I May Destroy You

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I May Destroy You

A staggering 6 weeks ago, when lock down restrictions were beginning to ease, our TV screens and minds were illuminated by: ‘I May Destroy you’. I, myself, who fared badly from the pandemic, was starting to recover from a long tail case of Covid-19. This drama series was the primary broadcast I was desperate to watch. Its impact is set to last far beyond the 6 hours of air time which the BBC allotted. 

The main narrative centres around the rape of the Arabella; the feisty, strong-willed, leading lady. Michaela Coel who wrote starred and co-produced the series plays Arabella. The realistic screenplay leads us through flashbacks of her being raped. In reporting the matter to the Police they were able to establish that she had been subject to date-rape drugging. Perhaps not so realistic: the Police are shown to be professional, compassionate and supportive. Inevitably the case had to be shelved until a DNA match presents itself to the investigation. However, what is ground-breaking is we see Arabella: a hard-partying recreational drug user, convincingly being able to differentiate clearly between being secretly drugged, then subject to intercourse and simply, narcotic indulgence followed by consensual sex. At no point is the viewer directed to blame Arabella due to volatile lifestyle choices or to consider her to be unreliable as a consequence.

Arabella’ response to the violation could be considered from varied viewpoints. Promiscuity as a result of a sex attack liberated sex-positive behaviour or further examples of not fully consensual sex as a result of drug and alcohol usage. This leaves her vulnerable to a further sexual assault, interestingly in the form of stealthing: removal of a condom without the consent of the sexual partner. I and many viewers, male and female, were unaware that this was a criminal matter, the show was surprisingly informative.

We are offered some reasoning as to why Arabella’ sexual conduct presents us with a large variety of partners, many of whom are little more than acquaintances. The series takes us back to her infancy, parents who reside separately, but are still in a relationship. A father who indulges in a ‘Fancy Woman’ and to a degree, neglects his parental duties.

Breathtaking to see greater diversity on our screens, the main characters all being from ethnic minorities (Within the UK, not Globally). I found Arabella immediately appealing, the funky jacket and the wilds of pink hair. Terry, the loyal friend that every girl need to have, both are: fun, alluring, party goers. In opposition to this, the only more than minor white female: Theo, is overweight, unattractive and morally warped. A wondrous mid-series episode takes us back to secondary school, only done successfully in Romy and Michele’s High School Union during the late nineties. The retro-fun element of camera phones being new, hilarious in comparison to the multi-faceted smartphones of today. We see the only significant white, female character, falsely accuse a black man of rape. Equally to this, it becomes clear that Arabella’ rapist was white, herself being of colour. Is this a lesson for white supremacy, are matters being transformed in terms of traditional villain, victim roles in terms of race?

As a white female, I found some of the script a little isolating, the dialogue of:

‘I don’t like white people.’

stated by Terry. The scene in which Arabella takes extreme offence from being referred to as being from an ‘Afro-Caribbean background’ as opposed to simply of ‘African background’. This combined with making the medical professional linger while they shoot a podcast. This did not appear to be an act of standing up to racism, more the conduct of adolescents that belonged in a classroom seated next to Catherine Tate’s Vicky Pollard.

The range of taboo subjects brought to the drama was radical, in the extreme. The casual use of sanitary towels, menstruation no longer to be hidden and ignored. However, I found the scene in which she brings home a Man which she has just met in a night club off-putting. They endeavour to have intercourse while she is on her period. This combined with them both playing with her heavy, ‘Squishy’ discharge bordering on vulgar.

We are introduced to group sex on several occasions and internet dating, which pre-Millennial’s didn’t indulge. Significantly, the concept of social media addiction is raised, something we are all beginning to ponder over as a result of lock down and periods of isolation. Primarily, we are embraced by the subject of male rape, a major taboo, the public only being widely aware that this happened since the turn of the Millennium. Although the male rape scene was convincing, I was deterred by the response of the character. Devastation, regret and self-blame were not conveyed convincingly.

Although there were some downsides, this is a monumental step forward in challenging the many failings within our society; primarily rape culture. The ambiguity of the concluding episode adds to the mental turmoil over violation and redemption. The series instigated discussions and debate, a drama which will get us talking about rape.

Set to take the short trip over the pond, let’s hope Arabella & Co, can do the same for the Americans!

Watch the Series

Stealthing

Missed: Mrs America?

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Wednesday night saw the TV series Mrs America hit our screen in the UK. The series dramatises, more than documents the path of second-wave feminism in the United States.

The initial episode centres around Phyllis Schlafly, played by the Hollywood great: Cate Blanchette. Schlafly, a staunch anti-feminist who lead the fight against the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA). Many hold Schlafly accountable for the bill never being passed and eventually abandoned in the early eighties.

Schlafly, the women who Betty Friedan, mother of seventies women’s movement, insisted should be burned at the stake. The Republican who led a league of housewives, home-makers and churchgoers against the progressive feminists of the day.

Growing up during the great depression, Schlafly had a modest upbringing, her father of long term unemployment. Motherly support of her education steered her towards a scholarship place at the now named Maryland University. In tangent to her studies she worked as a model, but she also ‘Test fired machine guns’ for the largest munitions factory in the US, World War Two raging across the Globe. Eventually studying post-grad at Harvard, then becoming a researcher for the Republican Party.

Marrying a wealthy lawyer, fifteen years her senior, resulting in six children. Author of many publications the most notable: ‘A choice, not an ego,’ selling over 3.5 million copies, highlighting matters in opposition to National defence strategies.

After another unsuccessful run for Congress in the early seventies, she turned her attention to women’s politics and battled successfully against the ERA. The main policies were in favour of women remaining exempt from the Draft, Vietnam was at war and American troops were being sent East. Other motions looked to protect social security benefits for dependent wives. Although her eldest son was openly gay she stood by conservative policies against single-sex marriage and anti-immigration.

The dramatisation brings the seventies to our post lock-down TV screens. Brown patterned floral prints, chunky jewelry, twin sets and hand knitting. Hairnets and curlers creating the bouffant of the day. Although an anti-feminist, Cate Blanchette portrays a strong, capable woman, more than a little opposed to being assigned the role of note-taking. We see a true beauty parading the national stars and stripes in the form of a bikini.

In opposition, we encounter bad sex aesthetics not spoken about during the decade. When exhausted she submits to undesired intercourse with her demanding husband. Lying back motionless as he ploughs internally with no regard for her pleasure, indulging in merely his gratification.

What next for the series?

Although slaughtered by Gloria Steinem in person, her character was introduced and takes the limelight in the next episode.

A drama to be indulged, not a doco to be scrutinized!

Watch on BBC iPlayer

The Man Who

Dave laughing

Dave, my partner died from covid-19 during the pandemics deadliest week in Britain. This poem was written for him and read at his funeral. Due to the circumstances only 10 could attend the service and we were seated 2 metres apart. Now, as we progress towards some kind of pre-coronavirus normality, only without Dave and so many others, it feels right to reflect on those lost to the pandemic.

 

The Man Who

Dave; lost 3 weeks ago
Covid-19 took from our throw
Laughing, joking till the end
Paramedics struggled, too late to mend

Never shy
Tears, to cry
To show emotion
Animated in notion

A time of lock-down
Leaving house necessity bound
Bars void of serving beer
Brass’ brandishing running gear

Shutters shut on Breck Road
Supermarket queues overload
City traffic ghost-ridden
Parks crammed, exercise-driven

Countries closed down globally
Coronavirus expands robotically
Fatality toll gets bigger
Home death’ omitted figures

An engineer well-travelled
Shores and jobs marvelled
World wide memories collected
To all, much respected

Nigeria
Nicaragua
New York
New Orleans
New Mexico

Dry docks of Cammell Laird
Oceans of the Med
Sights few make comparison
Might of Hurricane Alison

Should Athletico have come
3000 fans, epicentre were from
Post pandemic, answer we will get
Till then we can only threat

He could do the Twist
Dancing moves blitz
Sofa based arm bopping
Laughter, joke swapping

Boris got Better
Death count fewer
Fate, the decider
Dave smiles wider

Up there in heaven
Still a lover of women
A flirt and a tease
Eager to please

To remember:
the jokes
the laughs
the banter
the frolics
a man never afraid to say that’s bollocks

The Man Who was Davy Jones

Alison Little

The Green

the Green

The Green is an extract from the novel: Casual Nexus, written by Alison Little, she is looking to publish the novel later in 2020.

Stood aback from the green space, intersected by cars negotiating the rather complex one-way system, a moderately plump woman stands, examining an item of jewellery. She has just left the small countered repair shop which has presided on the green for over three generations. Excitedly, she opens the locket and looks adoringly at the miniature photograph inside:

‘I’ve got you back, mother!’

Caitlin McBride mouths internally to herself. Examining the clasp, a fitting repair job, her hand run over the shinning silver gleaming after the buffer wheel treatment. She slips the primal keepsake she has of her mother carefully into the upper zip pocket of her jacket. As she secures the zip her eyes scan over the green, her mind re-encounters the fair she went to as a teenager. Churning of the stomach as she remembers the lad she had met and their liaison in the undergrowth. Vomit rises into her throat as she recalls taking him in her mouth. Giggling at the time, now remorseful, it was simply another tangled interlude she had engaged in as she was too confused to determine her desired course of action.

Eyes rotate around the central space attention focusing on the swing park. A father playing with his children. Reminiscing over the few times her father has taken them to any form of a playground, but he had always been so busy with his work and the band. Her expanding gaze then halts, she looks at the Father in greater detail, her vision fixated, anguish overcomes her thoughts:

‘J-A-C-K’

She vocalises statically, the volume reduced but out loud. The man, then boy, who had determined the turmoil of negativity through her teenage years and transcended into adulthood. Jack who she had hidden from fearful of his advances. Jack whose manipulation had overcome her in the end. Jack who had a happy family, children, a wife and a house. Jack who had stolen her childhood, Jack who had taken so much from her and what her future would have been. Jack who her brother had never stopped, Jack who had never paid for what he had done to her during her teenage years.

She wipes the tears straining through her face as she makes haste towards the far side bus stop. As she moves further from Jack and the falsehood of the family man, the more composed she becomes.

A Void

womb

A Void

In this, I have agreed to what was termed ‘A life modelling process’ for an artist seeking volunteers for a project he is working on. I stand before him in my dressing gown, nude underneath and wondering what he wants me to do, he tells me:

‘Don’t worry, I have done this lots of times before.’

From this, I am somewhat reassured, but still, air a little caution.

‘I just need you to lie down so I can paint you with latex.’

In this he shows me the latex, it’s white and when he paints a little of my arm it feels cold but pleasant on my form. I agree to the process and he helps me untie my dressing gown belt, although naked I feel comfortable in front of him, he has put me at ease.

I lie down under his direction and move into the position he needs me to be in. He starts painting around my neck area, slowly but surely working his way down. He is careful but professional as he covers my breasts, making sure he only touches my nipples with the horse hair bristles of the paint brush.

Working his way further down my body he comes to the groin area. I become nervous again, worrying about what he is about to do.

‘Relax, I have done this many times before.’

I let my muscles fall low, then with warm air, he blows gently inside myself. From this, like magic, I open right up like a great white shark about to launch an attack.

‘That’s right, good, you’re doing well.’

He directs, then he moves onto his back and slides his head and upper body inside my womb. From this, he begins to paint, carefully and professionally, coating the walls of my womb and ovaries in latex. When he has finished he edges out carefully and puts each hand delicately on the inside of my legs. Then without touching me with his lips he sucks air from the inside of myself. I return to my normal size, at ease with everything going on, amazed at what has been performed by this genius.

From this, he works down my legs in a similar motion. He then turns me over to work on my back and lower body. So relaxed with the brush motion I am almost asleep when he finishes:

‘We just need to wait for it to dry.’

He whispers, in this, he picks up an old fashioned guitar and begins to sing folk songs.

He wakes me up to tell me that it’s time to peel the latex off. I stand up for him and he begins stretching off the suited coating, carefully going over my breasts. After my ribs he stops and places a hand on each side of myself, then he kisses my forehead, gently and childlike in motion. As I smile he gets back to action, working the form off down to my lower body.

After a gentle shake, my womb falls out. Before me, I see its squashed in structure, perfect on the inner coating, but de-revelled on the outer. My ovaries flop out almost deformed and entwined, messy and forlorn. Ahead of me, I see the babies, I will never give birth to and the children I will never raise. The bedtime stories I will never read, the play parks I will never go to, the football matches I will never go to and the school plays I will never attend. In this he finishes the removal process, then he shakes out the body-like creation. He clips it onto a line, in this, it stands tall and strong, an independent being, strong, singular, but of great value.

Alison Little

A Void is a flash Fiction works from Alison Little. This piece was first performed in the Hornby Rooms, Central Library, Liverpool for International Women’s Day in 2018. The subsequent year it read for an event marking the same celebrations held during the 209 Women exhibition marking the centenary of women being able to vote in the UK (Although restricted to those over 30 and with property).

The illustration was also created by Alison Little using a bamboo dip stick pen and Indian ink. It feature a close up of a womb and creates an impression of scarring. She is looking to make a sculptural piece from latex later in 2020 to represent the works.

More about 209 Women exhibition, Open Eye Gallery

Stalking>Victim Blaming>Police

Stalker

Earlier this week the Police and their treatment of stalking cases hit the national news. This extract is from the fictional novel Casual Nexus in which we see the accumulation the pressures of the main character Sal being constantly stalked.

 

The art school was open to the public for the two weeks of the degree show. The busiest evening had been the opening last Friday, after that there was only the odd person wandering around. Many were potential students looking at courses or former students looking at what was going on in the tower of creativity by the central ring road. Quite a few people who had known Sal from the bars where she had worked had been there for the opening night and a few of her neighbours had popped in to look around on their way back from the town over the last few days. As the second coat of the prescribed ‘Pink’ dries, she cleans the spray gun and ensures the nozzle runs clear, she decides to go and ensure her exhibition space is tidy.

In walking into the studio, come, make-shift exhibition venue she encounters an individual she is becoming weary of beyond reason. Jumping out at her, the figure, as always dressed in the anonymity of greying black, lurching forward. Head held forth, arching off the helm of his inclined shoulders. Vision led, his upper body runs from Sal’ face, down through her shoulders, around her breasts. Covering her torso, through her baggy denim-clad legs then slowly back up the same route to her face.

Sal begins to shrink into herself, everything is getting too much for her; frustrations over her artwork, ongoing arguments with Tex, the approaching one-year milestone of the attack in Maine, and now the avid attentions of her stalker. Too exhausted to explode in combustion of stress factors, emotionally she felt herself crumble from head to toe. Herself, becoming simply remnants, grain pilled into a human size knoll.

The course leader had placed himself only feet behind Sal, he had come through when he had heard a whisper about the stalker. Recognising the character instantly from the glimpse he got of him from the office window earlier in the year. On encountering the stalker he had tried to engage him in some kind of conversation, but as usual, the grey/black adorned personage was unable to vocalise any form of structured sentences. His next move had been to talk to Kelly and Claire, they confirmed he was Sal’ stalker, then he checked to see if he had been untoward in regards to them:

‘No, he’s just like that with Sal.’

replied Kelly, Claire added:

‘Yes, it’s the way he looks at her, it’s obsessive. No, he isn’t interested in anyone else, just Sal.’

Progressing, to see if any of the other girls could be of benefit. Be-Be was almost in tears with fear, running into the ground, draining down her body, a wet blanket soaking on the ground. Digressing, he had turned his head away in disgust as Kate began the rhetoric of blaming Sal:

‘Her fault…he could start following me…..things like this are always happening to her….’

As standard, there was no logic to her chain of thoughts, a stream of resentment filled consciousness following from self-obsession embedded in her thoughts. Next, he chose to wait for Sal to make an appearance to gauge how bad this situation was through his reaction to Sal.

As Sal stood there, body crumbling the course leader stepped in:

‘Sal can you come through to the office please, I have some paperwork to go through..’

She needed no further encouragement, escape from the status quo, to get away from the stalker, to remove herself from everything and everyone. Strapping her crumbling emotions together, she managed to walk through to the Office and began to answer questions over how avidly he had been following her around.

In the office, Sal sits on one of the staff swivel chairs. Although this would normally feel like a luxury to a student, her mood could not stretch to appreciating the soft upholstery of the rotary form. Head looked down, she was not fully aware of the dialogue she was expressing in response to the details being requested. Fatigue has taken over, months of weariness accumulated, the stalkers appearance was the pinnacle of all her impediments. His appearance was the devil’s version of James and the Giant Peach landing on the Empire State Building. Sal wished she was the same age as James again, that everything that was happening around her was in a book she was reading. If only she could return to her adolescence, tucked up between pure white sheets with her brother Jack safely away on camp, reading the words of Dahl and engrossed in the images of Blake.

The course leader began to probe all the information he could out of Sal, gently but confidently easing out the information compressed in her memory. He had seemed to have started following her around last summer before she had gone away to the States, but it had become more obvious when she returned and he had found her new digs. Lingering about waiting for her to set foot outside the front door most days, except Tuesdays. This appeared to be because the rubbish was collected on this day and it looked like the bin men battered him as there was a persistent void in his presence on this day. Sal talked amiably about the bin men and had stated how great they were. It amazed the course leader how many people Sal knew in this city. Most students had no idea who their refuge collectors were, Sal was on conversational terms with the crew.

Sal held back her tears as she poured out her annoyances over the stalker, his repeated appearance, ‘You again!’ rapping on her brain. After the flow of distress, she became quiet and still, almost childlike as she composed herself. A peg doll, cut short and pressed into the upholstery of the desk chair.

Sal is oblivious to what is happening around her as the plastics lecturer swerves into the office carrying several off-cuts of acrylic;

‘Who is that guy in grey wandering around?’

She inquires brashly as she enters, the Course leader whispers towards her:

‘He’s the stalker that has been following Sal around.’

Sal’ mind is occupied by a place far outside the office, the city or perhaps even the Universe. She hadn’t noticed the presence of the plastics lecturer, she had not heard the question spoken.

Sal’ head and hearing ranges returned to that of the Art School Office as the plastics lecturer slams down the sheets of perspex. White molecules of dust from the workshop shoot into the air and begin the linger before the inevitable descent:

‘Oh great, now he’s going to start following me around!’

she screeches in wretchedness. Looking towards Sal, holding her fully accountable for his presence. The resentment she felt towards this student, running through the glare she directed down towards the distressed girl. The course leader and Sal looked directly back towards her, their gut reaction of utter disgust penetrating through the stale air of the internal office space. Not only did she have to cope with the continual presence of the stalker, but Sal was also now footing the blame for his potential to stalk others. Not only was it improper to blame Sal, but it was also equally invalid. The stalker was clearly fixated with Sal, he had no eyes or thoughts towards any of the other women, she was his sole focus, his desire, his obsession.

The Plastics lecturer looked back at the two faces of anguish looking directly into the aura of self-obsession which encased her white machine coat. Her next move was to leave, neither the Course Leader or Sal were prepared to tolerate any more of the extremities of her vileness. After shutting the door and walking back along the corridor she began to rant isolated mutterings. A torrent of thought about how Sal should never have been given a place, ‘Her fault’ and ‘Me’ focussed rhetoric.

Her thoughts fell into chimes with Kate’s, ‘Me’ mutterings resonating around the studio. Her eyes inquired towards the fear-soaked form of Be-Be. Someone she could use, she began to debate returning to the office, insisted that Be-Be’s fear was due to Sal putting her in danger from the stalker, then she could try and push the vulnerability of the sheltered fool draining in front of her eyes. She remembers the anguish on the faces in the office, she decides against any more confrontation and makes her way back to the workshop.

In the Office Sal and the course, leader looked at each other. Both were speechless in regards to the levels of self-orientation paraded by the plastics lecturer through the encounter. The course leader began to think on his feet, he told Sal he would phone security to escort him off the premises. In this directing Sal to stay in the office until he had gone. His next thoughts were to see how he could stop him for following Sal around the rest of the time. The Police was an option, ‘Stalking’ had recently been made an offence, perhaps the Officers of the Law would be able to do something. Relief ran through Sal’ body, he had made her feel safe again.

 

It emmergies throughout the novel that Kate is employed by the Police. Her character represents self obsession, narcissism and, most promonently, victim blaming culture within the Police Force.

A second character is reveal to be working for the Police: Be-Be. She highlights how extremely weak and feeble the women the authories recruit can be through their actions. We are presented with a girl who would never be capable of doing anything to protect anyone or anything being assigned a public protection role.

The plastics lecturer highlights the failing of Higher Education Institutes to take positive actions in regards to dealing with sexual predators.

Casual Nexus is looking to be published later in 2019.

 

I

Nicknames

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Love them or hate them!

A sense of endearment or a form of mockery?

I look back through mine, first, there was ‘Ali’ from ‘Alison’, an obvious shortening first used by my elder brother who was struggling to pronounce my full name.

On a week in Ross and Wye with my Primary School class lead to being named ‘Barbie’, this was due to my proportionally long legs and a kind of scissor step I carried out in the dormitory. At the time I didn’t mind but now I am glad it is firmly in the past mainly due to the frequent comments I make about ‘Barbie being an airhead’ and my loathing of the use of bleach-blond hair dye.

My Uni days were the source of many a great nickname. In my first year, I was ‘Dougal’, my frizzing red hair being the origin of the name. This was celebrated by the purchasing of a soft toy Dougal bag and giving him a piercing to match my own. ‘Chemical-Ali’ was to follow, this was due to my undergrad dabbling with party narcotics and not any connection to Ikeda. Again, rhythmic chanting took over and in my final year I was christened ‘Scally-Ali-Oh’, which was eventually shortened to ‘Scals’.

My first role after graduating lead to being dubbed ‘Chewy’, due to my ability to chew every Biro in the office, I habitual I still partake in on occasions.

On moving to Liverpool my Southern accent combined with my sophistication when smoking cigarettes entitled me ‘Penelope Pit stop’. I cherished this immensely as she was one of my favourite cartoon characters as a youngster.

Now, I want to return to the school yard and the period of adolescence. When children become adults, when nicknames can be loathed but equally loved. My massive mop of wild red hair crowned me ‘Birds Nest’. We had some standard names which every school has, Montgomery became ‘Monty’, an extremely popular Kevin ‘Bell-End’. The girls matched these with a ‘McScab’ and a ‘Sticky-Vicky’ a few years above. One of the boys in my form group had unusual grey toned hair for a teenager, this resulted in ‘Just for Men’ being procrastinated in his vicinity. The wearing of non-uniform for six form brought in new opportunities, GI Jane being assigned to one of the lads after wearing a desert combat jacket not long after the film was released.

The ultimate nickname from secondary school was given to a large Asian boy named Bhatti. He had spent his first few years in the shadows and keeping to himself, remaining fairly anonymous. Then, the mid-nineties phenomena; Ali G took to our TV screens, his school days changed forever. Anonymity no more, when he walked across the canteen or the school yard crowds would part and someone would shout ‘Batty Boy!’ This was a great source of amusement for all including himself.

So did you love them or hate them?

Were they despised at the time, but on looking back do you laugh?

I enjoyed mine, the illustration above shows ‘Birds nest’ in full glory!

Fun and Frollicks
Youthfulness
And whatever happened to Bhatti?

The Police and Consent

consentEarlier in the week we were presented with an array of news articles over children to be taught about the nature of consent in school. This extract from the novel Casual Nexus tackles issues around consensual and the Police. All evens and characters are fictional and not based on real life.

The Chief Constable in charge sits looking at the paperwork in front of him, Sal’s files with all the open cases, none of which had come to any sort of sensible conclusion. She was causing him nothing but trouble, as she had always been, at home and whenever she went abroad. From her late teenage years they would have girls of their own in place, recruited as babes, lookers that would normally take the centre stage, then Sal would simply turn up with messy hair and not as well groomed and knock them out the way. The Police funded regular hair styling and top high street brands like Oasis and French Connection didn’t seem to work against Sal. To have any chance of getting there own way they had to send the best looking girl they had, the coolest kid and a real joker. Even then it rarely work, Sal had this way of effortlessly outdoing the majority of females they employed. It had been easier when she was still at school, it looked like the fear of her Brother Jacks activities had stunted her confidence and made her easier to control, one of the standard blond types would normally have done back then.

Out of coincidence, across the Force they had tried to take the attention away from Sal by sending classier, wealthier girls many of which had turned out to be the daughters of Senior Police Officers. He knew in his head what had happened, Sal had taken centre stage again and he now had a long list of Senior Officers trying to insist that Sal was jealous of their offspring. There were also several cases being investigated as Police co-ruption, Devi and Fat Fiasol fathers both serving on a Senior level. Then on the other end of the phone, he had the FBI and varies rape investigation units wanting updates and progress reports. The only way he could escape this ongoing pressure seemed to be to prove Sal to be some kind of obsessive fantasist, a stalker of Men and a telepathic liar. Then he could put all these open cases to bed, the constant ringing of the phone would stop, his staff could be proved to be effective again, internal investigations and the FBI could go back under the stone they crawled from underneath.

His mind began to work through the list of undercover Officers he could send, there were numerous who would claim a girl was in love with them when they weren’t really interested. This case might be different though, Sal and the crimes she had been subjected to were very well known across the Station and they might think twice about messing up a high priority FBI rape case. He would need a complete ‘Arsehole’ he thought to himself, slowly but surely C-I-S-S drips into his brain. Perfect, he had made several checks on his conduct himself previously, a proven track record of constantly writing reports about how desperate women were for his affections when in reality many showed little regard for him. There was one case he had checked personally when Ciss had claimed a girl had been constantly texting him when her phone had actually been in Police hands. Her lodgings had been burgled and they had recovered the property the next evening, the following morning Ciss had filed a report about receiving more text messages from the girl from all over the weekend. He had debated reporting Ciss to internal investigations himself but decided to move him away from investigating single women indefinitely until he could become of use, and of use, he had become.

Sal was sorting things from boxes in her new flat, it had been time to get out of her parent’s place again. Jack and her Dad worked together and he had been coming around for lunch. Her Mother would start making plans for Him, Dee and the children to coming over, Sal getting dragged into their plans often without even being consulted on her intentions. Although the flat, well more of a flat come bedsit, was small she had her own space again, a door where she could lock out the outside World, Jack and his wife Dee, in particular, giving her the mental space she needed to think independently. She was arranging her art materials into her desk drawers, there was limited space but room to be creative at the same time. She decided to start on some exhibition pieces for a small arts centre in Dartford who were asking for submissions. This evening she had a party to go to, last week she had been in the pub adjacent to the block on the instigation of her new neighbour and one of the regulars had invited them both to his moving in do this evening. She was looking forward to it as the new crowd looked fun and besides which nibbles, beer and dancing were hard to avoid on her part.

The Chief Constable makes some calls and directs Ciss to be sent to his Office as soon as he is available. On his arrival, he briefs Ciss on the identity of Sal and where he was to engage in her company this forthcoming evening. Bating him readily; he explains there had been numerous examples of Sal being over possessive in the past, excessive text messaging and clear signs of an obsessive personality. Ciss is enthused, it had been ages since he had been sent to investigate any single women. A prime opportunity to prove women find him irresistible, one with massive scope and he had heard about this girl she was a top looker as well. The Chief Constable explains that they have an Officer next door to her, he would get her to the party, his way in was with another one of the pub regulars, he was to inform people that he was his brother.

Ciss began getting ready late in the afternoon, bathing then washing his hair with shampoo then an extra dollop of conditioner. He dries himself thoroughly and dresses in the bathroom, looking in the mirror. His hair is a dirty blond managing to be an awkward combination of greasy at the routes, dry and frizzed out towards the ends. Although not anaemic his skin was pasty in appearance around the arched areas of his nose and cheeks, then flaky towards his jawline. Over his pigeon-like chest and narrow shoulders, he slips on as well YSL shirt, overarching his shoulders and outstretching his arms to form a T junction. Ducking his head down he fastens to his purchased as ‘Tight fit’ jeans which were, in fact, loose on him. He shakes his legs and a foot at a time then opens the bathroom cabinet. Rummaging around his collection of bottles he finds Hugo Boss aftershave. Slapping plenty on he drops his hands against the sink, puffing up his chest he looks directly in the mirror and thinks how irresistible he is as he looks himself up and down.

Sal’s neighbour taps on her door mid-evening to see if she was coming to the party. She grabs her coat, then they pop in the Pub first, but stay only for one drink as most of the regulars were already down the road. They made their way to a small terrace several streets away, Sal was in a good mood, she didn’t have much in common with her neighbour but they were finding things to talk about. The party was packed when they arrived, the entire pub seemed to have re-convened in this once Victorian dwelling. Drinks in hand they began to mingle, Sal talking to all the people she had met last week first, then some new girls which everyone else seemed to know. One of the men who had taken a shine to Sal last week passed her a glass of whiskey. Throughout the evening every time she seemed to finish the glass he glided over to top it up instantaneously.

Following his appointed counterpart, Ciss arrives at the party. Although he knows very few people there and only briefly he puts on his unsure air of overconfidence; arching his shoulders, raising his arms to each side and cusping his hands. He begins to work his way through the room, talking to everyone he had met previously as if they were lifelong companions of great standing. As Sal was getting her tumbler of malt topped up again the Officer spots his prey. She hadn’t really dressed up for the party but looked great in her fitted denim jeans, simple top and a delicately knitted cardigan. Her hair was messy as usual but it swept nicely to one side to reveal her slightly drunken smile. Excellent, Ciss thinks to himself, looking great and on her way to being wasted, just the way he likes them. He decides to linger, leave her to get some more drinks down her before he makes an approach.

At around eleven o’clock Ciss takes his chance, the bottomless servings combined with larger and a couple of glasses of wine got to Sal. She began to stagger slightly moving towards the fireplace, Ciss grabs her by the hips to steady her motion. After carefully manoeuvring her through the departing party goers they arrive at the front door. The tempter who had been pouring Sal the whiskeys could only stand their and watch, he had been hoping to get closer to Sal later that evening. Ciss negotiates Sal through the main exit, people moving due to his outstretched arms. As they head towards Sal’s flat she tries not to fall against any lamp posts as she staggers home thinking of bed.

Ciss uses Sal’s keys to open the door to the bedsit then slides her towards her bed. As she begins to fall into sleep mode he pulls off her top, out of for sight he moves quickly. His jeans and shirt come off almost in one instantaneous action, then he removes her trousers followed by her underwear. During Sal semi-slumber he begins to penetrate her, in his mind imagining she is enjoying this thrusting, her mind not fully aware of what was going on.

A Letter to your Former Self

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‘A Letter to your former self’ was a prompt for a sketch. It comprises of a mixed media image, pen and ink in addition to hard and soft pastels which are fully exploited. The figure representing the artist is almost angelic as it rises above the dangers of the personalities depicted below. The people are given the surround of an inferno to show the evil nature of their ways.

First, on the left we are presented with a girl who’s hair is entrenched by grease. From her mouth, vomit in projecting or possibly lies. A man, colossal in scale stands next to her, clothed in a T-Shirt brandishing Maine County. His body actions appear to be jerk driven and almost overacted. The face is blocked out, the visualisation of the facial features in denied, possibly a survival mechanism. Dreadlocks take control of the next character, malnourished but extremely confident through his stance, a drug dealer perhaps. We then see the image of a bore rising up, unfitting with the other figures. Centrally located, is a small but shifty character, the eyes look stoned as he hides under a well-worn woollen hat. A push-up bra babe then slots her way in, a true beauty with large eyes to match her breasts. Adjacent a geometrically formed man with glasses to match is present. One of his legs appears to be shorter than the other, a birth defect perhaps. A large, overweight women take over the majority of the space available. The next bound security pass shows her profession: a social worker, the fat drizzled features of her face depicting a falsehood of caring. Penultimately, the row is finished off with a dangerous man associated with the RAF. The final member of those present is a soldier, possibly a Para slotting his head into the image.

In ‘Letter to my former self’ the girl tells herself to avoid any other the characters, to rise above and not to allow any of them to cause her harm.

The sketch was completed by Alison Little, the prompt was provided by Allyson Bright:

30 days of Art Journaling Class

 

Remember your Thong Collection

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Who was in their late teens, earlier twenties at the turn of the Millennium?

Remember your thong collection!

The underwear which stamped our generation of alpha females. We lead the way for third wave feminism with our underwear which really did show off our bums.

The first wave of feminism lead by Emmeline Pankhurst got us the vote, The sixties offered us effective contraception through the much love ‘Pill’. Abortion rights were introduced and free love became the spirit of the decade.

The seventies were characterised by second-wave feminism, with this came divorce and couples which no longer wanted to be together separated. Women were now able to gain their freedom back from unhappy marriages and able to move on and find new partners.

HIV and Aids topped the headlines throughout the eighties, we became more aware and safe sex was the name of the game.

What came next: the nighties and the turn of the Millennium which brought in third wave feminism and the rise of raunch culture. We were the ladettes, the females which knew how to make decisions about what they wanted. We didn’t want marriage, we didn’t want engagement, we didn’t want serious relationships. We were the generation of young women who turned around and said:

‘We want casual Sex!’

We were the girls how wanted to go on top in the bedroom and we lead with our thongs.

It was a consumer trend gone mad. They were all that were on sale in the younger fashion shops: Top shop, Miss Selfridge and River Island. The supermarkets got in on the act and George at Asda were doing 3 for a £5. Even the Great traditional British institution: Marks and Spenser had them on sale. Share houses, rented flats and clothes dryers across the country paraded collections of triangular, string combination thongs.

But do you remember how uncomfortable they were?

When they used to rise up and function like a cheese wire trying to cut through the central valley or your bottom. Rising up higher than the waistband of your low slung jeans and make an appearance to those all around you. The tin string marks you used to get from the lack of support offered by the flimsy creations.

So we lead with our bum checks on display, but now we’ve all settled down we get to wear much more comfortable underwear, briefs and little shorts now adorning our lower regions.

We are comfortable!