2013-05-24T03:30:22-04:00 Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=jo-rourke Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Jo Rourke Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1215617 2012-01-19T19:00:00-05:00 2012-03-20T05:12:01-04:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/ This website.

You'll see on the first page a variety of images of people holding up posters with messages written on them. If it hasn't updated by the time you read this blog, some of the first among them read "I was a five year old girl that knew nothing. She was a seven year old girl who knew too much", "Don't tell your Mom" and "You're not really gay." All of the images are of people who have suffered at the hands of others, suffered in the most personal, degrading and corrupt of ways. All of the images are of people who have been raped. The quotes they hold up are the words of their attackers, once used so powerfully against them; whether to silence, to threaten or to absolve their attacker of blame.

Project Unbreakable was started by Grace Brown who wants to use the medium of photography to heal those who have been assaulted. Through the addition of the words used by the attackers it is hoped that some of the power - of the words, the attacker and the act - will be taken away. Rape remains one of the only crimes where the victim is somehow also cast as the accused.

Most other crimes are deemed to be black and white when it comes to apportioning blame. Nobody "asks" to be robbed, a short skirt doesn't infer a desire to be stabbed, yet these are often touted as potential reasons, excuses and absolutions when it comes to rape. These examples serve to show how deeply ingrained stereotypes are of who a rape victim is. Project Unbreakable shows us that rape victims are not just women; they are not even just female children being raped by their fathers. The website shows us not only to think beyond the stereotypical victim but to think beyond the stereotypical perpetrator too.

The bravery of these individuals astounds me. To voluntarily go back to the moment - even if only in their minds - reliving the fear, the pain and hearing the words which were spat into their ear, or whispered, or shouted, or grunted at them. Transporting them back to a moment when their dignity was stolen and their world view changed. In the cases of children whose parents attacked them, to the moment when they were swindled by the person they trusted the most, made to feel that "our little secret" was something special, or that they had done something wrong and must pay. Never is a price so great as that paid in innocence by a child.

The website is not about naming and shaming the attackers, rapists and abusers whose words we read. It is an attempt to heal, an attempt to give hope and courage to others who have gone through their own ordeals at the hands of another and perhaps it may also change opinion on the crime of rape. We have many campaigns and initiatives when it comes to proclaiming that rape is wrong, but perhaps we need to work on the many definitions of rape and the many "types" of victims.

Our media can help too - publishing a photograph of an alleged rape victim with a tequila shot in her hand will raise eyebrows and questions of her sobriety, which in turn erode her "credibility" in the eyes of many a red top reading layperson. Additionally, little is known and less is said of sexual assaults of men, and in our stiff upper lip and behind-closed-doors society, rape or domestic abuse between married couples remains a subject that is often only discovered when it's too late.

Project Unbreakable may make us uncomfortable, forcing us, as it does, to think about things we'd rather not, to confront stereotypes and to tackle issues that we usually respond to with a shake of the head. The brave people who have come forward to be photographed and to share their experiences have been silent for too long and in their silence was the echo of shame.

Project Unbreakable shows us that shame is indeed an apt emotion for these despicable crimes, but this shame should be the perpetrators' for committing the crimes and - if we don't enforce this, ours too. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1097483 2011-11-16T18:00:00-05:00 2012-01-16T05:12:02-05:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/
Being a few (ahem) years older than 18, a non-smoker and preferring French Connection to sports stores for my attire, I've not been overly concerned by the door policies of the pubs and bars I frequent for a long time. Indeed, I've probably welcomed them; resulting, as they do, in fewer Bieber-ites, reduced risk of lung cancer and less offside rule chat on my evenings out. Imagine my surprise then, to find out that I've just been added to the banned list of a West End bar, along with about 50 other like-minded individuals. And I haven't even been there yet. Honestly, there was no drunkenness involved, no tables were danced on and no innocent barmen were injured in unfortunate licking-tequila-off-torsos incidents.

You may or may not have heard of the up and coming social network Awesome Women of Twitter, of #AWOT hashtag fame. Fellow Huffington Post blogger, Ashley Fryer, set up the group to finally meet some of the great people she's been chatting to on Twitter. (I know - actually meeting Twitter friends. It's enough to put me on a diet.) So she invited a load of us and set about finding a venue for us to "get together. All of us. All at once. With gin. And cake." Sounds good to me.

Ah - gin, I hear you mutter. Alcoholics, huh? Erm, no. Overeaters anonymous? Possibly, but only part time. In fact, the reason for our disbarment was neither our gin nor our baked good intake. It was the fact that the meet up was called the "Awesome Women of Twitter" event. Once the potential venue was found and a deposit paid, our fearless leader was asked if the group would be "just women" and asked what AWOT was (fair question.)

Upon replying in the affirmative regarding the non co-ed nature of the event and clarifying what the acronym stood for we were told that having a feminist or women's lib group in the bar would be "inappropriate". Inappropriate. So feminism and women's liberation are inappropriate. In London. In the West End. In 2011.

Quite what they thought we were going to do is beyond me. Mass bra burning? A sacrificial offering of our forsworn enemy (a Man, obvs)? Or would it be the fact that we'd be gesticulating so wildly in the throes of our feminist ire that our unshaven armpits would be on display, in flagrant contravention of their dress code? Your guess is as good as mine.

Much has been said on the subject of feminism and its stereotypes. Presumably, it was the fact that we think women are awesome that makes us feminists, or perhaps it's the fact that it's Awesome Women of Twitter and not Awesome People of Twitter. I wonder if, as was requested by some of the awesome men we've come into contact with on the micro blogosphere, the event had been a mixed one, would it still have been "inappropriate". The idea of feminism and women's lib groups being banned from an establishment in the UK is almost as antiquated as when men and women were segregated. In those days, it was apparently a flash of dainty, feminine ankle that was deemed too much for the public's sensibilities. But things have moved on. Ankles are fine now - as long as they're shaved.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1017348 2011-10-18T19:00:00-04:00 2011-12-18T05:12:01-05:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/
But it's not everyone looking, it's mostly men, and regardless of how dog-eared the third page is on the papers you appear in, those men don't really care about you, or like you, or come anywhere near respecting you. They don't often think of you as a real person, you're just a bra size on a page.

I know you'll have heard in the news about women stripping/posing/glamour modelling their way through university and how this makes them "empowered women". I also believe that in your private moments, unfilled with noise and devoid of delusions, you know this is wrong. There are women who say that although they are removing their clothes and come-hithering the camera that this is their choice and that they have the last laugh. And, for some, they are certainly laughing - at least on the outside - all the way to the bank.

They stress the difference between selling photos of their bodies and selling their bodies - and there is indeed a difference. There are millions of women around the world who are forced to sell their bodies - or more accurately, that someone else sells their bodies - and you can bet your g-stringed backside that they know the difference. The fact that you would choose to show your intimates (and then some) to the nation is incomprehensible to them when you have other options. Taking your clothes off, whether for the camera or for punters at a strip club isn't something anyone should have to do to make a living.

Of course there are women who have successfully shed the shackles of their racier pasts and when asked they always say that they wouldn't change it. Fame and fortune is seductive; don't be fooled, those baby blues or the Bambi brown eyes aren't trying to ensnare you, oh centre-fold worshippers; it's the cold hard cash that magazine purchases bring. So yes, everyone is being played to a certain extent. But the forfeit paid for the money in the bank and the column inches is dear.

Many people want to be famous; if hairbrushes could talk, they might reveal unrealised dreams of Grammy winning performances. Or maybe Mum's best Lladro figures would let slip of your Oscar acceptance speech. And that's fine - it's more than fine, it's healthy. If you want to be famous - be famous, or at least try your damndest. But be famous for something, and by something I mean not just getting your kit off.

Most of us are lucky enough that we aren't forced to do anything in order to make money or escape persecution. Our minds are free to dream, our bodies are free to do and act and be, and our souls are ours to keep. Don't sell yours.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1003137 2011-10-10T08:45:06-04:00 2011-12-10T05:12:02-05:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/ weekend shaped gap. For the rest of the week if I was asked to do anything between 6am Saturday and 11pm Sunday, I responded with a vague, "I'll get back to you" and then didn't. So what did I do with my precious weekend?

This weekend I was mostly...in the kitchen. I baked and cooked myself into oblivion. It wasn't for a dinner party, I wasn't bribing people I work with to sponsor me (it's been known to happen) and I wasn't trying to apologise to my husband for breaking anything. I was simply enjoying the buzz of creating something with my own fair hand. I tried new recipes, I trotted out old ones. I measured. I stirred. Mixed. Kneaded. Iced. Tasted. I also burnt some stuff, but only a few bits and they were nicely crunchy rather than carcinogenic. I watched in awe as the row of ingredients in front of me came together into gooey, drippy mixtures, then with the magic of heat transformed into something not only edible, not only moreish, but something that ensures that next weekend's activities will be sponsored by Spanx. Much like my thighs, these creations weren't perfect; sometimes a bit lumpy, some were bigger than the others, but that just made them more endearing (I hope.)

But impending obesity aside, I loved the fact that in an age where everything is immediate - from the information we search for, to the food we order, to the decisions we make and the photos we see - that this act of creation (if you'll forgive the religious overtones) could not be rushed. Like many people I used some fancy-schmancy kitchen gadgets - my KitchenAid, for example, which is functional, gorgeous and makes my life easier (much like the ideal man) and some of the recipes I used were ones I'd found on the internet, which actually took less time than a blink of an eye. (It did, I Googled that too.) But for the actual magic to happen - and by that I mean the rising, the goldening and the cooling down enough to devour - could not be rushed. And that's probably what I loved most about it.

I also loved making something. When we're kids, we make things all the time. Whether it's rocket launchers out of toilet rolls and Fairy bottles, pictures of the house which our parents hold upside down or whether we decide to paint the dog, we're being creative and making things all the time. I'm not sure when that stops - and for some people it never stops - but this weekend I felt its loss and decided to do something about it. As I sat cross-legged in front of the oven with a cup of tea, watching the cupcakes rise, my heart lifted too. Not just because our oven is a bit unreliable and I needed to make sure they did rise, but because I was actually producing something myself. And it wasn't a report, it wasn't a presentation - it was an actual thing that had a purpose. Granted, that purpose was short-lived as said cupcake was inhaled as soon as it wouldn't cause third degree burns, but still.

Next weekend I shall return to back-to-back activities; I'll be rejoicing once again in settling arguments in 0.15 seconds courtesy of Wikipedia and I'll be glad when someone else does the creating - but I hope I'll also remember that sometimes slower is better and that our time, ultimately, is what we make of it.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.918546 2011-08-10T15:08:51-04:00 2011-10-10T05:12:02-04:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/
We often hear that our Gallic neighbour, la France has a very low percentage of obese adults; a fact that seems at odds with their rich diet. This issue can be particularly galling for UK women - we often hold the mayo, ban carbs til Marbs and fart our way through cabbage soup diets but still we end up packing more bounce to the ounce than our French neighbours. Granted, these diets are often short term fixes for bikini sized problems when summer rolls around, so is it a matter of willpower? Perhaps the stereotypical French woman has the foresight and self-discipline to stick to the diet throughout the year, rather than having a mad panic come June when she tries on last year's bikini. Many of us have felt that familiar crawl of dread when the magazines start featuring "bikinis for all shapes" with photographs of models whose closest association to anything pear shaped is their sole sustenance for the week.

I'll start first with a seemingly unrelated issue - quality. In a time - and country - where fast and fatty food is the norm, quality is certain to take a back seat. Many British families believe that to concoct healthful food costs them valuable time and money, and for that the Great British Ready Meal has been created. In France, however, it seems the idea of having more time and more money is not a fair trade for inferior food. When I asked one of my French friends how this links with weight control, I was awarded a gloriously Gallic shrug and the simple explanation that if something doesn't taste good she won't eat it. She deserves better, as does her body.

Aha! I said, but what happens when something tastes divine? Surely, by the same token, one would want to eat more? Mais non, was the response, the better the taste, the less is needed. Unfortunately, with years of conditioning, many British adults have become accustomed to the taste of high salt, high fat, high convenience meals, therefore the taste factor is skewed somewhat - we've all seen the shows where a Hugh-Jamie-Gordon type has challenged the take away/ready meal industry and cringed when MSG fried rice won hands down over the posh sweet and sour.

As for us deserving better, that's another tricky one, as treating ourselves and treating our bodies well are two entirely different concepts. The idea of treating our bodies well conjures up images of sweating it out in the gym and eating cardboard - sorry - crispbread. Treating ourselves well is what makes us say yes to the banoffee pie and go-on-yes-with-ice-cream.

Many of us feel that the sort of tough love that forces us to the gym is what equates to self love; that denial and hard work are the only ingredients to a body that we're happy with. This form of punishment, as many of us have experienced, will often be punctuated by massive binges and blow outs, under the aforementioned guise of "treating ourselves". This appears completely at odds with the French philosophy of taking pleasure not just from food but from life; in a balanced and considered manner...four course meal one day, walk to work the next.

The French are famous for their pride - this can be seen in the fierce protection of their cuisine, their way of life, their sports teams (well, they can't be good at everything) and their language. This is also evidenced by their bans on vending machines and campaigns about obesity - they're aware that they need to keep working to retain their Miss Skinny Minnie Europe status. Fast food and convenience is more than nipping at their heels, but the view for many remains that the all you can eat offers and microwave meals may save money for a rainy day, but if the trade off is reducing your number of rainy days, it's not worth it.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.921962 2011-08-09T09:08:51-04:00 2011-10-09T05:12:01-04:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/ Maybe It's Because You're a Londoner - it was a bit controversial, to be honest - in it I discussed my shock at the rather indifferent reaction some Londoners had to a suicide on the Piccadilly line. I feel compelled to write today, not to defend, contradict or re-hash what I said, but rather to display the other side of London. A side that this morning has brought tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat.

We've all been watching the rolling news reports on the violence, looting and arson that have spread across London (and other UK cities) in the past three days. I'm writing this on Tuesday, 9th August and from my window I can see smoke billowing from a warehouse in Enfield; its black smoke polluting our air like the degenerates polluting our country with their violence. I have no idea if the violence will continue; I still have no clear idea on what exactly the violence is for. I'm quite sure that the 9 year olds who are lobbing bricks don't know either. Lack of facilities, cuts in funding and tax increases have all been touted as potential excuses - sorry - reasons why these hooligans are strolling around Clapham on the criminal equivalent of a shopping spree, selecting their new 52 inch plasma TV, with all the urgency of the government returning from its summer hols. Like many of you I have wondered, aren't the parents of these people, these children in some cases, wondering where they are? Or, at the very least, wondering where the new blu-ray player has come from?

Watching footage of an injured boy being "helped" and then robbed by a group of rioters was enough to make my blood boil, but then slowly, over the course of the morning, this bubbling blood was replaced by a new warm feeling - I think we call it pride. I saw on Twitter how individuals, and then whole communities, are fighting back. They are armed not with broken bottles, stones or stolen goods, but with brooms, rubbish bags and defiance. I watched on YouTube how citizens are literally picking up the pieces of their broken streets, sweeping away the violence and the ignorance and responding in the best possible way - unity. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I watched the crowds of people helping to clean up the streets stand aside and applaud the police as they drove past. Last night the internet was alive with pleads to stay indoors, stay safe, don't take any risks; I'm sure the families and friends of the police officers, the firefighters and the paramedics wished that their wives, husbands and children were also indoors and safe - with them.

It seems that as a community we want to repay that favour and applause is only the tip of the iceberg. Our citizens will reclaim our streets; we will rise up, in our own peaceful way, against the thugs and the criminals who are trying to destroy homes and businesses - we will do so with dignity, we will do it together. And we will win.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.920937 2011-08-08T19:00:00-04:00 2011-10-08T05:12:02-04:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/
We are the team riders to your Mark Cavendish, the blocker to your running back, the Girls Aloud to your Cheryl Cole. We take the hits of the poor chat up lines, the bum pinches and the appalling personal hygiene in order to secure you the prize of the night. Wingwomen never outshine their charge; but we do need to look well-groomed and as attractive as we can - after all, he's not going to pick you if we look like we've gone nineteen rounds with the ugly tree. It's about picking our good little black dress but not the little black dress, the flattering pants but not our lucky pants. We need to ensure that we nab the best spot at the venue for seeing and being seen. Tales abound in the WI (Wingwomen's Institute, that other WI is just a cover) of the operative who picked an elevated position in a rooftop terrace bar - all the better to survey the offerings, I can see what she was trying to do there - but had catastrophically forgotten to get the meteorological reports for the evening or to choose her companion's outfit. Wind. Short summer dress. Control pants. Tears. Needless to say the agent in question has now been retired from active duty.

As for our duty to select the finest male in the room for our chaste chum, this is where it gets really tricky. Months of preparatory work is required; the ideal man is an ever-changing beast after all. A few years back there was a rise in the demand for the metro man; you know the type - well groomed, didn't turn into a monosyllabic brute when the football came on. This didn't last long though - once women realised that they had to hide their GHDs and open their own jars Metro Man was discontinued. We've seen a recent resurgence in requests for the macho man - bag carrying and piggy backs are tempting....but the hygiene issue is a stumbling block - it seems simply turning his boxers inside out by Thursday is no longer acceptable in our anti-bacterial handwashed lives.

Usually though, after detailed research a picture does start to emerge, so by D-Day we are able to reject on sight - Mr. Hollister by the bar may have had the height, the skin tone and surprisingly good shoes, but his dentistry made me think I'd seen him before...on Jeremy Kyle.

If a man does manage to pass the visual test we are trained to ruthlessly rebuff those who do get to utter a pleasantry. For the record; talking about the weather, how much you earn or how your bedpost is toothpick thin from notches are all unacceptable topics. Equally if your first words make me think of Joe Pasquale on helium then you've batted your last, buddy. As for the lucky few who manage to pass all the tests (I haven't even touched on the verbal reasoning paper, the wolf whistle test and the ability to gate-hop in a manner befitting Matthew McConaughey) - they are then free to approach with care, respect and a Cosmopolitan. As is the case with all good back-up, we Wingwomen will then retreat to a safe distance to observe, drink cocktails and talk into our sleeves. Our work here is done.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.920814 2011-08-08T08:16:06-04:00 2011-10-08T05:12:02-04:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/ "the process of receiving or giving systematic instruction, especially at a school or university." *Sigh. Well, I guess soon the UK editions will have to add an extra nota bene along the lines of "Available to rich kids and trust fund types only; plebs need not apply." It's a sad state of affairs when education of the official type is only for the privileged - I think we all thought we'd moved past that stage.

The hike in university fees couldn't have come at a worse time for an already cash strapped public. It makes me angry that many of the next generation will be denied the opportunity of extending their studies (and the delight that is snakebite) but more that that it is the shortsightedness of a government who can't see that without the influx of bright, fresh talent the university system itself will falter. A quality university system needs its strong research and even stronger teaching practise to be challenged - not just by fellow academics, neither simply by monied 20 year olds but by a diverse body of students from a range of backgrounds.

It's expected that because of this soaring rise in fees student numbers could drop by as much as 20% in the next few years - so this plug for axed funding designed to save money looks like it'll cause a whole other financial mess for our universities. There is no doubt that the powers-that-be face a constant juggling act in the attempt to preserve our standard of living; with so many funding balls in the air - the NHS, education, transport, charities - it was inevitable that a balls-up would be made at some point. The cost of university has already been a contentious issue for a number of years; I can say that six years after completing my university degree I'm still paying it off, which is detrimental to my shoe collection, but to have had the opportunity to study in the first place is something I wouldn't change. That people would protest about the loss of this opportunity is understandable; that these protests would be hijacked by thugs is one of the sorriest chapters in our tale of free speech - and it is this violence, rather than the true grievance, which will be remembered.

But perhaps there is another side to this - maybe the looming inaccessibility of a university education is a good thing. Perhaps we need to focus on that other part of education, the part that says that what you need in your 80 odd years on this earth is not a piece of paper that says you can write essays and drink a pint of buckfast in 10 seconds (oh, hang on - was that just my university?), it's life experience - and the very definition of that is getting out and living. Yes, you will learn vital skills at university - but these are skills that can also be acquired in the big, bad, real world. For many, is university not an extension of the cosseting and coddling of the school experience? It's being a grown-up, but with the stabilisers still on. For that reason, I am linking you up to this video courtesy of STA Travel Australia; a little celebration that serves to remind us that much of what we learn is from the University of Life; and entry to that institution is free and open to all.

The bottom line is, whether you wish to get your undergraduate studies at university and then continue with a Masters of Life Studies, or just roll up your sleeves and get stuck into a PhD of Living right after school is a personal choice - one which shouldn't be decided by the number of zeros in Mum and Dad's bank account. As for the Buckfast... now where did I put my stopwatch?
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.905572 2011-07-24T09:49:39-04:00 2011-09-23T05:12:01-04:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/
This piece stems from a slight disagreement I had with someone recently, caused by a simple - though evidently highly hypocritical - action of mine. Imagine the scene: ten of us, small meeting room, smaller window, typical British summer weather outside (lashing rain and force ten gales) - so I, in all my wisdom, turned the lights on. Cue the "witty" and clearly rehearsed "Ooooh! Turning the lights on, are we?? Thought you were into "sustainability!" Yes, because clearly this bestows infrared vision on all of us treehuggers. I'm pretty used to most people finding the whole concept of "saving the planet" at best new age-y and barefoot, at worst some sort of hare-brained, dope-fuelled scheme designed to steal money from innocent, tax paying citizens. I am the first to admit that the science is confusing and can seem contradictory - but the root of it, to try and ensure that future generations aren't igniting their farts to keep warm isn't exactly a hangable offence, is it?

As you can imagine, the recent cold winters have been particularly frosty for us "green people" - "Global warming?? You're having a laugh!" as they shake the snow off their boots and try to stab us with the nearest icicle. "Climate change, it's called climate change actually" can be heard, muttered, through the gritted teeth of fellow "environmental types."

Whether we've had an effect on global temperatures through our flagrant disregard for the laws of nature and our out-and-out greed is a matter for debate - whether we're using up our natural resources at a blistering pace is not. But sustainability isn't just about the environment; it's about how sustainable our lives, relationships and society are. It's also about money - economic sustainability is something that, historically, we're not marvelous at, boom and bust, anyone?

So you see, us "eco-warriors" aren't out to get you, steal your money and brainwash innocent children and puppies - making the world a better place is a bit grand, but even so, it's not exactly a bad aspiration. And what if we go all out to try and achieve this and it turns out the science wasn't right? Well, that depends on your viewpoint really - of which there are many. But as I'm approaching my word limit and there's a tree in need of a hug here, I'll highlight a few. There are those of us who believe that the earth will naturally regain its balance - think Russian gymnast on the beam - so for their part, what the science says doesn't matter much, as it'll all work out in the end. Then there are those that say, there's the potential that the science is wrong - best not do anything too rash, let's wait another few years and keep the lighters and the baked beans handy, just in case. And then there's us, the Superhuggers, who, if the science is proved wrong will look kind of silly wearing our pants over our tights; but cleaner air, affordable fuel, a resilient economy and inclusive and healthy communities is hardly the booby prize. Now, come here and give me a hug you big oak.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.905464 2011-07-22T19:00:00-04:00 2011-09-21T05:12:01-04:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/ CBS Outdoor Londoner campaign, apparently demonstrating to the world how fab and forward thinking Londoners are so everyone should, like, totally advertise to this demographic. And yes, London is a terrific place to live.

There's a lot on, pretty much all the time; if people watching's your bag then London has some truly unique characters to satisfy even the most demanding of street-side social anthropologists; if culture's what you're looking for, the city's bosom heaves with museums, galleries and exhibitions, a great many of which are free. These are, for me, some of the greatest points about living in London. It's one of the only cities I've ever lived in where, having hurriedly put on two different shoes one morning, I easily passed it off as an ironic fashion statement. Dammit, I garnered praise that day!

But this campaign takes London loving to a whole different level. The premise of the campaign is that ordinary London-folk can submit their take on why they love London, which appears on posters around the city along with "universal truths" about the UK's capital and its inhabitants. Examples of which are predictable; St. Londoners' commutes are longer, they earn more, have loads of cool gadgets and lead the way in opinion. If that's true, surely us Londoners can take a break from rescuing kittens and fighting crime to spend some time leading by example?

Yesterday evening, at leaving work o'clock, Southgate tube station was closed, with that all-too-familiar euphemism of "someone under the train." For me, this didn't affect my journey too much, as I cycle (okay, okay I get the bus) but as I stood in line, the resulting crowd got ever more agitated. The woman next to me struck up a conversation, "Terrible, isn't it?" she said, I nodded in agreement and was about to chip in when she went on, "I mean, it's rush hour and people want to get home - is it too much to ask that they do this at a better time?" I stared at her, agog.

Was she actually suggesting that this poor, desperate person, whilst making the decision to end their own life, should have said to themselves, "Oh hang on a minute, best not. Half past five on a Wednesday is a touch inconsiderate of me. Hmmm, let me see. 11pm on Sunday, yes, that'll do." Obviously, this response didn't come to me at that particular moment, because after all, comebacks are a dish best served cold. Oh wait - hang on, that's not right. So I mumbled my dissent, or maybe I said descent - who knows, adages aren't my strong point (not from London, you see) and stalked off to another bus stop.

Later that evening I thought about the differences between London and the rest of the UK. I was genuinely appalled at the attitude to the tube incident that evening; as I'd sat on the packed bus, over and over I heard people on the phone to friends or family, apologising that they were going to be late because of "some idiot chucking themselves in front of a train." I also saw pregnant ladies and elderly people struggling on to the bus and being completely ignored by all but two people who offered their seats.

Coming from a country where people are generally a bit more chatty (no blarney stone references please), I've found it odd not saying hello to people when I enter a shop, though I am now accustomed to the ensuing look of panic if I smile at someone on the tube. Mind you, coming from a country where the actions of a few are still spoiling it for the many; the fact that you get smiled at on public transport may be of poor recompense. So yes, nobody and nowhere's perfect. I choose to live in London after all and for the most part I absolutely love it - these posters endeavour to showcase all that is great about the city (and maybe show off a teensy bit) so I won't let a bit of after-work impatience sully its good name too much.

Let's face it, if your commute is a long one, you won't want to be delayed; if you have plans with friends, your annoyance will show when you give them a call to explain your tardiness. But spare a thought maybe, for the friends of yesterday's tragedy, waiting for a call that never came.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.904279 2011-07-20T19:00:00-04:00 2011-09-19T05:12:02-04:00

Jo Rourke http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-rourke/
Think of the issues that have raised our national hackles in the past few years; oil prices, cash for influence, expenses, bankers' bonuses...for a while we're appalled, outraged, demanding justice, or at the very least all the juicy details. And then? Business as usual. Should we do more or realise that we're a fickle bunch?

It was an intrusion too far - way too far - when news surfaced that the News of the World commissioned a private investigator to hack into the voicemail of (at that stage) missing teenager Milly Dowler, with the hope that an exclusive would be forthcoming. What was forthcoming instead, from this despicable action, was hope. But it was the worst kind of hope for the family of a missing schoolgirl - it was false hope. The British public was absolutely revolted by this flagrant disregard for a family's privacy in the direst of times - so we started baying for blood; the News of the World's, the Murdochs', Rebekah Brooks', John Yates', our newsagent's for selling the News of the World...

Fast forward a week or two and we've had a select committee hearing; whose sole purpose seems to be to satisfy the public's wish to humiliate the Murdochs and hear the words, "We were wrong." As it turns out, what with #piegate and #slapgate, even if the Murdochs had prostrated themselves on the floor at Louise Mensch's feet and cried remorseful, earnest tears we wouldn't have noticed, we were all too busy giggling at Jonnie Marble's "You naughty billionaire" insult. Rebekah who?

Having an ethical, fair media is something we believe we're entitled to, just as we believe we're entitled to politicians who aren't the bedfellows (reluctant or otherwise) of said media. So should we vote with our feet at the next election or our newsstand? By all means, if you genuinely consider your chosen alternative can provide you with the principles you crave, then get those shoes on. In all likelihood though, as you pause to tie your metaphorical shoelaces, you will hear the barely audible sound of hands being rubbed together in glee; and if you're lucky, you'll catch a whisper of incriminating emails, phone records and Facebook friends being deleted before they welcome you with open arms.

I don't think we'll vote with our feet; neither will many of us protest, sign any petitions, write any letters or do anything more taxing than try to think of a pithy line on Twitter to demonstrate our displeasure. By August, there'll be a new hashtag, Murdoch won't be synonymous with Lex Luther and our national outrage will be directed towards something else.

Yes, we'll still respond with a grave shake of the head if it comes up in conversation, just as we do when someone reminds us of the moat we cleaned for Douglas Hogg, or the fact that we might have to fork out £9,000 to send one of our kids to university. I'd love to believe that this whole affair will bring about a change, but that's not fair on the thousands of upstanding, ethical people working in journalism and politics. Saying they're all as bad as each other is our way to feel comfortable with doing nothing, to excuse our short attention span and- OMG did you see Kate Middleton's outfit??
]]>