In Defence of the Cleft of Venus

 
Camel toe is an ugly name for a beautiful thing; what is known and revered within more enlightened cultures as the cleft of Venus or, if you prefer the pudendal fissure; i.e., the groove at the base of the mons pubis where it divides to form the lips of the labia majora. 

Personally, I would like all women to be proud of their genitalia - or even cheerfully indifferent. 

But, unfortunately, there is a constant and concerted effort to make them ashamed of their bodies and remind them that they are forever being scrutinized, ridiculed, and judged (both by men and by other women who have learned how to view themselves and members of their own sex in a perversely puritanical manner).   

The jeeringly misogynistic term camel toe plays a significant role in this, letting women know that all eyes are fixed on their most intimate areas and that their cunts - even in outline - ought to be a source of acute embarrassment; an obscene fashion faux pas far worse than visible panty line.

But the same people who invent this false concern for women to worry about, also provide a solution: a pair of knickers designed by Maggie Han and sold under the name of Camel No. 

Ms Han, after suffering from the problem herself and fearing that it might make people think she had a huge vagina, has created a new form of polyester and spandex underwear fitted with a modesty enhancement panel composed of odourless medical-grade silicone to prevent all unsightly creases or the impression of faulty anatomy. Now all women can be as smooth as a Barbie doll between the legs! 

One surely doesn't have to be a radical feminist or a courageous vulva activist to find this strangely depressing and offensive ...?

For whilst I don't mind if some individuals aspire towards plastic perfection and opt for designer vaginas neatly tucked away, I do object when this ideal is extended into a categorical imperative within a pornified and photoshopped culture obliging women and ever-younger girls to find their flesh dirty and inferior and confuse anatomical self-loathing with empowerment (i.e., when sexism and misogyny become internalized and normalized across gender).  

The Case of Farah Ann Abdul Hadi (and Her Pudendal Cleft)

Twenty-one-year-old gymnast Farah Ann Abdul Hadi recently won six medals, including two gold, for Malaysia in an international competition and one might have thought that this would be cause for universal celebration in her Southeast Asian homeland. 

Alas, 'twas not the case ...

In fact, far from being proud of her sporting achievements and sharing in her joy, the country's religious lunatics are up in arms about the revealing nature of her leotard and the fact that they could clearly see her pudendal cleft beneath the material.

For whilst most of us are perfectly happy when watching gymnastics to marvel at the lovely curves of the body, the supple young limbs, and, indeed, the tightness of the outfits worn, it seems that senior clerics are deeply concerned about female athletes exposing their aurat. 

And so the MP for Islamic Affairs has announced there is to be a thorough review, making it very clear that he too expects athletes in future to wear clothing that complies with the standards of decency required of all Muslims.

Added to his voice, was that of Roszida Kamaruddin, head of the girls' division of the National Muslim Youth Association, who in a statement said that whilst women should not be stopped from competing in sports, it's imperative that they cover up their nakedness and allow no risk of camel toe under any circumstances. To be modestly attired, she argued, needn't restrict an athlete's chances of success - although she was obliged to concede that it might be difficult to perform gymnastics in a burka.

Happily, not only has Miss Abdul Hadi bravely - and humourously - stood up to these idiots, but thousands of her fans and members of the Malaysian public have also taken to social media to express their support. 

Many in the media have also mocked the grey-bearded religious authorities for their mixture of puritanism and pervyness, with one journalist expressing his shock that men of such learning cannot seem to tell the difference between a professional athlete performing with skill and grace and a pole-dancing stripper wilfully shoving her genitalia into the faces of her audience.       

The Case of Helly Luv

Whether one chooses to think of her as a Kurdish Vera Lynn - sweetheart of the Peshmerga forces - or as a Middle-Eastern Shakira shaking her booty in the face of the Islamic State, the case of Helan Abdulla or, as she is better known, Helly Luv, is one that raises some problematic issues.

Let me first say this: the 26 year-old actress, singer and dancer displays real courage in the face of mortal danger. For this, she deserves our respect. Miss Abdulla is a beautiful young woman prepared to risk life and limb in order to achieve chart success and a film career. And she's someone who has experienced hard times; born in Iran during the Gulf War, she and her family were forced to flee first to Turkey before then seeking asylum in Finland where they were eventually granted citizenship. 

At eighteen, Miss Abdulla moved to LA in order to pursue her dream of stardom. One thing led to another, and, in 2013, she released a single under the name of Helly Luv. Risk It All synthesized Latin and Middle-Eastern rhythms into a catchy contemporary dance track that highlighted the plight of the Kurdish people. The song and accompanying video garnered a good deal of critical attention and millions of YouTube views. It also - predictably - brought death threats her way from Islamic militants.

Rather than back down in the face of these threats, however, Miss Abdulla released a follow-up single in 2015 entitled Revolution for which a still more controversial video was shot in an abandoned village near Mosul, where Kurdish militia were engaged in combat with IS fighters. In the video, Helly Luv is seen painting the word 'revolution' on a shell in red lipstick before personally firing it towards the IS front line just a few kilometres away.

I suppose it's this kind of thing that ultimately causes me problems. For the packaging of warfare inside a slick and glossy music video undoubtedly glamourises violence and has something worryingly fascistic about it. I'm perfectly happy for performers to express political views (even if such views are often naive and misguided), but I don't really want to see them posing with petrol bombs and surrounded by dancers carrying AK-47 automatic rifles.

Nor even, for that matter, do I want to see wild animals being exploited; so please, Helly, no more lions ...


Notes:

To watch the video for Risk It All click here.  

To watch the video for Revolution click here. 

To visit the Helly Luv official site click here.

In Defence of Weeds and Wildflowers

Bill and Ben The Flower Pot Men, with much loved friend Little Weed

If the word vermin is one that I find offensive and problematic (as explained in a recent post), so too is the term weed - and for similar reasons. For like vermin, weed is not simply a neutral term which objectively describes; taxonomically, it lacks any real botanical meaning or reference. 

Weed, rather, is a qualitative noun used to classify certain plants thought to be growing out of place and in a manner that opens the way for the discriminatory practice of weeding, or the use of herbicides by those green-fingered fanatics who insist on human order and the coordination of life (or what the Nazis called Gleichschaltung).

Like vermin, weed is therefore a morally pernicious term that passes judgement; a form of fascist death sentence passed on any wildflower that threatens to encroach upon our intensively farmed agricultural spaces, or dares to blossom in our well-maintained, lovely-looking, but essentially joyless gardens and parks.

It should be noted that the term weed is also applied to those people thought to be feeble, effeminate, or perhaps too bookish; those who might not only be regarded as poor physical specimens, but politically suspect and socially undesirable - persons in need of weeding out ...

It is thus another thoroughly vile term; one that I never use and do not like to hear used - unless it's by Bill and Ben, The Flower Pot Men, and with reference to their friend Little Weed whom they obviously love dearly, as do I. 


This post is dedicated to David Brock.

Vermin (With Reference to the Case of Gregor Samsa)

 Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, 

fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheuren Ungeziefer verwandelt.

The word vermin is an ugly term for an ugly phenomenon; a qualitative noun that doesn't innocently describe a type of unclean animal or a class of sub-human subject, but identifies, classifies, and characterizes as such. 

A morally pernicious term that is effectively a mortal judgement passed; a death sentence. For to designate as vermin is to make fit for extermination. 

It includes wild birds and beasts that are thought to carry disease or in some other way endanger or threaten to disrupt human enterprise with their destructive activities; pesky insects and parasites that swarm and infest; and, lastly, people perceived as dirty, despicable, and problematic (Jews, gypsies, immigrants, the homeless, the unemployed, and the poor in general). 

Thus, if when applied to animals the term betrays mankind's innate sense of supremacy or speciesism, when applied to our fellow men and women it manifests our murderous racism and xenophobia. 

The Nazis, of course, had a particular penchant for portraying their opponents and those they feared and despised as Ungeziefer and Untermenschen - i.e. not worthy of sacrifice or society; Lebensunwertes Leben. 

And so vermin is a word that makes me particularly uncomfortable; one that I would never use and do not like to hear used. It reminds me at last of poor Gregor Samsa; what happened to him might happen to any of us, so there's surely a lesson to be learned here.

On Fossils and Fundamentalists

Reconstruction of Tiktaalik rosae by Obsidian Soul (2012)

In 2006, a team of scientists announced their discovery of Tiktaalik rosae, a fossilized creature from 375 million years ago that soon became known as the fishapod, combining as it did features and characteristics of both water-living and land-dwelling animals.  

Tiktaalik was one of those rare and astonishing things: a fantastically well-preserved transitional species (or so-called missing link) and thus a highly significant find. Not surprisingly, therefore, Tiktaalik's discovery was greeted with great excitement within the scientific community and received extensive media coverage. 

In fact, the only people who weren't amazed and captivated by Tiktaalik were those individuals who, for crackpot religious reasons, reject not only the theory of evolution, but even the observable facts upon which the theory of evolution is based. Individuals who describe themselves as young earth creationists. 

Creationism, as the name implies, is the belief that the universe originates from an act of divine creation, as described in Genesis. This includes all life on earth. Whilst some creationists read this biblical creation narrative symbolically and vainly attempt to reconcile it with modern science, others, the so-called young earthers, prefer to take it literally and thus fervently deny evolution and insist that the world cannot be more than 10,000 years old - whatever the empirical evidence may be to the contrary.    

Young earth creationism is thus religious fundamentalism at its most unabashed and its most wilfully stupid. It's tempting to simply look away and pretend that such people are few in number and small in influence. Unfortunately, however, creationism - particularly in the United States - is a genuine concern and presents a very real threat to scientific education and innovation. The Institute for Creation Research, the Creation Research Society, and Answers in Genesis (which, in 2007, established the Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky) have more money and more power than one might like to think.

And so, one is obliged to confront and to challenge such stupidity; not in the hope that one might persuade creationists themselves to examine the known facts and reconsider their views in the light of such, but in the hope that some of those who might be swayed by the pseudo-science of intelligent design and the reassuring rhetoric of the faithful (God loves you and you are made in his image and living in a divinely ordered universe with purpose and meaning, etc.) will dare to keep their minds open and always ask for evidence.

Torpedo the Ark means valuing intellectual integrity over and above religious ignorance. And it means learning to love your inner fish in preference to the Jesus fish ...         

Notes:

Those who are interested in reading clear and concise counterarguments to the sort of nonsense put forward by creationists might like to see John Rennie's article in the July, 2002 edition of Scientific American - click here. 

Alternatively, click here for a transcript of Brian Dunning's podcast 'How to Debate a Young Earth Creationist' (Skeptoid # 65, September 11, 2007).

 

Those who would like to know more about Tiktaalik rosae should visit the University of Chicago website dedicated to this extraordinary fossil: click here.

 

The Case of Rachel Dolezal

The controversial case of Rachel Dolezal continues to fascinate and to challenge many of our ideas and misconceptions concerning race and the cultural construction of identity. 

Ms Dolezal, according to her parents, is a white woman of predominantly European descent who has been wilfully misrepresenting and disguising herself as an African American in order to advance her career and rise to a position of prominence within the black community. For not only did she become a university professor of African studies, specialising in the intersection of gender, race and class, but also president of her local NAACP.  

To be fair, Dolezal grew up in a family with adopted black siblings and attended a school in Mississippi where most of her friends and fellow pupils were black. She also married (and subsequently divorced) a black man with whom she has a child. But, of course, none of this serves to make her African American - anymore than does the deep-tanned skin, the clothing, the jewellery, or the make-up and hairstyling. Biologically speaking, she remains what she has always been: a white woman.

But since when has race ever simply been a question of biology? 

Thus, I have to admit I'm sympathetic to Dolezal and know precisely what she means when she suggests that her case is far more complex and multi-layered than many of her critics (or her parents) understand or wish to concede. This includes, for example, that great paragon of sensitive and sophisticated commentary, Piers Morgan, who brands Dolezal a lying, deluded idiot and is clearly outraged by the thought that race might be reconfigured as a question of style rather than blood and the fear that other essential binaries might in this manner also be problematized.

For Morgan - and he explicitly says as much - race is an either/or issue: you're either black or you're white. And Dolezal is 100% white by birth and breeding and can never be anything but white. Morgan thus brands her carefully crafted and performed identity fraudulent and a mockery; akin to wearing blackface. It would be laughable, he says, were it not so serious, concluding that Dolezal has "committed an appalling act of deception that deserves every heap of abuse now raining down on her head".

Of course, what those such as Morgan really wish us to understand is not that Dolezal is who and what she is no matter what she does, but that we are all born into fixed and fatal identities, regardless of what we learn, accomplish, or become in later life. And this would even include Barack Obama: he might be living in the White House and be the son of a white mother, but, according to those for whom race is an all-determining absolute, he remains a nigger for all eternity.     

In other words, racism begins and ends with a form of death sentence; the belief that colour is so much more than merely skin-deep and blackness entirely unrelated to artifice. 

     

Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!

Lottie Collins                                               Tara King

Steed's exclamation of pervy joy when he discovers that he has been assigned Agent 69 as his youthful new partner - Ra-boom-de-ay! - is perfectly understandable, as, despite her critics, Miss King, played by the very lovely Linda Thorson, brings a fresh and flirtatious new dynamic to The Avengers. 

She's no Mrs. Peel - but then, who is?

However, it's not the female characters in a sixties spy-fi that I wish to discuss here, but rather the old music hall song to which Steed gives reference when playing on the name Tara.

Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay is one of those silly songs with a long history and an amazing cultural resonance which continues to this day. Although first publicly performed in the American vaudeville show Tuxedo in 1891, the song became widely known in the version sung by Lottie Collins, star of the London music halls, the following year.

Having gained rights to perform the song in England, Collins commissioned new lyrics, a new arrangement, and - crucially - added a dance routine. According to contemporary reviews, she delivered the suggestive verses with deceptive demureness, before launching with real gusto into the bawdy refrain and her celebrated kick dance - an idiosyncratic and rather bizarre version of the cancan. It caused a huge sensation and immediately became her signature tune. 

Personally, however, the version of this song I find most interesting is the one given us by Malcolm McLaren and the Bootzilla Orchestra in 1989, retitled as Waltz Darling and re-imagined in the context of the dance craze known as voguing. 

McLaren's version rather nicely returns the song to its black origins; origins which are often not known or simply not cared about. For Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay doesn't ultimately have its roots in London's music halls, but in a 19th century nightclub-cum-brothel run by Babe Connors in St. Louis, Missouri. And the song belongs as much to Mama Lou, as it does to Lottie Collins.

Note: those interested in viewing McLaren's video for Waltz Darling should click here.

In Defence of Giant Lovers

The Meeting Place (detail) by Paul Day 

POV shot by Stephen Alexander

Whilst I wouldn't say I'm a fan, I certainly admire much of Antony Gormley's sculptural work and share many of his criticisms and concerns to do with public art. 

I think he's right, for example, to argue that many pieces unimaginatively plonked down in our airports, stations, and city centres lack ambition or challenge and fail to address the question of what role statues might play in the 21st century. 

However, I'm disappointed to discover that he seems to particularly despise Paul Day's giant brass figure of two lovers embracing at St Pancras International Station, as I quite like it. The Meeting Place might be crude and ill-proportioned - might, in a word used by Gormley, even be described as crap - but it can still excite fetishistically, even if it fails aesthetically.

For not only does the female figure have very lovely calves and ankles, given emphasis by her high-heeled shoes and tip-toe posture, but she also invites an upskirt peek (although, alas, there's nothing to see). 

And then there's the fact that she's thirty-feet tall, which surely brings out the macrophile in many a man. I don't know why it is that giant women - or, more precisely, the thought of being crushed beneath their feet - is so ingrained within the pornographic imagination, but so it is and Day's sculpture obscenely exploits this fact (whether or not he consciously intended to do so).

So, to conclude, we might say this: that whilst The Angel of the North artistically intrigues as an erection, it doesn't solicit an erection; it makes one wonder, but it doesn't make one want to perv.     

     

On Lenny Henry's Knighthood

Photo of Lenny Henry taken in the 1970s by Graham Gough

See: The Black Country Album, (The History Press, 2012)

Comedian, actor, and all-round good egg Lenny Henry is to receive a knighthood from the Queen and he's clearly thrilled and delighted by the fact, describing how receiving word of it left him feeling as if he had been filled with lemonade.

On the one hand, I'm pleased that he's so chuffed and that his family and friends are proud of him. But on the other hand, I'm disappointed that this highly intelligent man - who is clearly sensitive to the politics of class and race - doesn't seem to have any qualms or reservations about accepting such a dubious honour and thereby lending his support to a system of privilege and patronage. 

Still apparently troubled by his experience as a teenage performer on The Black and White Minstrel Show in the 1970s, one worries that his acceptance on bended-knee of this hugely symbolic award will also retrospectively cause him shame and embarrassment and attract further criticism from more radical members of the black community.

Personally, I have the greatest respect for those individuals - whatever their ethnicity or social background - who, when offered the royal seal of approval and a place within the Established Order, have the integrity to refuse. Revolution always begins with the word No.