Richardson contra pornographiam

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And so we’ve had Channel 4 bringing back their smash hit Sex Education Show, starring Anna Richardson, or “that mad sex woman” as she’s now known up our way. I dealt in passing with the last series, but here I just want to ponder the show in a bit more detail, and some of the issues it’s brought up.

Firstly, what’s right with it. A lot of the show’s success does really depend on the presenter, and la Richardson is tailor-made for this sort of thing. She’s no-nonsense without being unsympathetic, and has a natural ability for talking to young people. She also seems game for just about any wacky stunt the producers throw her way, which is maybe why I do have some misgivings about it. The thrust of the show may be educational, but this is C4, so the powers that be (I’m guessing middle-aged blokes in the commissioning department) want it to be Phun. That means a self-conscious wackiness often veering into Eurotrash territory, which does sometimes clash with the serious tone in other segments.

But maybe that’s fitting, because this series is billed as Sex Education vs. Pornography. We’re talking here about how the rampant pornographication of popular culture rubs up against the traditional prudishness and prurience of respectable British culture. As our host kept repeating, 90% of teenagers had seen porn and 30% claimed to be using it for educational purposes. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure that things have changed qualitatively since the days when teenage boys would pass around top-shelf magazines, and the Auntie Jayne column in Escort was about as near to sex education as anything you could find.

Of course, the net has changed things massively in terms of quantity. Porn is much more accessible now, in no more time than it takes a teenager to click “Yes, I am 18” on a computer screen. And yes, much more extreme material is readily available online, stuff that fifteen or twenty years ago you would really need to search for. Although, from the sniggering of the boys talking about bestiality or coprophilia, and bearing in mind what teenage boys are like, I suspect that their downloading of these clips and passing them round on their mobiles has more to do with the gross-out factor than any actual arousal, the same way kids of a previous generation used to dare each other to watch video nasties.

And yet, this huge amount of explicit material still goes hand in hand with stunning ignorance in matters of sexual health and even basic biology. It was amusing to notice that the teenage boys, voracious consumers of porn though they may be, still didn’t know how to locate the clitoris. Probably that says something about most porn’s lack of attention to female arousal. Other clues are that teen pregnancy remains at very high levels, and chlamydia is almost endemic amongst British teenagers, when you would expect them to be better informed than ever. There is probably more sex education in schools than ever before, but it clearly isn’t doing the job; condoms are readily available, but kids don’t seem to know how to use them. Whether this is the crisis it’s hyped up as, I don’t know, but it seems obvious that something is wrong somewhere. I suspect, though, that it’s got at least as much to do with the culture as the availability of porn.

This, of course, is where Richardson and her crack team of health professionals come in, with frank advice for the kids. A particular highlight is seeing their faces when confronted with graphic pictures of the outcome of gonorrhea or syphilis, a shock tactic that military doctors have applied to good effect for decades. But it’s this more worthy material that doesn’t sit too comfortably with the wackiness, and perhaps demonstrates why Antoine de Caunes isn’t presenting.

It is true that the influence of porn can be seen, particularly when it comes to body image. 45% of the girls surveyed were unhappy with their breasts. Some 27% of the boys admitted to being insecure about their cocks, and presumably the other 73% were lying. It was predictable, if depressing, that when the boys were shown pictures of ten pairs of breasts, all of them chose the single fake pair as the most attractive. It was much more depressing when the girls did likewise – with all the eating disorders about, they really don’t need more unrealistic images to live up to. And, as one might expect, everyone regarded pubic hair as somehow gross and abnormal – not something that you start out with and can choose to remove or not, according to taste.

There was, mind you, one of the stunts that worked quite well. This was when our foxy presenter got a porn star makeover. This involved fake nails; fake eyelashes; fake tan; about a yard of hair extensions; waist painfully corseted; tits hoisted up to throat level; and enough mascara to put Alice Cooper to shame. And all topped off with an outfit straight out of Footballers’ Wives. This led Anna to say, “I feel like a slag.” Then she went out on the street, noticed the stares and whistles, and started to see why some women get a kick out of dressing that way. Her insouciance lasted until the vox pops, when the punters said that she looked “up for it”, and, on being shown a picture of her in her normal state, that they found that much more attractive. Aww. (And they were right, too.)

What was interesting about that was that the vox-popped punters were older – not middle-aged necessarily, but past school age. And this is why I tend to be a little more sanguine about whether there’s a crisis. Get together a group of fifteen-year-olds, ask them about sex, and you’ll get all sorts of strange ideas and attitudes. By the time they’re 25, most of them will have outgrown most of those attitudes. The question is, whether they do themselves any damage in the interim, and this is where decent education comes in. I have a feeling Anna Richardson may be trying to turn the tide back, but one can only salute her indefatigability.

Jings! Stormount Semmlie man scundered at porn in Ulster Scotch

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From today’s Tele:

An event combining Ulster-Scots with pornography which is due to be screened at the Belfast Film Festival has caused a furore among local politicians.

A proposed screening of the 1974 soft porn film Flesh Gordon — an erotic spoof on Flash Gordon — on April 2 will be accompanied by a live translation in Ulster-Scots from three local comedians.

Jaipers! An’ ah always thocht sex wis thon big begs ye put yer coal in.

Entitled Shockin’ly Spaiked O’er Smot (Badly Dubbed Porn) Live, the so-called “evening of titillation” has raised objections in certain quarters over funding.

One MLA has said that money should not have been handed over to support the event at The Menagerie, Belfast — even if it is designed to highlight the beauty of a fast-shrinking dialect.

In fect, yon Davie McNarry his tuk the heid-staggers an’ is richt leppin’ aboot the hale thing.

“Porn is porn is porn is porn — and whether it is done Ulster-Scots-style, well, it really doesn’t come into it,” Stormont culture, arts and leisure committee member, David McNarry, told the BBC.

“This event has presumably been given funding and all this kind of thing does is make people look all the harder at an application the next time it comes round.

“The committee wasn’t aware of this but the department must have been.”

But the fillum festival fowk be unrepentant:

A Belfast film festival spokeswoman said the use of Flesh Gordon might “seem at first a peculiar choice of film”, but insisted it was “almost logical”.

“Contrasting Ulster-Scots against such a coarse and roguish piece of film such as Flesh Gordon will optimally highlight the extent of the detachment between the culture of the tongue and the culture of the film,” she said.

Ah hiv a feelin’ yer wee woman may be takin’ the han’…

Fer mair wittins, gae til 1690 an’ All Thon.

And, just to raise the tone a little, it’s Flynt contra Palin

The US Republicans are getting very angry these days, aren’t they? Those McCain rallies are starting to get a bit boisterous whenever the uppity Negro – you know who I mean – gets mentioned. Well, if they were lacking something to get really angry about, they’ve got a good cause now. Yes, it’s your friend and mine, that old sexist reprobate Larry Flynt, who’s releasing a Sarah Palin-themed porno under the Hustler imprint.

We should, of course, have seen this coming a mile off. Larry loves his political satire, as Rev Falwell painfully found out. He’s quite serious about political advocacy, especially around civil liberties issues (check out his book Sex, Lies and Politics for an idea of what makes him tick politically). He hates the religious right, and he really, really hates the moralising hypocrites who are so much in evidence on the religious right. So Palin getting the scabrous Flynt treatment is only natural. Not to mention the Republican base’s outrage at Palin being sneered at by metropolitan elitists, which has some truth behind it – as a born-and-bred hillbilly, Larry is allowed to sneer at her cornpone folksiness all he likes.

So, hitting the video stores soon will be milftastic industry veteran Lisa Ann playing America’s hottest governor. I can’t honestly say I’m familiar with her body of work, although the cognoscenti reckon she’s a reliably filthy performer, as one would hope. You may cast your eye over the image above and say that she doesn’t really bear that striking a resemblance to Governor Palin, but at least she’s in the right age bracket, and you know, the right hairdo and a pair of power specs might work wonders. I’m also intrigued by the casting of socialist porn star Nina Hartley in the role of Hillary Clinton.

But, much as I love Nina, this opus probably isn’t going to make my must-watch list. Although the concept is sound, I confidently expect the execution to be horrible. For one thing, Who’s Nailin’ Paylin is a shockingly lazy title. Larry should be ashamed of himself, especially with a gimme like Drill Baby Drill conveniently to hand. So we probably aren’t talking the height of sophistication here. Anyway, it can’t possibly be as funny as the classic Linda Lovelace for President.

Unless, of course, Larry throws in some unspeakable act involving a moose…

But I suppose this is what you get when you’ve a succession of facile male media pundits who can’t seem to find anything worth saying about Palin except to remark on her sex appeal, or to put it more bluntly her fuckability. This might go some way to explaining why Palin’s polling numbers are a good deal higher among men than women. (I’d also not be surprised if she had developed a lesbian cult following. She has that tomboy-femme thing that lots of gay girls find irresistible.) But really, you’re electing one of the highest offices in the country, and the eye-candy quotient of the running mate becomes one of the major talking points?

And don’t even get me started on Justin Webb…

Tuesday evening, before the watershed

Hasn’t pre-watershed telly got very near the knuckle these days? I notice that Tuesday evenings are shaping up as the Battle of the Bosoms – at seven on BBC2 you can see Nigella Lawson (32G) ladling on the sauce with her current series of food porn, while at eight Anna Richardson (32F) is fronting C4’s Sex Education Show. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m complaining, it’s just that the hour seems a bit early. Time was when this sort of thing would be held back to the midnight hour.

Nigella Xxxpress is a very odd show. It’s nominally a cookery show, of course, but in fact the cookery is a minor, if vital, theme. Now we know that the old-fashioned instructional cookery show has died a death except for the sainted Delia, and whether we’re watching Masterchef or Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares, we expect some gimmick, hook or drama. Nay, we demand it! Nigella is probably the acme of this. Some people will, I expect, be watching for the cookery tips, but they’ll be a distinct minority. There might be a larger audience, mostly of the female persuasion, who will be watching for the lifestyle. I can see them being fascinated by Nigella’s enormous spice rack and treating this as aspirational or escapist programming, the same way people used to watch Dynasty. But mostly it’s about the sex. This is a cookery show that’s not about us wanting to eat the food, but about us wanting to fuck the cook. Or possibly both, maybe even simultaneously.

There are, I suppose, good reasons why the format is ripe for sexing up. Going way back to the Bible – or, for the scripturally challenged, you may like to think of 9½ Weeks – popular culture has drawn a very close link between food and sex, those two great pleasures of the voluptuary. It always fills you with confidence if you’re faced with a cook who obviously loves food, which is why TV cookery shows are all rich flavours rather than healthy options. And, as Jamie was saying apropos of Sarah Palin, if someone gives the impression that she has a lot of sex and enjoys it, that makes her much more attractive. In Nigella’s case, it’s the air of the devoted sensualist that’s as important as her appearance.

And this is what’s played up to so shamelessly. That’s why all the fluttering of eyelashes, flicking of hair, licking of fingers and acres of heaving cleavage. Hence, too, the Meyeresque low-angle camerawork – if you ever see Nigella in the flesh, you’re immediately surprised by how small, almost elfin, she is, because on the telly she looks like Tura Satana. (At least, her tits seem to take up three-quarters of the screen, and while substantial, they’re not that big.) And this all has to be done in a teasing, naughty-but-nice style that won’t scare off the suburban audience. It helps a lot, of course, that she’s posh. A host with the accent, demeanour and wardrobe of Jodie Marsh couldn’t pull it off. It’s quite a delicate confection, and you need the ingredients to be just right.

Frankly, it’s a little embarrassing. You’re talking here about a woman who’s naturally very sexy and doesn’t need to camp it up, but it’s being laid on so thick that Nigella is increasingly coming to resemble, well, Ronni Ancona sending up Nigella. And at the end of it, you feel like you need a bath.

C4’s Sex Education Show, while definitely risqué, is actually much less lascivious. At least, while it must be said Anna Richardson is very attractive, the show is not sold on the host’s sex appeal. There is more going on than that.

The target audience is teenagers, which would explain the early time slot. And there’s a clear justification for something like this, in a context where rising teen promiscuity exists alongside monumental levels of basic ignorance of sexual health issues, among adults as well as kids. Hell, you’re in a situation where chlamydia rates are practically at epidemic levels. It seems reasonable to suppose that taking teenagers and giving them a good shake can only be a public service.

So there is actually a serious core here. Last night, for instance, was focussed on childbirth, and was quite good on women’s experiences. Last week, on STIs, was even better, as Anna showed a group of teenagers graphic photos of diseased genitalia. This had a visible, visceral impact on the kids – I’m amazed none of them puked – and if they were shocked into using condoms, this is obviously a good thing. The public service aspect of breaking down British reserve, getting useful information across and exploding old wives’ tales is managed reasonably well. Of course, with British culture being what it is and Channel 4 being what it is, there are also a fair number of daft stunts to lighten the mood. But at least the stunt quotient is kept low enough that we don’t just drift aimlessly into Eurotrash territory.

I should also say that, while I’m not too familiar with Anna Richardson, she may well be the perfect host for this sort of thing. She’s articulate, game for anything (from having an STI test to getting her bush waxed), shows a refreshing lack of vanity, is humorous without sniggering and is obviously very good indeed at talking to young people. Where have the TV bosses been hiding her?

So there you have it. The sex show actually felt cleaner than the cookery show. And both were racier than what was on after the watershed. Scheduling is a strange art indeed.

Oh lordy, he’s at it again

You know, I never liked Sex and the City when it was on TV. Much as I might have appreciated the craft that went into it, it always left me cold. Maybe it’s because it’s a show written by gay men and marketed to a certain kind of aspirational women that it doesn’t tick my boxes. Or maybe it was just the shoe thing.

So I fully intended to ignore the new SATC movie. And I might even have succeeded, had it not been for your friend and mine, George Galloway. After last year’s Kylie’s arse affair, you would think George would have been careful about veering into this kind of territory. But no, he seems determined to make rods for his own back. Not surprisingly, this happened once again in George’s Daily Record column, wherein the great man shares his opinions with a loyal army of Glaswegian barflies. And so George opined thusly:

Journalists sometimes ask which of them would do it for me.

The honest answer is all four of them, but it’s too dangerous to admit that.

There’s the sweet one – great marriage material.

The lawyerly red-head – sexy and motherly. Or the voracious man-eating vamp, ankles behind her ears.

But if I had to choose just one, it would have to be the eponymous Carrie Bradshaw.

She’s not the prettiest, the sexiest or the cleverest. But she would be, quite simply, the most fun.

Why is it that this sort of thing makes me cringe? I think it’s because, while you can’t censor people’s more lascivious thoughts, you don’t really need to go into print with them. Or if you do, it’s easier to justify if you have a point you want to make, or if you can do it with a bit of wit and style. I’ll confess to laughing my head off when that old sexist reprobate, the late Alan Clark, waxed lyrical about Dawn Primarolo having the best arse in Parliament. Of course, it helped that Clark was a funny man, and Primarolo has a well-earned reputation as a humourless puritan.

But George. Dear help us.

Again, this isn’t the worst thing that appears in the tabloids, far from it. The Sun employs a showbiz writer, the satirically named Gordon Smart, who is prone to write columns about his fantasies about gangbanging all five members of Girls Aloud, and even sharing with his readers the exact order he’d like to fuck them in. But Gordon Smart is just a pillock. He isn’t the leader of a progressive movement. George carries the weight of higher expectations, in exactly the way that Gordon doesn’t.

And of course, this sort of thing earns George endless amounts of stick. It’s only a partial defence that much of the criticism is in bad faith. For instance, some of it comes from people who dislike George for his better points, and will seize on any stick to beat a dog. Not to mention vast amounts of hot air from an organisation (which shall remain nameless) which a mere year ago would have defended to the death any word coming out of George’s mouth, and whose own record on gender politics is so appalling as to make George Galloway look like Gloria Steinem.

Actually, George is on rather better form when putting up a defence of himself in today’s column:

FAR-LEFT fanatics in the blogosphere, where it appears this column is widely read, have been going bananas all week about my column last week on Sex and the City, the new movie packing cinemas with working class audiences, mainly women.

This collection of Toytown “revolutionaries”, most of whom have never seen an angry foreman in their lives, and who think Swarfega is a Balearic island, scream sexism whenever anyone discusses, er, sex…

Today’s deluded leftists have morphed into Leninist Wee Frees, staunchly against sex standing up in case it should lead to dancing – which of course would put the proletariat off the revolution.

In principle, there’s something to that. But I do wish George would reflect a little before he feels the urge to start phwoaring in print. I merely put this forward as a suggestion.

Putting public morality on the box

Here’s something that annoys my brain. The rise on British TV of the Springer-style talk show, although broadcasting regulations prevent you being really outrageous like Springer. The use of the same bag of tricks over and over again – the paternity test, the lie detector test, the Asbo – are pretty tired by now. And, although Trisha is sympathetic while Kyle is accusatory, that’s about all the variation you get.

What’s important, of course, is the class base of these shows. We’re watching the working class – and not the respectable wing of the working class either – washing their dirty linen in public. The Kyle show, in fact, is about the only place outside of Big Brother where you’ll get to see chavs and spides in the raw. Some of the posher layers of society, as a result, have a sort of horrified fascination with them – even Rankin’ Dave Cameron is sounding off about the “Jeremy Kyle generation”. And no article in the Mail about the Shannon case is complete without a prominent mention for her mum having seven kids by five fathers.

It strikes me that there’s a gap in the market here. I envision a TV show where the upper half of society can wash their dirty linen in public. You could call it The Morality Show. It would be sponsored by the Daily Mail, which would solve the problem of reluctant guests – appear on the show or the Mail will get you. And I envision it being hosted by Melanie Phillips and Peter Hitchens, who between them should be able to get the right censorious tone.

Imagine the first edition of the show hosting racing boss Max Mosley and his five Nazi S&M hookers. I can see it now…

Hitchens: Max, do you like dungeons?

Mosley: I beg your pardon?

Hitchens: Well, your dad did, didn’t he? Especially if they were full of Jews!

If nothing else, it would give Max pause for thought next time he feels the urge to re-enact Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS.

Then you could do a special on the London mayoral election, since the media are going buck mad over Ken Livingstone’s five kids from three partners. Actually, I don’t see it doing Ken much harm, as he isn’t a deadbeat dad, he isn’t a sexual hypocrite and the punters have seen much worse. (Then again, Londoners seem to be obsessed with the Lee Jasper saga, which tells you how much I know.) Besides, Bonking Boris has had his own trouble in keeping his zip up, and would be ill advised to make this an election issue.

And at this point the SWP Central Committee heaves a collective sigh of relief that Lyndzee is an also-ran, and the tabloids haven’t gone after sex scandals on their territory…

In defence of bush

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After Galloway’s off-colour remarks on Kylie, maybe it’s unwise for me to turn this blog’s attention to ladies’ front bottoms, but I couldn’t resist Madam Miaow on the HBO series Rome, wherein the female cast (all size zero, natch) have Brazilian waxes of dubious historical accuracy. This is, I suppose, where the ancient Romans’ aversion to pubic hair seems to fit in with modern fashions.

(Incidentally, I refer any readers who haven’t yet seen it to Marc Mulholland’s account of his life in Militant, with its immortal – and quite true – story of Militant’s Ballymena branch putting up posters advertising a “pubic meeting”.)

Louise is correct that the current shaving/waxing mania owes a great deal to the porn industry. In fact, Ariel Levy goes on about this at some length in Female Chauvinist Pigs – I’m sceptical about the whole “raunch culture” thesis, but she is onto something in terms of the pornographication of popular culture, and this obsession on the part of women (and increasingly men) with removing every last follicle of body hair can be taken as a direct consequence of that.

But it was not ever thus, as in the heyday of 1970s porn where women looked like real women, with tummies, cellulite and, yes, big hairy bushes. In fact, a woman like Kay Parker, who had obviously never been near a waxing strip in her life, could be seen in the porn industry as the epitome of sexiness. I’m not sure it would be correct to say that porn was less misogynistic in the old days, but I do think it’s relatively healthier to portray women who look like actual women as opposed to holding up surgically enhanced women who look like blow-up dolls as the standard.

This, of course, has a lot to do with the difference in fashions between the 1970s and today. Don’t even bother with 1970s porn – if you look at legitimate exploitation movies of the same period, you find the same thing. Over in the blaxploitation genre, the wonderfully glamorous Pam Grier’s frequent nude scenes drew attention not just to her spectacular figure, but also to her, ahem, other afro. The late Russ Meyer used to say that one of his biggest battles with the censors, among many, was over Kitten Natividad’s bush, which was just too bushy for the stuffed shirts at the MPAA to cope with.

Today, this all seems like a far-off age. That’s why I found it cheering while watching The Door in the Floor – not a very cheerful film in general – when Mimi Rogers’ brave full-frontal scene came around, to note that Mimi was sporting a neatly trimmed triangular bush. Given that the point of the scene was to show the body of a middle-aged woman who hadn’t been nipped and tucked into oblivion, a trendy wax job would probably have spoiled the effect.

Things change, and not always for the better. The waxing mania seems to be very much a North American fashion, spilling over into Britlandia, while the continental Europeans are less prone to this kind of silliness. Obviously women will do what they want in terms of their appearance, but I can’t help thinking there is something not quite right with a culture that prefers the plastic to the natural.

The war of Kylie’s arse

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Sergeant Sheridan stands at the window of the castle. He watches with mounting horror the cavortings around the bonfire. Suddenly, a voice booms from behind him.

Lord Galloway (for it is he): I trust you find the sight of the young ladies invigorating, sergeant?

Sheridan: Invigorating? No sir, I do not! It is an offence against public decency and an abomination before the Lord! I as a family man should not have to witness such lewdness!

Galloway: Come, come, sergeant. The young ladies are simply expressing a natural joy in their sexuality and their ripe young bodies.

Sheridan: But – but they are in their knickers!

Galloway: Not any old knickers, sergeant. Not your cheapo knickers from Primark. No, these are Kylie’s knickers. A fine product, if I may say so. Indeed, I myself have procured a pair for my woman…

Right, that’s enough of The Wicker Man. But really, I find it difficult to take seriously all the sound and fury over Galloway’s daft little piece about Kylie in the Daily Record. Really, from what some people are saying, you’d think he’d invaded Iraq or something. For some intelligent commentary, I refer readers to Piers’ thoughts over at Liam’s blog.

Here’s what I think. There is of course a thin line, when commenting on matters sexual, between what you can get away with and outright sexism. A lot of this depends on tone, context and who is saying what to whom. Even as a humble blogger, I at least am aware there’s a line to be walked, and take care to stay on the right side of it even if I’ve arguably strayed over once or twice. But I don’t lead public opinion and don’t aspire to. George, as an elected representative and party leader, has to be careful of what he says and hold himself to a high standard.

And this is the occupational hazard of working with Galloway. He says an awful lot – often very good, sometimes terrible, and sometimes just plain daft. He has a tendency to let his wit and eloquence run away with him. Even though this can be his strength, it’s also been his downfall more than once. The man is, I have to say, a bit of a menace and you never know what you’re going to get from him next.

But we know all this. We know George blows hot and cold. We know too that he has a tendency to play to his audience – in this case, I presume, Glasgow barflies. A lot depends on who he’s talking to and what reception he thinks he’s going to get.

As a regular listener to Radio Galloway, I can confirm that he does have a tendency to veer from one extreme to the other. Sometimes he can be quite censorious. For instance, several weeks ago George was waxing wroth over the media’s ongoing obsession with Jacqui Smith’s cleavage – this story having run for months thanks to the parliamentary sketchwriters, a gang of public schoolboys who apparently think it’s hilarious that a female politician has big boobs. For the record, I agree with George (and Jacqui) that the Home Secretary should be judged on her policies and her performance in the job, not on the size of her breasts.

On the other hand, George does lapse into phwoar territory much more often than I would like. And while you can argue that, yes, Kylie uses her sexuality to market herself, I’m afraid George’s comments come under the category of phwoaring.

So what of the gauntlet thrown down to Respect Renewal supporters? This is dead simple. Nobody except George is under any obligation to defend George’s dafter utterances. In fact, it’s perfectly all right for anyone challenged on this to say politely that, in their opinion, George was out of order. Indeed, if someone sent in a letter to the new Respect paper saying that George was out of order, I’m sure it would get printed. This would underline that Renewal is not a personality cult and is rather different from the old Respect. God knows, George is thick-skinned enough to take it.

But, and I have to say this, this doesn’t change the fact that a great deal of the criticism of Galloway has been in transparently bad faith. I will leave aside the members and fellow travellers of the AWL, who just hate Galloway and will use any stick to beat him. What is much more entertaining has been the great outpouring of synthetic outrage from the Swops. Remember, these were the guys who defended George to the hilt over the Big Brother fiasco and prevented him being censured in Respect. The Gorgeous One’s cringeworthy GQ interview, when he regaled us with the arresting image of him waking up with a broomhandle every morning, passed them by. And now they are outraged over this? If George really is the sexist monster they would have us believe, doesn’t it raise at least a question mark over their past relations with him?

And don’t even get me started on institutional sexism in the SWP. Some of the carryings on in the party hierarchy – which the grunts in the branches may be only dimly aware of – would make even George’s hair stand on end, like quills upon the fretful porpentine. Mote and beam alert, I think.

Alex Callinicos on masturbation

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As I’ve been doing regularly during the Respect crisis, today I took a look at the latest Socialist Worker to see what the comrades have to say for themselves. All we get, though, is a dull article from Commander Begbie about how the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Respect conference is going ahead swimmingly despite attempts (attempts?!) to foment a split, plus a couple of morale-boosting puff pieces from Tower Hamlets, Preston and elsewhere to show the troops that there is something still there.

But while scanning the paper, I noticed none other than my old friend Prof Callinicos putting in his two cents on Norman Mailer. I am glad that Alex shares the same broadly positive opinion of Norm that I have, but I was struck by his little compare-and-contrast at the end with Philip Roth. Alex writes that “In the 1960s, at the height of Mailer’s notoriety, Philip Roth was most famous, not for political engagement, but for the comic epic of masturbation Portnoy’s Complaint.” However, Roth has redeemed himself in recent years by writing explicitly political novels that take aim at the Bush regime.

Well, now. I hope that Alex isn’t attacking the humble pleasures of the J Arthur, which as Woody Allen quipped is at least sex with someone you love. My view is that, while Roth’s more recent work is generally excellent, it’s not a break with his early material so much as a return to form after a long fallow period.

I’ll admit that Portnoy’s Complaint isn’t my favourite Roth novel – that would be The Professor of Desire – but it does have an irresistible nervous energy that makes it a classic of its period. And, more to the point, it simply isn’t true to say that Roth wasn’t interested in politics. There is plenty there for the social critic who looks a little below the surface, as Roth’s exploration of the neuroses of Alex Portnoy touches on aspects of masculinity, Jewishness, class and the changing face of 1960s America.

Really, Alex, you can do better than this slice of neo-Lukácsian social-realist philistine boilerplate. If you want to write about masturbation from a Marxist perspective, first you should read the section on Apostrophe(’) in Ben Watson’s The Negative Dialectics of Poodle Play. Ask Martin if you don’t get the musical references.

Fanny Hill on BBC4

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Last night BBC4 kicked off its season of eighteenth-century sauce with the first half of Andrew Davies’ adaptation of John Cleland’s classic Fanny Hill. I was rather looking forward to this, because it was a daring choice, although I suppose Davies was bound to get around to it eventually while working his way through the English literary canon.

The first instalment dealt with the relatively (and I stress relatively) plot-heavy earlier parts of the novel. In brief, orphaned Lancashire lass Fanny (engaging newcomer Rebecca Night) arrives in London to seek a career in service, only to be taken in by madam Mrs Brown (the very game Alison Steadman) who intends to flog off Fanny’s virginity to the highest bidder. After meeting her true love Charles, Fanny escapes the brothel with her virtue just about intact, and the two lovers shack up together before a penniless Charles is shipped off to the Indies by his evil father and Fanny is left down on her luck. And, well, that’s about it. There is, of course, a reasonable amount of shagging along the way.

Now this is probably the most obvious stumbling block for anyone who wants to adapt Fanny Hill. The usual Davies MO is to take a work from the canon – it may be Austen or Dickens – and spice it up. In this case, he’s had to tone things down massively. The problem is that Fanny Hill is a work of pornography – beautifully written pornography, but still pornography. The 39 separate sex scenes described in minute detail in the novel are not simply the heart of the story, they are literally the bulk of the story. To really capture Fanny Hill faithfully, you would need the production values of BBC costume drama combined with the explicitness of hardcore porn.

Obscenity laws and broadcasting regulations, of course, won’t allow that. All those loving descriptions of erect penises that litter the novel? Can’t show them. Ditto for penetration and ejaculation. The sex scenes we saw last night were plenty by normal costume drama standards – and, if my memory of the novel is correct, I expect things to get racier in the second half – but it wasn’t Tipping the Velvet. In fact, the lesbian scenes between Fanny and Phoebe were a good bit cleaner than those in the 1983 feature film. Trouble is, if you adapt Fanny Hill and tone down the sex, aren’t you just left with, well, something very like Moll Flanders?

Actually, Davies does better than this, and the adaptation isn’t by any means a flop. Rightly, Davies has figured out that Cleland’s great triumph was in the creation of Fanny’s distinctive voice, and the device of having Night pop up to give on-screen narration captures some of the archness of the original. It makes sense to concentrate on the Fanny-Charles love story, although that won’t be sustainable in the shag-heavy second half. He also deftly avoids one of the major pitfalls of period shagging, which is that it often seems too camp for words. (This was one of the big faults of Russell T Davies’ Casanova – during the French Revolution scenes, I almost expected to see Citizen Camembert and the Black Fingernail turning up.) And the casting of Rebecca Night was a great move – she doesn’t just look the part, but carries the lead with genuine charisma.

A qualified success, then. I look forward to seeing how it’s brought to climax.

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