When Chris Mullin was Labour’s Minister for Africa we had a passionate, if brief encounter. Admittedly Chris didn’t reciprocate my fervor but I clung to the hope that the fateful afternoon we spent together meant something to him.
It didn’t. I’ve just finished his Westminster diaries, “A View from the Foothills”, and I don’t even feature as a footnote at the bottom of the foothills for goodness sake. In fact, according to his diary, nothing happened on that day at all. Fortunately, I captured the moment in my diary, albeit that of a nobody.
Wednesday 9th February 2005
9.00a.m. I was forwarded an invitation from Chris Mullin's office (minister for Africa) to attend a parliamentary briefing on Sudan. Concerned about his failure to stem the genocidal campaign in Darfur, I frantically trawled the internet, seeking something I could like about this man. What I found unnerved me. A formidable campaigning journalist once, he was instrumental in the release of The Birmingham six. I wondered whether high office had distorted his moral compass.
1.20p.m. Emerging from Westminster station, the Evening Standard headline caught my eye: “PM to Apologise to Guildford Four”. It was eerily serendipitous. I’d been dealt a powerful hand. I had to play it wisely.
On entering parliament, I saw a camera crew and a crowd huddled around someone. It was Ian Paisley. To get in, I had to squeeze past him as he pontificated loquaciously. I resisted the temptation to slice my 5 inch heel into the ankle of the man who made the repression of Catholics his life’s endeavour. My head still reeling, I entered Westminster hall, only to find myself face to face with Gerry Conlon. There was a group of people with him, standing in the centre of the imposing hall. Mr. Conlon was talking on his mobile. The atmosphere was charged but I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad energy. Had Blair reneged? Had the irascible Paisley stolen their thunder? I hung around trying to glean what was happening. I wanted to reach out to Conlon and say…what? “Congratulations on finally having your name cleared after 30 years of wrongful incarceration and living purgatory”? Words escaped me, so I just hovered, and stared. I noticed them looking at me awkwardly then moving on.
I realized later how I must have appeared. Looking down on them, vexed at their raised, Irish voices. No doubt donning my default furrowed brow, dressed in power clothes and brief case, ceremonial armour for my dance with the devil. Being an Irish (ex) catholic myself I was racked with guilt. Not only had I failed to communicate my sorrow and anger at the injustice they endured, I had inadvertently driven them on and made them feel they had no right to be there.
1.55p.m. We were granted admittance to committee room 24. Great mahogany tables joined together in a large rectangle. There were rows of seats at the back also. On entering, I didn’t know if I should take a seat at the table or at the rear. Fellow gatherers procrastinated too. Not one to stand on ceremony, I took a seat at the table. Despite being a campaigning novice, I had no intention of fading into the background. I asked the guy who sat next to me who he represented, “the SLA”, he said, cautiously. I nodded politely while I processed what the initials stood for, then, turning to him for confirmation…. “So, you’re a rebel”? I said, trying to sound unfazed. He was indeed a rebel leader of the Sudanese Liberation Army. He was a soft spoken doctor who had taken a year off to see if he could do something to save his people from “extinction”. Black faces (most of whom were Sudanese refugees or asylum seekers) far outnumbered white and although they had more right to be there than anyone else, there was an incongruity with the officiousness of the surroundings. The men in dowdy woolen jumpers and makeshift “suits”, handouts from a charity shop. The women, more inclined to take up seats at the back, resigned to being voiceless, yet hoping desperately to be heard.
2.00p.m. Mr. Mullin graced us with his presence. The chairman announced we would have 45 minutes. The Sudanese looked on helplessly as Mullin erroneously portrayed their plight as “a civil war”, wherein all sides were equally culpable. In desperation, they searched the room for someone to speak up on their behalf. Someone to say that assertions of moral equivalence had been disproved and that the Sudanese government, with sophisticated weaponry, was found to be responsible for 97% of the violence. There were only two NGO representatives present, neither of whom did anything to hold Mullin to account.
The pomposity and sterile politeness of the proceedings mocked the gravity of the crime we were there to discuss. The pain was palpable. A white politician continued reading and signing documents throughout. I wondered why she bothered coming. The room was full of people who had been tortured and tormented in a way that I can only imagine, for the crime of being black Africans. Now, in this their space, they were so intimidated by the portentousness of the occasion that they cowered silently, lest they inadvertently break the unwritten rules, thus being banished from the gathering. So grateful to be granted a seat at the same table as the man with the power to save them. Mr. Mullin.
2.30p.m. The Sudanese ambassador arrived. He took a seat at the top table. Despite the Sudanese government being accused of genocide, Mullin greeted him as though he was Nelson Mandela. The ambassador proceeded to hijack the proceedings by squandering the last precious moments of time with a propaganda speech, designed to intimidate. Furious, I held my hand up to speak. When ignored I spoke anyway, despite my stomach being tied in knots of barbed wire. The ambassador spoke over me, playing the status/bully card. Keeping my gaze firmly on Mullin, I ignored the ambassador and kept talking.
I reminded Mullin what a momentous day it was. That Tony Blair would apologise to the Guildford Four and the Maguire Seven (though lamentably, not the Birmingham Six). I told attendees that Mr. Mullin had played no small part in rectifying the injustices visited upon these people. I said that Mullin’s courageous and relentless campaign for the release of the Birmingham Six had influenced the other two cases. Desperate not to waste this opportunity I leant forward, stretched my hands across the table and beseeched Mullin not to let his admirable record be mired by the blood of black Africans in Darfur. For a moment there was a glimmer of compassion in his eyes, but it was fleeting. He smiled, thanked us and left. Exactly 45 minutes after he arrived.
Sometime in May 2005: Chris Mullin was sacked. I wondered whether he regretted selling his soul only to be unceremoniously dumped anyway.
July 2013: Ten years on and an estimated 500,000 Darfuris have been slaughtered and approximately 3m forced off their land into refugee camps. A decade later and the political elite, together with the media, still turn a blind eye to the genocide in Darfur. What Mr. Mullin et al don’t get is that their legacy is judged by what they did, or neglected to do, while holding the reins of power, not by the selective, deluded and oft fictitious “diaries” produced after the event.
Tuesday 23 July 2013
Thursday 11 July 2013
Porn on the High Street? It's Just a Bit of Harmless Fun!
This piece has been published in the Huffington Post. The article will be uploaded in the "Press" section of my website www.tessfinchlees.com in the next few days (or type the title into a search engine). It includes the picture I took of the "Loaded" T-shirt (has to be seen to be believed!).
Hurrah for post feminism. For the uninitiated, this simply means that women now enjoy the luxury of choice. Whereas 1970’s feminists fought for equality, over time women have come to accept this for the misguided, militant ideology that it is. Choice is where it’s at.
So, when I stumbled upon a pornographic T-shirt on the high street of a sleepy Welsh town, whilst out with my 5 year old, I had a choice. Do I buy it to wear to the school fete (demonstrating my post feminist, “porn is empowering” enlightenment) or do I feign feminist righteousness for a laugh? I have previously stated the case for gender inequality so it’s not like I object to the wholesale degradation of women perse.
I left my oblivious 5 year old outside to play with the traffic (what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger) and decided to feign feminist outrage. As I opened the door, I expected to be greeted by an atavistic old geezer in open neck trousers with a gold medallion dangling from his thick set neck. Instead, I found 2 women sitting behind the counter. One was in her forties, the other in her teens. They both looked up from their magazines, Zoo and Good Housekeeping respectively.
When they asked if there was anything I was after I said. “A bit of respect would be nice”. Blank faces. “Have you any idea how offensive that T-shirt is?” “What T-shirt?” they asked in unison. “How many rape inciting T-Shirts have you got? The one with the naked woman with a honey pot between her splayed legs with the caption “GET IN!”. They were both speechless. I was on a roll, “I feel like I’ve just been violated”.
My impromptu anthropological experiment unearthed the realisation that neither of these women even noticed the T-shirt (which featured a cover from Loaded magazine). So prevalent are demeaning images of women, portraying them as inanimate sex objects that we’ve become immune to them. A victory for post feminism which recognises that the young woman with the (toxic) silicone boobs, made an informed choice about how she should be represented. It was her choice to be on the cover of a lad rag and, even if she didn’t choose to be draped on a hanger and hung from the crotch of a male dummy, she should be glad of the exposure, frankly.
She will also have chosen her outfit for the day (being naked). It was no doubt her choice to put a honey pot between her legs which then inspired her classy choice of caption “GET IN”. Think how empowering those choices were for this woman and then stop with the feminist outrage already.
Having time on my hands between PTA engagements and knitting orgasms, I called the Equality & Human Rights Commission (EHRC) to see what they made of porn window displays. Don’t be fooled by the name. It’s just a front to lure you into a false sense of there being an institution out there that gives a damn. In reality the government has cut back on Human Rights in order to subsidise the Commons Bar. Needs must. So, the EHRC has been outsourced to a call centre in Misery-on-Sea, where someone called Daphne dispenses “advice”.
Because Equality legislation is so extensive, the government has given Daphne a catch all phrase to cover all queries, “The legislation is vague so don’t bother making a fuss”. She tries to pawn me off but I persist. “It’s definitely covered by the Equality Act 2010. Goods and services I believe?” I’m put on hold while she calls her gran who agrees, it’s as vague as a post botox celebrity expression.
So immersed was I in my role that I protested my right as a woman not to be bombarded by demeaning, offensive, discriminatory imagery. My right as a parent for my child not to be exposed to pornographic images of women when out for a walk on the high street. Why should people, including men, be forced to avoid their high street in order to escape porn?
My parting words to Daphne were, “If your interpretation of the law is that it’s OK for porn to be displayed in high street shops then there’s something wrong with the Equality Act. If I accept your “advice” it means I accept that the mainstream pornification of women is normal and I refuse to accept that”.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not actually a feminist. Unless your name is Germaine Greer, feminism is career limiting. With a son to put through Eton (assuming he survives the traffic) I can’t afford to be principled.
www.tessfinchlees.com
Hurrah for post feminism. For the uninitiated, this simply means that women now enjoy the luxury of choice. Whereas 1970’s feminists fought for equality, over time women have come to accept this for the misguided, militant ideology that it is. Choice is where it’s at.
So, when I stumbled upon a pornographic T-shirt on the high street of a sleepy Welsh town, whilst out with my 5 year old, I had a choice. Do I buy it to wear to the school fete (demonstrating my post feminist, “porn is empowering” enlightenment) or do I feign feminist righteousness for a laugh? I have previously stated the case for gender inequality so it’s not like I object to the wholesale degradation of women perse.
I left my oblivious 5 year old outside to play with the traffic (what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger) and decided to feign feminist outrage. As I opened the door, I expected to be greeted by an atavistic old geezer in open neck trousers with a gold medallion dangling from his thick set neck. Instead, I found 2 women sitting behind the counter. One was in her forties, the other in her teens. They both looked up from their magazines, Zoo and Good Housekeeping respectively.
When they asked if there was anything I was after I said. “A bit of respect would be nice”. Blank faces. “Have you any idea how offensive that T-shirt is?” “What T-shirt?” they asked in unison. “How many rape inciting T-Shirts have you got? The one with the naked woman with a honey pot between her splayed legs with the caption “GET IN!”. They were both speechless. I was on a roll, “I feel like I’ve just been violated”.
My impromptu anthropological experiment unearthed the realisation that neither of these women even noticed the T-shirt (which featured a cover from Loaded magazine). So prevalent are demeaning images of women, portraying them as inanimate sex objects that we’ve become immune to them. A victory for post feminism which recognises that the young woman with the (toxic) silicone boobs, made an informed choice about how she should be represented. It was her choice to be on the cover of a lad rag and, even if she didn’t choose to be draped on a hanger and hung from the crotch of a male dummy, she should be glad of the exposure, frankly.
She will also have chosen her outfit for the day (being naked). It was no doubt her choice to put a honey pot between her legs which then inspired her classy choice of caption “GET IN”. Think how empowering those choices were for this woman and then stop with the feminist outrage already.
Having time on my hands between PTA engagements and knitting orgasms, I called the Equality & Human Rights Commission (EHRC) to see what they made of porn window displays. Don’t be fooled by the name. It’s just a front to lure you into a false sense of there being an institution out there that gives a damn. In reality the government has cut back on Human Rights in order to subsidise the Commons Bar. Needs must. So, the EHRC has been outsourced to a call centre in Misery-on-Sea, where someone called Daphne dispenses “advice”.
Because Equality legislation is so extensive, the government has given Daphne a catch all phrase to cover all queries, “The legislation is vague so don’t bother making a fuss”. She tries to pawn me off but I persist. “It’s definitely covered by the Equality Act 2010. Goods and services I believe?” I’m put on hold while she calls her gran who agrees, it’s as vague as a post botox celebrity expression.
So immersed was I in my role that I protested my right as a woman not to be bombarded by demeaning, offensive, discriminatory imagery. My right as a parent for my child not to be exposed to pornographic images of women when out for a walk on the high street. Why should people, including men, be forced to avoid their high street in order to escape porn?
My parting words to Daphne were, “If your interpretation of the law is that it’s OK for porn to be displayed in high street shops then there’s something wrong with the Equality Act. If I accept your “advice” it means I accept that the mainstream pornification of women is normal and I refuse to accept that”.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not actually a feminist. Unless your name is Germaine Greer, feminism is career limiting. With a son to put through Eton (assuming he survives the traffic) I can’t afford to be principled.
www.tessfinchlees.com
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