Saturday, 6 January 2018

Why rugby is a better game than football (objectively)

It's another sports post from me, and I'm going to put this on Steemit simultaneously, in case you see it there.

To avoid any confusion for readers from the US, it’ll be helpful to point out right off the bat that when I refer to football in this article, I mean what you would call soccer, and what the rest of the world calls, well, football. (This makes sense if you consider all the time people spend using their feet to interact with the ball.)

The second thing it’s worth saying at this point, before I launch into the laundry list, is that I love both games, and enjoy watching them when they’re played well. Having been born and raised in New Zealand, it was almost assured that I would like rugby, while having spent twelve years now in England (and having a father from here), took care of the football side. The points that I want to make will refer to more than the pure subjectivity of either game, more than the immeasurable thrills that either can provide.

So, to the points themselves:

Rugby has no diving. In fact, such activities are openly condemned and roundly mocked. It’s not an exaggeration to say that ‘simulation’, as it’s sometimes referred to, is encouraged in football, both by the structure of the game, which often rewards such behaviour, and by commentators, who regularly say things like ‘he might have been better off going to ground there’ after the slightest of collisions.

Similarly, in football, the disciplinary system, doesn’t really work. It’s somewhat of an all-or-nothing system, apart from the caution players are supposed to show when they’re ‘on a yellow’. Professional fouls are often a desirable action, and again, commentators will say that a certain foul made sense within the context of the game. To break up a dangerous attack, particularly in the late stages of the game, players will happily pick up a booking. By contrast, a rugby yellow (much less often received) results in a ten-minute spell on the sidelines for the player involved. I’m not unaware of the numerical differences in the number of players on the field in both sports, and the proportionately larger effect use of the sin bin would have during a football match, but currently there’s nothing between what is effectively a strong warning with no real (or immediate) consequences, and being sent off completely.

I also think that the penalty area, while logical in some ways, has become an anomaly in terms of how the rules are applied. It makes sense that players shouldn’t be able to get away with cynical play preventing goals or goal-scoring opportunities, though there is something odd about the fact that if a particular action happens seventeen yards from the goal it results in a penalty, while the same action another yard back is only a free kick. What we see are a lot of smaller infringements in the box which go ‘unnoticed’ by referees, which again means that the game encourages certain actions by its very structure.

Football players have no respect for the referees. The contrast between the two sports could not be greater. In rugby, generally only the captain speaks with the referee, and the manner is markedly different from football, where the entire team have been known to surround the officials, hurl abuse, and behave like children, often with no clear consequences. In rugby decisions are far more often calmly accepted, as back chat will bring its own disciplinary action.

The above point though, is not entirely the players’ fault; whilst the behaviours and attitudes are something which have been allowed to build up over time, they also have roots in what may be considered inconsistency, incompetence, or outright bias on the part of the officials. Decisions are often applied without consistency in games, and some decisions are laughably bad. It’s easy to understand why players and managers get frustrated with officials who, often with clear and unobstructed views of incidents, seem incapable of making the correct call.

Corruption. This point deserves a paragraph of its own. In a game where a player can commit a deliberate offence, to win his team a spot in the World Cup, and the team which lost out is later compensated (see: paid off); in a game where a country with no footballing history or infrastructure, and temperatures unfit for even playing the game, can be awarded a World Cup; in a game where match fixing has occurred and where no one would be surprised if it were to occur again; well, all these examples and more point to the deep-seated problems at the heart of football.

The above issues are aided and exacerbated by the FIFA’s consistent refusal to press ahead with technology which could eliminate, or at least reduce, many of the controversial moments within matches. It doesn’t seem likely that the motivations for this refusal are those claimed. The argument that the game should be the same at grass-roots level as in the highest tiers is ridiculous when you have players earning thousands for every touch of the ball. The argument that the use of video review would slow down the game ignores the fact that the game is already slowed down by minutes of players complaining about every decision. It also ignores the fact that cleaning up the game may be worth half a minute’s pause. Let’s face it, there’s more money to be gained by having France in a World Cup than Ireland, and this reality would not have been achieved if video review were available. So, this all swings back to the fact that in the game of football, cheats do prosper.

All this would be less galling were there more than mere token efforts to enact change. Controversial decisions, diving, abuse of the officials – all these could be eliminated using simple video technology, employed at the time or retroactively. The means are there, but the will is lacking.

Money. Now, rugby is not without its problems in this regard, but in one sense football is very much a victim of its own success when it comes to money. The worldwide appeal of the game means that measures like salary caps, which can be introduced and controlled in other sports, also means that there’s very little practical chance of such a thing occurring throughout the world in all footballing nations. And without this universality, players simply move to the countries/clubs with the biggest available fund pool, and winning trophies becomes a function of bank balance more than anything else. And of course, where there’s money, there’s corruption.

The staggering amounts of cash available also leads many of the players to behave, quite frankly, like assholes. I am aware of the measures clubs take to prevent this, and the ways in which they aim to protect younger players from their own riches. However, there is something about the sport, even beyond the pay packet – the adulation, perhaps – which often infects its proponents with arrogance. This is not unheard of in rugby, and perhaps I am benefiting from the New Zealand perspective, but in that sport the players seem to be held to a different standard of behaviour, both on and off the pitch, and are thought less of by the public when they fail to fulfil the requirements of the role model position which they occupy.

Thus far, my points have not really been related to the game style. But, there is one aspect of football which annoys many fans, which ruins the game, and which often yields results: parking the bus (otherwise known as the ‘Mourinho Method’). This essentially defensive style of play might be considered a lack of any style of play, but is perfectly legal within the rules, and would be difficult to legislate against, even should one desire to do so. Stifling an opponent’s attack by placing all your available players in the defensive third is just not something that can occur in rugby, where games are won by an eighty-minute graft, rather than by a stroke of luck and a whole lot of negative thinking. I appreciate this could be considered a detriment, as in rugby, upsets are much harder to achieve, and the underdog seldom prospers, but I look at it more like, victories must be earned. When you win a rugby match, it’s seldom due to a fluke try or a fortunate decision by the officials.

In closing, I feel it’s worth reiterating that I love football and rugby, and have enjoyed many hours watching them both. And while neither is perfect, there are so many problems in football which can rear their heads, that as often as not they ruin an otherwise fantastic experience. I find myself feeling frustrated that the bad can so easily outweigh the good, and I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling this way.

Saturday, 2 September 2017

London Is My Girlfriend II

Pret (Kingston-upon-Thames)

Pigeons pull open a garbage bag and fight over day-old pita bread. Or day-old something. A child reaches out from a stroller, babbling; her hand closes around air as the birds duck away.
In Pret they have nothing of what I want, except a place to sit for half an hour, so I buy a cup of tea and claim a table.
Across from me, a girl writes, annotating copies. Post-its and highlighters are scattered across the table. A lone tea cup stands amidst the chaos. Her hair is long and wavy. She wears a nondescript gray jersey and tucks black boots around a black leather handbag.
I take a sip of my tea.
To her right, a group speak in animated tones and Eastern European accents. They sound happy and relaxed. I wonder how long this beautiful experiment has left. Depending on who you ask, it could be days, or forever.
The main man switches between English and another language, or maybe I’m just not paying attention. Life is hard when you’re tired. He has a kind face, trimmed hair, a speck of dirt in the middle of his forehead which could be a birthmark. He wears neat clothing and moves his head from side to side when he speaks. He stands and types on his phone as the party prepare to depart.
Three women, two men, and a strong scent of perfume. After they’ve gone I examine their table: smoothies, coffee, and water. Outside, they exchange hugs and part ways. (The only other face I see is expressive; a woman with dark hair and large eyes; when she listens to you talk you really believe she cares about what you have to say.)
I sip my tea and the girl leafs through papers, clipping them into a ring binder, light blue, WH Smith.
A group of friends enter and dump their bags at the recently-vacated table. One has a picture of carrots on it, one is woven, the last is art-nouveau, some woman’s face that I should know but do not.
To my left, a couple natter, a fly in my ear. Loud enough to be annoying, but quiet enough not to be unreasonable. He leans back and she leans forward – then they swap. Lather, rinse, repeat. His hat is maroon, some company logo. Pretending to glance at the street, I still can’t read it, and so I lose interest. She gets up and goes upstairs.
One of the friends returns and stirs coffee with one hand, while navigating a phone with the other. She’s brought a T.K. Maxx bag, to add to the collection. She wears bright orange trainers to match the polish on her ring fingers; the others are a dirty gold. She is dissatisfied with her drink. When Friend Two returns she asks her to change it, calling out instructions across the room in a clipped voice, all the while playing with her phone.
The girl across from me highlights in green. The best colour. I am unable to tell what book she’s reading; it’s doggy and the edges are curled, which is the best way for a book to be.

Burger King
Dodge the charity muggers and step inside. In front of me a group a French teenagers debate their order for minutes, looking at a five pound note and passing coins around. I wonder if they’re counting cash or just trying to figure out how much they can buy, with the least complicated order. I consider cutting in front of them in line, before they settle for French fries (or to them, fries).  I am hungry from a forty five minute walk carrying a heavy case, so I order a lot of food.
The staff are slow but the get everything right. As I wait I scan the place. It’s dirty and rubbish is stacked on tables. I wonder when I’ll stop eating in places like this. Probably when I have better things to do and people to eat with. I hope that’s before the food kills me. I am addicted, you see Cycles of consumption and regret.
In the restaurant the young men come and go, talking of Michelangelo. ‘Yes fam, that new Ninja Turtles movie looks sick!’
I sit and eat. In front of me, a couple unpack food meticulously, squirt ketchup, set up for their meal. They talk quietly and generally enjoy the moment. A man walks in, dressed in what might be described as a punk get up, leather jacket with studs, quasi-political slogans scrawled across the back in twink; messy hair, heavy shoes with thick soles and craters carved into them.
A woman who looks reasonably kempt, leaves a wheeled bag with a jacket tied across it and walks over to ask for change in a low voice. Money for something to eat. If it’s her game, she plays it well. Normally I’m stern, particularly with a job coming to a close, but I find it hard to refuse, stuffing my face as I am with onion rings. But I don’t give away any of my pound coins. She circles the place and leaves before she’s kicked out. I wonder what she’ll buy with the money.
Band On The Run tracks back and forth through my head. Did Paul McCartney ever make good on his thought of giving it all away? Did he fuck.
I scoff the food and play with my phone for a while. The punk has finally been served, after ten or fifteen minutes. He slumps down in the table behind mine, all arms and legs, and takes a phone call. He sits with his boots sticking out into the aisle, shaking one foot back and forth.
I dump the rubbish in the bin and return to the street, zipping my coat up against the summer wind. 

18:24 to London Waterloo
The sun is sharp in their eyes as they disembark; unhurried, their feet clomp across the platform extension towards the old building and the ungated exits. Aboard the train the usual assortment of newspapers and chocolate wrappers flap in a gentle breeze, which does not reach my face or cool me. Shadows warp between window and wall, displays thus by the last rays of a golden evening. The sky dips toes into a river brown and blue, and rippled.
The boy wears spotless trainers and a disdainful look, placed on his face automatically. He wants to be a man but does not know how, so he acts angry all the time and holds strong, unresearched opinions. Behind him, a man in a neat grey cardigan peers through thick spectacles, examining the Examiner and snuffling regularly. His grunts sound like those of a mildly-annoyed pig or one of those muppets who makes sounds that aren’t quite speech.
The train rocks gently, calming itself along familiar tracks with unfamiliar bumps and bruises. The boy stares out of the window, knowing there’s nothing to see but seeing it anyway. The man swallows another throat full of sticky snot, sucking it down as if it tastes of ambrosia.
At Thames Ditton chinos and RP get on, all twenty of them, disciples of the sun and easy money. They squash together on seats; their clothing is the essence of conformity – but they don’t care, which is the essence of nonconformity. Is white privilege the new punk?
Trains make me hate people. Or is it just writing about trains?
An Englishman explains to a Frenchman about twenty-four-hour supermarkets, and the Frenchman marvels; the triumph of Britishness, or something. Maybe the Americans won after all. If I can get pancakes at 3am, it’s not all bad.
In front of me a girl or a woman sits, headphones half the size of her face, which is hidden. She picks the label off a Sainsbury’s smoothie. The Anglo-French division discuss the finer points of London transport, and depart as loudly as they came. The woman – or is it a man with long hair? – or is it a woman with big hands? – holds the bottle up; yellow juice sluices down like lava and lands in his/her mouth. 

Three young girls are excited by crisps. (Old enough to ride the train alone, young enough not to know how to avoid being obnoxious.) I wonder if they’re tourists or just home-schooled. I see large eyes and wide mouths, bright teeth and a subtle scent of fried chicken. Locals, then.
The plastic bags they carry crackle and pop and sway to the beat of the train. There are orange handrails, reflecting light, and there are seats, all bright red, with yellow and blue. The colours and patterns hide dirt and grime. Why persist with fabric when plastic wipes clean? Rumour is, the comptroller’s wife suffers from haemorrhoids.
Wimbledon hasn’t changed and it never will. Bright sunlight closes eyes to slits. There are at least five people wearing chucks in this carriage alone. But there are also three Yankee caps, and I have two of those. I think about glassless glasses as a fashion statement. Not for myself but as a thing that exists. Consider, alternative disabilities made trendy. Did it all start with Nelly’s plaster?
A Kardashian poses in a wheelchair (as I type this, MS Word autocorrects the lower-case k in Kardashian, and I nearly punch my screen). What next? Fake orthotics? Bedazzled neck braces? Crutches with a phone holder and a Wi-Fi hot spot? Perhaps an outbreak of Tourette’s across Dalston and Hackney. Mind you, there already seems to be one, some of the shit that’s spewed around there.
What’s the opposite of gentrification? A fashionable fade that the quinoa markets and deconstructed coffee houses don’t see coming. Unfashionable is the new fashionable. Shit is the new cool.
In the window I see she has a full beard. I kick a bottle of aloe juice under the seat, and study the smudges reflecting nothing back at me. Toffs embark; their newspapers mention a boy taken by an alligator, but they discuss instead the Premier League fixture list, in voices that rake spit along the sides of the mouth. One tears out the pages with deliberation, obstructing the aisle: ‘they’ have West Ham first up, and I hope they lose.

Sunday, 30 July 2017

London Is My Girlfriend

Pret (Soho)
In Pret there is coffee. That means there are people. Or is it the other way around?
A man hunches over a table, smiles into his cell phone. With his free hand he picks up the leftover packaging from a hot wrap, sniffs it, puts it down. Spins it. He twists a finger in his ear, rubs his face.
Behind me, Spanish girls pick at pots of fruit. They eat like they don’t like the food, pinching it between forefinger and thumb. The guy with them talks loudly and throws his head back when he feels he’s made his point.
Noise rumbles through the place, the noise of things that don’t matter, and those that do. Posters declare, ‘rainforests are cool’, and, ‘freshly roasted Arabica beans’, as if people were in the habit of knowing (or caring) what their coffee beans are, or how the rainforest is doing. This isn’t Shoreditch.
Two men and two women sit; the one closest to me is a man in a blue cardigan and movie-style hair, perfectly coiffed. Every time he nods it bobs up and down a little. His cardigan has leather elbow patches, and when people talk he’s not really listening. I would be a bad person to give superpowers to. I would punch that guy in the face for the hell of it. I wonder if Superman ever got sued for destroying Manhattan – sorry, Metropolis.

The woman in front of me wears full winter regalia in a hot café. Hat, scarf, North Face jacket. She sits with her arms pinched in, like she’s afraid of attack at any moment.
On the wall a paper rack announces tube strikes averted – for now. In England, the papers turn even good news into a threat.
People leave, and I can see that perfect-hair-guy has another perfect-hair friend who I also dislike. Why? It can’t be hair. Who gives a shit about hair?
Children climb around on chairs. The girl with the bunny sweatshirt cries for no reason; her brother drops a kinder egg and scrambles around on the floor, collecting the pieces. Ten seconds later the girl is happy again, bouncing around on the chairs like she can never be hurt, or even understand the concept. I can see how such an attitude would have merit.

The Asparagus
There’s a woman with birds-nest hair, grey and white; she rests her cane against the table, digs through a ‘durable’ Asda bag, places half a pint of milk on the table. Inside the plastic bag is another plastic bag; she rummages, picks things up and holds them jealously in her claws. They’ll not be things anyone wants. She folds the bag up tightly, places it back in the other bag, takes out another one, repeats the process.
To my right a man orders Carlsberg. He doesn’t sound like he belongs here, but then again, neither do I. I wait for my burger, ignore the strange wafts which come past me. I wanted all-day breakfast, but they only serve breakfast here until noon. The humanity.
The food is exactly what you’d expect: watery BBQ sauce, chewy bacon, chips lukewarm but crisp and fluffy. I’ll eat it all. I need salt and mayonnaise.
A man sits at a bar but not at the bar, dressed like Steve Jobs, cellphone call after cellphone call; but if you’re at a Wetherspoons at one pm on a Saturday, Steve Jobs you aint.
The knife and fork sit by, unused. I scoop up the last of the mayo with a chip and lick my fingers.
A girl approaches the bar, leopard print top and ugg boots distorted out of all shape from being worn places they were never designed for. I look at her until her boyfriend walks up. Jeans and wheat-coloured timberlands, or an imitation. She has a nice face, and she doesn’t talk too loudly. Half the voices in this place pierce the room like feedback.
A plump woman approaches the bar, orders, wanders back to the table, comes back again with what she’s forgotten. The girl behind the bar stands around for a chat – she seems nice, genuinely interested in these people and their lives. Regulars.
Cellphone guy is still talking. He has a dark black baseball cap with red lettering. I can’t see the brand. I check my watch, consider ordering another drink. The table is splashed with salt and grease, as are my hands. 

Clapham Junction
On the platform, a wedge of sunlight warms my back. There is nothing better than having time.
Having the same idea, others stand alongside me, in defiance of the yellow line. I see Mr White Trainers, Blue Jeans, Plain T-Shirt, Gold Chain. I know a hundred like him, but I do not know him. His face is whiskered and wants to be tough. He clutches a heavy jacket with both hands.
A stout woman with long hair, and cheetah-print trainers hold a small dog on a leash. Her son has black jeans, ripped at the knee. The dog shivers in the shade.
Across from me a girl fusses with her earphones; trusses thick hair above a bored face. Her red bandana represents nothing. The music she plays is of a type I cannot hear.
The train arrives and people jostle. From years of experience I can tell there’s no need, but stress is a feedback loop. I stand in the entrance way and watch people, debating over seats. An elderly couple pluck up courage enough to sit down.
Beside me a man hangs bright blue sunglasses from a thin sweater. He shuffles his suitcase about. The man and the clothes and the case are the same boring grey – even the shoes. He looks like he’s preparing to film a commercial for blue sunglasses. In his left hand is an empty can of Sprite. In his right hand, a cell phone.
The girl with a bandana is reading an article on her phone. I try, unsuccessfully, not to assume it’s an article about the Kardashians. She is content, smiling softly at no one.
We stop. A woman with a pram gets on; people shuffle to make room. She’s a bright red top, relaxed demeanour. Trainers green, blue, day-glo yellow. You can tell she’s been doing this a while. The child squawks, and receives a face full of mashed rice. I am reminded of baby birds.
I check my phone – I have one notification. As I check it, my signal disappears, so now I am angry and alone.
The baby mewls again, unsatisfied with sshhh for an answer. The sun cuts sharp shadows on to a platform as we squeak to a halt. The girl with the bandana helps the lady with the pram off the train. As if to fill the void, a child further down the carriage begins to complain about something undoubtedly insignificant.
The strap on my bag digs into my back; the train rocks and weaves. We stop at Gipsy Hill. The doors open but there is no breath of fresh air.

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

Let’s talk about Affirmative Action

The issue:

In some areas, primarily employment and work, in some countries, systems have been and are being trialled, with the goal of addressing historical and institutionalised inequalities. These systems involve what has been described as ‘positive discrimination’, e.g. deliberately selecting minorities for opportunities, sometimes despite superior non-minority candidates, or providing educational subsidies to members of ‘underrepresented’ groups in various fields.
The argument:
Listen, I understand the motivation behind these programmes, I really do. And they’re all very well and good, but it seems to me there are a few fatal flaws. I mean, how can you try and destroy something by using the very thing you’re trying to destroy? How does using discrimination to fight discrimination do anything but create more discrimination? And this applies to issues of both ‘race’, and sex. It doesn’t seem logical.
Furthermore, there’s discrimination within the discrimination. It is well known that men are underrepresented in fields like literature, nursing, and even babysitting. No one is screaming for affirmative action for those areas, are they?
And here’s where it gets tricky. How do you count? How do you know when you’ve been successful? Is it always logical to expect a fifty-fifty split of men and women in every role? For some professions this doesn’t make any sense. We might logically expect to see more men in professions requiring physical strength, like construction. We might logically expect to see more women in professions requiring empathy, like nursing. It’s also worth considering that there are differences in the way men and women think, and approach problems.
Though it’s controversial to say it, the same may be true of ‘race’. (I put the word in quotation marks because it’s a problematic concept at the best of times, but I won’t go into that here.) It may be true that certain peoples are better at certain things. We know this from the Olympics. Koreans dominate archery, eastern Europeans rule at weightlifting. There are stereotypes for a reason.
There’s also the problem half-raised by Chris Rock. In one of his shows he talks about the fact that in the US, slaves were bred to be strong and stupid. They picked the biggest ones and forced them to have children. He points out that this is why African-Americans dominate many sports in the US today (and again, there’s no call for action here, even though you could argue whites are underrepresented, given the ethnic make-up of the country). What he doesn’t point out though, is that if slaves were bred to be stupid as well as strong, does this explain both black overachievement in sports and underachievement in academia?
So, the real question is, what do we aim for? What’s the goal? If a country is half white and half Hispanic, do you have to have a fifty-fifty split in all areas? And it is an important question to consider, even at this stage, not because of a danger of becoming ‘too equal’, but because you don’t build a car without building the brakes, too.
Finally, there’s a form a racism/sexism which is now socially acceptable, and this is to blame the white male for the world’s problems. Again, I don’t see how using prejudice to fight prejudice makes someone any better than the person they’re criticising. But also, it’s just not true. You think there are many white men in charge in China, Africa, the Middle East? I’m not denying that in some places privilege exists, but I am saying, if every time you see a problem, your first reaction is to scream ‘blame the white man’, then how are you any different from the racists and sexists you claim to despise?
The rebuttal:
I want to talk first about the car analogy, because it’s simply not accurate. A better way of looking at it would be that certain people have cars and others have to walk, and the people with cars sometimes stop to pick up their friends who happen to look like them, and then they wonder why everyone else struggles to get around.
We’re not aiming for specific figures here. We’re not aiming for fifty percent women in every job, or thirty-five percent Hispanics in every board room. What we’re aiming for is the paths and opportunities to these roles to be the same. If we take care of that, the numbers will take care of themselves.
We’re not saying, every construction site should be half female, or every hospital half male, but that those who want to be nurses and builders should be able to have the same opportunity to do so, regardless of sex or skin colour. And at the moment that simply is not the case. So we’re not expecting specific numbers per se, we’re looking at the numbers as a symptom.
Currently, the numbers illustrate the problem. The question of what to aim for is logical, and the argument for understanding the goal makes sense, but the idea behind all these systems is that if the paths are clearer, the numbers won’t need to be dictated.
ere’s the thing: people need to see others like them in roles they aspire to, or they automatically (and subconsciously) assume the roles are not available. Even if the paths are ostensibly open, if they cannot be seen or understood, what use are they?
Like it or not, a bias exists. If you feel threatened by a loss of opportunity for ‘your type’ (which secretly many do), then your only recourse is to become better at what you do, so that when the choice is made, it is made on ability. Don’t you want to be selected because you’re the best, not because you happen to look the part? If we persist long enough, things will balance out, the systems we are using will no longer be needed, and merit will become the criterion by which all are judged. If you don’t like feeling like you may be undercut because of who you are, now you know how the rest of us feel. It’s time to take away that feeling for all people. And you can help.
Finally, yes we get that prejudice doesn’t defeat prejudice. But try being disadvantaged your whole life and see if you don’t get a little angry at the people on top, too. We’re not fools, we know that not all problems are caused by white men, we don’t think that all white men are bad people. But it’s easy for you to accept the status quo, for obvious reasons. And you need to understand that the rest of us aren’t going to put up with it any more. And neither should you.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

Let’s talk about Casey Affleck

The issue:

Ben’s kid brother won an Oscar, and people complained. Not because of his performance, but because Affleck is a man accused of sexual harassment on an earlier project, by two separate women. Both cases were settled out of court. The criticism is that yet another man has been able to use money and power to get away with demeaning (and possibly criminal) behaviour towards women, and not only move on with his life, but rise above the clamour to win fame and critical acclaim. This sends the wrong message, many say.

The argument:
Let’s be clear about one thing, here. Casey Affleck has been convicted of no crime. He has been accused of actions which are possibly criminal, more likely simply ill-advised. The line from many seems to be that this should make him ineligible for an Oscar, or other awards. Ignoring the fact that awards for acting talent are not based on the moral character of the actor, it seems a little heavy-handed to condemn a man for the rest of his life, for actions he may have committed. Do we want to live in a society where the very act of accusing someone constitutes a life-long black mark? Is this the type of judgment we aim for?
Now, since the cases were both settled out of court, there can be no way of really knowing what happened. We cannot know whether the claims were completely true, completely false, or a mixture of the two. We cannot know whether Affleck is a lecher, or whether the women spied the chance for a quick buck and took it. Or, again, some combination of the two. If the women involved had cared enough about the integrity of the matter to eschew the settlement and proceed with their cases in a criminal court, it’s probable that by now we would have a much better idea of what went on. But they didn’t. They took their money and went away. What does that tell you?
Now, I am not saying that absence of proof means nothing ever happened. And I am not naïve enough to be unaware of the problems with the court system. But to simply give up and walk away – how serious could the actions have been?
I find it disturbing that a man who, as mentioned, has not been convicted of anything, has yet come dangerously close to being crucified by the court of public opinion, as has happened to others before him. To assert that he is now no longer worthy of praise for work well done, because of allegations which the accusers took money rather than push forward, seems excessive and dangerous. 

The rebuttal:
First of all, it needs to be stated that the kind of action that Affleck is accused of is criminal. It is sexual harassment, and should not be tolerated by the industry. Until more is done to punish those who do things of the sort, there will be no disincentive for them to keep doing it.
And Affleck is the latest in a long line of rich men who have been accused of harassment and other, more serious crimes against women, and lived to tell the tale, careers intact. Admittedly the claims are not as serious as those levied against Cosby, Allen, or Polanski, but that doesn’t mean they should be trivialised. From all these case, though, we can see one thing clearly: wealth allows you to make problems of this nature go away. Wealth provides a security net. And the settlement process allows this whitewashing to happen.
Here’s the thing: cases of rape and harassment are under reported. Those that do make it to trial do not achieve a high success rate. Add to that the trauma of the proceedings, as well as the stigma which inevitably and unfairly attaches to the victims, and you can easily understand why the women involved would choose to settle rather than push their cases forward.
The settlement doesn’t imply that the actions never occurred, merely that the women involved were probably too unsure of success to believe that pushing things further would be worth it. The whole system, which should support the victim, often works against them. And make no mistake, women deal with this shit all the time, to a greater or lesser degree. There’s an argument to be made for that fact that these women deserved their settlement, for putting up with what they did.
I’m aware I’m assuming guilt in a lot of what I have said above, and as stated, there’s no real way to know that without a trial. But the way the world works points to some kind of inappropriate action having happened, and it’s be foolish to think otherwise.
The final kick on the teeth is that society accepts it. Life goes on. Mr Affleck gets his Oscar and his praise, and from an artistic point of view, maybe he deserves them. But what sticks in the craw is that even if he is not the type of man to do the things he was accused of (which in itself is hard to believe), there are many more like him who are, and who continue to get away with it while the world looks on and claps politely.

Sunday, 5 March 2017

I Miss Obama

It’s only been two months, right? But it feels longer. Soooo much longer. We’ve been subjected to a daily barrage of bluster, ego, and ignorance dressed up as knowledge, idiocy as virtue. It’s hard to escape it. As John Oliver said, it’s like a fart in a Volkswagen.
I yearn for the good old days, the days when the man who was President acted like it, when twitter tantrums were reserved for angry teenaged boys, and when we were blessed with an example of dignity and decorum we got so used to, it was like a slap in the face when the time came for it to leave. Did we even deserve Obama? (And by we, I mean the world. I’m no American, for better or worse, but the influence of the Presidency is felt far and wide.) Maybe we did and maybe we didn’t, but it sure as hell sucks now he’s gone.
It was so refreshing to see a man of principle remain so, despite the years of abuse, the nonsensical tirades and borderline (and outright) racism hurled at him and his family. Despite having to deal with an opposition whose number one priority was essentially to prevent him doing as much as they could (rather than, say, working to improve the country in whatever way possible), I never once saw him stoop to the level of his detractors. Despite the ridiculous nature of the birther movement, which cost time and money better spent elsewhere, Obama rose above.
Now, I’m not saying the man was perfect, but he was the closest I’ve seen in my life to what a politician should aspire to be. And it’s a shame that what followed him is exactly the opposite.
As the man himself said, progress is not guaranteed, and perhaps instead of whining about the past, I should be looking to the future. It seems fair to say that now is a time to focus on what can be done, rather than on what has been done. There is nothing to prevent the powers that be from taking everything that has been achieved and tearing it down, or building something worse in its place. (Some kind of wall, perhaps.) There is nothing to say that all that has been achieved, in the US and elsewhere, will not slowly (or swiftly) be eroded. But there is also hope. There is always hope.
The signs are encouraging, if you chose to look at them that way. The failure of the Muslim ban in court, the mobilisation of state powers against new and planned laws designed to enrich the rich, remove women’s control over their own bodies, and teach our children that if they’re different, they’re bad people with fewer rights than everyone else. These things and others can, and are, being challenged every day, by brave individuals in positions of power and in positions of no power, people of conscience, and people who are plain old tired of being pushed around.
Perhaps what we’ll see in the coming months and years is the resurgence of the spirit which won so many hard fought victories (some would say that spirit never went away), a massive, beautiful, and peaceful uprising which says no to fear, no to division, and no to injustice. And perhaps Barack will come back and join in the fight once more. Maybe after a few more months. Hell, the man’s earned a holiday.

Tuesday, 27 December 2016

An open letter from the year 2016 to, the entire internet, apparently

Ok, here’s the thing you guys. I get it. I really do. It’s been a rough one. I’m not going to try and argue in any sense that the year which brought us Brexit and Trump has been without its downs, I’m not going to say that these aren’t things which should make you annoyed, or angry, or crestfallen, or inspire a general dislike for the human race in general and your countrywo/men in particular. I understand your feelings have been hurt. Some of your favourite people you’ve never met and don’t really know on a personal level saw fit to up and kick the bucket, and you’re hurting because you’ll never hear their new music or be excited by one of their new displays of acting ever again. I get it.

I, too, quite liked David Bowie; I’m as partial to a cool lightning bolt as the next guy. And Prince had at least five catchy songs. Besides, the way he kept changing his name was amusing. George Michael had some good songs, too; you know, the ones I never admit to my friends. I liked Gene Wilder and Alan Rickman. They were funny and talented, and although I never went out of my way to watch them, when I did, I always thought, I don’t regret spending that time. And my life is much shorter than (most of) yours, so that’s saying something.
Like I said, I understand why those things suck. But it’s not my fault. It’s yours. You created me. A year is simply an artificially chosen portion of the time the earth moves around the sun. You could as logically count from July 2016 to July 2017. You diced up the days and created the months. I am what you made me.
Also, listen. I didn’t create death. I know that I am a unit of time, and thus deaths will occur within me, but I didn’t cause them. Blaming time is like being angry at the bar graph which shows incidences of car crashes. You should really be blaming yourselves. Death is part of the human condition. If you’d spent more time trying to conquer disease and aging, and less time arguing and slaughtering each other, you could have been free of death by now. It’s your own fault, really; it’s your nature.
It’s also your nature to look for easy options for your anger (see the above-mentioned Trump and Brexit for prime examples of how bullshit works). So I understand why you want to scapegoat me. But I’m not having it.
And here’s the other thing, you guys. It hasn’t been all bad, has it? There have been good things, too; the ups, in opposition to the downs. If you’re reading this, you made it (well, almost; hang in there until that countdown hits zero and you all shout and cheer). All that laughter you had. Those children who were born, the birthday you must have had, all the good movies you saw (by the way: for Rogue One – you’re welcome). You’ve been to weddings, parties, and had great nights all. All those new people you met, all that art you created, all that sex you had. Yeah, where’s my props now?
So lay off me. Don’t it feel good to be alive? Despite the downs, you had a year of pure, unadulterated life. That shit is a gift. And you had your ups. So stop fucking moaning.
By the way, you think 2017 is going to be any better? Statistically, with the prevalence of fame and the increasing awareness of the lives of others, more of your favourite people you’ve never met will die in 2017. There’ll be natural disasters and stupid politicians saying stupid things; there’ll be terrorism and war and disease. But there’ll also be love and hope and joy.
Now, how you deal with all that is up to you. Maybe instead of lamenting the problems of the year, you could get off your asses and set about solving the problems that made it so awful for you in the first place, if it even was that bad. But what I’m saying to you is: this is on you, not me. So if you want to piss and moan and cuss me out, fine. But don’t expect the transition of one arbitrary division of time to the next to solve anything. If you want 2017 to be better than I have been, you’re going to have to make it happen it yourselves.
How does that strike you? You want me gone? Fair enough. I can’t wait to be rid of you, either. I’m going, and I’m never coming back. Just make sure you don’t look back one day and say, damn, 2016 wasn’t so bad after all, I really wish I had that time again. You never will.
2016, out.