Taylor Swift (or how I learned to stop worrying and love ‘22’)

I’m going to just come out and say it: I don’t mind Taylor Swift’s new song. This fact in itself really shouldn’t be something worthy of shame, but there you go. True, I’m not a big fan of pop music, which makes sense because, having 27 years under my belt, I’m not the target market for that kind of thing. (One Direction who? Just kidding; people who act as though they don’t know who Harry Styles is, in order to gain some kind of indie credential, are liars. Enormous liars. But I digress.) But although I’d generally give pop a miss, this shouldn’t mean that, in the breaks between being a high-flying career woman, balancing adulthood, love, life and having it all, I can’t unfold myself from the foetal position on the kitchen floor (being a grown up is tough) and temporarily fool my mind into submission with a song that is simply a 2-minute slice of fun.

I hate the attitude that one kind of music is intrinsically better than another. I hate the attitude that people who like a particular type of popular culture are somehow beneath others. I hate that you must label your enjoyment of an ‘uncool’ band as a ‘guilty pleasure’, lest you become blinded by the sneers of derision from your hip mates.

What I’m getting at, in a roundabout way, is this. There’s this meme doing the rounds at the moment comprising a photo of Taylor Swift beside a photo of Adele, a caption bleating: ‘Same age. One is a mom. One is mentally stuck in middle school.’

Oh boy. Where to start?

There are a few things that are bothersome about this particular wannabe takedown of the chirpy songstress. There’s the implication that Adele is somehow better than Swift, as, although they are both globally successful singer-songwriters, Adele ‘wins’ for also having reached that nadir that every girl is expected to hold above all other – she’s had a baby.

[It was here that I took a break to consult my bud Wiki to confirm each singers’ age and discovered that Adele, having been born on May 5^th 88 is actually more than a year and a half older than T-Swizz whose birthday is Dec 13^th 89, rendering this meme bollocks in its very essence, but whatever Kirstyn, this is the internet. Let’s all concentrate on being righteously indignant and worry about precise details at a later date. I’m going to keep writing because there are so many feels and they must be expressed.]

This attitude is a subset of the whole ‘you wouldn’t understand, you’re not a mother’ ideology, spread like pureed banana by a society that largely, I’d wager, still ranks those who’ve dropped a kid into the world as having fulfilled their destiny as a woman more than a woman who, god forbid, wants to sleep through the night and have a life in which they are not directly responsible for another human being and to be able to go to the bathroom without a timorous voice quavering through the door ‘when are you going to play with meeeeee?’ When I’m done weeping into the sink – that’s when. (I’ve been an au pair. It was not a good time in my life.)

This implication that, purely by dint of achieving motherhood status, Adele should be seen as worthier than Swift is that sneaky kind of ingrained misogyny that you don’t often recognise as such until it’s too late.

Then there’s the ‘mentally stuck in middle school’ tag. Taylor Swift has always been tarred with the immaturity brush, which I imagine stems from her first album reaching No 1 on the US country charts and No 5 on the US billboard charts when she was 17 years old, so, yeah, still pretty much a child herself. Is this immature vision we hold of her down to the content of the songs themselves – yes of course. Bright, peppy country-pop about boys. God forbid. It’s worth noting that the majority (but not all, because we are all different – life lesson from an unlikely source) of late teens/early 20-ishes are concerned about their relationships or lack thereof. This is not a failing in society, but surely something that music consumers find comforting in knowing there are others out there who relate to them. Some of these ‘others out there’ just happen to be Taylor Swift. Some happen to be Morrissey. It is also worth noting that it takes all sorts to make a world.

The middle school allusion might also reference her being linked to a number of high profile men throughout her career, implying somehow that by dating a lot of people, she is acting both immature and ‘slutty’. Here’s an idea: can we just quit with the slut shaming already? The litany of things that are unfair, sexist double standards about the whole notion of slut-shaming is for another article altogether, but, put succinctly: a woman’s worth should not be dictated by the number of men she has slept with. This is just plain old common sense.

I’m going to step in here and acknowledge that Swift herself isn’t innocent in the slut-shaming debate. The most obvious example a particularly mean lyric in ‘Better Than Revenge’: ‘she’s not a saint and she’s not what you think/she’s an actress/she’s better known for the things that she does/on the mattress,’ however I’m going to step right up and argue that this is what we call a vicious circle. If you call a girl out on her sexual activity often enough, the practice becomes normalised and, after a while, an unconscious knee-jerk convention. It’s also a shame because ‘actress’ simply does not rhyme with ‘mattress’.

Anyway, the point of all this is that when I was in the barbers today (because I have man hair for men), the radio blustered out Taylor Swift’s new single ‘22’. I realised that I am only vaguely aware of Swift’s existence outwith the gossip pages, but, despite this, I have absolutely been known to warble ‘We – eeeee are neva eva eva gerrin’ back togetha’ mainly because it is fun and the song does exactly what it is supposed to do – have a memorable enough hook to stick in your brain in idle moments. As the snip snip of scissors lulled me into a more heightened sense of awareness (yup) I realised that this new single reveals a more mature Swift who simultaneously remains heedful that she is still disgustingly young. Some of the lyrics are eye-openingly aware in that self-deprecating way she’s employed before, but which is still endearing: ‘This place is too crowed/too many cool kids/(who’s Taylor swift anyway, ew?)’

What struck me most, however, was: ‘We’re happy, free, confused and lonely in the best way/it’s miserable and magical.’ Slap a minor key, slowed-down melody and a different, cooler, band’s mouthpiece on that and they’d be taken more seriously than they are having sprung from Swift’s pen. So it’s not the deepest or most inspirational set of lyrics, but, in the context of mainstream poppiness, it’s refreshing to have someone sum up that mixed bag of 20-somethings’ flailing emotional  state in a pretty blithe way.

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The Opposite of Catcalling: Why I am not the Best Feminist

My buddy Jaclyn told me yesterday about how she is catcalled every day on the way to work by some men working for a local plumbing firm. She is a proper feisty one when she wants to be, and considered approaching it head on, but - unsurprisingly - didn't feel safe enough to trek past them to the office to try to make herself heard. She emailed the firm's head office and - kudos to them - received a seemingly concerned and genuine reply. Whether it will result in any change to the behaviour of these men remains to be seen, but the interaction was positive.

This isn't just a warming tale of a woman being listened to and respected in an awkward situation - it is also a confession.

I have never been catcalled and sometimes I am jealous of those who have been.

Literally, a cat. Calling.

Back up and clarify: I have been shouted at in the street. I don't know a single woman of my generation who has not experienced that. I've had a number of insulting phrases spewed in my direction from wee chancers in trackies to older gentlemen who ought to know better.

I get 'four eyes' thrown at me more than I care to admit - I would like to think adult men are above such playground cheap shots. Since I cut my hair short I've had 'dyke' a couple of time. I've had 'what are you?' and 'what are you supposed to be?' In high school, during break time, boys would line the corridors and yell 'boak' at the girls not deemed worthy of an 'I'd do her.' I've had a flat-out 'ew' -- simple and to the point (7/10).

Added to this, there was an unpleasant incident at a bus stop where a delightful chap spat on me twice. Once for glancing in his direction and the other for asking him not to spit on me.

Thing about these interactions is that there's no straight set of rules to follow to get these men to sit down and shut up. For ages, I just ignored them because I was a scared wee ball of insecurity and nerves -- had I been given a clear right to reply, I'd have agreed with them. Ignoring grows boring once you woman up a bit and realise that you don't have to take this shit any more. Giving a dirty look or the finger is satisfactory, but a non-verbal reply still means these men believe they have the upper hand. Confrontation can go a number of ways: I've had teenagers run away when I've started after them, but there was also the aforementioned spitting.

It's a shite state of affairs all round. Yet, every time this happens I am reminded of being on the sidelines of a conversation in my early 20s. A couple of my friends were bemoaning the fact that they walked past some builders and weren't rewarded with a wolf whistle. In these more enlightened times, we know this is nonsensical: a whistle or a yell from a stranger is not a compliment -- it's a complex power play, subconsciously or otherwise. So why do I get so miffed when I consider that no-one has yelled 'Look at the tits on that' at me?

An unfair representation of men who catcall. I'm sure these men are very respectful indeed

I'm not sure when it was cemented into society that catcalling was a) something acceptable for grown-ass men to do or b) something women should actively want, but it happened and it is great that there are strong women out there railing against it. But it can all be traced back to this belief that a woman is only worth something if she is wanted; if she is a pretty or sexy or 'slutty' enough to be a prize or an object of desire. And, as is pointed out here, regarding all kinds of shouting at women -- 'positive' or 'negative' -- 'It is all treating a woman's appearance as something you have a right to comment on.'

It's difficult to pinpoint a way for this kind of attitude to be repressed once and for all. At the moment, all women can do is stand up to it -- and they are. There's the Hollaback movement, where women can share their stories of being harassed in the street, support each other and organise events to raise awareness and educate others. Plus, Reclaim the Night is pretty well-known and takes the concept even further -- organising protests and marches against all forms of male violence against women. Added to this, SlutWalks across the UK are doing sterling work to make it clear that what a woman decides to wear or how she acts is not an invitation for harassment and rape.

And these are all good and they are helpful for people like me -- who still have that prodding in the back of the mind that goes against everything they stand for and tells them that they should be flattered or expectant of a comment from a stranger in the street and to remind us that it doesn't make us bad feminists, it just makes us women.

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What's up with That?! Jessica Rabbit, Testosterone, and Sexy Deep Voices

Jessica Rabbit at Manchester Pride 2010

Upon hearing an interview clip of French electro indie band Justice (“joo-steece,” dontcha know) on the radio, I says to Kirstyn I says: “How do French people make it through the day with those voices? I would be so distracted by it!” I mean, come on: French timbre, French enunciation, French pacing—it’s all too good not to drop everything and just listen until your breathing gets all funny and inappropriate.

The discussion that followed went a little something like this:

Kirstyn: When I worked in France, I remember the family I au paired for got a plumber to come round, and it was this really old dude, but his accent was so sexy. So confusing.

Jaclyn: Hah! I think only women are attracted to voices. Although … I guess “sexy women” have husky voices. Which is interesting. Why does a manly voice make women sexier … when for absolutely everything else, it’s the opposite? What’s up with that?!

By “absolutely everything else” I meant body hair, musculature and stature, body language, and even vocabulary (it’s called “sailor mouth” for a reason). If you want to be a stereotypically sexy lass, you’ve got to reek of estrogen—in every physical and behavioral aspect but the voice, apparently. That, it seems, should be manly. Well, maybe not exclusively butch—I get that breathy, innocent-sounding Marilyn Monroe had at least a modicum of sex appeal, too—but it’s definitely one of those traits associated with smoldering temptresses: a deep, raspy set of pipes. 

Please, have no hair on you ladybits and look as young and girlish as possible, but please feel free to have a voice that only high amounts of testosterone, decades of smoking, and advanced age can produce. Seriously, I repeat: What’s up with that?!

My twenty minutes of Internet searching has failed to reveal the reasons for this deep-voiced temptress phenomenon. What it does tell me is that deep-voiced women are more “electable,” as Margaret Thatcher apparently learned on her way to Britain’s top political seat. According to some group of Dutch scientists, consciously lowering your voice can even raise your own belief in yourself as powerful being. Interesting that, isn’t it. Doesn’t the old cliché say men are afraid of powerful women? Last thing they should want to do is bed ’em, then, no?

Maybe when a tight bodice, bright red lips, and glottal sounds combine, it indicates a woman who can take charge in the sexy times department. Is that it?

Obviously, given that both my science and sociology degrees got lost somewhere in the mail, this is all just pure ramblings. And in fact, the Internet keeps telling me that men find high voices more sexually attractive—but is a high pitched, whiny, Valley Girl voice really what anyone wants to hear whilst in the throes of passion?

I guess there needs to be some sort of global poll to determine that, but I say the proof is in the pudding, folks: Kathleen Turner voiced Jessica Rabbit, the sexiest character, cartoon or not, to ever grace the silver screen. And we mustn’t forget, she also played Chandler’s dad.

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Stuff on the Ground

May 8, 2013 — Just off the Royal Mile

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Get the Hell Out of My House: Losing Patience with Dexter Morgan, Walter White, and Their Cronies

It’s not like cheering for the bad guy is a new cinematic trope. Hoping that he or she (but mostly he, of course) eludes capture once again; cheering when anyone threatening his or her continued freedom is taken out—it’s all par for the course. Me, I loved Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to no end when I was a wee little thing (and so began my love for Paul Newman. Or has it always really just been Butch?). Picture Butch/Paul, riding around on his bicycle to an MOR Burt Bacharach tune, charming the bejeesus out of Sundance’s sweetheart, Etta (and me, and the world).

No one wanted Butch and Sundance to get mowed down in Bolivia, did they? No.

Of course, the fact remains that the real-life Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid (called Harry Alonzo Longabaugh by his mom) were outlawed bandits who terrorized poor helpless bank clerks. History states they never killed anyone, so maybe they really were loveable ruffians with solid consciences. Ones to be cheered for because they really weren’t hurting anyone, now were they? (Except The Man, and damn The Man!). A dubious conclusion, no?

Given the priming my young self underwent in loving cinematic bad-guy protagonists, the following statement might be unexpected: I am so, so tired of caring about the bad guy. Like, exhausted. Having just burned through the meth-fuelled murder romp of Breaking Bad (egomaniacal drug dealer and kingpin) and now heading lightspeed through the meat-cleaver-fuelled murder romp of Dexter (sociopathic serial killer), stopping in between to visit Ryan Gosling’s portrayal of an unfortunate shitbag in The Place Beyond the Pines (small-time bank thief with a bad temper), I can honestly say I’m tired of pulling for cinematic criminals. No matter if they’re played by Ryan Gosling or not.

Without question, nuance in character development has stepped up leagues since the “bad guys wear black, good guys wear white” 1969 world of Butch Cassidy. Arguably, the mixed bag of tricks that comprises every human being—a little bit country, a little bit rock’n’roll—is more skillfully portrayed in current film and television than it ever has been before. But that still doesn’t make me any more willing (*spoiler alert*) to cheer when Dexter’s Season 2 arch-nemesis, Sgt Doakes, is blown up in the season finale, just in the nick of time to ensure Dexter escapes capture by the law, once again.

Deep down even Dexter was pulling for Doakes’s survival. Instead, we were given smithereens.

I get it: mixed feelings—that’s what these shows and films aim at when they hold up a cut-and-dry criminal as their hero. They make you care about them, despite their shortcomings. They make you pull for a mob boss/drug dealer/thief/ psychopath, even while offering a healthy dose of sympathy for these characters’ foils—Dexter’s Sgt Doakes, Walter “Heisenberg” White’s Hank Schrader, Luke (Ryan Gosling)’s Avery (Bradley Cooper). The writers and directors “edgily” dole out the good and bad in for these characters, engendering a love-hate relationship within the viewer. I get it, all right? Nothing is black and white—it’s all shades of grey. We’ve all got many sides.

Dexter takes out murderers who are a menace to society; Walt cooks and sells meth to support his family; Luke robs banks to provide for his newborn son. Ostensibly. These are their excuses for their actions, and they’re also ours.

(from bluchickenninja)

But regardless of the plays on sympathy and morals, all these protagonists—and throw in Tony Soprano (The Sopranos) and Sgt Brody (Homeland), and even Jackie Peyton (Nurse Jackie)—do things that I’m going to go ahead and say most of us wouldn’t be so delighted with in real life. Egotistical, selfish, controlling, two-faced; lying, stealing, maiming, murdering, destroying. Makes for a shortage of sympathy after a certain point.

And maybe that’s it. Like a screw-up cousin who’s asked you to bail him out one too many times—I’m just done. Over it. Over you. Done. Oh, sure you’ve got a heart of gold. Whatever. I can’t take it anymore.

But, then, there’s also this to consider when it comes to today’s revered TV and film criminals:

After Truman Capote got chummy with Dick Hickock and Perry Smith, two drifters who slaughtered a family, to write In Cold Blood, he was reportedly never the same again. Whether it was the criticisms leveled at him following publication (Tom Wolfe called it “pornoviolence”) or whether he was scrambled up after spending so long embroiled in the world of two likely sociopaths, who can really say for sure. Either way, the experience changed him.

After you read In Cold Blood, after you’re given the gory details of the close-range shooting of the Clutter family, you don’t get the warm fuzzies. You don’t think, “Oh neato! Let’s replay that murder scene.” Despite the fact the killers clearly had a hard, hard life and found no sympathy in the cold, cold world, you don’t find yourself hoping for a fortuitous last-minute escape. You also don’t find glee in Capote’s multisensory insight into the hangings of Hickock and Smith. Rather than thrilled or excited, the whole thing makes you feel sick.

After you finish Dexter Season 2, you can pop in the special features disc and troll through an animated version of Dexter’s trophy box, the one with all the blood samples take from his kills. Then you simply select a slide, which then shows a clip of the victim’s murder. Because after all, he’s “everybody’s favourite serial killer,” right? Why not give him a gory encore.

If Truman Capote's nuanced, encompassing, engaged, and engaging portrayal of Hickock and Smith and the Clutter Family was pornoviolence, I do not know the name for the kind of shit we're into now.

That's it. I'ma go watch me some Care Bears.

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Mozarmy Meet-Up: Interview with Julie Hamill

Love Morrissey? Love dancin'? Love gladioli? Love meeting fellow fanatics? Confused about what to do with your second dose of bank holiday weekends? (Oh May, you will insist on spoiling us.) If you're like me, and have sheepishly answered yes to all of these questions, you'll be delighted to learn that the planets have truly aligned to bring all these elements together to create one night of Morrissey lovers' heaven: the Mozarmy meet-up. Julie Hamill, organiser and Mozarmy co-founder reveals all:

Can you explain what the Mozarmy is in a few sentences? How did the whole concept of the Mozarmy come about?

The Mozarmy is a Twitter fan club devoted to all things Morrissey and the Smiths. The whole thing started one night when during a conversation about lyrics with other enthusiasts I suggested we hashtag our tweets #Mozarmy and it quickly caught on, with more and more people around the world joining in and starting conversations in a matter of weeks. [For more FAQ, Julie's blog explains a few things here.]

What kind of an important part do you think social media has played in recent years in bringing likeminded people from fandoms together? Would there be a Mozarmy or a meet-up without Twitter?

I'm sure the Mozarmy could have existed (or even does exist, with many other names!) without Twitter; but the nature of this type of social media has meant that using the hashtag makes it easier to find and follow/converse with other individuals who have similar interests. In this respect, Twitter has played a crucial part in providing the environment for people to form relationships via the vehicle of a hashtag.

There’s also a Mozarmy quiz on Twitter every Friday night. How did that start?

Again, the quiz started because we were all quizzing each other from our own accounts, guess the lyrics, etc. So we set up a dedicated account (@hatfulofharper) to use as a central quiz head office, one place to go every week that's easy to find. It works because people love quizzes, and the beauty of this is that anyone can have a turn at being the host, as winning it guarantees that you can host the next week!

So, the first Mozarmy meet-up takes place on May 26 in Manchester. What can everyone expect from the night?

On the night people can expect a disco, a life sized cardboard cut out of Morrissey to photograph with friends, badges, an audience Q&A with Morrissey collaborators Jonny Bridgwood and Andrew Paresi, a chance to meet Craig Gannon, a quiz and Mozeoke from performer Amy Lamé, more disco, more fun, and of course more mingling (or standing on your own—standard for Mozarmy).

A lot of the special guests are people you’ve interviewed for your Fifteen Minutes With … series. Was it easy to persuade them to come along? Do you think they’ll enjoy being among the über fans kind of atmosphere?

I really think that Andrew, Jonny, Craig and Amy will enjoy the environment and the evening, and I know that they are looking forward to it. After all, they enjoy the music that they contributed to and Amy is an excited fan too (so much so, she wrote a play about it—tickets available!) Morrissey/Smiths fans are respectful, gentle, and kind, very much like our guests.  It will be a mutual pleasure to be in similar company.

There was Smithsfest in March—how is the Mozarmy meet-up going to be different from that?

There will be a similar group of fans in attendance as there was at Smithsfest, but the meet won't have the cultural slant of movies, exhibitions, etc. This is fundamentally a chance for fans to meet other fans that they may have been talking to on Twitter for years, but have never met. It is a celebration of thirty years of Morrissey, the Smiths, the music and a coming together of the fans, just as we do at gigs.

Why Mozarmy and not Smithsarmy? Will there be more of a solo Morrissey flavour to the meet-up, or is it an all-encompassing Smiths/Morrissey extravaganza?

Morrissey is the common denominator of both, and Mozarmy sounds better.  We still go see him, and we love his entire body of work, Smiths and solo work included. We love Johnny Marr too, but Morrissey is kinda special.

As mentioned above, you write a series of interviews with people who have worked with Morrissey and well-known people who happen to be big fans. How did that come about?

A desire to write about what I love was the initial drive, as was my long-standing admiration for a Smiths in Scotland programme/set of interviews I have kept since I was thirteen. And an avid love of the '80s pop bible Smash Hits. But the interviews came about when Mark Nevin said, 'Yes, Julie, I will meet with you!'

Have you encountered any problems from people who aren’t perhaps willing to discuss their time with Morrissey?

I haven't encountered any problems. Everybody has been lovely, even those who have declined have done so with good grace.

Do you have a particularly favourite interview?

I have many favourite interviews, but Clive Langer is a bit of a hero, so meeting him and talking about his work was an entirely great pleasure that I was lucky to experience. I had to write him a letter and the next day I got a text. We met twice for the interview and have since stayed in contact. He's a legend, in the greatest and most respected sense of the word, and kind, kind, kind.

Who would be your ideal interviewee?

Morrissey.  So one day, if you're bored ...

How would you persuade a non-Moz fan to give the guy a try? Do you have a go-to album/song?

I wouldn't try to persuade a non-Moz fan to give him a try. I shouldn't need to. But if I had to, I'd tape their mouths and play 'Now My Heart is Full,' 'I Know it's Gonna Happen Someday', and 'Come Back to Camden' at maximum volume. Following which, I'd force them to watch me flail about to 'William', then set them free, telling them to never speak of this again.

What’s your favourite Morrissey/Smiths-related memory?


Favourite memory is seeing the Smiths at the Glasgow Barrowlands in 1985 and again in 1986. Morrissey at the London Palladium in 2006 and Santa Barbara Bowl in 2002 were also mind blowing.

What’s your favourite flavour of crisps?

I like very flavourful crisps like Worcester Sauce or Marmite. I love to find a 'folded over' one. I like Ready Salted crisps too. I don't like crisps that are 'meat' flavoured. Horrible. Generally speaking though—the chances are, if you offer me a crisp, I'll take it, then ask for your bag.

If Morrissey was to walk into your house right now and say ‘Alright, Julie?’ what would you say?

'Can I have a cuddle now?'

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Getting to Know Your Curious Bedfellow: Mental Health Awareness Week

Mental health is a curious bedfellow. Look around the room you’re in now or think about your office or family reunion or your main group of friends. Then consider that one in four people (in the UK) will experience a mental health problem in their lifetime. But we still don’t talk about it. We skirt the issue and damp it down and when the ‘How are you?’ gun is fired, a well-timed ‘I’m fine’ dodges the bullet.

The sad truth is that people still don’t understand mental health problems, or, and this is sadder, are unwilling—or scared—to be educated about mental health. I can only speak from personal experiences, but I’ve had a lot of them and they’ve seen me brushed aside as being willingly unsocial or deliberately miserable.

A recent example that frequently returns to roll around my empty head: I tried to explain not wanting to join in a night out by—half jokingly (to ease the awkwardness), but ultimately seriously—giving the explanation, ‘Just crippling depression.’ The G-chatted response to this was: ‘No. Parties are fun.’

It’s disheartening, distressing, despairing that this was an appropriate reaction to have. Yes, the rational part of my being completely understands that parties are supposed to be fun, but here’s the thing: this is not a conscious decision—to be wary of everything that society tells us is ‘fun’ and which, if you participate, means you are a good person and subsequently likeable and worthy of friendship, love and happiness.

Okay, there is that subset of society looking down on things like ‘fun’ and drinking and partying and general merrymaking, perhaps because they consider themselves above such trivial pursuits. However, I’d put money on the majority of people with mental health problems not consciously (and ‘consciously’ being the operative word) falling into this group. But when you are prone to such crippling bouts of self-hated, when the mirror mocks and your insides strangle and the inner voice whispers, ‘You are a dreadful person,’ how are you supposed to have ‘fun.’ As my spirit animal Morrissey says, ‘how dearly I’d love to get carried away.’

This seems like an easy concept to grasp, but still people still don’t understand mental health problems. That’s why Hyundai can genuinely think that it’s a good idea to (this year, that is. As in 2013) try to persuade people to buy their product by releasing an advert depicting a man failing to commit suicide because their precious fucking cars no longer contain emissions that can help you with that pesky being alive problem you’ve got.

It was pulled pretty hastily and they apologised (accepting no responsibility, of course), but while they tried their best to cover up the whole queasy affair—videos have been popping up and quickly disappearing all over—the fact remains that someone out there actually signed off on that. I managed to catch the video here (though it has since been deleted) and the man’s final trudge back into his house, having finally given up, is quite clearly played for laughs in the most grotesque way.

People still don’t understand mental health problems. For as long as I’ve been cognisant of having a mind dipped in squalor and sadness, there have been campaigns to bring about a better understanding of individuals with issues. I’ve seen these campaigns creep from the shadows—when once I had to actively trawl the internet looking for advice, now adverts urging people to talk about their mental health issues are shown on national television. So why do we sit in uncomfortable silence when the 'Time to Change' campaign appears on the television? Why is there still such an almighty stigma around broaching the subject?

One possible answer is that we are the product of a modern life which has seen us retreat behind screens. We communicate through emails, chat, texts, and social media. We argue over who has to phone for a taxi or make that terrifying call for a takeaway and we pray the hairdresser doesn’t ask up about our holidays because we cannot bear to make small talk with a human being. We pretend to be texting when we’re alone and waiting for somebody. We wander around, plugged into headphones and when we get together we drink and we drink and we ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ and we drink some more in case we ruin the mood. We are content with a sad face emoticon when life gets tough.

Perhaps this is not reminiscent of your life. Perhaps your support network is great and you're thinking ‘Do we really need to talk about mental health?’ We’re all getting by, aren’t we? We soldier on and we battle through difficult times and we still get stuff done.

And when we don’t—when someone calls it a day and throws in the towel and makes us late for work because the tube stopped and we have to spend a few extra minutes, nose pressed against someone who smells of BO and regret; or the road was closed and we have to go the long way round which adds five minutes to our journey so we miss the beginning of Pointless; or they didn’t show up for work because they can neither physically nor mentally muster the gusto to haul their heavy, tired bodies from bed, people tut and ill-informed millionaire footballers tweet about how ‘selfish’ it is—when this happens it causes a momentary ripple in our mind’s pool, but ultimately we sigh, we shrug, and we forget.

Of course, this kind of mentality could be applied to any disease, not just mental illnesses. Occasionally your well-meaning Facebook friends will talk about turning the site pink for breast cancer, and I’ve certainly been guilty of being a Facebook activist ('factivist'?) and posting one of those trite images that do the rounds when Mental Health Awareness week rolls along (normally a sad looking person looking morose in the best possible light—for more on this, see David Horvitz’s Sad, Depressed, People).

But nobody would dream of telling a cancer patient to just pull themselves together. Nobody tells someone with a broken leg to simply think it better. Nobody implies that your emphysema will magically disappear if you just try a little harder—these are where the injustices in discourse lie.

That’s why these campaigns are important. Because even though organisations are doing their best to educate the public about this sort of thing, mental illness, to the point of suicide no less, is still being wrapped up into a 30-second commercial, as though we’ll all laugh about it and then troll along to the nearest car dealership and hand over our hard-earned cash.

It’s Mental Health Awareness Week from 13–19 May. This year there's a focus on physical activity and exercise and the effect they have on mental wellbeing. There's no denying that sweet, sweet rush of endorphins that's rewarded after you've hauled ass to the gym, or on a run, or to a dance class, or boxing, or whatever your exercise of choice. But, much like that tango class or another flailing metaphor, it takes two to prick that pompous storm cloud and dealing alone isn't healthy. There ought to be a happy medium when it comes to bearing the load, which is why talking to someone is important, but it's never an easy chat to start.

Handily, see me Scotland's recent campaign strips the difficulty away to two words: 'Just Listen.' Inspired primarily by their research showing that people find it difficult to strike up the conversation for fear of getting it 'wrong,' there are tips on how to get started, how the chat might go, and what to do if it all starts to go a bit arse over elbow, all the while making it clear that it doesn't have to be a big deal.

It's a fascinating campaign because, in typically Scottish style, there's no bullshit. There's this delicious feeling permeating the whole campaign that feels as though if they could say 'Don't be a fanny about it,' they would. But that's probably frowned upon. If there's a less than cheesy way of ending this piece, I can't think of it, which is sad in itself and further perpetuates the stereotype that everything to do with genuine emotion is cheesy and embarrassing.

But gonnae no be that guy. If you talk to someone now, you could change a life.

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