Yadgar Café Review

Excitingly, I had my first proper restaurant review published online yesterday on Manchester Confidential:
http://www.manchesterconfidential.co.uk/Food-and-Drink/Indian/Yadgar-Caf-Review

So I'm finally on my way to being a food columnist! :D Like Carrie Bradshaw, but more awesome.

The original review I wrote was about twice as long. I don't begrudge the cuts at all, and to be honest, I do have a propensity to ramble. But I thought it'd be nice to post the full, unabridged version here, because I can.

Also noteworthy is that they edited my original score down! Lest you think my 13.5 ungenerous... :)

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Yadgar Café Review

Alaka Prodhan visits a Northern Quarter stalwart in search of cheap, authentic curry

One thing I’ve learned about Asian cuisine over the years is that often, the most mouth-wateringly authentic and satisfying food can be found in the most unassuming of places: simple, sometimes dingy hole in the walls, tucked away down a back alley, with dog-eared menus (if any), cheap furniture and plastic tablecloths. Not much to look at it, but packs a punch. Diamonds in the rough.

Places like this, though they may seem unappealing initially, nevertheless draw huge crowds of locals who appreciate good food, and return, day after day, year after year, for good-value, simple, honest cooking.

Yadgar Café is a bit like that. This little curry house on Thomas Street must surely be one of the Northern Quarter’s oldest establishments. Its bright yellow and pink signage with its chunky, bubble letters – cheerily unfashionable – seems almost gaudy and out of place amongst the more slick, sophisticated eateries that surround it; the newer, trendier Thomases, Tusks, and Teacups.

Yadgar Café – 71 Thomas Street

But this is one of the reasons why I love the Northern Quarter. Solid, reliable old handers like Yadgar brush shoulders with well-presented, ambitious newcomers looking to make their mark with nary a sign of suspicion or antagonism. It just all adds to the mix.

I popped in to Yadgar Café during my Friday lunchtime to try their legendary “three curries & rice”, keen to see if, after 25 years, they still “had it”.

On entering, one of the first things I noticed was the diversity of the clientele. In one corner, a grizzly middle-aged fellow in a black leather jacket attacked his curry with gusto; a few tables down, two young men in hoodies – students, probably – were chatting over their chappatis; next to them a woman in her mid-twenties set down her oversized handbag on the floor and hung up her grey, woollen coat (Zara, I reckon) on the back of her chair; and behind her, a businessman in a dark navy suit and tan brogues stroked his slightly stubbled chin whilst perusing the menu. And then there was me: a fellow south Asian looking to satisfy her curry fix.

I went up the counter and asked for the three curries and rice (£6).

“Which are your best three?” I asked.

“They’re all good,” the gentleman said with a wry smile and noncommittal shrug. He lifted the lids of the silver containers, revealing a decent range of curries spanning meat and veg: chicken karahi; lamb karahi; lamb and saag (spinach - a special, I was told); lamb keema (minced lamb); mixed veg (potatoes, carrots and peas from the looks of it); kofta (meatballs) and egg; chana (chickpeas); dahl (lentils).

After a moment’s indecision (a common affliction for me when faced with too many tasty options) I decided on the chicken karahi, lamb saag and mixed veg. To go with it, I opted for the fried pilau rice over the standard white rice. I also wanted to some lamb chops on the side, but to my dismay, I was told that they no longer serve them due to low demand. Instead, I ordered a portion of chicken tikka (£3) and one seekh kebab (50p).

I was told that there would be a five to ten minute wait on the chicken tikka and the seekh kebab as he had to cook it for me. I said that was fine and sat down at one of the round, wooden tables with my loaded plate.

Rice and three curries: fried pilau rice with mixed veg, lamb saag and chicken karahi

Next mini-dilemma: where to begin? I decided to go anti-clockwise, starting with the chicken karahi first:

Chicken karahi

I tentatively poked a piece with my fork. Chicken breast. I’m not usually a big fan of chicken breast, preferring the more tender thigh, but my fork sliced easily through it. So far, so good.

I popped it in my mouth. Whoa. Taste explosion. A burst of intense flavour, and then an immediate kick from the red and green chillies provided a rush of heat: controlled, though, and not too overpowering.

Now, despite my south Asian heritage, I’m not the best when it comes to chilli hotness, much to the continued disbelief and mockery of friends and family, but this was seriously good.

The pilau rice, meanwhile, was OK but I was a little put off by the overload of spice, as if someone went a bit crazy with the garam masala. I reflected that plain rice might have been a better match to offset the strong flavours of the curry.

I snaffled down more chicken karahi, but after about four or five mouthfuls, my nose started to run. Uh oh. I pushed through, regardless, the sheer tastiness winning out over the tingling sensation in my mouth. Thankfully there were jugs of cold tap water and upturned silver cups on every table, so I quickly took advantage.

Time to turn the wheel o’ curry and try curry number two:

Lamb saag

Lamb saag is not a particularly appetising-looking dish, looking alarmingly, as it does, like dark green pond scum, but I was not perturbed by this. Instead I was heartened to see two curries next to each other which could easily be distinguished from one another. One pet peeve I have about some Indian restaurants is when you order three or four curries and they all look (and taste) kind of the same, since it’s obvious they all share the same generic base – lazy and inauthentic.

Not so here. I prodded my lamb, as I had the chicken. Encouragingly, it flaked under my fork, falling neatly away from the bone.

Like the karahi chicken, this, too, did not disappoint. The texture and consistency was amazing, the lamb tender, and the smooth spinach melted in my mouth. My nose caught a welcome respite, too, as this curry didn’t have the heat of the last one, but still matched it in flavour.

On to the mixed veg:

Mixed veg

Potatoes, carrots and peas, nicely spiced. This one was alright but underwhelming compared to the last two. Then again, I tend to lean more heavily towards meat than veg in my personal preferences, so that might have something to do with it.

At 1.30pm there was a lull in the café, but towards 2pm a second wave of hungry lunch-breakers rolled in: postal workers in luminous vests sat down, their lanyard IDs swinging perilously close to their curry; more suits; singles and pairs.

Yadgar Café during a brief lull

My chicken tikka and seekh kebab finally arrived, with a cursory portion of side salad and mint yoghurt and chutney:

Chicken tikka and seekh kebab

I tried the chicken tikka first. It certainly looked promising, but it was a bit dry. Disappointing. Also, something in the marinade threw off the balance of the flavours but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. Clove, perhaps, or star anise.

The seekh kebab, though, was excellent. Very tender and delicious without having to recourse to mouth-burning chillies (another of my pet peeves when it comes to seekh kebabs – they do not need to be hot to be flavoursome and this proved my point perfectly). I could easily have eaten another one.

By this point I was really slowing up. I think if I had more space in my stomach, or if I were sharing with a friend, I would have gone for a chappati to go with the kebabs. That might have helped counter the dryness of the chicken too. Next time.

All in all, my Indian feast for one (which could have easily been for two) cost me £9.50. I left with a doggy bag, a slightly runny nose, and a satisfied smile on my face. The mixed veg and chicken tikka were only disappointing in comparison to the other superior, authentic dishes on offer. For those on the go looking for relatively cheap, filling curry that tastes homemade, you’d do well to try this long-standing hole in the wall. Yadgar Café definitely still has it.

Follow Alaka on Twitter @EchoingBronze

ALL SCORED CONFIDENTIAL REVIEWS ARE IMPARTIAL. 

Yadgar Café, 71 Thomas Street, Manchester, M4 1ES.

Rating: 15/20

Food: 8/10
Service: 4/5
Ambience: 3/5

Lessons from a two year old

So if you don't already know, I am currently living in Gatley with my sister, her husband and their little boy (my nephew), Rohan.

Rohan is 2 years old and 10 months. I am aware that I may be biased, but given that I have very little affection for children in general (it more usually tends towards fear/loathing), and suffer from the condition I like to call "Baby Fear", even I have to admit that he is pretty cute, as kids go.

If you don't believe me, feast your eyes on this:

His eyelashes put Revlon mascara to shame

Cute, eh? :)

Having been away for almost a year and missed out on some major milestones of his development, the kind that seem to tot up at an alarming rate at this age, it's actually quite nice to be around on a more everyday basis and see these changes as they happen in real time.

Amidst carrying out auntie duties, I've also found that living with a 2 year old can give you an interesting new perspective on life. Because, let's face it, we're at very different stages of our lives, Rohan and me. I'm 26 years old, jobless, penniless, living at home, facing an ongoing quarter-life crisis of not knowing what to do – what I want to do, what I should be doing – and spending each day battling the urge to just slob about in my Cookie Monster onesie eating bowls of Cookie Crisp and faffing about on the Internets all day. And Rohan. Well, Rohan has to battle the everyday trauma of not being allowed to watch more than 2 episodes of Abney and Teal before bedtime. Seems pretty trivial to me, but I know it's no laughing matter for him.

But you know what, at least he knows what he wants. He wants to sit in his Buzz Lightyear chair, and watch loads of Abney and Teal, because that's what he loves and that's what he wants to do. And he will stop at nothing to try and get it. Seriously, if you've seen the determination and range of tactics he uses on my sister everyday come 6/6.30pm you would be impressed.

You see? Determination, tenacity and creativity. Good lessons.

Lately though, one of the struggles he and my sister have both been facing together is a big hurdle in his child development: toilet training. This is an ongoing, and arduous process, and one which Rohan is not finding easy. But on the flipside, he is a mini prodigy when it comes to communication. My inner academic nerd and my English Literature heart sing at his love of words, his love of stories, his ever-burgeoning vocabulary, his swiftness at picking up new phrases and grammatical structures, and how much he loves to learn. He already knows all the letters of the alphabet and can count up to 30. Amazing! So that made me realise Lesson #1:

Lesson #1: You can't always be good at everything... and that's OK.  

The main thing is that he's learning. And he'll get there – in his own time.

I've also observed that when you have to jump over a hurdle of such magnitude as using a grown up toilet and swapping the snug safety net of your nappy for teeny Thomas/Spiderman underpants, you have to do it in stages!

For example, at the moment, Rohan is finding doing "shushu" (a wee) is a lot easier to manage than "hagu" (a poo). For some reason, letting go of his wee in the potty is a lot less momentous than doing a poo. I've seen him give himself constipation out of crippling, psychological fear of pooing out of his nappy. I've seen him hopping about on one leg, face scrunched up in intense pain, in a total quandary, because he desperately needs to go but is terrified of his sudden, enforced, nappyless existence. "I want my Pull-Ups!" he cries. So he takes off his undies, puts his Pull-Ups on, and lets go. This taught me another valuable lesson:

Lesson #2: Change is scary. And sometimes, wallowing in your own shit is preferable to the alternative because it's more comfortable and it's what you're used to

But that does not mean that you shouldn't throw your own nappy out of the window, and be free. So this made me think: What's your nappy? What shit are you wallowing in?

Clearly, for Rohan, overcoming his psychological poo barrier will take some time, and sometimes it's not good to force it (hence distressing constipation fear complex). But he is making excellent progress on the wee front. In fact, just this morning this is what I heard coming from the bathroom:

Rohan: "Mummy! Mummy! I did it!"
Sis: "You did it? Let's see?"
Rohan: "I did it!"
Sis: "Wow, you did! And it's all in the bowl, too! Well done!"
Rohan: "I'm not scared of the toilet anymore! I'm not scared of the toilet anymore! I'm echellent."
Sis: "Yes, you are excellent."

Bless. He sounded SO chuffed, and well he should be. But you don't go from wet nappies to perfect toilet technique straightaway. Just the other week, the poor chap let one go on the floor of Coop whilst out shopping with Daddy. And the other day, the wee went half in the loo and half on the toilet seat. Probably an angling issue. Now, if Rohan spent all his time thinking about these missteps and misfires and weighed himself down with feelings of shame, or guilt, or despair, he would never get anywhere. In fact he'd probably go off the idea of toilets altogether and lead a sad, hermit life with only his nappy for company. Which brings me nicely to Lesson #3:

Lesson #3: Don't be afraid to get wee on the bowl. 

Mistakes happen. But that's how you learn.

I think this is a great lesson for me, especially, because I understand Rohan's performance anxiety. Sometimes I get so scared of failing that I don't even try, and that's probably the biggest mistake of them all.

They say “Jump”, you say “How High?”

On Saturday, I was lucky enough to be present at the last night of athletics at the Paralympics Games. After a summer spent glued to my TV and laptop, dipping in and out of the UEFA European Football Championships, Wimbledon, then the Olympics and Paralympics, I was pretty excited to be in the thick of it: 80,000 people all around me, shouting, whistling, clapping, flag waving, Mexican waving – all of us, looking forward to an evening of sporting spectacle.

There was definitely a hint of disappointment at the lack of British interest – with every new event that flashed up on the big screen, our eyes scoured the competitors list for those three magical letters, but instead met the likes of RUS, AUS, CHN, BRA, MEX, TUN…. But it didn’t matter. We came in the spirit of the Games: to celebrate and enjoy sporting excellence. Whichever nation, whichever category, whether on foot, or blades, or wheels; whether sitting, standing, jumping or leaping, we just wanted to see something extraordinary. And most of all, we really wanted the athletes to do well.

A brilliant example of this, for me, was the Men’s High Jump – F46 final, which happened to be the event closest to where I was sitting in the stadium. Now, I don’t recall the last time I ever watched the high jump. I’m not sure I ever have. In fact, the closest I’ve come in recent years to being a spectator of men launching themselves over poles was in Vang Vieng earlier this year, where the men in question were extremely drunk, and the pole was on fire… so hardly a spectacle of sporting excellence.

I don’t know how many of the people around me happened to be high jump enthusiasts or aficionados; I suspect that, like me, they had hitherto taken little interest in it. But that didn’t matter. Regardless of what may have been happening in other parts of the arena, my section of the stands were quick to display our loyalty to what we felt was ‘our’ event. Given our proximity to the action, I think a lot of us felt it was, firstly, only polite to give the competitors as much of our attention as possible, and secondly, our duty to egg them on. And so, with every competitor who limbered up and took his place to start his running jump, we showed our support. As they stood there, some shifting their weight from side to side, others with hands resolutely on hips, silently surveying the pole in front of them, we put our hands together – slowly at first, a sort of gentle nudge, a "Go ON, son!", then gradually building, picking up pace once they started their approach, evolving into a frenzied multitude of claps, an approximation of the kind of actual applause we desperately wanted to give them once they cleared that bar, as if with our hands alone we could will them to victory. It didn't always work, of course. Sometimes, our claps were woefully mistimed – in our eagerness, we peaked before the poor man had even started moving, almost comically out of step with his own efforts, which could only have been off-putting. And sometimes, he just didn't quite make it – a stray foot grazed the bar and brought it toppling down, and a collective gasp or groan rippled across the stands.

But as more and more bars toppled, and more competitors dropped out of the running, something became clear. We seemed to be making a difference. The athletes could hear us down there, and they began to show us their appreciation. One man in particular, Maciej Lepiato from Poland, seemed to relish the attention. Every jump he made seemed effortless, cleared with inches to spare. Soon, when he stepped up to take his next jump, he turned to us first and raised his hands above his head, bringing them together. The gesture was clear – a request. It said: “Now”. And willingly, we obeyed. Through my binoculars I could see him nodding his head, jumping up and down on the spot, perhaps having a few words with himself to get himself going, as we began our thunderous crescendo. Then, he propelled himself once more towards the bar, and over it, to rapturous applause. 

That night, Maciej Lepiato not only jumped his way to gold, and to the title of Paralympic champion, he also broke the world record, and we cheered ourselves hoarse watching him do it. Even the commentators noticed. “Just listen to that,” they said, with a warm, incredulous laugh, as the cheers spread from one end to the rest of the stadium, “I don’t think any of these athletes have ever done a high jump in front of 80,000 people.”

There were many special moments that night. Just being there in the heart of the Olympic Park, on the last night of sport of what has been one of the best Olympic and Paralympic games ever, was pretty incredible. And then, inside the stadium, so many records and personal bests were surpassed and remade, with the entire evening’s displays of athleticism, talent and skill coming to a fitting end as Oscar Pistorius stormed to victory in the Men’s 400m – T44 Final. But I think cheering on Maciej Lepiato to victory was my favourite, because I felt like, in some small way, I had contributed to his success.

Part of me thinks that’s silly, but then you only have to look at how many athletes have thanked the crowds for their overwhelming support and acknowledged the part that’s had to play in their own personal success to think otherwise. When you have 80,000 people cheering you on and willing you to succeed, how can that possibly not have an effect?

One of the reasons sport is so addictive is because you have big themes writ large. I think truly successful people succeed because they have a certain level of innate talent, but even if they don’t, they make up for that through sheer commitment, dedication and hard work. But they also need self-belief.  They have to push through countless false starts and failures and setbacks and just keep going. They succeed where countless others simply gave up. (Just look at Andy Murray!) And the abiding lesson I think I’m going to take from these Games is that, when you have all of that, AND the belief of others, there’s no limit to what you can achieve.

50 Shades of Grey: A Summary

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On silly atheists and a complete English Literature fail

Yes, it’s that time again. Rant time! Huzzah! What is it now, I hear you ask, what’s she gone and got her knickers in a twist over this time? No, it’s not all the slow people in the street getting in my way (though they still cause me spasms of rage, it’s true)…. Nor is it the man on the MTR the other day who, when the train arrived, decided to walk *around* me, as I was politely queuing and standing near the front of one of the four legitimate ‘channels’ on either side of the train doors, in some ill-advised attempt to get on the train first, during the peak of rush hour, onto a Tsuen Wan line train at Mong Kok, where the only victory he achieved was about a few pathetic centimetres of distance in front of me and the dubious honour of blocking the path of EVERY single one of the horde of about twenty people trying to get off the train so the rest of us – who were politely queuing to the side – could get on. OH no. It’s not about that. (But that was also very annoying.)

I want to rant about something which my good friend Tilda recently ranted about in a Facebook note. I read her note, and it annoyed me. I read it again and it annoyed me even more. In fact, in annoyed me so much that I even had a totally lame waking dream about it the next day, in which I was telling Tilda in person how much reading her note really annoyed me. (See? LAME.)

Here’s the original note for those who are interested:
http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150424455985751

For those who can’t read the note or can’t be bothered, it’s about a teacher training workshop Tilda led at a HK secondary school which was about using drama and storytelling to teach English. As part of this session, Tilda gave the teachers an unseen poem, with no introduction or instruction, to discuss and analyse in groups in preparation for a drama exercise. The poem was “Blessing” by Imtiaz Dharker (http://www.bbc.co.uk/schools/gcsebitesize/english/poemscult/blessingrev2.shtml) – those of who you did the AQA English Language GCSE and studied “Poems from Other Cultures” (or “Poems from Different Cultures”, as it is now titled) may be familiar with it.

The poem is a simple one, told in free verse and split into four stanzas, and in it, Dharker narrates an incident where, in the vast, sprawling slum of Dharavi in Mumbai, in the midst of a relentlessly hot and dry summer, a municipal water pipe bursts and brings great joy to the inhabitants.

Like Tilda, I like this poem. I find it moving in its simplicity, and the final image of the “naked children” – standing apart from the “frantic hands” of the others collecting the precious drops of water, and “screaming in the liquid sun, their highlights polished to perfection, flashing light, as the blessing sings over their small bones” – always stuck with me. It simultaneously inspires dual feelings of happiness and sadness – happiness at the unrestrained excitement and joy and innocence of the children, and sadness at the fragility hinted at in the mention of their malnourished, tiny bodies, their “small bones.”

Ultimately though, this is a poem of celebration. Water is portrayed as precious (“suddenly, the sudden rush of fortune” / “silver crashes to the ground”) and a gift. The latter meaning is mainly conveyed through a series of religious images and references – the title “Blessing” and the use of the same word as metaphor in the last stanza; the metaphor of the imagined drop of water as “the voice of a kindly god”; and the description of the crowd of people gathered around the pipe as a “congregation”. Tilda already mentions in her note the fact that no ‘God’ is mentioned – it is perhaps significant that the only appearance of the word ‘god’ has a lowercase ‘g’. This merely suggests that the water is so special that it can be compared to a god – and given its life-giving qualities, that’s hardly surprising.  As for the words “blessing” and “congregation”, which have both secular and religious meanings, these simply reinforce the twin ideas of worship and celebration. The water is a precious gift that brings joy and solace to the people who, previously, had to endure unspeakably harsh conditions where “the skin cracks like a pod”.

I realise I went off on a bit of an English Lit commentary and analysis tangent there, but there’s a reason for that, as you’ll soon see.

Basically, Tilda (and later I) got annoyed at the response of one of the teachers to this poem – the only Native English Teacher at the school, a British man in his 30s from Norwich.

This is what Tilda overheard him say:

“Well it's got religious overtones and talks about 'god' and 'blessings' more than once. As an atheist, I don't think it's right. I don't agree.”

Apparently his tone when speaking these words was very negative and disgruntled.

Wow.

Seriously?

“As an atheist, I don’t think it’s right. I don’t agree.”?

…

What kind of lunacy is this? If somebody wrote that in their GCSE exam when asked to analyse and comment on religious imagery or the significance/portrayal of water in the poem “Blessing”, they would FAIL, I’m pretty sure of it.

I don’t know what annoys me more. Is it the idiotic hypersensitivity of a self-proclaimed atheist who rankles at the slightest mention of anything to do with religion, regardless- no, in spite of the context? What does he do when he overhears someone say “Oh my God!” on the street? Go over to them and say, “Oh, excuse me, your invocation of a superfluous, false deity and your consequent irrational belief in something which has no scientific basis in fact OFFENDS me. As an atheist, I don’t think it’s right. I don’t agree.”?

I bet you he’s not a pet person. Can you imagine? “Yeah I don’t like cats so much. The Egyptians used to worship them as gods, didn’t they? Oh, but I dislike dogs more, though. 'Cos, you know, dog is ‘god’ spelt backwards, and frankly, as an atheist, I don’t think it’s right. I don’t agree.”

I know that’s a bit ‘reductio ad absurdum’, but I am honestly baffled. It’s the sort of completely irrational knee-jerk reaction that I’m sure he, ironically, finds so offensive in so many religious people whom he no doubt looks down upon with sniffy, snooty disapproval and derision.

It also shows a complete failure to appreciate and understand the poem, and therefore, by extension, literature in general. All it does show is his own extremely petty and narrow prejudices – and if that is a reflection of his general attitude in life, I hate to think how that kind of negativity impacts on his English teaching and his students.

I am not religious. I would probably describe myself as an areligious agnostic – I don’t believe in or subscribe to any particular religion, but I also don’t believe that such a thing as God does not exist, because you cannot prove He/She/It does not exist any more conclusively than you can prove that He/She/It does exist. And we’re only human and we have small brains and there is, no doubt, much in this wonderful, magical universe of ours that we cannot even begin to comprehend.

Granted, I do have quite a bit of distrust of organised religion, mostly because of the myriad nincompoops who give religion a bad name by using it to assert control and their perceived superiority over others. And let’s face it, so many world religions just seem to be engaged in a hugely unattractive, thousand-year pissing contest with each other (MY God is the best. MY God is the One True God. YOURS is false and WRONG and pants. I’M going to heaven and YOU are not. BURN IN HELL, INFIDELS!! etc.).

BUT. And this is a big but. The main problem I have with religion is crazy religious people, and the problem I have with them is their craziness, not their religion. Crazy religious people bear all the hallmarks of stupid people. You know the ones I’m talking about. They’re the ones who are arrogant, judgemental, preachy, small-minded, irrational and annoying. The ones who think we should ‘burn the gays’. The ones who prevent or actively sabotage distribution of condoms in countries where AIDS is endemic and killing thousands of people, and where prevention really could be the cure. The so-called family friends who publically decided to boycott my sister’s wedding because they believed it was ‘not legal in the eyes of Allah’ and therefore not real or acceptable. (Oh, Bengali “community”, you do yourself no favours when it comes to making me respect you or listen to you in any way).

And I think this is the crux of why this teacher and his comments really got under my skin. He says he’s an atheist. But he’s also clearly a bit crazy and irrational. And the fact is, small-mindedness and ignorance are ugly wherever they are found. Especially in English teachers. (:P)

Shame on you, French Vogue

Time for another rant, and so soon after the last one! But it won't be as long. And it's not on the riots, either (still too depressed to rant about those).

Basically, has anyone seen this?

http://abcnews.go.com/Health/w_MindBodyResource/10-year-models-grown-high-fashion-high-risk/story?id=14221160

Does it make me a wishy-washy, hand-wringing liberal to express my dismay and borderline disgust at this photo shoot, which appeared in the Tom Ford-edited January issue of French Vogue? I hope not. I have to agree with Chloe Angyal - this isn't 'art' it's just plain creepy. And even if they were just trying to make some sort of edgy, provocative, 'subversive', thought-provoking statement about the sexualisation and fetishization of young girls in the fashion industry, I really don't think sexualising and fetishizing a 10 year old girl is the way to go, no matter how up for it she and her mother seem to be (and by the way, said mother has since defended the shoot, saying, "The only thing that shocks me about the photo is the necklace that she's wearing, which is worth 3 million Euros." Fantastic.). 

Look at the photos. Look at them. Tell me you don't want to pour bleach into your eyes, especially if, like me, your first reaction was something along the lines of "Wow, she's hot! Oh wait, she's TEN?! Shit. Can I just mention that I am not a paedophile?"

Aaaarrrrrgh!

Why can't we have pictures of young girls reading Enid Blyton books and climbing trees and playing badminton in the garden and drinking lemonade in magazines, instead of sultry come-hither stares, parted lips and high heels?? It pains me to think that a photoshoot of this nature might now actually be a shocking, ground-breaking, game-changer. In my opinion, the only vaguely come-hither look a 10 year old should be giving, if any, is to a 99 Flake draped seductively in raspberry sauce on a hot summer day. I feel like how the hobbits must've felt as they traipsed through Middle-Earth through the clouds of smoke and the senseless killings. Is there no GOOD and INNOCENCE left in the world, Mr Frodo?? Must... look at... pictures of Hobbiton.

Ahh, that's better. When Sam was stuck on a rock with Frodo as the world was collapsing into ash and flames all around them, he wasn't thinking of 10 year old Thylane Lena-Rose Blondeau draped seductively on a tiger skin in 6 inch leopard print stilettos, he was thinking of (a significantly older) Rosie Cotton dancing, with ribbons in her hair.

Sometimes I wish I were a Hobbit.

A rant about 'rape'

Earlier today I posted a status update on the Book of Face which was a mini rant about being shoved on the train during my commute to work. It was quite amusing really. This small, Chinese lady dressed all in pink battery-rammed me out of the way with her stupidly large pink handbag, and all because the girls in front of me didn’t move into the carriage fast enough. (Dawdlers are a common source of rage to me in this city, but it’s fun ‘cos I get to mine the comic potential from the rage that festers deep within my soul.) Anyway, a friend then replied saying that being at Admiralty station during rush hour is how they ‘imagine it feels to be gang-raped’.

My response was something along the lines of: o.0

We then exchanged a couple of additional comments where he apologised for going too far and I apologised for my sense of humour fail. No hard feelings, and all was well again. But it got me thinking. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt uncomfortable or even disapproved of a male (and I've found it usually is a male, not a female) using the word ‘rape’ in an unexpected context. You know, like, “I got totally ass-raped at work today”. Mostly though, I’ve noticed, it comes up in relation to gaming. A synonym could perhaps be ‘owned’, or ‘pwned’, or ‘destroyed’.

I guess the main point of this post is to help me unpick just why this bothers me so much. Firstly, ‘rape’ is one of those words which kinda gives me the heebie jeebies. The connotations for me (arising from its actual, primary meaning) are fear, horror, pity, revulsion. So first, what is rape? Without looking up a formal definition, I would probably say that rape is primarily a form of sexualised violence. It happens to both men and women but I don’t think I need to look up any statistics to back up the assumption that it happens mostly to women. It is not only a sexual act but an act of power, of dominance, of subjugation, of humiliation. Besides murder and child abuse, it is also theft of the most invasive, psychologically damaging kind. The rapist takes what he or she wants from their victim, and then leaves. If someone breaks into your house and steals your shit, you might feel sad, angry, shaken up, scared. But eventually you move on. You install some new locks. You grieve the old shit. You possibly buy new shit to replace the old shit. But rape? God forbid, but if it were ever to happen to me, then it might take me a lifetime re-learning how to ever trust another human being again.

There are other forms of horrendous violence and violent acts committed by those with power against those who have little, or none. But we don’t hear those appropriated for the sake of jokey lad banter. People don’t go around saying, “Aw man, did you see that? I got totally gas-chambered.” Or, “Dude, that was the worst exam I’ve ever done, it molested the child out of me.” Or, “Shit man, you fucking KKK’d my black ass.”

And maybe that’s why it pisses me off so much. Because for a guy to use the word ‘rape’ in a stupid, jokey, gaming context, whether that’s in reference to football or Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 or whatever (which is a GAME and therefore in the realm of FANTASY and therefore NOT REAL) is like me wandering into Bangladesh during the middle of a famine complaining about how I was totally FOIE-GRAS’ED in First Class on the plane journey on the way there. “Oh God, yeah, the food just kept coming, it was MENTAL. How many courses was it? 4? No, it was 5, or 8 if you include all the littleamuse bouches… and the champagne! There were positively rivers of it, seriously. Oh my GOD I think I need to undo my trousers, I’m not sure I can ever eat again. If someone were to put a gun to my head right now and tell me that if I didn’t eat a plate of steak or roast dinner or my mum’s lamb biriyani or whatever I think I’d just ask them to shoot me.”

What a wanker! :P But yeah, it’s that kind of nonsensical, ridiculous, insensitive, knobby ignorance of privilege – the boys who talk flippantly about ‘being raped’ probably don’t spend a lot of time thinking or worrying about being actually raped in real life, just as both the fictional, obnoxious version, and the real version of me don’t spend a lot of time thinking or worrying about how famine would affect me in real life. I’m privileged enough not to have to worry about it, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t. Real people do suffer from famine. And real people get raped.

These jokey-lad-banter-boys probably don’t wonder whether they should pop that rape alarm their dad gave them in their pocket before they go on a night out in case they need it on the way home, or worry about what randoms might try to approach them or follow them or harass them as they try to walk down the street, wishing that they could disappear into themselves or somehow become invisible. I feel my heart rate rise every time I see an Indian man in the street, or in a shop, or in a bar, because I don’t want to have to deal with their unwanted stares, or whistles, or leery hellos, or feeble attempts to make conversation, or thinly-veiled attempts to connect with ‘another fellow Asian’. Mostly because I can’t be arsed with the annoyance, but a lot because I’ve had so many bad experiences before that it just becomes utterly disheartening and demoralising to have these encounters, however brief, with these men who give you every signal imaginable to indicate that you are merely there, that you exist, purely for their diversion/enjoyment/pleasure, and that whether you actually want their attention or not is completely irrelevant, because you are a woman, and your job is to look pretty and make them happy and do what they want you to do, and you could not possibly have thoughts or feelings or opinions of your own that do not align with that narrow, pathetic world-view. Or if you do, they just don’t give a fuck. You say no, you say you’re not interested, you say you already have a boyfriend, you even say ‘Look, you are making me feel very uncomfortable,’ but the advances still keep coming. Because secretly the answer is yes, they just have to be patient enough for you to say it. Newsflash, morons: the answer is always, and will always be, no. But every time you keep asking you demean me and belittle me and ruin my day/evening/night. So thanks for that.

And for anyone who is thinking at this point (and I genuinely hope no-one reading this does) that I ought to ‘loosen up’ and ‘get a sense of humour’ I’d kindly request you punch yourself in the face so I don’t have to. Go join those Indian men in the corner, I’m sure you’ll get on handsomely (or greasily, rather).

Wow, that became a completely different rant! Or did it…?

Oh dear. I did not intend this to be a man-hating rant. Nor am I pointing fingers at those jokey-bantery-boys… well, I am a bit, but not in a jabby eye-stabby sort of way. I’m sure many of my male friends, who I love and respect, are guilty of questionable rape similes just as much as I and some of my girl friends are guilty of questionable gay similes (e.g. “Twilight is so gay” i.e. lame). I do that. But I guess the point is I/we should know better.