Wednesday, February 21, 2018

White Roses at the Brit Awards

Oh deary, deary me.
This doesn't stand a snowflake's chance in hell. The music industry is THE site of sexual abuse and coercive control. Rather than tweeting #MeToo, women (and young men) should be tweeting #NotMe in the rare instances when they haven't been propositioned, attacked or enticed into uncomfortable power-balance situations, or maybe #NotMeYet.
The industry is full of 'feminist men' who use the badge to get women to trust them, and then do the Harvey on them. Or procurer-type women working for the Harveys who persuade young women that it's really feminist to take off your clothes to appear in a pop video ostensibly because its a sign of freedom, but in reality because it shifts units and 'everybody is doing it'. Feminism used as a lure is particularly prevalent in the twenty-something generation, rather depressingly.

Years ago, I had a boss who spontaneously yelled at people when he got annoyed. He was quite public about it, and lots of people were terrified of him. He was actually one of the nicest people I've ever worked for or with, because what you saw was what you got. He never yelled at anyone in private; he was so incapable of controlling how he felt that he was also unable to be secretive, involve people in narcissistic plots or cabals, or make women feel sexually uncomfortable. The shouting could be undermining, but he cooled off pretty quickly. You felt that he was totally safe and trustworthy, and I had a lot of honest conversations with him. He was easy to respect, because he had no fake 'wokery' about him. That's not to say every man who shouts is honest, nor is every quiet man a fraud; feminism is a work in progress that everyone can contribute to, and there is no 'we've done it now' about it.

Not all women are the same, and neither are all men; wouldn't it be great in life if there was time out to reassess everything? Not just the abuse of women, but the abuse of little boys by sports coaches, and in boarding schools.

Whenever I've interviewed women in the music industry for research purposes, I get told the most blood-curdling stories. This almost stalled the PhD before its time, and nothing has changed. The women often don't want these stories to be heard, because then all they will be is victims. Jean Seaton, who was one of the supervisors on my PhD, gave good advice: the women are not victims, they are people who have survived despite the attempts to demean and derail them made by men in the music industry. In fact, they are professional people who are thriving.

So the white roses? Leave them in the fields, and let nature take its course with them. Human responsibility is the only solution, and the recognition that even the most charming and plausible people can fool people who think that they themselves are too intelligent to be taken for a ride.
Always believe.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

In Support of Mary Beard

Sending love and support to Mary Beard, a beautiful and learned woman who is an inspirational writer, broadcaster and communicator.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Delilah, Delilah

This new song was inspired by a visit to the hairdresser (it's hard, though not impossible, to wash long hair with only one hand), a chance sighting of the nursery rhyme Oranges and Lemons in the sweet shop, reading a particularly gory Jo Nesbo book while under the influence of powerful and mind-bending painkillers, and a desperate desire to make my fingers work. Ukulele is difficult to play if you're normally a guitarist- it feels as though you have too many fingers. This is played with two fingers on each hand. Posted yesterday morning, before the fracture clinic; no lifting, pulling or pushing for six weeks, but playing guitar has the green light. The operating surgeon sent a message to say she hoped that I'd managed to play the gig I was worried about. I didn't in the end, but what a nice thing to ask.

Monday, February 12, 2018


I'm thinking of re-branding my super-person alter-ego (didn't have one, but maybe should have), "Terrormadam".
The music shop guy in Brighton the other week called me a "Terror" when I knocked over a huge pile of slippery leaflets all over the floor, while I was in there buying emergency drumsticks for the Asbo Derek gig, even though I tried to pick them up.
The surgeon who fixed the fracture called me "Madam", in general conversation about elbows.
Slot the two together, and you get the sort of name that should be emblazoned across a tightly t-shirted chest in a lightning-flash of primary colours. By somebody else, perhaps.

Waiting for Spring!

Photo by Ruth Tidmarsh

Saturday, February 10, 2018


We all looked out for this man in our various ways. Barnet is not famed for its compassion (just look at Cllr Cornelius if you don't believe me) but touchingly, some mornings there was a cup of coffee waiting for him on his sitzplatz on the pavement in the High Street.
He busked sometimes, and got better at it. People stopped and chatted to him. It was better to give him food and drink than money.
He wasn't homeless, as Offsprog One found out. He felt sorry for homeless people, even though he spent every daylight hour outside, rain or shine, summer or winter. Sometimes he appeared to be remarkably ill. The police knew about him and I suppose all the local charities did too; he appeared to be living the life he wanted to. It is very sad that he has died; you always hope that there will be a happy ever after for a chap like this: articulate, funny, sociable, but just somehow not fitting into the shapes cut out for normal human beings. A lot of people will miss you, Anthony.