Blame the babies

Does the name Bidisha ring a bell? She's a regular commentator on Newsnight Review. And a rather sensible one at that. Or so I thought until I read her article in the Guardian yesterday (yes, MGF G, I am 'a Guardian reader' and a proud one at that). Over 3 pages she is going through numbers of men and women on each panel and every show put on this summer, showing that only 1/4-1/3 are women. She calls this Femicide.

Now, as this is the interweb, I can immediately share with you the history of the term: "Femicide, defined as the misogynous killing of women by men (Russell and Radford, 1992), has its roots in the larger feminist discourse, which emphasises the patriarchal nature of society and the tendency to use violence as tool of repression in the maintenance of male dominance. The term, which – unlike the term genocide, for example - has no legal basis, is elaborated in the work of Jill Radford and Diana E.H Russell in a compilation of works entitled ‘Femicide, the politics of woman killing’, published in 1992. It takes its form from the word ‘cide’, a derivative of the Latin word ceadere which means to kill and femina which means woman or female."

So you see, the use of the term Femicide in this context is a bit, how should I put it, extreme. That's not, however, the root of my disappointment (although it is the source of my anger - I just don't take the use of the cide suffix lightly). Rather, it is Bidisha's complete lack of intellectual curiosity for alternative explanations. Ratios of women low => Femicide is just a bit shallow.

How about showing historical trends? Well I am willing to bet a sixpence those will not be as supportive of the argument at hand. Can't imagine things were much better a century ago, with women not allowed to vote and all that. How about an alternative explanation? Nope. That will defocus the argument. And by argument I mean 'rant' ["Hey, don't be so quick to throw stones, whitey" she says when she assumes her, naturally, white male readers, will blame the fact that only 1 of 5 contenders for the International Prize for Arab Fiction was a woman on Arab conservatism (which by the way I am and would)].

So, I thought I'd make an effort at finding a competing theory. Here goes.

Yes, women outnumber men in art schools and the humanities. Yes, they go more to galleries and dance theatres. They definitely (I can only imagine) are the majority of those attending poetry readings in town halls. At the same time, I can imagine that the number professional women artists competing for the slots on shows and events Bidisha is referring to, is smaller than the men. You see, this is true in almost every profession. Now there are many reasons for that and prejudice against women is likely to be one of them. But it's not the only one. A major reason is rather more fundamental: babies. You see, only women can have them. Moreover many would rather [by choice that is] spend time with them rather than compete for top spots in their respective professions. I don't need to look further than MBH who did a PhD in the best department in the UK on the hotest topic at time, yet had two babies during, one after and decided she would rather stay with them than seek a full time position and see them at best at bed time - there are no part time posts, and on that one I am with Bidisha.

So, where does that leave us? Am I saying that women are not discriminated against? Hell no! Bidisha even accuses women of being just as bad as men in that respect. All I am saying is that there may be other explanations for smaller number of women participating in art events; or as I said in the title: blame the babies!

PS 360km down. 640km to go.

A bit of a set back

It is 4am Monday morning and I am stretched out on my back on the bathroom floor. Only a few hours ago I was feeling invincible having just ran 15km on a beautiful spring afternoon. But then, at 1am it started. Without going into much detail, unlike Eyjafjallajökull, I was spewing more than ashes. More like Vesuvius circa 79AD.

By 5am I was feeling weaker than I ever did. Every muscle in my body aching. My head too heavy to lift. Confident I will pass out if I only sat up. Naturally I woke MBH up just in case these were my last moments [she gets too much sleep anyhow with our two little ones not so fond of their own beds]. Deep inside I knew I am fundamentally fine. No one ever died of food poisoning. And yet, I could barely think beyond the next, let's call it, spew. What a difference a few hours make.

And yet, our bodies are a funny thing. Come 6am my brain was saying to my body: "the kids are almost up, you cannot have them see you like that". And the body listened. Now, true, I wasn't myself for the next 24 hours. MBH took great care of me [what's another one when you are caring for 3]. And now I am back - just come back from a bit of a run. All well. As if nothing.

PS 345km down, 655km to go

Eyjafjallajökull

Until Thursday I, like most people, have never heard of Eyjafjallajökull. Ever since it started spewing volcanic ashes into the clear Icelandic sky, it made it clear to all of us how small we humans really are.

Obviously, when we take time to consider it, we all know that man is but an anecdote on the pages of natural history (I am sure I heard this phrase somewhere, just in case I made it up - it's 1p per use). However, we rarely do. And by rarely I mean well-off Europeans and North Americans. You see, most natural disasters are extremely discriminatory; they uniformly impact the poor rather than the affluent and more often than not, the darker-skinned rather than caucasian.

The Haiti Earthquake January 13th, 2010. The Tsunami of December 26, 2004. Even Hurricane Katrina, August 29th, 2005 in the US.

For the first time in a long time, a natural disaster is hitting the rich, white inhabitants of the North Western Hemisphere. You see, they are stranded abroad. Now, I use the word stranded very loosely. Usually, when I think of 'stranded' I have in mind something like being trapped under an avalanche or looking for water and shade on a desert island. In other words: immense physical discomfort and consistent uncertainty of actual survival.

Not really the case for most Eyjafjallajökull "strandees". Think of MGFs T&N, "stranded" in Antigua. Horrible, isn't it? Stranded on a small island in the middle of a big ocean. Not knowing when they can get back home. I am truly struggling to compose myself. Bottom lip shaking and the lot.

So, not really the same thing as the Haiti earthquake. At least not yet. You see, in 1821 one of Eyjafjallajökull's colleagues did something similar . . . for 8 months! In 8 moths T&N will have grown dreads! Rather difficult to imagine N that way. Not so much T.

So, hoping that this whole thing is over soon and assuming that its only impact is delaying a few flights, I would like to thank Eyjafjallajökull - the great leveller of Iceland's landscape and social strata.

PS Made it to 340km today - just over a 1/3 down, 660km to go. Had to run 15km to make the week's quota. I feel ready for a half-marathon.

False hope

As you may have gathered by now, I am an Arsenal fan. For those of you who have not been following the football season, I would like to remind you that, before it started, Arsenal were considered a team in decline. 5 years without a trophy. No major signings and we just sold a key striker and our best defender for a competitor for £41m. In fact, I was absolutely sure we stood little chance of staying in the top-4. Surely there was no hope for glory.

In many respects my forecast was vindicated. Whenever we played a team of some strength we were completely hopeless; thoroughly thrashed by Man U, Chelsea & Barcelona. Away and at home. Moreover, our frailty of bodies and lack of depth have been mercilessly exposed. Van Persie - our leading scorer, out since November. Gallas, Arshavin, Song, Ramsey, Walcott and obviously, Fabergas, out on long term injuries. I didn't mention Rosicky simply because he does not deserve to be mentioned with the others. We were so desperate we brought back Sol Campbell from un-official retirement. As I said: no hope.

And yet, to my own and everyone else's surprise, Arsenal refused to give up. Mid-April, with 5 games to go we were still in with a shot. A game in hand and 2 points behind Man U in 2nd things were looking good. Believe it or not, I could see us winning the league. I had that cursed thing - hope.

No more. After 10 years, yes 10 years, Tottenham finally managed to beat us tonight and expose my hope for what it was - false. False hope.

So, doing a Carey Bradshaw, I ask: "is false hope better than no hope"? Different to Ms Bradshaw, I don't just annoyingly raise questions. I am here to provide answers, and I say: "hell yeah"! No hope is for people who are emotionally dead. Hope, even false hope, is what brings us to life. And for that reason, my good Arsenal, I thank you.

PS 325km down. 675km to go.

Got to run

Apologies. No time to write tonight.
Lots of work today - big meeting first thing tomorrow.

Had the meeting. Major anti-climax. These things often are, I find.

320km down, 680km to go.

Cool ride

We were driving up toward Hampstead today when a red Ferrari Enzo pulled in in front of us. For those of you who don't know (and shame on you) the Enzo is an extremely exotic car. Only 499 were made a few years back, costing £500,000 then and about £1,000,000 today. Moreover, they weren't even up for sale. Only dedicated Ferrari customers, e.g. Eric Clapton, were invited to buy one. It is the fastest, most dramatic looking Ferrari ever. So, what was MBH's reaction? "Not very practical in London, is it"? "Of course not, dear." I replied. Obviously, she was right. But that's not the point. Is it?

A car should not be thought of in terms of practicality. For a man, and many women, it is a means of portraying an image. A black Mercedes S500 says: I am rich and important. A Fiat 500 says: I am young and trendy. A Porsche 911 says: I am sporty and successful. Or does it?

Now here's the problem with image-motoring. It rarely fools anyone. If you are truly important, you don't need an S500 to show for it. You'd drive a Fiat Panda. The age limit for Fiat 500 owners is 29 and, if you crawl out of your 911 with your beer-belly hanging over your belt and your comb-over blowing in the wind, you are not likely to be mistaken for Leonardo Di Caprio, are you?

So, the question is, what is the car for the cynical age? First of all, let's rule out the Prius, the most image-conscious car ever. Any car that sells on the combined traits of being ecological and ugly is just too much. I would go for MGFs T&N choice of the Fiat Box. It's not called a Box, it simply is one. A box on wheels that's really good at moving people and stuff from one place to the next. I would, if only MGF N didn't say they chose it because it was the most hideous car around. That's image-motoring in much the same way. A Ford Focus (which I must disclose we own) is merely trying to say one is too sensible to be caught up in image-motoring. Only a bit too loudly.

My conclusion is: there is no escape. Image-motoring is so engrained in our culture, it cannot be avoided. There is simply no car that doesn't say something about its owner. The only way out is to go all the way and buy a Cadillac Escalade - a 4x4 that's even bigger and brasher than a Range Rover but without the pretence of class or sophistication - just like Tony Soprano. At least no one will be able to accuse you of motor-hypocrisy. Au revoir then, I am on my way to the Cadillac showroom!

PS 310km down, 690km to go.

Round numbers

Finally made it to 300km. A nice, round number. Not sure what it is about round numbers, but they seem to mean something to me. Not just round numbers. Also special ones, like 0.453, 3.14159. But especially round ones. I wonder why?

Is this an innate tendency like our concept of female beauty? You know, the thing in our brain that makes us care about round faces with large eyes and small noses, whether they are babies or babes. I can get the evolutionary benefit of this genetic imprinting; it generates affection for babies so that we take care of them the moment they are born. The concept of female beauty is simply a side-effect. But what is the benefit of liking round numbers?

Naturally, I am back with the Munduruku. You see, one of the points made by the Amazon-dwelling Frenchman who studies the innate concepts of numbers was that from an evolutionary perspective, ratios are more important than counting. For survival sake grasping that 5 lionesses are more dangerous than 1 is much more important than knowing that 56 lionesses are more dangerous than 40. Although the difference in number of lionesses is much greater in the later case, the difference in the former is much greater in terms of likelihood of survival. You see, I can take on 1 lioness single handedly. 5 is a different matter all together.

So, I am wondering, if it doesn't matter if I am being stampeded by 298 or 301 wildebeests, I might as well call it a cool, round 300. And 300 is, truly, a good-looking number. Especially if you think of it in terms of kilometres. 700km is even nicer. And a cool 1,000km is, by anyone's count truly beautiful. Will take me a while though.

Have a good weekend.
J

Limbo

Have been feeling rather deflated the last couple of days. Deflated being the opposite of elated rather than inflated, mind you. Not talking about Easter lunch. Spent the Easter bank holidays relaxing. Doing not much at all. Recharging the batteries. And still, I feel like I'm running on empty. Now this would be a perfect time to mention that I did run 30km this weekend, and make a pun about doing it on empty, but that would be way too obvious, wouldn't it?

Not sure what it is. My head feels heavy. My eyelids as if they're made of led. I am on a day off from work and I feel like doing nothing at all. Now, assuming everything is ok with me physically - as a stereotypical male I need to show my hypochondriac side - I was wondering why I was feeling this way. Having mulled about it for the last few minutes, I believe I may have stumbled on the answer: I am in limbo. Not the Catholic Limbo i.e. floating between Heaven and Hell. That may be rather exciting I think. A much more mundane limbo, when you know you are reaching important junctures in your life yet you can do absolutely nothing to either reach them more quickly or determine their outcome.

Surprisingly enough, I am not talking about Arsenal's game at the Nuo Camp tonight against Barca. No limbo there. Barca will win comfortably. We are as good as out of the competition already. I am not talking about the Premier League either. The likelihood of Arsenal winning all 5 games whilst Chelsea lose or draw at least 2 out of 5 is so close to zero it is not worth bothering with.

Depressingly, it is to do with work. End of quarter. End of year. Next year. Career. Somehow I feel that, for good and for bad, the course has been set a while back and I have little capacity to change it. Not a feeling I like very much, to be honest. Need to do something about it. Stay put!

295km down. 705km to go. 32km ahead of schedule.

Road rage

Had a revelation during my run today - one can experience road rage even when not driving!

Now I don't know about you, but I consider myself a rather relaxed, composed individual. I would like to think - and my loved ones genuinely hope it were true - that I keep my calm in all circumstances. Unless, of course, I am late and stuck in traffic. Suddenly, I am ready to murder every old woman trundling along in her Honda Civic (OWTAIHC). And don't get me started about teenagers in their speced-up black Vauxhall Corsas (TISUBVC).

Until today, however, I thought this sort of combustive rage can only be experienced whilst driving. Not so. I was heading up to the top of Highgate hill about to cross a zebra crossing when a TISUBVC decided he should ignore the crossing and continue into the round-about. Huffing and puffing as I was, I expressed my surprise. Usually when this happens drivers stop and wave their apology. Not the TISUBVC. He decided to accelerate, almost running me over. Within milliseconds I saw red and ran after the bastard gesturing my dismay. He must be a proficient lip-reader, since his reaction showed he could tell I mentioned things he may have done to his mum. You see, he started chasing me in his BVC up a series of round-abouts, almost crashing into an OWTAIHC.

Naturally, I was ready for the pursuing fist-fight. Actually looking forward to it. Without fail the little shit stopped his car across the pavement, blocking my way. He jumped out brandishing a knife. Luckily I managed to grab a big stick from the bushes and knocked him on the head. He fell unconscious. I ran away as quickly as I could, the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

No. Not really. Unfortunately the little shit gave up and drove away. How fortunate was I?

PS 280km down 720km to go. Hope to reach 300km this weekend.

A distraction

MBH went to the gym today. It's a small gym, two doors down the road from our last house. Nothing special at all. In fact, the facilities are rather limited, it's rather shabby and sometimes in summer the air conditioning fails and the place turns into one big wet sauna.

The one thing that is special about it, however, is the members. You see, for some reason, the place is packed with celebs. And I am not talking Kerry Katona or other Z-listers. I am talking the real stuff.

So, in goes MBH and onto the cross-country machine to find out that right next to her is no other than Chris Martin. A rather innocuous name, I know. You must be thinking: "It rings a bell, remind me who he is?" Well, he is Coldplay! He sold almost 100,000,000 records. One of the biggest rock stars in the world. Second pretty much only to Bono. And, most importantly, he is Mr. Gwyneth Paltrow. No Z-lister then. Anyhow, Chrisy-boy goes on exercising for an hour and a half right next to MBH. Or as MBH said: "It was quite a distraction."

Now my first reaction was: "What? That sorry git? He is the least distracting person in the world! You are married to an Adonis [that's me] and you are getting distracted by this curly red-head geek who names his daughter after a computer company. Next thing you'd change our daughter's name to Dell!"

On second thought, I realised I am much better off accepting MBH's reaction for what it is. You see, only this morning I was reading an article in the paper about our innate mathematical intuitions and how dramatically different they are than our learned ones. The article was based on research of an Amazonian tribe - the Munduruku - that live in complete isolation. Riveting stuff indeed. And yet, I was suddenly distracted by a photo of someone called Jane Goldman. I had no idea who she was [Jonathan Ross's BH] or why the hell was her picture in the paper. And what was it that distracted me from the Munduruku? Nothing other than Ms Goldman's enormous puppies. And by puppies I mean bosom.

Now, obviously, anything that I do should be considered acceptable. By these standards, however, I guess I set the bar for acceptable distraction rather low. Way, way lower than spending an hour and a half in the gym next to one of the world's biggest rock stars.

Happy Pesach / Easter.

PS 270km down. 730km to go. Hoping to clock quite a few this long weekend.