2013-05-21T19:08:21-04:00 Olivia Rudgard http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=olivia-rudgard Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Olivia Rudgard Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2715271 2013-02-19T05:48:39-05:00 2013-04-21T05:12:02-04:00

Olivia Rudgard http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rudgard/
The real problem with it is that there are very few reliable female voices on virginity. Even Joan of Arc, that oft-cited figurehead for militarised chastity, did not leave memoirs or written testimonies about her life, so our major source for what she thought, did and believed is reported speech from the trial where she was condemned to death. Her illiteracy condemned her to an eternity of historical doubt. But Joan's uniqueness comes from her attempt to stop others from defining her voice. Her power allowed her to produce dictated letters, and however biased, her trial documents are an invaluable source which show her personality, sense of humour and faith with great clarity. She used her God-given powers to make her own mark, to interpret herself. And in the end, she died for it.

Throughout history, the things we know about women are often defined by what men said about them. Whether someone was a virgin or not was decided by doctors examining the way they urinated, or the position of their labia, or the expression on their face, or their complexion. Women were not allowed to define themselves. 'Woman' was a wild animal, watched and documented and studied from afar, and male voices tell us what they thought, and did. Of course, this is partly a simplification; some women were educated, and many produced interesting, literate insights into their own lives and those of others. But they represented a tiny minority against a clamour of monks and doctors and clerks and knights who all produced their own works, often while protesting that they knew better, and what's more, vocal, learned, powerful women were a sin against God.

This week, Hilary Mantel spoke at the London Review of Books, and her article, on royal women's bodies, was subsequently published on their website. It's an elegant testimony to her own uneasy relationship with royalty, and includes a far from ground-breaking, but well expressed comparison between Tudor queens, constantly inspected, questioned and tested, and modern princesses, condemned to be forever perfectly turned out in the face of powerful media scrutiny. In it, she argues that female royals, Tudor and Windsor, are valued, more than anything else, for their bodies. Kate Middleton, beautiful, inoffensive, polite, impeccably dressed and shod and blow-dried, is merely a vessel. In symbolic terms, she represents the nation's idealised, perfected image of womanhood. In practical terms, she represents a womb.

And, in a chorus that has chirruped on since the dawn of time, the world united to shut Mantel up. Some of the nastier comments on her facebook page were painful in their venom. Tweets called her rude, and admonished her with patronising clichés like 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all'. Inevitably, and wearyingly, they often focused on her appearance. 'You ugly fat cow. Could do with some plastic yourself!' said one. 'What a disgusting creature you are!' said another. 'Is it your place to be so critical, and have you looked in a mirror lately?' said a third.

That last one is telling. Is it your place, it asks. Is it your place, to be so noisy, and controversial, and to stamp all over the pretty, defenceless young duchess with your big intellectual bluestockinged feet? Some, presumably in ignorance of Mantel's married status, pointedly address her as 'Miss'. You're on the shelf, they suggest. You're ugly, and old, and a nuisance. Therefore your opinion is invalid.

It's ironic that in pointing out one of the most prominent exemplifiers of latent sexism in British society, Mantel has become subject to such a foul torrent of misogynistic, ageist, unintellectual abuse. Kate Middleton, like my medieval virgins, is there to be interpreted and observed by others. Hilary Mantel refuses to be interpreted, and unlike Joan of Arc, she won't burn for it. But the world will continue inexorably to condemn her, for the very modern crime of daring to speaking her mind.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2337592 2012-12-20T09:04:34-05:00 2013-02-19T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rudgard http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rudgard/ our university newspaper, we have just run a column entitled 'Careers are for Christmas'. I don't think I have ever read anything so depressing in my whole life.

It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that at the moment every single conversation I have, no matter who it is with, turns into an extended lamentation by one or other of us on the horrible state of the graduate job market. It usually starts with someone talking about their latest rejection, or the horrible numerical test they just failed, or the grad scheme they really really thought they'd be perfect for who didn't even invite them to interview, and ends with one of us re-enacting the bit from The Shining where she's hiding in the bathroom, crying. Only instead of Jack Nicholson with an axe, it's our deep rooted and debilitating fear of failure that's coming to get us.

And honestly, once I've picked whoever it is off the floor, made them some hot chocolate and sat them in front of a restorative episode of Peep Show, I usually sit for a while and just feel a bit sad. I'm surrounded by bright, idealistic, interesting, hardworking young people, and that all we're being told is that we're not good enough, and that even though we've spent almost every holiday since we were 17 doing work experience and interning for free, because we don't have that qualification, or this skill, or that type of experience on our meticulously drafted CVs, we don't stand a chance in the job market.

The pressure to try and get 'sorted' early is heavy, and it's even worse for those of us who want to work in the media. Apart from the big nationals and the BBC, most entry-level media jobs and internships seem to work on a short-term rolling basis, advertising for vacancies when they have them and no earlier, so all we can do for the time being is stock up on student media and arrange as much holiday work experience as we can manage. And all you ever hear is how competitive the industry is, and how versatile and experienced you have to be to even stand a chance.

A family friend told me that when he was looking for a job in journalism 30 years ago, having edited your university paper was a guaranteed ticket into a national. Nowadays, it seems, to even stand a chance you not only need student media experience at the highest level, endless (inevitably unpaid) work experience on local papers, and usually some experience on a national level, but also technological and data journalism skills as well as evidence of extensive blogging.

It's true that we seem to have to work harder than our parents, or even our older siblings did. More is expected of us, and we are required to work for less and for longer than ten years ago. And with the media in its current state of upheaval, no-one really even knows what kind of industry we'll be joining, or whether the media in its current form will even exist. Leveson, the decline in printed news, the increasingly blurred line between blogging and online news, and the unstoppable juggernaut that is social media in all its forms, means that there is a great big question mark over what the future holds.

I have decided one thing that made me feel slightly better. I confess that last week I briefly caved and applied for a well-known consultancy firm. I regretted it immediately, even (I swear) before they sent me a cursory rejection. It was almost a relief. Giving in to the compulsion to apply early to everything you can get your hands on is a recipe for half-hearted applications and inevitable disappointment.

Sticking to what you love can be scary, and there's always the chance that it won't work out, but it's worth it. After applying to a few grad schemes that I find genuinely interesting, and preparing some postgraduate applications, I'm taking a deep breath and steeling myself for seven months of waiting before going for internships over the summer, and actually, making this decision has been a huge relief. Resilience in the face of rejection is definitely necessary for success, but often even more important is patience, and a bloody-minded refusal to give up on what you really want. It seems that to succeed in breaking into the media, you need all three in spades.

This piece can also be found on Instant Impact's blog here]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2308743 2012-12-16T19:00:00-05:00 2013-02-15T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rudgard http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rudgard/
At school I was a Lord of the Rings fan who could quote verbatim from the Tales of Húrin. I devoured newspapers (weird), and liked dystopian fiction, 70s prog rock and Degas. At the time, this make me a 'geek', a 'nerd' and even, in a bizarre neologism incomprehensible to anyone outside the cliquey bubble of my girls' grammar school, but loaded with terrible meaning to those in the know, a 'bod'.

At the time, fervently trying to prevent people from discovering the Harry Potter fan podcasts on my iPod, and pretending that Kelly Rowland was my favourite singer, I comforted myself by thinking that university would be a safe haven of likeminded, emotionally secure actual human beings.

To an extent, apart from the emotional security bit, this has been happily true. In fact we are quite publicly and noisily massive losers. This has been particularly the case recently, as Hobbit-induced mania has caused an alarming level of Lord of the Rings obsession to pervade even seemingly irrelevant activities, including board games, mass sing-alongs at inappropriate occasions such as formal dinners, and what to my mind is probably our greatest contribution thus far to society, Lord of the Rings Ping-Pong.

So much so that, of late, I'm concerned that it's gone a bit too far in the wrong direction. I feel I've been put to shame by the unprecedented levels of geekery displayed by my university friends, one of whom (whisper it) hasn't even read the book.

To make matters worse, the excitement that I should be feeling about the new Hobbit film which came out last week has been somewhat dampened by a sense that we're all being horribly ripped off. This first part (of a TRILOGY, for goodness' sake) is almost three hours long. Working from my copy of The Hobbit (Collins Modern Classics, 1998, dog-eared) and using my highly developed maths skills (ahem), I'd say that they've managed to cover approximately 365 pages in nine hours, or 40 pages an hour. This is glacially slow. The recent film adaption of Anna Karenina managed a nippy 400 per hour. The upcoming Les Miserables film will cover a positively light-speed 570 per hour. Even the notoriously long-winded Lord of the Rings Extended Edition adaptions managed 90 pages an hour, which did admittedly necessitate the cutting of entire storylines and characters (please, a moment of silence for Tom Bombadil and his Goldberry).

So when I went to see the film, I was ready to be underwhelmed. Armed with worrying knowledge about the notorious slow first hour, the change in focus towards Sauron I knew had been added to appease the only-seen-the-films brigade, and festering resentment towards a gold-digging studio and a sellout director, I was fully prepared to be bored, irritated and cynical.

And I loved it. It was completely brilliant. The special effects were, to my inexpert eye, occasionally a bit iffy, and I don't recall from the book the bit about the mountains having a casual boulder fight, but it was so much fun that I really didn't care. Martin Freeman in the title role expertly navigated the route of character development from baffled to cunning to brave, and the dwarves were excellent comic value. It was nice to see Gandalf and Elrond and Galadriel again, and Elijah Wood made a fun (and I'm sure extremely lucrative) cameo. I even liked the completely non-canon bit with Radagast and the wolf chase. Possibly something to do with the awesome and incredibly cute idea of a rabbit-powered sleigh, but still.

There's something about the scope of Tolkein's creation that completely captures the imagination. The allegories about the triumph of honour, courage and selflessness still ring true, when in other contemporary works they now feel flat and old-fashioned. Unlike C.S. Lewis, Tolkien manages to avoid preaching, and his themes are subtler, broader and more nuanced than anything J.K Rowling will ever come up with.

But for me, more than anything, it's the incredible level of thought that has gone into this world that makes it so unique. Each character, race, kingdom, name and people has a complex provenance and history, often based on classical, Norse, Anglo-Saxon and mythological themes. And the maps. For any cartophile, maps of Middle Earth are beyond anything produced by any other fantasy author. George R.R. Martin has of recent years come pretty close, but I don't think Tolkien will ever by beaten on scope, beauty, detail and design.

So this film, far from alienating me further, has completely won me back to my former geekery. An hour after arriving home, I'd already added the atlas of Middle Earth to my Christmas list. I've also discovered, through some fervent LOTR-wiki searching, the answers to all the gaps in my knowledge, and more. If this carries on, I'll be spending Christmas day totally uncommunicative, hiding in my room with my nose in the Silmarillion. Welcome back, 16-year-old me. Although you can absolutely keep your haircut.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2252731 2012-12-06T15:07:17-05:00 2013-02-05T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rudgard http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rudgard/ K-Middy, has emerged from hospital to the general indifference of all. A sense of calm indifference pervades the media. Tabloids, TV and radio stations and magazines alike have pledged to leave the royal couple to enjoy this very special and private time in peace.

Don't be silly. The press has pretty much lost it. In what appears to be a desperate attempt to recapture the happy, vaguely patriotic spirit of the summer, the British media is gamely ignoring newsworthy, serious (read boring) stories, as well as a looming sense of its own demise in order to lead with easy, jingoistic articles about 'the news the nation has been anticipating for a year and a half' and Prince Charles' moist-eyed 'delight' about becoming a grandfather.

Meanwhile, Duchess Kate herself has just emerged from a three-day stint in hospital, and all the nation can do to help is start twitter accounts like @HRHbaby whose illuminating utterances include '*feels movement* *hears clicking noises*' and '*holds hand to nose adorably*', and place 1000-1 bets that Will and Kate will go the way of the Beckhams and name their son after a neighbourhood of New York.

It could be worse. Princesses of Wales have, over the course of their 700-year existence, been far more often divorced, banished or killed in controversial circumstances than they have had peaceful, undramatic, contented existences. It's actually about as far from a guaranteed recipe for happily-ever-after as you can get.

Kate herself is doing very well at playing the role of the nation's favourite mannequin princess fantasy, all nude court shoes, below-the-knee dresses and being nice to children. She is a social conservative's wet dream (of a role model. Obviously that's what I mean), and an excuse for every mother in the country to turn to their Rihanna-listening, Doc Marten-wearing, Heat-reading daughter and say 'Why can't you be more like her? She's marrying a prince. Don't you want to marry a prince?'

To which their daughters, in an ideal world, would turn to mum and say 'No mum, in this modern, egalitarian world of ours I would ideally like to choose a stimulating profession suited to my interests which will allow me to become financially independent and exercise choice over my life.' Or, more likely: 'Shut up Made in Chelsea is on and I want to know if Cheska has a boyfriend yet'. (Apparently she currently does. There is, after all, justice in the world).

I have absolutely no doubt that Kate herself is an intelligent independent woman who has freely made this choice to marry the heir to the British throne and spend the rest of her life attending functions, being photographed and getting pregnant. In a way, she is perhaps making the ultimate romantic gesture, giving up her dreams of anonymity, autonomy and being able to leave the house in trainers and no makeup, solely to be with the man she loves.

It's a serious sacrifice. To the press, the royals are easy fodder. If you're lucky (Diana, Kate herself), you get to be the princess. If you're not (Camilla, Beatrice/Eugenie, Fergie, Princess Anne) things can get ugly quickly. The royal family is a strange parallel universe, perpetually stuck fifty years behind our own, and inevitably, it's the women for whom things are most antiquated.

It's no accident that in the aftermath of the royal wedding last year images were circulated comparing Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie to the ugly sisters of Cinderella legend, and lovely lovely Kate to Cinderella herself. In the strange, backward, reductive world of the British royals, you are either a beautiful, gracious princess figure, all sweetness and light, or you are overweight, irresponsible, selfish and ugly. You can't be both. And you can go from being one to the other in the heartbeat of a relationship destroyed, a baby born or lost, or a few pounds gained.

For a tabloid media built on the marginalisation and stereotyping of women in the public eye, this is the easiest week since Britney started attacking SUVs, or Harry Styles and Caroline Flack got a bit too cosy. Kate was already the perfect princess. In becoming pregnant, she has completed the picture. Now not only is she conventionally attractive, dutiful, smiley and silent, she is also fertile. And I know that if I was her right now, emerging from a week spent throwing up in a hospital bed, I'd be feeling pretty scared about it.

I was in a seminar on women in medieval courts when someone announced the big news. We were mid-way through a discussion on royal procreative duties and the necessity of childbearing to fulfil the role of a princess. How little has changed.]]>