Sad you were never a Child Genius? Don’t worry, there’s no such thing

You’re not a genius, and neither am I

Child Genius is back on our boxes again.

It’s a show that has a great ability to make children, and adults, feel inadequate – and that’s not just those partaking.

Saying that, I won’t lay into it too much. I do genuinely enjoy each episode and think that most of the kids seem well-adjusted.

My beef with it really comes down to how they test the children for their genius – that is, the grim IQ test.

Grim?

Yep, I hate it. In fact, I am anti the whole concept of measuring constructs of anything – even if I did a psychology degree.

Psychologists are always trying to quantify human behaviour – whether that’s ‘happiness’ or ‘neuroticism’ or anything else. But because we are such a varied species, it’s extremely difficult to create objective measures of such constructs. Not in the same way that other scientific disciplines can test matter.

Still, researchers are keen to try with intelligence, and tests have been in development for as long as 1882.

When I was younger I remember taking an IQ test, and I thought ‘what the fuck’. Because when I got the score it pretty much told me I was thick.

The questions on it include verbal reasoning, maths and pattern-based riddles testing abstraction, logic and all other things that I am really shit at.

And I guess that’s where my real hatred for this test came from. I knew I was clever, but according to this test I was dumb.

There was a time when getting a crappy test result could even result in my ovaries being stitched up. In the Eugenics social movement, IQ tests were used as a means to sterilise tens of thousands of people in Germany and the US.

But despite its dark history, we’re still wheeling it out like it’s the Holy Grail of intelligence.

The redundancy of it became especially poignant to me when I watched a Horizon documentary a few years back called Battle of the Brains. It featured a load of celebrities – renowned for different skills – trying various intelligence tests to establish who would perform best.

One of the celebrities was Bonnier Greer: a tremendous playwright, novelist and creative mind. She took the IQ test, and guess what?

She did pretty badly.

You only have to watch interviews with her to see that she’s incredibly intelligent. But no, no, no, Mensa doesn’t want you Bonnie Greer.

Interestingly she did far better on an intelligence test related to one of my favourite theories: the hippy trippy, all-embracing theory of multiple intelligences.

Developed by Howard Gardner, it describes nine different types of intelligence that pretty much anyone can fit into.

For example, if you’re good at music= you have musical-rhythmic and harmonic intelligence; if you’re good at sports, that’s bodily-kinesthetic intelligence.

And so forth.

Anyway, the point is that no one is thick according to good old Gardner.

And do you know what? I really don’t think anyone is. Sure, you might not think the contestants of Geordie Shore are intelligent at times, but I bet every single one of them could score highly on one or several Gardner’s theories of intelligence. That’s because we are really designed as a tapestry species – each of us stitches, working together to create a functional society. Our varying aptitudes are what helps us blend together.

But we won’t seem so apt if we take the IQ test.

Mensa adores it. Members of the organisation currently sit on the Child Genius panel – firing questions at children like it’s their God-given right to decide who’s a genius.

It even runs its own club, only allowing people to come through the doors once they’ve got a high result on the IQ test.

But do you know what their club is? (Apart from being totally elitist). It’s not a group of the cleverest people in the world, but a group of people who overlap in their intelligence abilities.

So I am disappointed to see their singular concept of intelligence get promoted through Child Genius. And bummed at the idea that little boys and girls watching this might end up with skewed ideas of what it is to be clever. Mostly, memorising cards and maps, and remembering pointless facts. In Mensa’s desire to find the geniuses of our species, it assumes we are all the same.

But real intelligence isn’t about that; it’s about realising we are all clever in extremely different – and often immeasurable – ways.

The day I dared to help ‘feminist’ uber trolls

My first experience on a ‘feminist’ Facebook site saw me bullied off by pseudo-intellectual thugs with vaginas 

Here’s a nice story for the day.

A while ago I joined the Facebook group ‘Cuntry Living’ – a forum for posting photographs or articles that challenge sexism. It describes itself – in a spieling manifesto – as ‘an intersectional, sex positive online space in which we can challenge patriarchy and share our experiences of oppression’.

Today one of its members asked the group:

‘Can anyone recommend some sex work documentaries which do a good job of representing humanized sex workers – i.e. not ‘Hot Girls Wanted’? I want sex worker voices but don’t know where to get them.’

So, I, seeing this, thought I would be a really nice person.

‘I don’t know a documentary but you could watch Brooke Magnanti interviews’, I wrote, posting a HARDtalk link of the woman in question to the group. ‘She is quite matter of fact about prostitution and defends it very articulately’, I continued.

I mean, I thought I was being helpful. And I should point out, before I continue with this story, I really like Brooke Magnanti – she could even make me want to be a prostitute. But as soon as I posted the comment I was launched into. Apparently the word ‘prostitute’ is unforgiveable in this day and age, and has all sorts of terrible connotations.

The first troll to attack me is actually Campaigns Officer for an LGBT group. I only mention this because it concerns me that someone who’s meant to be making the world better for all is a bit of shit stirrer. She wrote to me:

‘please call it “sex work” rather than “prostitution” and warn for “prostitute” a a whorephobic slur”. Her comment began to amass Likes.

I was confused by her post because I couldn’t see what was so terrible about using the word ‘prostitute’. Especially if – as per further commentary – being a sex worker isn’t such a bad thing.

I replied:

‘Prostitution= ‘the practice or occupation of engaging in sexual activity with someone for payment’. You’re the only one suggesting it’s a ‘whorephobic slur’’

UH OH. Big mistake. Some bespeckled moron was on my case.

‘please don’t use scare quotes to suggest what someone else is saying is illegitimate, it’s really rude’.

‘You mean the dictionary?’ I replied.

The chain rambled on with angry posts by very angry women, before one accused me (ME!) of getting defensive.

‘Charlotte Gill, please stop getting defensive and listen to what people are telling you.’

This girl was from Oxford University, and that – too – kind of worried me. I hope she doesn’t do English anyway. BECAUSE SHE CLEARLY CAN’T READ A DICTIONARY.

I’ve attached copies of the conversation in this blog, so you can judge for yourself who was really being defensive. And not just defensive: down right bonkers. You will see that I hardly said anything.

Eventually I left the group, encouraged by an animalistic instinct that told me to run away from the heckling hyenas. As I did so, I was tempted to call them all nut jobs, but I was actually genuinely scared that they all are nut jobs – and I didn’t want to get nutted by nut jobs.

‘I am out of here. You’re not feminists; you’re pseudo-intellectual bullies’, I wrote, as I signed off.

#thuglife

So much for oppression, ey? This ridiculous group – which has something around 10,000 members – is the most unsisterly thing I’ve ever experienced.

To be honest I don’t want to give it too much credit as I genuinely feel some of the people are too stupid on it to really take offence to. But it does worry me that feminism is being used as a ‘masquerade’, essentially, for oiks to club curious, non-offensive members of the community.

I’d actually thought about posting an article I wrote about feminism to that group that challenged fashionable ideas of ‘nurturism’. But. FUCK. DAT. SHIT.

These people don’t want to engage or listen to debates. I’ve seen it in the ‘anti-feminist’ community too. They want a good fight, but they can’t stand it when the other side can throw good punches. Or aren’t even throwing anything – just minding their own business.

They’re angry, stupid thugs – and they’re shitting all over the name of feminism.

 

Pickles are teaching us important lessons about mental health

Good for the mouth and good for the mind: pickles have been known to lessen social anxiety symptoms

I hate to go all Cartesian on y’all, but the body is far more of a puppeteer in human emotion than we consider 

Pickles (or gherkins), to my mind, couldn’t get any more amazing. And yet, far from being a tasty treat, they have now proven their ability to improve mental health.

Scientists have shown that our phallus-shaped friends can reduce social anxiety. Statistics suggest that individuals who regularly nosh on pickles, kimchi (whatever that is), sauerkraut (same…) and other fermented foods experience less ‘neuroticism’.

Not just a Big Mac accompaniment
The underlying factor researchers have identified as the reason behind the reduction in neurotic systems is the ‘mind-gut connection.’ Speaking about the findings, one of the masterminds behind the study said: ‘microorganisms in your gut can influence your mind, and changes in the gut in turn influence social anxiety’.

I’m glad they’ve done this study because it’s given me the excuse to discuss one of the most fascinating things I discovered when I was studying psychology: the body influences in the mind.

We do have a tendency to believe that the mind is controlling the body – and that depression, anxiety and any other types of mental health problems come from top down. For example, you feel sad so you don’t want to do anything; you feel anxious, so you retreat from certain situations. But it’s actually a bit more complex than that.

The James-Lang theory – independently put together by scholars William James and Carl Lange – was the first to suggest that the body could be influencing the mind. They argue that it is possible for physiological change to be the primary response to a situation, preceding emotions.

To illustrate the point, James used an example of a person seeing a bear. Now we might conventionally imagine in this situation one would think ‘shit!!!’ (or worse) and run. However, James argued that it is possible we would actually experience a physiological response to the bear (running/trembling) and only feel our emotions later.

This makes evolutionary sense. We’ve all had moments where our bodies reacted before we had time to think or feel: perhaps our sleeve was catching on fire as we cooked dinner and we quickly flinched back, before thinking ‘bloody hell, that was scary.’

Gut feeling
There are a few examples in daily life where your body might be influencing your mind. The most obvious one is guzzling coffee. With people who have sensitive nervous systems, coffee can make them jittery, even causing a short, but dramatic, increase in blood pressure. It can also give you the shits. And what are all these physiological states symptomatic of?

Anxiety.

So, if you ever catch yourself feeling randomly anxious – even going into panic mode – after a trip to the coffee machine, consider it’s your body that’s influencing your mind.

The same thing goes for ingesting things like alcohol and drugs – which can elevate heart rate and cause the shakes. As we start to experience these physiological changes, our mind becomes alarmed – and it’s possible for us to interpret them as ‘anxiety’ or ‘feeling down’. Really, they’re just the body having a crappy time.

There is even evidence to show that bumming around, doing nothing can make you low. That’s why unemployment – among other reasons – is highly correlated with depression.

I am, therefore I think
So why am I going on about this? I was dead excited that pickles have such a good impact – this research highlights that our body really does do stuff to our mind. And that’s empowering. Unless you’re the Dalai Lama, trying to control your feelings can be difficult, but the body is a far more accessible tool to regulate.

Even just smiling more can make you feel happier. Psychologists have found that the behaviour can actively boost mood, in a theory they call the ‘facial feedback hypothesis’.

We can also do more exercise as a society. I am astonished by how many people never do it, given the dire mental health stats in this country. Of course it’s not the sole medicine when someone is down in the dumps, but surely it has to be one of the first – if not the primary – ports of call when an individual’s state of mind is in decline. Scientists have shown that working out releases powerful endorphins. And it’s completely human to need to run around. Humans are animals, equipped with reactive nervous systems that need to respond, and engage, with stimuli.

We are extremely complex beings and things like exercise or diet may seem like simplistic solutions to regulating our emotions, just like pickles. But we shouldn’t think that our mind is the controller all the time. It’s actually quite a complex dual process of interplay between the mind and body that, ultimately, makes us feel content.

So eat pickles, go to the gym – and never, ever think of your body as your puppet. Sometimes it’s holding the strings over you.

Sniffy, snotty online reviewers are crushing businesses

‘I wanted my beard to look like Craig David’s!’: a participant from the TV show The Complainers

Twitter trolls are so last year. Nowadays there’s a new breed of internet bully – it’s called ‘the online reviewer’

Nobody likes to be a complainer. That’s until you’re anonymous, and you’re off and away. The internet has become a breeding ground for kvetching, with websites such as TripAdvisor encouraging anyone to let it all out at the first whiff of bad service.

A study published today by the Competition and Markets Authority (CMA) reveals some vexing insights into public usage of these sites. More than half the UK’s adult population (54 percent) is using online reviews, and not always in the kindest of ways.

The report suggests that consumers have become brutes in their quest for retail rights, exploiting online reviews as blackmail tools to blag discounts, and more, from target companies.

Gimme more
Channel 4 picked up on this grumblesphere in 2014 with its TV series The Complainers – a look at our nation’s most persistent whinebags. While the show did prove rather amusing, it also showed a rather depressing state of play.

Instead of accepting the fallibility of service, we have become more vocal than ever in our demand for quality.

In response, businesses are running around in circles to accommodate our needs. Compensatory services, discounts and much more are being offered to irked customers; gestures borne not so much out of good will, but fear. Fear of what will happen when someone logs onto Youtube, Twitter and the like to cry boohoo over the haircut that made them look like Anne Hathaway in Les Mis; the Argos earrings that didn’t quite fit right, the Pret sandwich that gave them post traumatic stress disorder, and much much more.

Trollalalala
But I wish we had more moral trepidation when it came to unleashing our inner Moaning Myrtle. In our pursuit of justice – or perfection (there is a certain subjectivity to approval of these things) – we do pose a threat to businesses of any size. The potential virality of a couple of angry sentences on the web can be as corrosive as cancer, eating away at the profitability of a company.

We still live in fragile economic times, where many businesses – particularly small ones – are standing on shaky legs. People always talk about the likes of big retail players, like Tesco, swamping in on meager competitors. But I fear defamatory online reviews are the thing that’s really likely to push the latter to the ground.

Instead of viewing an online complaint form as a sine qua non when we get a bad – or ambiguous – customer experience, surely we can exercise some type of restraint. Whether that’s deciding simply that we will not use the product, service, or whatever it was that slightly offended us again, or privately communicating our objections.

In our desire for people power, we have forgotten it’s businesses that power the people. Companies do not have much room to manoeuvre when they are charged with being ineffective, and, so, tend to dish out a freebie or discount as opposed to disagreeing with a customer. This is inexpensive when compared to the cost of being slammed on social media, but still has a detrimental effect on a company’s bottom line. The customer may always be right, but we must remember that some businesses are tight.

I’m all for democracy – a little critique over the internet is no bad thing and we should hold brands to account when they’ve done a bad job. But at the moment I’m concerned we’ve become the ‘never happy nation’. It seems to me that when businesses are having to act more out of fear, than in their best interests, the moaning community has gone too far.

Ginger Bond, black Bond, he’ll still be the same chauvinistic, dull Bond

King of the gingers Damian Lewis is all over the newspapers today. Word is out that he may be the next James Bond.

If you’ve missed this information, I don’t know how – because ever since Daniel Craig revealed plans to hang up his gun last year, the media can’t stop discussing who the next stars of the franchise will be – whether that’s Idris Elba, Tom Hardy or Henry Cavill.

But, you know what, I’m a bit bored of Bondaganda. In the same way as I don’t want to hear about football, or Game of Thrones or One Direction’s underpants. In fact, if you’re not interested in any of these cultural phenomenons you end up feeling as isolated as Rachel Dolezal at a gathering of white people. I say we all find a bunker and live together, in a world where the words ‘Jon Snow’ and ‘gooooal!’ are never uttered.

Ok, ok, you’re probably wondering ‘who doesn’t like James Bond?’ After all we have absorbed the franchise into our culture as if it were fish and chips – a normal part of British life. Dare we ever question whether we we actually get that much enjoyment out of it.

My big issue I have with it is that it’s very sexist. Obviously I’m not the first one to point this out – it’s been a criticism of Bond films as long as they have been made. I only got a bit rattled because I noticed that women in my circles – that’s a polite expression for friends – like it! Which I think is barmy – because I do not know how anyone could get excited over a film in which their own gender is solely portrayed as sperm buckets.

Sure, sometimes women do other things in James Bond films, like move their arms. But mostly it’s a sorry tale. I was especially depressed when I watched Quantum of Solace, in which Gemma Arterton has a very inadequate role indeed. There’s pouting and talking, and then she dies. This is a woman who has done Shakespeare! Yet all of that just gets wasted in a James Bond film.

Everyone’s been getting excited because femme fatale Monica Belluci is going to be in the next picture – Spectre. She will be the oldest Bond Girl in the franchise’s history, at 50 years of age. Speaking about the role, Belluci said ‘I’d prefer to be called a Bond woman or perhaps a Bond lady.’ Her entry into the film was seen as very revolutionary for Bond, as if its directors have broken down boundaries against Hollywood ageism. That’s in spite of the fact gorgeous Belluci could be twenty years younger. Frankly, I want to see a moustache and boobs that move like a swing in the wind before I can celebrate any James Bond ‘golden oldie’ movement.

You might say that Judi Dench is a good example of an older lady, in the role of M. She was brought in by movie directors because – and I quote – she is ‘the only woman Bond doesn’t see in a sexual content’. That’s nice, isn’t it?! Explains a lot though. Anyway, it’s good and everything that Dench got a bit of camera action – she was great at holding phones and chatting about stuff – but the character did die.

And when she died, did I shed a tear?

No. Which brings me on to my next point. Bond characters are as interesting as a trip to The Royal Geographical Society (soz, I went there when I was 12 and I’m still getting over it). This is where I think that Piers Brosnan, Timothy Dalton and Sean McConnery had a bit of an edge as predecessors to Danny boy, because they had a lot more charisma.

The Daily Mirror got it right when they described Craig as ‘The Name’s Bland – James Bland’ in 2006. Craig has made a very dull spy, indeed, with his permanent bitchy resting face – which of course will be interpreted as ‘clever and mysterious’. And I don’t even want to snog him thanks to his paper thin lips. Anyway, the point is that there’s so much action in these films that you barely get to know the people in them.

But who wants to know them anyway? The protagonist is a boring chauvinist and the female characters are like Bambi in the field, waiting for someone to load their gun and take them out.

So when my news feed is bombed up with stories about Damian Lewis et al being in the running for the role, do you know what I say? Apart from saying, don’t do it, Damian Lewis!!! I say, I don’t care.

I don’t want to feel like a strange minority for not liking Bond films. It’s a dull, regressive set of movies that we are somehow supposed to accept as part of our British identity, like tea.

But being British, to me, equals being interesting and egalitarian. Everything a Bond film is not.

Why Miley Cyrus reminds me of a block of cheddar cheese

Just because you put triangles in it doesn’t make it classy

She’s gonna go moldy one day

A long time ago I watched Miley Cyrus on an episode of Graham Norton – back when she was singing about climbing mountains and having a grand old party in the USA. She came across as savvy and intelligent, with opinions far more astute than those of her counterparts.

And then her music selling tactics took a strange turn. We all saw that performance with Robin Thicke at the MTV VMA Awards 2013. Cyrus had worked out that sex sells, and golly gosh, was she going to sell.

Out came the buttocks, the strange outfits, and then the statements. In an article for Paper magazine the other day, Cyrus announced her bisexuality, saying “I don’t relate to being boy or girl, and I don’t have to have my partner relate to boy or girl”.

Forget rent a gob – Cyrus is ‘rent a cliché’, for every time she speaks she seems to produce statements that we all know will get her publicity, but don’t sound particularly authentic.

More than anything, I feel exhausted by the endless stream of Cyrus photos that all seem to say: ‘look everyone, I’ve got nipples’. I’m sure I’ve seen the woman’s vagina more than my dog’s balls.

It’s clear the Cyrus considers herself radical and feminist, as if by sharing her butt like Jesus with his fish she has started some sort of revolution. But her artistry is predictable and sexist, and no more profound than Loaded magazine spread. In stripping off she reveals a horrifying level of cultural ignorance and short-term way of thinking.

I understand why Cyrus wants to get naked. First of all, she looks good – and who wouldn’t want to show off the effects of personal training? But mostly she is hungry for fame and attention and has exploited women’s fast track route to this. Beauty.

Now you may not say after watching Cyrus cuddle up to a – slightly alarmed – pig in Paper that she looked particularly beautiful, but the fact is that her body is appealing, and most of her success comes from allowing all and sundry access to it.

You see lots of girls who understand the importance of their bodies too, and spend an inordinate amount of time trying to be sexy. They go through a bit of a ‘shallow era’ as they realise that the physically attractive girls at school are the ones prized by boys, and that intellect or interests are secondary factors in desirability. If your boobs look good, your status becomes immediately elevated.

But then most of us grow out of it, at varying speeds. Aside from being a bit annoyed about being judged by our body parts, perhaps a lot of that is to do is with the realisation we’re going to get old.

I feel like Cyrus is still stuck in that shallow stage though – and I doubt the thought has ever occurred to her that one day her boobs might fall to the ground. That she might be in fact signing her own death warrant by by using her body to garner love.

Bodies age, and more than that, people tire of bodies. Once you have exposed every part of your anatomy, there is nothing else to show. And why would anyone be interested in your personality? It was never part of your original sales pitch, so there you are. Expired.

You’re the next Jane Birkin; Brigitte Bardot; Jacqueline Bisset of the era. Beautiful one day, forgotten the next. And when you’re wrinkly, who’s going to want to read about your sex life in Paper magazine?

It’s a false economy to believe sexiness equals longitude. If you look at older women who are still around – the Hillary Clintons and Gloria Steinhams – you will find that they weren’t the most aesthetically pleasing or sexually provocative. They actually had interesting things to say – not just ‘I’m bisexual’ – that have given them immortality with women and men.

But Cyrus is just a block of cheddar cheese. I say that because right now she’s in date, on the front aisle – her body taste and fresh. And yet cheddar goes moldy – and so will Cyrus too. And what happens to cheese when it goes moldy? It goes in the bin, because no one wants to eat it.

The only thing that differentiates Cyrus from cheddar cheese is she has a soul and is not – despite what it seems like – just an object for people to devour. So I suggest she stops parading her lumps for the world to see, and instead focuses on all those things I saw on The Graham Norton Show all those years ago – a feisty, interesting singer who just happens to have a nice body.

Why are feminists so intent on nurture?

Nostrils of love: it’s no wonder women are falling for Tim Hunt

If women want to prove they can be scientists then they must stop discounting the facts 

No gal on earth would have been happy when Sir Tim Hunt – fellow of the Royal Society and Nobel prizewinning scientist – made several ill-considered comments about women in laboratories. Apparently we ‘cry’ too much, and also make men ‘fall in love’ with us.

So big was the fallout from what he said that, today, Hunt has resigned from his post at UCL.

Joking though he (apparently) was, Hunt’s words opened up a huge debate about barriers to women in science.

‘Hunt has made at last explicit the prejudice that undermines the prospects of everyone born with childbearing capabilities’, wrote Anne Perkins for The Guardian.

Others complained that he’s just another cog in the stereotype machine, putting women off from cutting up dead mice. They argue that the reason why so many women don’t want to pursue biology, chemistry and the rest is because we’ve been subjected to sexist opinions like his.

But I think it’s time we got a bit scientific about this. Because women aren’t that feeble; we can handle people like Hunt.

There might be a far more straightforward reason why not as many of us are in science: biology.

Oh no she didn’t
It has become incredibly fashionable these days to discount it. The idea of nurture is popular with the left because it stands for equality; the notion that we can be anything we want with the right social conditions. But that is far from the truth.

As soon as we are born we are already injected with a huge personality stamp from mummy and daddy. As much as 50 percent of our genetic variance is biological – which means being you is half out of your control.

Women and men are wired differently. Studies over time have shown men to be more proficient when it comes to spatial awareness, and as adults they do better on engineering and physics problems testing. In contrast, women are better at tests of verbal fluency, and social and emotional recognition. Young boys are statistically more likely to pick up mechanical toys, whereas girls go for things with faces like dolls.

You can even see gender differences in animals, with rats likely to be better at navigating mazes than their female counterparts.

That’s just the tip of the iceberg.

There are also mental disorders, which highlight differences – and deficiencies – in our brains. Women are far more likely to suffer from emotional disorders whereas men suffer far more from things like autism (five times more prevalent), Tourette’s, ADHD and psychopathy.

See, it’s not that great being a bloke.

Of course nurture does play a bit of a part in the equation. As one of my psychology teachers once said ‘the nature and nurture debate is like asking which side of a square is more important than the other’. They are both important and actually interact to give us our individuality.

But at the moment, feminists are in dangerous favour of nurture – and I’m not sure why.

It’s not a bad thing that the ‘feminine’ brain might not be attracted to science – just like it’s not a bad thing the ‘masculine’ brain might not be attracted to journalism. Because wherever we have a weakness in the brain, there is a compensating factor elsewhere.

That’s not to say that being a woman means you can’t be a scientist – it’s just to point out that the natural wiring of the average male brain confers an advantage when it comes to certain tasks.

It might also suggest that our teaching methods need to adapt, so that women can learn about science through different approaches.

If women really want to be scientists, they will be scientists. If Tim Hunt was a journalist and said to me one day, ‘women shouldn’t be writers because they cry and make men fall in love with them’, or something worse, would I care?

No.

You hear popstars talk about how they got rejection after rejection after rejection before being signed to a record label. The point is – if you’re passionate about something, you’re going to do it. In fact, it’s sexist to say that women can’t cope with negative comments.

But it’s not sexist to say that there are sex differences in intelligence; it is biologically accurate. And if women really want to prove they can be scientists, they must listen to the facts.

It’s #JustATampon (but what if PERIOD PHOBIA is good for women?)

He’s got a tampon, and he’s not afraid to use it

Blud be scared by da blood

It takes a tough man to handle periods. The fact is, most guys are grossed out by them – which can be annoying when you’re hungry, or have a face like someone at a rosacea conference, and can’t complain to anyone that you have Julius Caesar’s death in your downstairs.

A load of celebrities are trying to make periods more of an open thing, with a wonderful Twitter hashtag circulating: #JustATampon. It’s designed to mark International Tampon Alert Day.

You can already see it: men standing out on their house balconies, waving a red and white flag. Viva la period!

Or not.

Because the idea of a woman’s time makes them shrivel up like a sanitary towel tossed into a bin.

I guess if I didn’t have periods I would find them a bit gross too, and start imagining weird things about them. Like one boy told me he imagined a tampon is like a plug in your v-jay jay that you pull out and then loads of blood spurts out, so I had to inform him that it’s more absorbent than the metal thing that goes in the sink.

Others run away at the sound of the word ‘period’, like someone had announced they have ebola.

For ages I thought it was a bit rubbish how men didn’t really care for periods, but then I started to think of all the wonderful advantages of their fear. What if PERIOD PHOBIA is actually a good thing for women?

The first real benefit of this I saw was when I was having a fight with my brothers. Now even though I am 26 and five foot one, and there’s three of them, they do like to test my strength. But one day I noticed that if I talked about periods, there was no need to use my normal tactics like biting or scratching, because they all just ran away.

Women: if you want men to run away, just talk about periods.

Further to that I’ve realised that any sort of image associated with periods is aversive in itself. That’s in spite of that weird tampon advert a few years ago where manufacturers made them look like sweets: ‘ooh darling, fancy one of these?’ (The only problem is where they go to unwrap them, of course).

I’m sure if you had a box of tampons you could shoot them like bullets at ‘undesirables’ on the street – sending all the whistling builders and miscellaneous perves scuttling off into the sewers (where I imagine they live). You can even fight crime with your period by sticking all your prized possessions in your sanitary boxes! Forget safes, if there’s one place a male burglar isn’t going near it’s a box of sanitary products.

(And I know male burglars won’t be reading this and finding out about my secret because just the word ‘period’ in the title is like staring into Medusa’s eyes for them.)

It’s not only crime periods help with – there’s a number of social situations. For example, you’re dating but you’re not interested (‘sorry, I’m waving the red flag’); you’re trying to converse with your girlfriend and need your man to disappear (‘we’re talking about periods, babezzz’). Or maybe you’re being a bit of a – as Kate Moss would call it – basic bitch.

Don’t blame it on the sunshine, don’t blame it on the moonlight, just blame it on the period. All you need say is: ‘it’s not me, it’s Mr P’. Guys won’t probe any further because menstruation = men’s frustration.

But let’s stop all this ‘cuddle my tampon’ business. We’re never going to get men to like periods, because who likes a bleeding lady.

Chris Brown?

Perhaps. But for other chaps it’s a mystic river down there that they don’t want to wade in. So let’s just keep it that way, and use our periods to our creative advantage.

Mark might have Ruffalo-ed some feathers, but not enough to change feminism

The boy who cried feminist: Mark Ruffalo has become the latest celebrity to associate himself with f word

Saying ‘I’m a feminist’ over and over again does not maketh a feminist

Feminist declarants are beginning to get on my nerves.

They’re the people who suddenly announce to the world that they’re feminists. They say it with so much trepidation you’d think they were coming out. ‘Mum, Dad, I’ve got something to tell you,’ they say as they grip onto their copy of The Female Eunuch.

It became fashionable to tell people you’re a feminist last year when Hermione from Harry Potter proclaimed herself one in a speech to the UN.

In the wake of her address, a tidal wave of articles about feminism swept across the internet, with journalist after journalist keen to affirm his or her affiliation with the social movement.

‘Being a feminist is a no-brainer for me – why can’t it be for all men?’ says Ralph Jones in his article for The Independent. ‘Why I’m Proud to Be Feminist and Faithful’ begins another in The Huffington Post. It all feels a bit self-congratulatory and cringe.

Then there were the celebrities. You can find lists of ‘celebrity feminists’ on the internet as if finding out about ‘celebrity left-handers’ or ‘celebrity vegetarians’.

The latest bra-burning A-lister is Mark Ruffalo. In a new Tumblr blog he attacks subscribers to the ‘I am not a feminist’ internet movement, saying: ‘You’re insulting every woman who was forcibly restrained in a jail cell with a feeding tube down her throat for your right to vote, less than 100 years ago’, before telling them to ‘kiss [his] ass’!

A rage against the man-chine, indeed, but I wonder his words will have as big an impact as he hopes.

Because one thing I’ve always known – and that isn’t just for feminism – is that words are just words. And you can try to show as much as you like that you’re a feminist, and attack others for rejecting such a term, but so what?

Using ‘feminist’ to describe oneself does not elucidate ‘non-feminists’ on what you’re fighting for, nor create policy change. Saying ‘I’m a feminist’ is a bit like saying ‘I like animals’. Until you really did something to help animals, what meaning would it have?

The futility of the expression became especially poignant to me when Pharrell declared himself a ‘feminist’.

Now I know Pharrell is cool with his trilby collection and lovely song about being happy, but when I watched the Blurred Lines video I had to ask: what kind of man would sign up for this?

A man who may as well be John McCririck stuck in a cool person’s body, is who.

Pharrell, is that you?

Another example of how big our obsession with ‘fem decs’ comes from Taylor Swift. In an interview with The Guardian in 2012, Swift rejected to describe herself as a feminist, saying: “What it seemed to me, the way it was phrased in culture, society, was that you hate men.” Swift’s ambivalence didn’t go down well with the public and in August last year – seemingly after some PR intervention – the Huffington Post was happy to report “Taylor Swift Reveals She Has Been A Feminist All This Time.”

It doesn’t take rocket science to work out Swift is a feminist but because her vocabulary does not stretch further than lyrics about handsome boys, she was ridiculed.

Swift is not the only celebrity to have expressed doubts over describing herself as a feminist. Lady Gaga, Kelly Clarkson and Susan Sarandon have all hesitated to use the word. One element of this seems to come down to uncertainty about what the term means; another simply a question of, ‘why do I have to declare myself a feminist?’ For Gaga et al, feminism is normality.

Feminism should be normality for all of us and not something we go around pronouncing as if it were a separate way of life, just as you wouldn’t declare yourself an ‘egalitarian’. The celebs who cry ‘feminist’ are actually creating a more and more ‘them and us’ situation, where people feel alienated from a concept that should be an assumption in any civilised society.

Instead of thinking of feminism as something to sign up to, it needs to be considered as something to ‘opt-out’ of. It would be more practical to identify sexism than try to prove our own ‘feminism’. Because what it means to be a feminist seems rather vague at times.

We should be clarifying sexist behaviour in its most covert and overt forms, so that we can target every slice of it – whether that be women’s underrepresentation in parliament or sexual harassment on the street.

But just saying ‘I’m a feminist’ isn’t enough. Feminism is still a long and complicated battle, but as we know from history, fights are not won by declaring one’s position over and over again. Victory is always about action.

Why I can’t get on board with baby badges

This badge may as well say ‘get the FUCK out of your seat’

‘Pregs or Greggs?’ used to be the question I asked when deciding whether to give up my seat to someone on the tube.

It can be tricky to know if someone’s in need. That’s not just for cases where you’re trying to decipher if stomach protrusion is a baby or an M&S meal deal too many, but goes for things like age. I’m not sure if my ‘old person’ barometer is particularly accurate (whereby I count how many grey hairs someone has to work out if they need a seat on the tube). This system was kind of functional until I started to go grey myself. I’ve got ten of these bad boys in my hair now and I definitely don’t need a seat.

That’s not to say that one day I won’t need one. One day I might be pregnant.

That being said, I never, ever want to put on one of those ‘Baby on Board’ badges. I’d like to think that even if I was pregnant with Hagrid from Harry Potter’s baby I would avoid them.

I see them everywhere nowadays. In fact, I have even noticed women walking around with them on the streets. They look like TARDISes from Doctor Who with their tent-like maternity outfits and determination to plough through crowds. Suddenly these badges have become an accepted part of society.

That’s until yesterday, when it was reported in the news that someone had trivialised them with a set of parody versions. ‘I’m important!’ read one. ‘I’m hungover!’ another.

We’ve all had points where we’ve needed the latter badge. When our faces curled and grimaced like Dr Christian Jessen examining an Embarrassing Bodies patient, desperately hinting to a fellow tube-taker that they might want to give up their seat. We’re not pregnant with life; we’re pregnant with vodka, wine, and the rest. But people are comfy in their seats and they’ll never budge.

The mum brigade isn’t happy about these joke badges. ‘These badges could take away the impact of what the baby on board badge stands for,’ seven months pregnant Laura Petts was reported saying in Yahoo.

Blogger Felicity Hannah writes ‘Mums-to-be can feel nauseous, have swollen ankles, have back ache…. The list is endless. They need those seats.’

Such protestations do pluck on my heartstrings a bit. But the badges still make me resentful – mostly because they make me give up my seat.

A few years ago I was doing this for pregnant women – along with lots of other people – without ‘badge guilt’. This phenomenon is where you see the badge, have a minor heart attack and speedily offer your seat. It’s Pavlovian.

The other day I sat down in a seat only to see a badge. I jumped up as if I had sat in a furnace. To ignore the badge, after all, would be social suicide. Occasionally I have seen women wearing theirs and looking around, as if to say ‘HAVE YOU SEEN MY BADGE?’ Therefore, any response to the badge becomes less of a moral one, and more about looking nice. Survival, essentially.

Then I question where the badges end. The parody badgemakers – joking though they were with their ‘I’m hungover!’ piece – have raised a serious point. How do we decide who gets one?

One of my good friends has a very painful condition making it hard to walk, let alone stand on the tube for long periods. When travelling with them I frequently feel the urge to tell seated passengers, ‘excuse me, my friend needs your seat’. But I can’t, because how can I demonstrate to them that my friend – who looks perfectly healthy – is secretly suffering?

They could do with a badge. But they’re not going to get one, just as diabetics won’t and people with asthma won’t, and even people with panic attacks. The list could go on and on, arguably, until there was a case for everyone to have a badge.

My goodness, I’ve had spin classes where I’ve felt like I needed a badge.

Many of the reasons someone might need a badge are out of a person’s control. A baby isn’t. Pregnancy is not a disability; it’s a choice that the rest of the world does not necessarily need to accommodate.

But now with badges, accommodation will be prescribed to society.

I’ve got no conception what it’s like to be pregnant. I have no idea – if it happens to me – how my body will change. How sick and unhappy and disgusting I will feel as I travel around London. But I can’t imagine my mindset shifting, even with all the hormones running around my body. I am allergic to the idea of forced social nicety, self-entitlement and that bloomin’ badge.

Whenever I have travelled outside of London and come back into the city, it has become so pertinent to me just what a polite nation we Brits are. We are enormously compassionate and considerate to each other, even if it doesn’t feel like that sometimes at rush hour on a Monday morning. Pregnant women don’t need to wear a badge to get people to be kind to them. If you’re pregnant and want a seat – but your bump is not noticeable enough – gently tap someone on the shoulder and ask for it. But don’t wear this fashion item that has conditioned us into offering our seat as a knee-jerk reaction, rather than an act of kindness.