Just dotty about totty

Here’s a test.  Are you a dad?  Do you have a daughter?  Do you have a pet name for your daughter?  Is that name Totty? I thought not.  What about other fathers’ daughters?

There are, of course, other  soubriquets with which to address an assistant editor of a national magazine: slag; slut; whore; darling; sweetie; and dear to name a few.  Where in that spectrum of familiarity totty falls is open to debate.  What should not be open to debate is that the best way of addressing someone with whom you have a solely professional connection is by their name.

Colonel Bob Stewart DSO MP is 66 and a Conservative politician.  Isabel Hardman is 29 and assistant editor of The Spectator and a columnist for The Daily Telegraph.  Miss Hardman reports on Twitter that on 11 April his opening gambit to her at an event was: ‘I want to talk to the totty.’ She did not name Mr Stewart but complained to the Whips and apparently an apology was forthcoming.  It was not long however before his name was reported prompting a storm of commentary with Gaby Hinsliff deploring his conduct in The Guardian and Isabel Oakeshott in The Daily Mail deploring hers.

Here’s another test.  The Queen; Margaret Thatcher; Theresa May; Samantha Cameron; and his commanding officer’s wife.  Which of these women do you think Mr Stewart would call totty to their face?

It is very easy to dismiss this as a generational thing; clumsy flirtation meeting stony ground or just frigid humourlessness.  It is easy because that is what society has always done.  But just because something has always happened does not make it right.

I remember when I was a pupil shadowing a barrister from Doughty Street Chambers in the Court of Appeal.  Returning in a taxi from the Royal Courts of Justice with his phenomenally clever legal researcher the cabbie pulled up with a cheery: ‘There you are young lady’.  This elicited the immediate response: ‘Thank you very much middle aged man’.  He was not being rude.  She was not being rude.  She was simply pointing out that if he was going to comment on her age she would comment on his.

For that reason some, with Miss Oakeshott prominent amongst them, feel that the better way for Miss Hardman to have handled the situation would have been with a witty retort and put down.  But not all people, men and women included, are confident meeting graceless condescension with a verbal stiletto or oral head butt.

I recently undertook training to become a pupil supervisor and was astonished in how many different ways it was possible to communicate the warning: Don’t have sex with your pupil.  Frankly it is embarrassing that such explicit advice needs to be imparted in the 21st century but some people are completely oblivious to professional boundaries and the spectacular imbalance of power that prevails between pupil and supervisor.  This applies as much in politics as it does in law.

In the final analysis, for me, Mr Stewart’s salutation is a simple example of bad manners and that is not conduct becoming an officer and a gentleman.

Talking 'bout a Velorution

When one’s job so often considers imprisonment, thinking about it, pleading about it if not, thankfully, experiencing it then it is perhaps no surprise that thoughts turn sometimes to freedom.  I don’t know when you feel most free but for me it is without question when in the saddle and I mean two wheels not four hooves. 

Few stop to think that even the most glorious cruise down a deserted Route 66 at 100 mph in a little red Corvette or whatever your wheels of choice still involves containment, still involves disconnection from the natural world and its rhythms.  And that of course assumes the best possible drive in the best possible car.  A second’s thought of the lurching reality of driving in Britain, in the rain, in a Corsa, on the Milton Keynes bypass haemorrhaging money on tax, insurance, MOT, petrol, parking, it’ll cost yer mechanics and the rest makes it a wonder that anyone could countenance car ownership.  And yet we remain resolutely wedded, welded almost to our cars, the blue skies above London occluded by an ever greying pall of acrid fumes. 

If the private motor car is the enemy of empathy, and any of the scores of road rage incidents occurring daily irrefutably proves that it is, then public transport should represent the happiest realisation of E.M. Forster’s maxim - Only Connect.  But instead we have the Tube aka the panic attack in (slow) motion.  No man is an island, never truer than on the London Underground where every man and woman congeals into one huge, bad tempered and malodorous land mass. 

Cycling remains the preserve of weirdos, the sanctimonious, the midlife crisis ridden, the masochists and me.  It is not without reason therefore that I balk at referring to myself, considering myself even, a cyclist.  And yet I am one and am convinced that if London is to be even tolerably habitable in the years to come that you should be one too. 

In my experience all objection to cycling by the able bodied reduces ineluctably to one or more of the Ss, of which there are three like the heads of Cerberus that must be slain: Safety, Sweat, and Style. 

Safety – The reason why the death of a cyclist makes headlines in the Evening Standard is because it is so rare an occurrence.  Not surprisingly however the notion of dying in the midst of so banal an act as your journey to work acts as a deterrent to many people.  If however those same many people took to their bikes they would not only come to understand how rare these tragedies are but the simple presence of thousands more bikes on the streets would militate against such tragedies occurring in the future.  You might unthinkingly swat one mosquito but you would give your full attention to a swarm of thousands.  This is just as true for lorry drivers as it is for you on your holiday in Spain. 

At long long last London is being made fit for every day, normal people to ride bicycles with miles of segregated lanes running from North to South and East to West.  I genuinely believe that this, in tandem with the Boris Bikes, will trigger London’s overdue ‘velorution’. 

Sweat – Contrary to what the Daily Mail would have you believe it is not necessary to wear Lycra when riding a bicycle.  Nor need you be a trained lout.  In fact in the Netherlands and Germany and other enlightened places people ride bicycles wearing perfectly normal clothes (as I am in the photograph above) because riding a bicycle is a perfectly normal thing to do.  If you walk gently you don’t perspire.  If you cycle gently, you also, don’t perspire.   

Style - When you drive a car the car is speaking for you.  And, in the main, what the car is saying is how much money you have.  Even if it’s a Corsa you have the money for a Corsa.  If it’s a Porsche, well, we all know what that is saying.  When you ride a bicycle you can wear what you like and present to the world whatever image you choose.  That is freedom right there.  In Holland nobody wears a helmet because people don’t drive like helmets and that is because everybody rides a bike. 

In summary riding a bike: 

•  Will make you live longer 

•  Will make you live happier 
•  Will make you live healthier
•  Will make you live sexier 

Justice & Forgiveness - The Prosecutors is essential viewing

Art like beauty is in the eye of the beholder but for me the best test of the quality of art is its nearness to truth.  By that analysis television is a vexed art form because truth is often difficult, sometimes messy, usually boring and rarely susceptible to tidy one hour packaging.  Reality TV is, of course, anything but.  But sometimes, through skill or serendipity, TV excels.  The three part BBC4 series 'The Prosecutors', providing a peek inside the machinery of the Crown Prosecution Service, commenced this week with a heartbreaking glimpse of truth.

I have followed the reaction of Criminal Justice System professionals who watched the programme and those who couldn’t bring themselves to watch it.  In the latter camp are those who anticipated that they would be unable to contain their feelings at a sanitised account of a functioning prosecution service glossing over the myriad problems which in reality bedevil the proper execution of justice.

Certainly Episode 1 did not suggest an organisation in crisis.  But even the most jaded practitioner could not claim that every single case handled by the CPS goes wrong.  Many many cases progress as they should and when they should.  Of course that should not conceal the fact that things do go wrong and, many would suggest, are going wrong a lot more often than they once did.  With that in mind it would be useful to know on what terms the CPS agreed to let the cameras in and what degree of editorial control has been exercised.

Making all due allowance for professional scepticism I think this is a series that needs to be watched and watched widely.  Episode 1 ‘The Charge’ focuses on two cases: an organised gang of ATM exploding bank thieves and a driving fatality case.  The former case carries a small frisson of heist film voyeurism but the latter case involves a truly exceptional woman.

On 16 September 2013 11 year old Flynn Morrissey, wearing a seatbelt, was being driven by his mother to school in Cheshire.  A Porsche driven by Hassan Maan collided head on with Flynn’s mother’s vehicle on her side of the road and Flynn was killed.  A perfectly ordinary day on which his life ended and hers and her family’s was changed forever.

Absolutely rightly a large part of the focus of the programme was on her and the gradual revelation of her extraordinary fortitude and magnanimity.  This was not a woman thirsting retribution.  This was a mother who naturally and urgently wanted to know what had caused her son’s death and who displayed remarkable forbearance that proceedings in the case only concluded on 13 February 2015.

Justice delayed is justice denied is a hollow cliché for most who practise in crime but for a bereaved witness like Flynn’s mother those long months between the tragedy of her son’s death and the resolution of the trial process must have been an agony of waiting.  I feel that this programme is required viewing because Flynn’s mother in plain speaking embodies the redemptive power of forgiveness inspired by pragmatism and a wish to do right by her son.

It is the duty of all of us, not just the prosecutors, to ensure that the Criminal Justice System does right by people like her.  Underlying many of the delays in the system is a lack of funding and I sincerely hope that the series does not conceal that truth.

But for the moment I am grateful for the strength of character of Flynn's mother that enabled her to share her truth with the viewing public.

The Women's Equality Party: What's in it for me?

On 14^th January I went to a 5x15 event at Methodist Central Hall presented by the Women's Equality Party.  It was the first major event since WEP’s launch in October 2015.  Speaking at the event were Caitlin Moran, Sophie Walker in conversation with Tanya Moodie, Rosie Boycott in conversation with Jo Brand, Catherine Mayer and Sandi Toksvig.  The capacity of Methodist Central Hall is 2,300.  It was full and I am sure could have sold out twice over. 

WEP’s central premise is that equality is better for everyone.  While there must be few that disagree with that as a notion there are sadly many who are not prepared to do much if anything to achieve it.  As Catherine Mayer said at the event and later wrote in the Evening Standard politicians are happy to talk the talk but not many walk the walk (Justin Trudeau an honourable exception).  The net effect is that the patriarchy endures not through active resistance to equality but by good intentions undone by inertia.  This is bad for women, it is bad for men, but worst of all, it's bad for children.

WEP has six objectives:

-       Equal Representation

-       Equal Pay & Opportunity

-       Equal Parenting & Caregiving

-       Equal Education

-       Equal Media Treatment

-       End Violence Against Women

A few moments’ thought surely brings the irresistible conclusion that in respect of each of those objectives we have a long way to go.  There are more male MPs in Parliament now than there have EVER been female MPs.  There are 7 women in the Cabinet of 22 Ministers.  This is the highest number ever and it is not even one third.  There is still, STILL, only one female Supreme Court judge as I months ago lamented.

People do not walk around slack-jawed in amazement because this supposedly represents progress.  But progress is not inevitable and the speed of it at times would make a sloth seem Boltish.  Progress requires actions not words.  WEP is a result of action by a formidable and commendable bunch of women and its aims will not be achieved without the continuing actions, large and small, of a great many other women AND men.

Two sage pieces of advice I recently saw for men inclined to self-identify as feminist are: first, listen don’t talk and second, when you do, talk more to men than women.  Feminism like WEP is a party to which men are invited but it is not our party.  It would be churlish and wrong to decline the invitation and there is the promise of an almighty good time for all but only if men don’t try to choose the caterers, venue, dress code and music.

Of course there has been criticism.  It’ll split the vote, it’s the narcissistic vanity project of white, middle class metropolitan Guardian readers with too much time on their hands, it’s bound to fail, why women’s equality why not just equality. 

All those criticisms can be rebutted.  If mainstream parties are not acting on their declared ambitions for promoting equality then they are failing those that want equality and do not deserve their vote.   WEP’s already 40,000 or so nationwide membership suggests an appeal and a hunger that reaches far beyond the borders of Islington.  It will only fail if we let it fail and to do so would be no indictment of Sandi Toksvig and her band but of us.  The very notion of equality encapsulates equal treatment and opportunity for all but it is self-evident that in so many ways it is still women who are being held back, belittled, beaten and bruised.

I sincerely hope WEP achieves its objectives and will lend it whatever support I can because I can find no fault with any one of its objectives and because it is a movement of hope looking for concrete change in a world which in some ways is not changing at all.

If you agree you can join here: http://www.womensequality.org.uk/join

Amicus & Mark Rylance - Friends to the Friendless

The Economist recently published an article predicting the coming abolition of the death penalty in America and elucidating the factors pointing to this, by many, much looked for development.  Reading it spurred me to write up a wonderful evening I attended at Inner Temple Hall in October last year where the actor Mark Rylance read from Francis Bacon’s essays and from the last letters sent by Andrew Lee Jones at a fundraiser for Amicus.  It was an electrifying evening for all those fortunate enough to attend. 

I have previously written about the unfortunate contemporary merging of the concept of heroism with celebrity but I have no qualms about declaring my admiration for Rylance.  Primarily because I think he is one of the best actors alive in England and acting at its best is the most effective way we have of showing others truth.  In particular, Rylance is a master at embodying reflective stillness, something which many would do well to cultivate.  However my admiration for his professional endeavours is compounded by his support for Amicus, a charity which is dear to my heart because under its aegis I was able undertake an internship in a capital appeals law office in New Orleans in 2004. 

Amicus was founded in 1992 following the execution of a death row inmate, Andrew Lee Jones, in Louisiana in 1991.  Andrew Lee Jones was convicted of killing the daughter of his estranged girlfriend in 1984.  While on death row Andrew Lee Jones became a pen pal of a British woman called Jane Officer who, during their correspondence, learnt about his case which, sadly, had many of the hallmarks of injustice that blight so many capital cases: 

His trial lasted 1 day 

The height of the prosecution case was that he knew the victim 

No scientific evidence was presented at trial 

An alibi witness was beaten the police prior to the trial and withdrew his witness statement 

The jury was  all white, Andrew Lee Jones was black as was 30% of the local population 

At a clemency hearing in 1991 his trial lawyer gave evidence and apologised for not having provided a fair defence citing: 

He had been appointed by the court and had received the papers only very shortly before trial 

He had finished law school less than five years before the trial 

He had only occasional contact with Andrew Lee Jones prior to  the trial who was over medicated with anti-psychotic medication something his lawyer had not known at the time. 

Rylance wrote an insightful and compassionate letter for the programme for the performance in October which I hope I can be forgiven for setting out below.  It is far removed from the glib platitudes that often appear in such programmes.

“Reading the letters of Andrew Lee Jones to Jane Officer, I am overcome again, in tears, as I seem to be so often these days, by the cruelty and beauty of human life.  If one could experience cruelty or beauty in separate places it might be easier to cope, but they come like ballroom dancers intertwined and leave me standing in the shadows like an awkward 16 year old hoping and praying I won't be asked to dance. 

I had determined to keep my Sundays free this year and reduce my work but the honour of being asked to support Amicus could not be dismissed.  “The longest serving death row inmate has spent 37 years in a 6ft X 9ft cell.  He is still there, waiting to die.”  I read this in the Amicus programme of 2012.  He may well be innocent like the 140 other people, in 26 states, released with evidence of innocence between 1973 and 2012. 

What kind of a being are we to be able to do this to each other?  And then immediately I remember the beauty of the silent, almost angelic presence of Jane Officer, as the invisible recipient of Andrew’s letters.  All of her letters were destroyed by the guards when Andrew was executed.  Could they not bear witness to her kindness?  I don’t think I could if I was a guard on death row.  But here she is, Andrew gives witness to her presence.  Perhaps the only intimate presence he had at the end of his brief life. 

If I learnt anything playing Thomas Cromwell in Wolf Hall, I was able to envisage much more clearly that justice is not a single dramatic act, an eloquent declaration, the swing of a sword, the bang of a gavel.  It is the painstaking untying of a twisted knot with one hand while, with the other hand, you attempt to hold off someone waving a ready pair of scissors!  The interns of Amicus would all have jobs with Thomas Cromwell if he was alive today!  The beauty of their careful thoughtful work is an inspiration and a comfort.  As I said it is an honour to be here tonight.” 

I am confident that one day soon the work of Amicus will come to an end but until it does it remains a staunch and unceasing friend to the friendless and I salute Mark Rylance for lending himself to its work.

If you also think their work is important you too can help here: https://www.justgiving.com/amicus-alj/Donate/