Preaching to the Perverted: How Did I Miss This Film?!

Last night I watched the fantastic British comedy film Preaching to the Perverted (1997), of which I had been blissfully unaware until a brilliant lady in the kink community recommended it to me. 

My first reaction was "HOW did I miss this? This film includes EVERYTHING I wrote Thinking Kink about, and yet I didn't know about it til now!" My second was to laugh, hoot, snort, raise eyebrows and repeatedly think how accurate and incisive this colourful, anarchic film is.

Here's what I liked in particular:

1) It quickly moves beyond the obvious tropes

In the first five minutes, when the House of Thwax is being accused of spreading filth and feminists are condemning it as exploitative of the female form, Ricky Tomlinson's character pipes up and points out he's seen "more men's hairy arses" in the secret film from inside a kink club, than any naked female bodies. And he's spot on. If you step inside any BDSM event, you will see bodies of ALL shapes, sizes, genders and ages. Yes, the scene is agonizingly white and could do a lot more to be ethnically diverse. But it has no rules on who's allowed to take their clothes off and parade around for others. Which is great, because it means we see plenty of old, male, chunky, skinny, hairy, wobbly and generally real-looking bodies in the kink scene. It really is time pop culture caught up to this, instead of opting to show rail thin white females in black PVC every time kink is mentioned.

"Gentle Face" by istoletheTV, via Creative Commons

2) It's very, VERY British

The majority of pop culture artefacts I looked at in Thinking Kink are from America, because that's from where the majority of our mainstream TV shows, movies and music originates. This is slowly changing, but British movies, TV shows and art are still lagging behind when it comes to global recognition--with some notable exceptions such as Dr Who and Sherlock, but they have the weight of the mighty BBC behind them. So it was incredibly refreshing to see a British-made film full of actual British actors running around grimy streets and stately homes in THIS COUNTRY. A lot of kinks are very specific to Britain: caning and spanking have strong connections to the disciplinarian boarding schools of yesteryear, as do the corresponding schoolboy/girl fantasies. The idea of a buttoned-up, repressed people who secretly love to wear stockings and bend people over desks is also extremely British, and is explored heartily in the film.

3) It nails the hypocrisy behind British laws

As someone who has just written 75,000 words on the insane state of Britain's obscenity law, it was fantastic to watch a film that points out how much of an ass our laws still are when they try to prevent consenting adults seeking pleasure. In this film, the kinksters, freaks, pervs and dominatrices are pitted against the government, the police and a press eager to humiliate people for a headline. Obviously the real situation is much more nuanced, as the protagonist Peter discovers, but when the law comes for you and your sexual freedom, you have to decide what you care about more - money and public image, or personal integrity. Preaching to the Perverted nails this perfectly.

4) It shows the value of group living

The House of Thwax comprises a huge warehouse/living space where a lead dominatrix is served by a houseful of slaves. It's the kind of efficient, clean and well-ordered set-up that most of us can only dream of enjoying at home or work, but because everyone knows their role, it functions smoothly. That's not to say there aren't malcontents, complaints, misplaced affections and a fair bit of topping from the bottom, but that's life and that's human beings; this film does a great job of showing that even 24/7 kink has its limits. However, when a baby is brought into the equation, everyone in the house takes turns to look after it, rather than the responsibility all falling on to the knackered mother's shoulders. Yes, the baby is being walked around a house full of chains, crosses and spanking benches, but it's receiving love and attention from multiple caring adults who clearly adore it. Why isn't this kind of parenting shown to us more often?!

5) It emphasises consent and safety

Naive and young protagonist Peter enters the kink world undercover and soon ends up out of his comfort zone, clad in PVC and getting his nipples pierced in order to blend in. However, he is regularly asked what he does and doesn't want to do, and when he says he is afraid of pain, his mistress respects this. When he says he is a virgin, she also respects this. She regularly tells him he is free to leave or say no if he does not want to participate. Although this should be bleeding obvious to both kinksters and vanilla folk, there clearly is a problem with how pop culture and wider Western society understand consent. It's rarely shown as an ongoing conversation that involves regular check-ins. We're still struggling to get to the point where all men believe no means no, rather than "try harder because women play games, you see", let alone the point where sexual partners are seeking active, enthusiastic consent from women ("yes means yes" and anything else should be seen as no). So it's mighty important for films, books, music videos, and any other art depicting kink to keep emphasising: YOU DON'T JUST GRAB SOMEONE AND START WHIPPING THEM. YOU ASK. AND ASK. AND ASK. AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN. AND YOU RESPECT WHATEVER THEY TELL YOU, OR YOU ARE AN ABUSER AND A CRIMINAL.

6) It shows a variety of genders in a variety of roles

Images of submissive men, beautiful male bodies naked, chained, roped, guys being humiliated and strong women whose bodies aren't served up for the male gaze are still far too often absent from pop culture portrayals of BDSM. Not so in this film! The House of Thwax is decorated by chained, muscular male subs, the kink parties have plenty of older, saggy male flesh on show (much like your average real BDSM play party!), and apart from the mistress herself and her shaven-headed female slave, we see very few female bodies throughout the film. We also see plenty of young Peter in compromising positions, which makes a refreshing change from filmmakers' persistent belief that 'sexy' only means 'what straight men find arousing.'

7) It's just bloody funny

Lines such as "Stop electrocuting Peter! We were wrong to leave him in the road," had me hooting and snorting throughout. This is a film that doesn't take itself too seriously, and recognises that a sense of humour is essential to survival in the BDSM world. Sometimes you'll spill the poppers, knot the rope wrongly, trip over the spanking bench or end up look at a ball sack covered in clothes pegs when you really didn't want to see it. You have to be able to laugh, first of all at yourself, but also generally at this crazy community where we gather together to humiliate and beat each other, and then have a cup of tea and chat about it afterwards. Preaching to the Perverted shows that BDSM players are regular folk with jobs, lives and bills to pay, but they simply get their kicks from playing on the edge; not unlike anyone who does extreme sports, or--as someone points out in the opening scenes--boxing, a pursuit from which no law or government has ever tried to save men.

So what are you waiting for? You can buy the remastered version of the film here. Watch and enjoy!

How to truly #LoveYourLibraries

It's no secret that books, both the writing and reading of them, are my lifelong addiction. To paraphrase Paula Danziger, I feel like I'm addicted to the printed word because I need a book fix whenever I get upset. A major catalyst for this love of literature was having access to libraries from a very young age. I remember going to Dunstable library with my dad at age 4 or 5, and soon exhausting the limit on his card so he signed me up for my own. I treasured that card and proceeded to use it on a biweekly basis for the next two decades, until I was a graduate living on my own and had enjoyed the benefits of libraries located in my school, in Luton, Milton Keynes, Leamington Spa, Los Angeles and Warwick University to name just a few.

I'm lucky to know several librarians and I consider myself blessed to count such intelligent, book-loving, fun and kind people in my friends group. However, I know their job isn't easy, especially in the face of rampant budget cuts and complacency on the part of local government. I've seen veteran library staff forced to reapply for their own jobs after two decades, forced to accept ten or even 20 percent pay cuts, and constantly being asked to do more work for the same or less money due to redundancies and recruitment freezes.

So how can we help our brave literary warriors and make their days a bit easier? Here are my personal tips:

1) USE your libraries! 

I don't care if you never read a book yourself, you will most certainly read a magazine or use the internet or use maps or travel guides or have children who read or teenagers who are studying or need help filling in application forms or require tourist info. Libraries provide all this and more. Free wi-fi, free computer use and a huge, warm book-filled sanctuary from the madness of the outside world. Who wouldn't want to visit such a place?!

2) CARE for your libraries!

Take small children in to the children's library; adults come to libraries for peace. Teach your teen children to respect libraries, rather than treating them like a gaming arcade. Put stuff back where you found it. Take your loud phone conversations outside. Report anything untowards to staff but also be respectful, pleasant and patient with library employees - they are working harder than ever for fewer and fewer rewards. If there's a queue, don't huff - pick up a book and wait like a grown-up!

3) Don't BURDEN your libraries with unhelpful donations!

If you have a genuinely nice, immaculate modern edition of a book that you wish to donate, great. However, PLEASE do not donate any of the following to your local library (and this is straight from a senior library stock controller):

- Old, damaged or mildewed books. Your library will only have to pay to recycle these.

- Maps or travel guides older then five years. No use to man nor beast, trust me.

- Utterly obselete crap like WINDOWS 98 GUIDE. Gift it to a geeky friend or eBay it.

- Any books with cracked spines, folded down pages or annotations. This is a library, not Amazon marketplace. Library staff are not there to sort through your old schoolbooks just because you can't be bothered to do it!

4) SIGNAL BOOST the great work that your local library does! 

Give them a shout out on social media, take a picture of a great book display and Instagram it, tweet what you liked about your most recent visit; whatever you can do to keep libraries visible means they stand a better chance of retaining funding.

Now go out and spread that literary love! 

There go my heroes

Unsung heroes is a term that gets bandied around a lot, so I want to use my platform to actually describe some of the people who've made this stressed author's days a bit less awful in recent times. In no particular order, they are:

- the till lady in Iceland MK who chatted with pleasantly me yesterday despite her till being right under an air conditioning vent which she said her bosses refused to turn off. I was only standing there a minute and I was freezing; she said it was like that for her whole shift. Anyone who is warm and comfortable right now, salute this lady for still being nice to people when I would have been a raging grump within five minutes.

- the roller derby skater who turned up to a mental health fundraiser on Sunday, skated her heart out, chatted with me about my book and then had to drive back down the motorway to the care home where she works in order to do 12 bed calls. Probably for an absolutely abysmal wage, if I know anything about how the care industry operates. Could you do that and still be nice to people? I'm not sure I could manage even half of what this woman achieved in one day. 

And yes, I've wiped bums, changed adult nappies and cleaned up faeces and urine for £7 an hour, but I'm now in a financial position where I haven't needed to do care work for several years. So I salute every underpaid, underappreciated, stressed out person working in the healthcare industry right now. The HCAS, support workers and cleaners who get no praise and usually get the blame. You. Are. Heroes.

- Maria from Nationwide in Bletchley, who last week saw that I was about to cry with the stress of not being able to get a bank statement from my own bank without them charging me and putting me further in overdraft, and sorting out the situation instantly. I still owe that lady a big cake, but I did tell her I loved her and told her supervisor to give her a raise.

- Jess from Changes Walnut Tree who cut my hair this morning, did exactly what I asked, didn't try to anything I hadn't requested with my insane curly mop, didn't patronise me about being 'lucky' to have curly hair and was lovely to talk to.

- My friend Denise, who has suffered multiple disabilities since she was in her teens (she is now mid-30s), lives in a teeny council bungalow where she is afraid to put the heating on and who had her care budget cut by another 2 hours last month, yet is never anything less than fearless and cheerful. She is unfailingly generous and even made me an early birthday card with a cat on that said BE YOUR OWN KIND OF AWESOME. For someone who suffers such chronic pain to do this with her own hands renders me speechless with gratitude and love.

There go my heroes. Watch them as they go. 

Stuff men say to a woman fixing a car

"You know how to do that?" 

Passerby yesterday, as I was lying underneath my friend's Renault replacing her spare wheel. Needless to say he was assured with some gusto that yes I do know how to remove, refit, move, change, maintain and if needed, throw a car wheel fitted with tyre at mansplainers....

Still, he was friendly enough and once we had established that I am a master with a torque wrench, a wheel brace, a jack and a can of WD-40, he even took my number in case he ever needed a non-registered mechanic. After all, I'd just made one car MOT-passable in two hours, think what I could do with any old wreck!

And yes, my own car is stringently maintained. You don't grow up with an aviator as a parent without learning a LOT about tinkering with engines, gears, brakes, wheels, wipers, windows and tyres.

And yes, I warned this chap that my hourly rate for non-friends is high. He said he could pay me in champagne but I laughed and told him I already have a bottle in my fridge. (Which I do, thanks auntie!)

"Yes, I can help. No, you don't need to make me a cup of tea."

Nice young Eastern European chap working on a nearby building site who came and stood on the tyre iron when my 60kg weight wasn't enough to make it move. Yes, you! You're lovely! I owe you a cuppa! Not least because he did what I asked, expected nothing except a thank you in return, and then left me in peace straight afterwards.

"You need to learn this stuff. You need to practise it over and over, because when you actually need this skill it'll probably be dark and cold and you won't have time to mess around. Also, if you don't know this stuff, mechanics will rip you off simply because you're female."

Papa Scott, and he has been so right (and CHEERS THEN to the garage who dropped the price by £80 on a job whose need was questionable anyway, simply because I threatened to call my dad). I love my dad for how much he has taught me about cars, engines, aeroplanes, physics, mathematics and engineering. Thanks to him, I can take apart, clean and refurbish roller skates, wheels and associated derby equipment LIKE A BOSS.

One day I might even listen to most of what Papa Scott says! But my brain isn't quite as huge a computer/calculator as his yet. Give it time.

Next stop, learning to fly!
And if you think I say that lightly, well...
Let's just say you ain't seen nothing yet, world ;)

#ThisGirlCan

Thoughts on televised debates

... and debates more generally.

I was invited on to my first TV debate in 2013. I was thrilled, being a somewhat naive, keen young feminist writer. I was 29, was still getting used to the thrill of seeing my name in print (thanks Bitch magazine! Thanks TLS! Thanks BBC Academy, Ms Magazine, Telegraph Books) and was still inexperienced enough to accept being underpaid or not even paid at all for my writing (cheers Independent, I loved you but no wonder you went to the wall!).

However, when a pleasant sounding woman rang me on my mobile and asked if, with 24 hours notice, no pay and questionable terms I would appear on a major Sunday politics TV show, I immediately heard warning bells. The subject was, predictably, feminism. I knew from having watched enough Newsnight episodes with Laurie Penny, that feminists did not get given an easy time on TV.

Instead, they were usually portrayed as any or all of the following: shrill, unreasonable, paranoid, anachronistic, man-hating, humourless, sexless.

Paranoid and anachronistic I'll admit to; I'm an old soul in a young body, and yes I do consider the world at large threatening, incomprehensible and overrated. However, I refuse to even consider the other charges.

Which is why I ultimately said no to the pleasant lady on the phone.

I'd seen how London Feminist Network were portrayed on a documentary the previous year. Members were constantly asked if they were angry, and why, as if women's anger was SO unusual, so remarkable, and SO interesting that women should have to explain it, even though we have daily evidence of the results of men's anger. You only have to turn on the news to see where male anger gets us. But men's anger is the default, you see, and is justified, even if it results in wars, murders, mutilations, maimings, rapes, bombings and pissing contests involving nuclear arms.

But I digress.

I wasn't interested in paying money I didn't have, to spend a Sunday which I had already earmarked for a dear friend's birthday celebrations, to sit in a studio and not get paid while people tried to paint me and my people (that would be women and anyone else who considers women full human beings) as complete harridans.

I said fuck that, and got on with my weekend. And it was fine. I lost no sleep, no work, no money.

Later that year I would be asked to appear in a debate at Glasgow University Union, a place which has a deeply dodgy history  when it comes to treating female speakers with respect, or indeed admitting them at all. I asked for other feminists' views on Twitter - should I do this debate or not? Again, no fee was offered, and this was at a time I was still doing a LOT of tutoring and care work to supplement the abysmal writing rates I was being offered, from £0 to maybe £90 per 1000 words if I was very lucky, and living back with my parents to save up money. So I wasn't that keen to hop a train to Scotland anyway - but then came the abusive emails.

One polite but passive-aggressive missive from a female student who wanted me to know just how feminist GUU was - presumably so feminist that its cheerleaders took the time to harass a busy, skint feminist writer and try to persuade her to take down her cruel tweets where she had the GOD DAMN NERVE to  wonder if Glasgow University was worth a visit.

I soon got my answer. The frothing young feminist had obviously let slip to a male friend that a Nasty Older Feminist had dared to ask "GUU - worth speaking at?" on Twatter and this Fwend sent me a poisonously worded email about my "little display on Twitter" as if I were a naughty four year-old--rather than a 29 year old long sick of little boys and their bruised egos. This young upstart did not even ASK me to apologise to his Very Feminist Friend, he actually INSTRUCTED me to.

BIG MISTAKE, little man. 
HUGE.

I replied to neither email but instead promptly forwarded them both to GUU's head and told them this was how their representatives were behaving online. The apology I got from GUU was grovelling, to say the least, and at pains to distance the Union and the University from the Big Brave Boy who had decided to prove how NOT SEXIST his university was by harassing a woman!

[Oh, and son? If you're out there and haven't learned from your mistakes, do us all a favour and stay the fuck away from women. Or just everyone, you nasty little coward. Don't piss off a writer, you silly young boy. We always, always get our revenge in print, and we are MASTERS of the long game.]

Finally, a few months after that fiasco, I turned down a request to 'debate' the rights and wrongs of lads' mags on a local BBC radio station,. AGAIN, no payment was offered and by this point in my writing career I was getting tough on such nonsense. I freelance for the Beeb so I know that they can and will pay very nicely when it suits them; ergo, I ain't giving them my time for free. Sorry Auntie, but you're not actual family. You don't get my expert opinion for nothing. My real family do, and regularly, and usually when they're not interested, so God help them.

However, it wasn't just the lack of cash I was getting highly fucked off with. It was the constant request that I expose myself, my belief system and my people to criticism, mockery and probably being stitched up in the name of a ten minute segment that would inevitably be rushed or edited so that  we had no hope of getting our real point across. Trust me, I write BOOKS on feminism and sometimes 80,000 words is not enough to say everything I need to say on the matter.

So what hope could a feminist possibly have of coming across well in a radio segment squeezed between the shipping forecast and the traffic news? Who's going to listen or care or stand a chance of changing their mind?

Round this time, I did notice the UK media actually starting to - GASP! - consult the people whose right to exist it was debating. I heard the excellent @PastaChips being interviewed in a (I think) Woman's Hour segment on sex work, and thought TOO RIGHT! About time we heard from an ACTUAL, CURRENT sex worker rather than an exited one or a famous one or one like Dr Brooke Magnanti, who hasn't been a sex worker in 10 years. Not that the other women and men don't also have the right to have their say, but UK media and government seem USELESS at finding current sex workers and actually asking them how they feel.

On the rare occasions it does happen, they're usually not paid for their time (and has ANY sex worker EVER been paid for those stock images scantily clad women in windows and doorways that outlets love to use? I'd GENUINELY like to know!), are pumped for tales of degrading or horrible or comical encounters, and are treated somewhere between the Victorian stereotype of the fallen woman and her 19th century counterpart, the circus freakshow.

So yes, I thought good on ya Glasgow Sex Worker for speaking eloquently on live radio about how actually, deep sea fishing is far more dangerous than sex work but funnily enough no one ever suggests that fishermen are just too weak or stupid or brainwashed by, er, matrirarchy to know that they're choosing a hazardous line of work. But I was glad it wasn't me trying to sum up my viewpoint and also (insultingly) being asked to justify my right to exist and work without harm, on a ten minute slot on a grey Tuesday morning.

I don't think I could have remained so calm.

This is why I'm grateful when fantastic non-binary and trans activists such as @TheLolaPhoenix publicly point to me and my writing as friendly to trans/NB people. The impetus for Lola's statement  was an understandably pissed off thread by a fellow NB person Owl, who had been asked to 'debate'...something to do with gender, I don't know if the Beeb ever even specified.... live on TV, and was not having any of it.

I did not blame Owl one bit.
At the age of nearly 34, I feel like I've been arguing for women's right to be treated as full human beings MY ENTIRE LIFE.

I am not exaggerating. One of my Asperger's tendencies is unnerving recall regarding dates, ages, numbers, conversations.
I first told a man "You are just afraid that women will think you're rubbish and gang up on you"* when I was no older than 7. I said this to my grandfather, then in his 60s, when we were in the car with my dad, brother and grandmother. My grandmother had dared to suggest that she wanted to listen to Woman's Hour; my granddad loudly huffed that it was "just a load of women talking bloody nonsense."

[I had correctly identified exactly his and every other sexist man's greatest fear, but of course at the age of 7 no one takes you seriously.] 

By 10 years old, I was disgusted that I lived in a world where things like rape and child molestation existed, and furious that the state of my vagina was considered public property

(You could have been raped! bellowed Papa Scott when I was five minutes late returning from a friend's house that summer. I wanted to smack someone, or puke, at the idea that my being raped was somehow a man's business. I still do want to do all those things.)

By 16, I was baffled that other girls didn't seem to notice or care the persistent sexism around us, even though it pushed the intelligent, privileged girls at my Posh School to act like morons whenever boys were around, and the amoral gits from the local Boys' School to look through any girl who didn't simper, smile or otherwise seek male approval.

So when well-meaning friends or family said to the 29 or 30 year-old Chas that "It's telly! You should just do it!" I had to take it with a pinch of salt. I don't CARE about telly. It's just a medium, just another glowing screen in a world where screens have taken up my time, sanity, wrecked my wrists and my mental health. I love BOOKS. I am THRILLED by BOOKS. I LOVE the fact my name is on PROPER, PUBLISHED BOOKS and I can pick one up and read it and show it to my mum and build a HOUSE out of my books should I so choose.

But telly? Just to be dismissed as another sexless, humourless bitch carping on about First World Problems? Naaaah.

Been there, done that.

While you were sleeping

another woman reclaimed her body.

While you were sleeping, another man treated a woman like something he wiped off his shoe.

While you were sleeping, a 35 year-old woman lived in a housing association bungalow when she should live in a palace, because a man decided his desires were more important than not raping a child.

While you were sleeping, women's bodies were mutilated, maimed, stretched, contracted, hidden, exposed, celebrated, loved, desired, pleasured and hopefully somewhere, some women got some fucking sleep too.

Are you sleeping? Good.

Are you sleeping comfortably? Then you live in a rich, beautiful world indeed. A blessed world. One much like mine.

How much sleep do you think a woman who was raped as a child loses, on average?
Five hundred thousand hours?
A fucking lifetime's worth?

While you were sleeping, indignities beyond your wildest dreams were visited upon the bodies of those who dared not to fit in, who dared to not have breasts or bottoms or vaginas or vulvas or labia or clitorises that looked like someone thought they should look.

While you were sleeping, violence beyond your most terrible nightmares were visited upon women, children, men, non binary folk, trans women, trans men, and everyone in between.

So where were you?
If you were sleeping, count yourself so fucking lucky.

And then say it with me. NOT IN MY NAME.
Not while there's still breath in this body.
I believe women. I trust women. I believe children who say they were violated. I believe women who say it. I believe girls who say it. I believe boys, and anyone else who wants to come to me and who needs their story shouting from the rooftops because I am a writer and I have that platform and I will TELL. THAT. STORY.

Keep telling me. Never stop telling me.