This is great.
This is great.
Those of you who think that page 3 is harmless, if outdated and a bit tacky, fun and that “the feminists” are making a fuss about nothing, please read Clare Short’s book, Dear Clare. When you’ve done that, have a look at the No More Page 3 site where women have given many examples of how some men use page 3 as a starting point to harass, assault and demean women. And if that’s not enough to convince you, spend some time looking at Everyday Sexism where women talk about what happens to us – every single day.
I have never been the victim of a serious sexual assault, but I have experienced many forms of sexual harassment and assault. I do not know a single woman who has never experienced sexual harassment. It happens to us all. These are the ones that happened to me that stick in my mind the most.
1) When I was at primary school, once a month or so we would drive to the other side of town to visit my grandad’s aunt and uncle, who had brought him up. They lived in a very rural area with hardly any traffic about, a very short walk from a couple of farms. My brother (2 years younger than me) and I would go out to play and we were allowed to walk to the nearest farm and look at the animals. I don’t think I was any older than 7 when one day a farmhand offered to show us round. He walked between us, holding our hands, and I was so engrossed in not slipping in the muck and looking at the animals that it took a little while for me to realise he’d put my hand inside his trousers and wrapped it round his penis. It was broad daylight, there were people nearby, and I was no more than 7 years old. I pulled my hand away and he laughed. Once I told my parents, we weren’t allowed to go to the farm anymore.
2) Secondary school – pushed up against a wall, had my breasts groped by a boy in my year
3) Aged 13-15 I had a weekday morning paper round. At least one morning a week the newsagent would come out from behind the counter, try to hug me and press himself against me – me, with my awful 80s perm, Deirdre Barlow specs, and newsprint-stained anorak.
4) Aged about 16, waiting for a bus with a friend, both of us wearing skirts that finished about an inch above the knee, bloke in a car queued at traffic lights spent the time shouting about our legs, then drove back to do it again.
5) Aged 20, in the summer holidays between the second and final year of my degree, I had a waitressing job in a restaurant in Edinburgh. The chef would regularly wank himself to an erection, wait until I was in the kitchen, then call me over and force my hand into his pocket so I could feel it. In August they brought family over from Italy to help out with the Festival rush. Their sisters brought their sons, aged about 7 and 5. The boys would frequently – several times a night every night – grope and squeeze my breasts and bum, hard enough to leave bruises. I told them to stop, and they laughed. Their uncles (my employers) told them to stop, but laughed and never enforced it. Their mothers told them to stop, told them off and smacked them for it, but they always carried on. Why did I put up with it? I was 20, jobs were hard to get that summer, it paid £3 an hour (which was good for waitressing in 1991) and I knew it was only for the summer, not forever. If it happened now I’d bring the full force of the law and the appropriate union down on the chef, and I’d make sure I dropped a stack of plates at the first hint of groping from the boys. (For those who are curious, it was La Rocca at the top of Broughton Street and the best day was bringing pizza & steak to Trevor & Simon).
6) Aged about 25, in a pub in town, wearing a dress which showed a bit of the tattoo on my back. A man I don’t know and had never spoken to licked his thumb and rubbed my tattoo. When I asked what the fuck he thought he was doing, he said he wanted to see if it was real. I told him he had no right to touch me. He said I wouldn’t be showing my tattoo if I didn’t want people to look. I told him you look with your eyes not with your hands and to get the fuck away from me. He was furious at being spoken back to and furious that I would challenge his right to touch a woman’s body.
7) Numerous instances of being groped, felt up, passed too closely and pressed against in pubs and clubs.
8) Numerous instances of comments on my body when cycling around town. “Nice tits” the most common, “fuck off” my preferred response.
9) More times than I can remember of men shouting in the street, following me/us (if I was with friends), blocking our way, commenting on our bodies. For the whole time I lived in Lindley and was old enough to go out without an adult, I would walk the long, isolated path at the back of Field Tops rather than go along the main street and have to walk past Carl Livesy’s butcher shop, where he and his butcher assistants would leer and yell.
10) Returning from a union thing in London, on a train with a bunch of other union activists. Everyone’s been drinking, people are falling asleep. I fall asleep, wake up to find the man next to me is allowing his hands to wander all over me while he thinks everyone’s asleep. The union dealt with that robustly. ETA: I should add that I have never felt harassed, threatened or unsafe at any other time during my years of union activity – for me, this was a one-off and I am happy that it was dealt with.
Apart from maybe the first one, I guarantee every single woman you know will have similar stories to tell, or worse.
I have no idea whether or not the press stories about Prince Andrew are true or not. My first thought is that I find it hard to believe anyone in his position would be stupid enough to do what he’s been accused of doing. My right-behind-my-first-thought second thought is that if the last couple of years have taught us anything, it’s that some men in positions of privilege do what they want without fear of consequence, and that we should always believe people who say they have been abused.
But what is really pissing me off is that the news media keep referring to “sex with an underage girl” and that the girl was “forced to sleep with” the prince. There is a word for “sex with an underage girl” and there is a word for being “forced to sleep with” someone. That word is rape, and refusing to use it doesn’t make the crime any less horrific.
An email today from an ex-employee, who says she has been told (but did not witness) that when Lush fired a manager in another country, the manager attempted suicide. Rather than express sympathy or concern for someone in such distress, MC used it as a punchy anecdote to show how passionate Lush employees are, and topped it off with “she was probably on drugs – as most girls who work for us- and in their mid-twenties are.”
What a guy. What a company.
Email from an employee, informing me that Mark Constantine closed a manager’s meeting with “People say we’re an ethical company. I don’t think we are when it comes to management. I’m not sure how you’re gonna take this, but I want to discuss hormones.” Then he talked about an argument between him and a female staff member where they screamed at each other and it finished with her shouting “you can’t fire me because I quit.” Having spent some time thinking about it, his suggestions for managing conflict with female staff were “That’s why she’s acting the way she is: it’s a full moon. It’s down to the managers to learn to control their hormones: when they’re on their periods, it’s up to managers to curb the way you’re dealing with staff when they’re on or curb the way you’re speaking to people when you’re on.”
I don’t think I need to comment here. It speaks for itself.
I know very little about tennis, and nothing at all about Amelie Mauresmo, but in a year where the misogyny inherent in sport has been so apparent, I’m delighted that a top sportsman would appoint a female coach, recognising that she could be* the best person for the job and shouldn’t be discounted because she’s a woman.
*I say could be rather than definitely is, because we won’t know how successful Murray’s new coach will be until we see his results.
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