Women shouldn't be allowed in comedy clubs, anyway.

Wassup? Did somebody point out that comedians only resort 
to shock tactics when they don't have anything funny to say?

So, this week the internet has been debating about Daniel Tosh. No, I hadn’t heard of him either. He calls himself a “comedian” and last week he found himself in a spot of bother as a story about his rape jokes went viral. 

A Tumblr user provided the platform for her friend to describe her experience at a comedy club. When Tosh went into a repetitive “rape jokes are funny” spiel she told him unequivocally that they are not, and he suggested it would be amusing if she got raped right then and there. 

It was re-blogged and re-tweeted around the world and gave Tosh the kid of publicity that greater men can only dream of. There isn’t much for me to say, since other people have already covered the bases much better than I could: Lindy West of Jezebel makes the point that actually, rape jokes CAN be acceptable and funny, depending on whether they are on the side of rapists or humanity in general. (Examples of the times when it works and IS edgy and clever don’t involve Tosh.)

Meghan O’Keefe of the Huffington Post makes a similarly impassioned plea to remember that humour cannot be censored: (Tosh) “can say and do what he wants. If he needs to say things like "rape jokes are always funny" on stage in order to cope with whatever's in his life, he totally has that right. Sometimes we laugh at tragedy because we can't physically  – or psychologically – do anything else.” 

Jamie Masada, the owner of the club, attempted some damage limitation by claiming that Tosh hadn’t been aiming wisecracks at the woman at all. Apparently when he asked the audience "What do you guys want to talk about?" someone said "rape" (maybe comedy clubs should have resident therapists?) and the woman in question said "No, rape is painful, don’t talk about it." So Tosh responded “Well it sounds like she’s been raped by five guys”. Now, am I crazy, or is this WORSE than the original story? Responding to a heckler with the first desperate retort that pops into your head is one thing – and there are many teenage boys who would have made a similar comeback – but just randomly commenting that someone was probably raped? That’s WEIRD. 

Whatever actually went on, Daniel Tosh isn’t the worst part of the story. The worst part is the response from the internet, which I can only assume is a pretty fair representation of the world at large. Many, many people have offered the opinion “What did she expect, going to a comedy club? That’s what happens when you heckle!” which makes me wonder what their response would have been if she had actually been raped. “What did she expect, going out at night? That’s what happens when you go to a place that serves alcohol to men!” Even the Huff ran a story which ended “Did Tosh go too far? Was the audience member asking for trouble by heckling him?” Yes folks, she was asking for it. (Can we hear what she was wearing, too? I’m sure that will shed some valuable light on the story.)

The fail-safe riposte that’s ALWAYS used when offensive jokes come up is: “Where’s your sense of humour?” Nothing shuts people down faster. (We’d rather keep quiet about our opinions than risk being seen as a humourless bore.) Comedians use it, bullies use it, every passive aggressive nitwit uses it. It’s the perfect disclaimer when you want to say something insulting without inviting any retribution; adding “I’m joking!” makes even the most obnoxious sentence acceptable. Jackson Katz also made this point brilliantly in his appraisal of Eminem; you can be as misogynistic as you like if you dismiss any critics as people who “don’t get it”.

Next time somebody uses this defense to claim that making jokes about rape is funny and you really shouldn't be taking it all so seriously, don't try to convince them otherwise.  That's what they want you to do, because there's no way to win that argument. Just point this out:

We’re onto you. We know that saying “You have no sense of humour” is bullshit. We know that it’s what people say when they have absolutely no other defence and are hoping you will back off before you realise that. It is NULL AND VOID and you’re going to have to do a lot better than that. So there.

But the prize for best response to Tosh  goes to Curtis Luciani,  a comedian who “gets it.” 

Please read it.

Why aren't there any ghost dinosaurs?

As you may have gathered, I'm interested in sprituality and I've read more than my fair share of likeably nutty books about nature sprites and communicative trees. However, when it comes to Pets Have Souls Too, I must advise that it would be best shredded into hamster bedding.  

After reading some positive Amazon reviews, I thought this book looked interesting. So when I saw it in a charity shop, I snapped it up. This is one time where it might have paid to read the back cover more closely, for then I would have learned that author Jenny Smedley is a columnist for magazines such as Love It! Now, I don't want to be snobby about such publications... but I can't help it. Reading this book was essentially like reading a bumper issue of "spiritual pets" in a trashy magazine; all presented with absolutely no scepticism or questioning.

I'm sure some people might enjoy Jenny Smedley's conversational style of writing, but I found all the comments of "you know" and "don't get me wrong" etc made my brain hurt. It was like having a conversation about spirituality with your extremely suggestible next door neighbour over the garden fence. Many stories were rounded off with a "There, you see! That PROVES it!" footnote.

She does attempt to get a bit scientific by addressing sceptics' concerns, saying that they would argue that animals don't have souls because, "if you show an animal a reflection of itself in the mirror, it won't recognise what it's looking at." But, she explains, "people look in a mirror for two reasons – to admire themselves or to try and change the way they look... animals simply never consider how they look and they're not curious about it, so generally there's no point in them recognising themselves in a mirror. "

So, I says to Mabel, I says......

Well, that's that sorted then. For a self-proclaimed animal lover, you'd have thought she might have seen some of those youtube videos of puppies or kittens attempting to play with their reflections, or peeking behind the mirror to find the other animal. I may not be the most scientific type, but even I know that recognising your reflection is something that only happens at a certain stage of development – which is why babies and MOST animals can't do it. However, I don't think anyone is using this as an example of why infants don't have souls. Incidentally, as Jenny later points out, chimpanzees do pass the mirror test. With a quick google search, she would have discovered that bottlenose dolphins, orcas, elephants and magpies can also recognise themselves. (By the way, this isn't even the whole list – and I imagine there are many animals which have not yet been tested.)

The book is divided into chapters such as "spirit pets" (those which have died and return to comfort their owners) "guardian pets" (such as the dead horse who whinnied in order to warn his owners that the barn was on fire) and "pets that return" – the writer herself has a dog which she believes is the reincarnation of one of her former dogs.

Helpfully, the final chapter explains how to communicate with your own pet, presumably so they can miaow from beyond the grave to let you know the winning lottery numbers. (FYI, it boils down to relaxing and then asking your pet questions, such as "What is your favourite food?" in the hope that the answer will psychically pop into your head. Jenny points out that animals gaze at us intently, "almost willing us to understand them". This is true, although I'm pretty sure that the message your pooch is trying to convey is "Give me some of that delicious smelling grub," not "let's discuss some philosophy, old chap."

I am about 50% sceptical and 50% willing to go along with the ideas in this book – I see no reason to disbelieve stories of spiritual animals if we're willing to accept similar stories about human beings. I've always found it somewhat bizarre that people can happily believe that people "go to Heaven" but automatically assume that animals don't. So if this subject ever comes up in church, try them with this: If I love my cat, then either God loves her too, or I have a greater capacity for love than God does – which is impossible. See, it's simple. (Or as Jenny Smedley would say, THAT PROVES IT!)

And let's not forget the talking donkey featured in the Bible - Numbers 28, baby!

Some of the tales described here are genuinely sweet and moving. However, the dreadful writing style and occasional ridiculous story makes the book as a whole unintentionally hilarious.

For instance, one owner of a ghostly mutt mentioned "the dogs were never allowed upstairs in the bedrooms, but now she is in spirit she has no boundaries". (Well, good luck in keeping an apparition off the sofa.)

Jenny also describes the theory of "soul configuration" – that souls begin as a huge number of "sparks" – they may start as a million blades of grass, then as they gather experience, graduate to 2.000 tadpoles, working their way up to mammals (perhaps four sheep souls), before finally becoming one human. (Am I the only person who thinks this theory is kind of insulting to animals?) She also describes flocks of birds as having a "collective soul," meaning that they have "a fragment of a soul and need the others of its group to function as a whole". I'm fairly sure anyone who has loved a pet bird would dispute this idea. (And judging by what we now know of the intelligence of birds, it seems unlikely....)

She uses the collective soul to answer that age old question "whoever heard of a ghost ant or dinosaur?" Apparently because "an ant contains only a fraction of a soul, and therefore doesn't hang around after death, it's immediately absorbed back into the whole," and "the same would apply to early life forms such as dinosaurs". Why? It seems odd to me that the world should be awash with spectral dogs, cats and horses, while no spooky dinosaurs have ever appeared in Times Square.

This prejudice for pets is apparent again in her introduction to one anecdote: "When I got this following letter from Mimi about her tortoise, I was amazed. It just goes to show that just because an animal isn't fluffy and cuddly, that doesn't mean they don't have some soul inside." Well, that's a relief.

There are some genuinely interesting stories – we've all heard about pets who "know" when their beloved owner is coming home, but some stories can be explained by their super-sensitive hearing. Not so the story of Moxy the dog, who will only relax when her master is safely home – at his university digs 50 miles away. (As he ruefully points out, this made it impossible to stay out all night without his mum knowing.) Another dog reacted oddly at the exact time his human daddy was boarding a homebound plane.

But for every fascinating story, there is one which makes you groan – such as the man who was afraid of cats – but accepted one which he believed to be the reincarnation of his dog. He describes the way this cat would growl and spit at other felines – "It was really strange, and to this day Cilla still won't tolerate another cat near me." Protective reincarnated dog, or averagely feisty kitty?

In the "About the author" section, much is made of her TV career, with one description of Jenny being introduced to a pen of semi-wild foxes "and they gathered close around her, one fox even scented on Jenny's hair to welcome her to the pack". Now, the picture in my mind may not be accurate, but it is funny.

If you're looking for books on animal spirituality, a better choice might be When Elephants Weep by Jeffrey Masson and Susan McCarthy, or any of the animal-related Chicken Soup for the Soul books. If you do want to read this book, check your local Oxfam – it's where my copy is going.

Would jubileeve it?

"Our lovely young queen" as Paul McCartney once wrote in a school essay.

I've written before about the joyous realisation that Britain is secretly quite patriotic, contrary to our outward appearance of being a bit grumpy and cynical. And while this weekend's celebrations are an excuse for a four-day booze up, there has been a feeling of genuine pride and happiness about the Queen's jubilee.

Not many 86 year olds would willingly spend hours standing in the cold and rain with nothing to do but wave, but HRH does it all with her characteristic stoicism. I don't suppose she was too keen on the pop concert either, but she put on a brave face. She looked about as impressed as I was with Kylie (seriously! We know she sounds like a chipmunk, accentuating this by putting her on straight after Shirley Bassey was just cruel). And I'm afraid I am completely underwhelmed by Gary Barlow's famous contribution – it's tuneless and insipid and dull. (A bit like The Voice, a programme I was excited about until I'd watched the first episode and discovered it had just as many sob stories and image obsessions as the X factor. (Danny: "It's really hard to judge, because you can't see them....") I didn't watch it again until the final, which was won by a lovely girl whose vocals reminded me of a runaway bus, with her clinging tenuously to the tune with no idea where she was going to go next.)

I fear I am becoming as bitchy as Amanda Platell (a tall order, admittedly. But I think I could get there if you took away my chocolate supply and made me look at Kylie's face and listen to her say she's never had Botox). But I will point out to Mandy that Kate Middleton looked lovely and NOT showy-off in her red outfit, that the Royal group were beautifully co-ordinated and really, is there any doubt that they would have had all their wardrobe choices organised and approved well in advance? (Although I'm not entirely sure about the Queen's cream coat being paired with black shoes and handbag...) Does Platell seriously think that the Duchess just turned up in the first eye-catching scarlet outfit she found on her bedroom floor? Durrrr!

Red, white and blue. Perfect.

The crowd cheered and waved their little Union Jack flags for all they were worth. (Small rant here: My local shops ran out of bunting weeks ago. I'm not a supermarket manager, but I could have told you that it would sell out fast. Why can't these people stock-take properly? Get more in next time you imbeciles.)

Cliff sang Congratulations!, the BBC filled in time with inane chatter in the manner of breakfast time DJs, and so far I think we have had only one runaway horse (or "horse streaker" as he was dubbed). We may complain about the weather, but I bet all those in bearskins were heartily grateful for the lack of sun. As mayor Boris pointed out, it wouldn't have been a proper British occasion without a bit of rain.

All in all, it's great time to be British. You'd have to be particularly heartless not to have a little lump in your throat as the crowd sang as much of God save the Queen as anyone could remember, Charles called her Majesty "Mummy" and the spectacular fireworks lit up the London sky. Elizabeth II will be long remembered as one of the best monarchs Britain has ever had – which is why I am perplexed by the people who claim she "sits on her arse" all year round. Um, do you have ANY IDEA of her schedule? It's would make Beyoncé balk. (And Liz is about 55 years older.) Also bizarre is the idea that she's completely out of touch with the rest of the world; yes, she lives in a palace, but she travels more and speaks to more people than YOU will in a year. Who has the bigger world view?

Not only that, but 60 years on, she's still a style icon.

Three cheers, for the Queen, indeed. Hip hip hooray!

The forgotten Steve Martin movies...

Here's another of my reviews over at Movie Cultists.

One of my favourite Steve Martin movies – why has nobody else ever seen it? Makes me sad!

I heart cheesy horror movies

Subliminal messages from Hollywood. Yo, teenagers! Phones are so dangerous!
You'd be better off without them –  especially in the classroom!

I've been at it again – here's another movie review. Dontcha just love a really bad film once in a while? (I'm not counting Tremors or Arachnaphobia. They are awesome films.)

The movie Hollywood doesn't want you to see...

Well, sort of. It doesn't get much publicity....

"This isn't Sweet'n'low...."

If you want to know why Swimming with Sharks is my favourite Kevin Spacey film of all time, you can read about it here. Enjoy.

How I learned to stop worrying and love being ill (with nothing to do but watch TV)

You know those days when all you can do is sleep?

So, I've been a bit poorly this week. What I thought was an allergy to fake fur (making caveman costumes, of course!) morphed seamlessly into a stinker of a cold. Symptoms aside, I realised that being ill isn’t all bad. You spend most of the time asleep, occasionally summoning the strength to read a few pages of a trashy novel. People bring you drinks and snacks on little trays. All in all, it's not unlike a tropical beach holiday, but without the inconvenience of sunburn or sand in your unmentionables. (I realise that the parents among you will be gnashing your teeth at this, as you don't have the option of long, languorous illnesses. Never mind; when your kids are big enough you can train them in the ways of the helper-monkey. Feel better?)

I did spend about a year of my young life being plagued with a glandular fever type virus, which seemed a pain at the time (what with all the being ill, the snooty letters from the school, and the teachers' manic assertions that I'd "never catch up") but I see now it was a massive blessing in disguise. It's the reason I spent hours and hours of my childhood watching Fawlty Towers, and The Good Life, and Some Like it Hot (still my all-time favourite film) and other classics featuring  Margaret Rutherford and and John Le Mesieur. It's the reason why I'm the only person my age who has ever admitted to recognising Richard Wattis or Will Hay. 

It has also proved invaluable in honing my telephone manner

I also take particular satisfaction in the fact that I got out of loads of really pointless work. That's right, Mrs Bing, I never did get around to making that model of a medieval village. The one that you insisted was crucial to my development, my school career and my very soul. Ha ha. 

When you're 8, who cares if you miss lots of school? Everything is repeated a million times anyway – I visited Mountfitchet bloody castle three times in roughly as many years.  As long as you can read and write, you'll still be ahead of most of your classmates. Actually, you'll be ahead of some of the university graduates I've met. (I actually know a teacher who writes with freewheeling disregard for spelling and grammar. He is teaching your children. Makes you want to retch, doesn't it?)

I don't mean any disrespect to teachers – I know several, and they do an amazing job – is there anything more important than educating the next generation? Not that I can think of. They are somewhat held back by a ridiculous amount of red tape, and the necessity of lesson plans for all the hypothetical geniuses or simpletons who aren't in the class, but could be. According to this story, teachers are now discouraged from alerting children to their spelling mistakes. I actually thought this had been par for the course for years now, judging by the inability of most young adults to spell really simple words. If you were deliberately trying to sabotage kids’ chances of ever getting a decent job, you couldn't come up with a better plan.

The one advantage of being confined to your sick bed is that you can catch up on the TV you missed while you were doing all the activities that left your immune system a weak shadow of its former self. I recalled the trailers for The Undateables as looking potentially mean and exploitative, but had read several reviews of how sweet and touching it was. If you missed it, please check it out – three episodes following the romantic escapades of people looking for love, hampered by special needs, disfigurements, and disabilities. I'm not saying there weren't hilarious moments – Shaine telling  his shy and silent date "You’re very bubbly, I like that" with absolute sincerity was comic genius. The characters in the documentary were memorable, fascinating and... magical. If you only watch one episode, make it the second one – if you can watch Justin's search for love without your heart breaking just a little, you might actually be dead inside. I wish this film could be shown in schools to remind kids that the people with Asberger’s or a lopsided face have the same thoughts, wishes and dreams as everybody else, and a little empathy goes a long way. 

I wanted to see if there were any updates on The Undateables, so I started reading the website – no news so far but what I found even more refreshing was the number of heartfelt, warm messages of encouragement from the public. It seems that trolls had no place in the comments section here, and my faith in humanity was restored.

Watching Louis Theroux's latest offering, Extreme Love, was a similarly moving experience. Like the parents of those with Asberger’s and Down's syndrome shown in The Undateables, those carers of kids with autism are gracious paragons of patience, kindness and unconditional love. Likewise the families affected by dementia – the wives who had to see husbands cavorting with other women in the care home (because they had no idea they were already married), the husband and child of a woman in her forties who was visibly embarrassed that she had forgotten how to draw a simple clock face. Apart from making me feel vaguely guilty that I don't work in some kind of worthy avenue such as this, the whole programme was a testament to the love that defies circumstances, and it reminded me why Louis is such a great interviewer – he will happily roll up his sleeves and get involved. It’s much easier when you get to go home after a day.