Another news outlet asked questions clearly designed to find out if there were any British passengers on board.
Has the world changed so much in the last few years that sensitivity, decency and consideration for both the victims and their families - many of who won't have even been officially told about the crash yet - have been sacrificed in favour of social media stats? An hour after the news agency pictures went up, people were still complaining directly to them on Twitter, yet they remain visible.
Arguably, stuff that can happen in real life is brutal, news agencies exist and have a duty to inform us about the terrible things that go on in the world. And some of them do a fantastic job of it. But tweeting pictures of scorched dead bodies scant hours after the crash demeans news reporting. Broadcasting the passport picture of someone whose family probably doesn't even know she's dead demeans news reporting. Questions designed to find out if any British people were on board as if they're more important than Chinese passengers demeans news reporting. It's a cynical disregard for anything but page views, which shouldn't be what news is about.
My condolences are with the passengers of MH17 and their families.
Thursday, 17 July 2014
Tuesday, 24 June 2014
lots of pointless horn-beeping
The above is just a small sample of street harassment I've experienced since I started exercising outside last year when I joined a local running club and outdoor boot camp. It doesn't look that bad, does it? I mean, they haven't called me a bitch or a fat slag or offered an opinion on whether they'd fuck me. At least not yet anyway.
It's just this bizarre, pointless shouting and horn-beeping. A lot of people would consider it harmless. At last night's boot camp, I counted around 10 separate incidents of total strangers deciding to let us know they'd spotted us exercising - there may have been more but I was concentrating on not dropping a kettlebell on my foot. A lot of the time they weren't even shouting any actual words, it was just this kind of unintelligible roar - 'aaaarrrghhhh, look at me noticing you'.
Because let's face it, women exercising in public is pretty weird, isn't it? In fact, it's SO weird that you need to make a big point of noticing it, then let us know you've noticed it. So what should we do? Should we all restrict ourselves to exercising at home, alone in front of a celeb workout DVD so we don't have to tolerate your ridiculous howling out of your car window as you test your horn? Do we have to find a patch of grass that's well away from any potential passers-by in case you decide to detour from the footpath with your hoodie mate specifically to jeer at us? I mean, you are all grown men, yet you think nothing of bellowing like some deranged sex pest at a load of women you don't even know just because they're exercising outside.
Sarah Ditum has written previously here and here on street harassment while out running, especially at night. Conversely, I found I got less harassment while running at night and when the evenings got lighter I felt strangely exposed and nervous, even when I tried to pick routes away from traffic. Kassondra Granata wrote a letter to men who harass women as they're working out. Bridget Coulter wrote in Vagenda about the harassment women face while exercising outside. In all honesty, I had no idea it would happen this much. As Ditum writes, it's not complimentary or a tribute to our goddess-like attractiveness, it's judgmental, belittling and threatening.
Of course, I can ignore them and I do, but I hate the way it makes me feel - slightly vulnerable, irritated, self-conscious - and when someone does something which makes a person experience those negative feelings, it's not harmless. I don't want you to stare at me. I don't want you to beep at me. I don't want you to bellow out of your car window at me. I'm just exercising, for fuck's sake, let me get on with it.
Thursday, 15 May 2014
|Photo by @adelearmstron11|
Who hasn't been stuck in a traffic jam on the verge of some kind of Falling Down moment which makes you want to just get out and walk away? For the non-Londoners, Bank junction is unutterably awful to drive through. It's a point outside the Royal Exchange and the Bank of England where six major roads in the City meet with enthusiastically-enforced box junctions and traffic lights.There are entrances to Bank tube station on nearly all of these roads, plus it's a tourist destination.
So today, the owner of this green Toyota Avensis just stopped his car, got out and walked smartly to the nearest tube entrance, leaving panic and chaos in his wake. As it's one of the most terrorist-sensitive areas on the City, the first assumption was that it could be a bomb and everything came to a standstill while this possibility was investigated. Fortunately, it wasn't.
The question now remains as to why. Did he feel unfairly penalised by City police over some previous traffic infringement and abandon his car in protest? Did he just lose his shit over the ridiculous London traffic and decide to take the quickest way home? Did he just wake up and think, 'I know what to do today...!'
Answers on a postcard.
Friday, 25 April 2014
So how did I end up being temporary? Having left school at 16 with no ambitions, a clutch of GCSEs and the ability to type, I became a secretary until student life beckoned at the ripe age of 21. Temping was the perfect way to earn money during my holidays - and as it ended up - during term time too. It was also a handy way to vet future employers. If the boss was an arrogant control freak or the job described as 'busy PA work' when it actually consisted of eight hours a day of waiting for a phone to ring then it was good to find this out before accepting a permanent job. It also provided an unparalleled opportunity to work in a variety of industries - I think I've worked in nearly everything from motor racing to timber research to education at some point.
There are, of course, downsides to temping. Like the time I turned up for a week's work for a consultant at a large hospital who first put me to work sorting paper from non-paper in the office of a recently deceased colleague (who, it seemed, had specialised in hoarding). He then shouted at me for correcting a misspelt word in one of his letters:
'If I write a word then I expect you to type it the same as I've written it, NOT insert your own interpretation of it!'Or the time I worked at a company who had sacked the previous PA who had been very popular. Not one person spoke to me for a week. Or the manager who didn't have anything for me to do so sent me out to the factory to fill paint samples until an irate factory supervisor reminded him about health and safety. Or the boss who had the surname Bond, signed all his letters as 007 and kicked a whole bag of putrefying rubbish across the office in a temper which was left for me to pick up. Or the one-man company who was always out but wanted someone to answer the phone and do literally nothing else but stipulated that I was strictly not allowed to read or look at the computer. Get an answerphone, dude.
I've also been told to collect cars, clean toilets, fetch dry cleaning, go and get keys cut, deliver leaflets, find dentists, fill envelopes, book restaurants and order wine. Not to forget the relentless, infuriating tea and coffee making, as though we were all back in the Mad Man era. One agency tried to make me work at a company with a manual typewriter. Given this was the nineties, I can only assume they wanted someone to test a museum exhibit.
It's surprising how many people think it's OK to be rude to a temp and equally surprising how many people who think it's OK to sexually harass them but that's a whole other story. It's also surprising how many companies refuse to give temps work to do, seemingly preferring the indispensable person they're paying £££+VAT for to sit and stare at a wall for eight hours. My first temping job in London saw me finding a villa in the south of France for the volatile owner of a head-hunting company as nearly the first thing I did after walking through the door.
There's also the fact that people don't refer to you by name, instead re-christening you 'The Temp', or perhaps snapping their fingers while trying to remember your name before wittily coming up with 'Lisa MK2!'. There's the people who ostentatiously record to the exact minute what time you arrive and leave (ignoring the fact that most agencies back in the day rounded up to the nearest 15 minutes) while making a point of telling you that you wouldn't be able to slip a sneaky 30 minutes past them, even if that's probably what you do to everyone else. I didn't get holidays or sick days, so I basically never took them except for the time I had flu and the agency accused me of faking before sending my P45. Trust me, love, if I was capable of working, I'd be there because a week in bed means I have to borrow money to pay my rent.
How much did temps get paid back then? The first temp job I had paid £2.75 per hour and I aspired to £5.00 per hour which I managed to finagle from the company by working directly for them. A couple of years later as a student, I managed to scrape £6.50 per hour but this was exceptional - most jobs paid around £5.75. To give you some idea of the wage difference between the capital and the provinces, when I first temped in London (which was only about two years later), my hourly rate was £11.50 before I knew any better and rose to £15.50 once I did.
Fridays were the big day in temping. Companies continually failed to call the agency until Friday, even when they knew they'd need someone at least a couple of weeks before, and that was when I'd get the call from the agency. If I went to bed on a Friday without a job for the next week, Monday morning would be last chance saloon when the permies went sick or walked out.No job on Tuesday? No wine on Friday!
Oh, and the technology. When I first started out, everyone had electronic typewriters and some places even still made you use carbon paper. Carbon paper is a massive pain in the arse. You'd insert a sheet of carbon paper between two sheets of A4 so there would be a copy of the letter you'd typed. Believe it or not, this still happened in the early nineties. WordPerfect 5.0, Word for Windows 3:1, mail merge, 5.25in floppy disks, 3.5in floppy disks, WYSIWYG, audio-typing from tiny tapes, Tippex. Also: telexes.
The thing with temping was that you had to make yourself as amenable and competent as possible so you'd be asked back or even given a longer term job. Two long-term temp jobs I had came about because I'd gone somewhere for a week or two and made a good impression so they asked me to stay longer. I was actually lucky with both of these because they were astonishingly flexible about the hours I worked and they got me through nearly two years of uni. One of them did make the bizarre stipulation that I wasn't allowed to arrive at work in my uni clothes and change in the loos like a normal person. This led to me changing in my car by the side of the road and one memorable occasion when a bus load of passengers saw me struggling into my blouse. The same manager also told me he didn't like my hair, clothes or makeup but presumably failed to find fault with my work. I mean, gosh, it wasn't like I was a goth or anything.
Why wasn't I permanent? Well, I wanted to be. I needed to be to pay my rent. I applied for jobs and went for interviews but being a student counted against me and agencies don't like to lose reliable temps who can do more than one thing at a time without drooling. One day, at one of the long-term jobs (where I'd missed lectures to work and gone in on Saturdays to keep up) every temp but me was called into the boss's office and offered a full-time role. I went home in tears but actually it ended up being one of the things that eventually got me out of the secretarial rut.
And now I'm permanent. And I don't have to do mail merges or make tea for anyone else but me.
Saturday, 5 April 2014
|Photo by chutney bannister|
Yet some people seem to feel it's OK to take a photo of a total stranger without their consent and post it up for abuse and ridicule. Frankly, I think this sucks.
It made me so cross that I wrote about it for Londonist.
Now stop taking photos of people on your train for other people to laugh at.
Sunday, 30 March 2014
Sunday, 9 March 2014
|Photo by @c0unse1|
Walkout over legal aid cuts - Ministry of Justice cuts could leave vulnerable people with little or no legal representation.
356 London jobseekers sanctioned every day - the rise of spurious DWP sanctions and the hardship they cause.
Food bank use up 400% - looking at why increasing numbers of people are being forced to turn to food banks.
The housing crisis and banning overseas investors - would it solve London's housing problem?
Met police numbers down - police cuts, water cannon and empty promises.
Men charged with taking food from skip - the CPS's ludicrous pursuit of three London men caught taking unused food from an Iceland skip.
The huge emergency housing bill - how sanctions, benefit caps and the bedroom tax are costing the taxpayer more.
London's missed and fiddled targets - lies, damn lies and statistics.
Why we can't just change London's roads overnight.
Sunday, 23 February 2014
For the uninitiated Essexites among you, The Only Way Is Essex (or TOWIE) is a reality TV show set in Essex which claims to show real people in modified situations, saying unscripted lines but in a structured way. This basically means the producers get a bunch of people who aren't actors and engineer situations between them while filming the result.
When it was first broadcast in 2010, it caused something of a hoo-ha. People in Essex complained it showed the county's residents in a negative and stereotypical light while everyone else was abjectly horrified at the rich, thick and orange. When it was first broadcast, I rather high-mindedly refused to watch it. In fact, I couldn't watch it and when I once stumbled across it while channel-hopping without realising what it was, I thought my brain would actually bleed. The groups of people in it have changed over the years but they're fairly typical of a certain circle in west Essex. They're young, they're beautiful, they come from families with money and they want to spend it. Preferably as showily as possible.It's tempting to dismiss them as not too intelligent, but many of them have their own businesses so they can't all be quite as hopelessly incompetent as they sometimes come across.
Once I'd got over myself, I started watching it.
I live in one of the filming locations for TOWIE, and I can absolutely attest that it's had a dramatic impact on the local area. When Lauren Goodger opened her beauty salon in Buckhurst Hill, people came from as far afield as Dublin and Hull just to have their nails done. There are even tours which people can book to visit the various filming locations and when you've seen a Liverpudlian hen party walk into a salon and ask for 12 vajazzles, you know they're on a TOWIE tour. Brentwood, Loughton and Chigwell became a kind of axis of hedonism. 'Gahn Faces tonight' is both a question and a statement of intent (Faces being a local nighclub). There's even a company calling itself (God help them) Reem Lets. Joey Essex shops in my local supermarket where people whisper and giggle and take photos as he picks out his veg.
Anyway, up until the last two seasons, it was kind of amusing to watch. It's not every day you see two women arranging their shivery, saucer-eyed chihuahuas' limbs for dog yoga, or a man in a onesie attempting to walk on water. I enjoyed Lauren pushing the manipulative Mark into a swimming pool at his own party just as much as the next person. I shouted at the TV as Lucy fell back into the arms of the philandering Mario. I cringed as Arg's puppy-like devotion to Mark Wright led him to abandon the long-suffering Lydia in a bar on her birthday so he could 'be there for his mate' who was promoting a party somewhere else. In Essex, every cocky, good-looking guy under 30 is a 'club promoter' which I think basically means they go around encouraging people to go to whatever club is paying them in free champagne.
But it's changed, man.
At some point over the last couple of years, the silly innocence went out of it. The men are rapacious, nasty and desperately immature as they snigger and boast about sleeping with various women. The women are two-faced, dishonest and desperately immature as they gossip and shit-stir. The women and the men both cheat on each other but the women refuse to admit it then go into BAFTA-worthy acts of outrage and injury while the men blame the women for their cheating. Some of the newer characters are just unutterably awful while some of the older ones have turned into parodies of themselves. At the end of every episode of the 10th series, I decided I'd basically thrown away an hour of my life watching people I now actively disliked picking apart their relationships and each other. It wasn't like anything even really happened any more, just strained conversations in gyms, bars and coffee shops. It's like watching a couple who once had a torrid affair and fizzed with excitement regard each other with boredom and something close to hatred as they try to inject that sparkle back into their relationship. The Essex glamour has faded. And I fell out of love with TOWIE.
The 11th series starts tonight. I won't be watching it. Not even a little bit. Life's just too damn short.