The benefit of a health benefit that benefits health

It seems to me that if a government were REALLY keen on helping disabled and sick people be independent and help them fulfil their potential then there wouldn't be the ridiculous ESA system we have now. It is a system which actively discourages people from working, and forces people to always look to the worst situation because they live in fear of having their benefits taken away and having no income.

While there are some people who could never and will never work, there are a lot of sick and disabled people who could do a form of work give the right support and circumstances. WRAG ESA is not it. Back to work interviews is not it. ESA contributory which stops after a year is not it.

What is needed is a health support benefit - a benefit that acknowledges that someone may be able to do a small amount of work some of the time, but will never be able to earn enough to support themselves. It would be a benefit that encourages people to do some work, and tops up the income to a living wage for each individual. I say individual because at the moment if you are married, the government treats 2 people as one - if one can work full-time there is no need for the partner to receive benefits, ignoring the fact that very few couples can live on one wage these days.

A health support benefit would allow every disabled and sick person to be independent. It would give them the right to earn their own money, to not have to rely on a partner. And to make them feel that a small contribution to the working life is a big contribution for them and is backed by the government.

At the moment people are terrified to do any kind of work because they'll then be "fit for work" and all benefits are stopped. And what if it doesn't work out? They realise they can't cope, have a relapse or find they are only able to work sporadically, and they have to start the long, painful application to get benefits again.

For so many people right now it feels that anyone TRYING to work is punished. If you can work 8 hours a week, you are fit for work and need no help, when for many people that is their absolute limit and will never improve.

There is the "permitted work" and "supported permitted work" areas available now, but so few people know about them, it's even HARDER to get them and almost impossible to have it not count against you in terms of how your fitness for work is seen. And Permitted work also suffers the same ridiculous year timeframe that WRAG ESA does. There seems to be a fixed idea that anyone disabled or sick who can do a small amount of work MUST find that after a year they are improved enough to work full time, or enough to support themselves, or will never be ill again. For so many it is a much longer journey back to health than 12 months and for some it will NEVER be a journey, more a roundabout.

Now, obviously people will complain and think everyone will chose to do part-time work and have their money topped up - but it would be no different to current health benefits. Claimants must prove they are unable to work full-time, or an amount that would constitute being able to support themself. And the amount received wouldn't be riotous living, but enough to help and encourage. It would help those who want to contribute to the work-force, for their own good and that of others, even if it is only sporadically, temporary or limited, and it would allow sick and disabled people to test their limits. As it stands you have to be COMPLETELY sure you are fit enough to work to a high-standard before you can attempt it, because you know you will have to give up benefits and may never get them back - even if you realise you can't cope after 1 month.

Hand in hand with this would go finding and help with the BIGGEST block in stopping sick and disabled people working - employers. Money would go to encouraging businesses to have more job share, home-working and flexible jobs. So many disabled and sick people could work if there were more legitimate homeworking jobs.

Many healthy people don't realise the difference in doing 3 hours light computer work at home, in your bed/on your sofa/in your PJS, broken up into possibly 30 minute chunks over a day  - and going into an office to do 3 hours light computer work at a desk. So many sick and disabled people the latter is impossible but the former is not. The difference in terms of energy is huge, from getting washed and dressed, to transport to the energy required to interact with people, to the fact that you can stop as needed to rest muscles, move limbs, nap, toilet or vomit breaks or simply rest your mind is the unseen parts of working life that homeworking would help.

Although more businesses are having more homeworkers, sadly it is often for people who are already employed or it exists in a way that makes them impossible for those who NEED them to take them up (ie many require full-time onsite training for several weeks, which is impossible for the people who more need these positions. And I don't just mean sick and disabled, but also carers, single parents etc).

As well as homeworkers, more business could be encouraged - with the help of Job Centre staff - to engage in job-swaps, where someone who has found a dramatic change in their health prevents them from doing their NORMAL job but they could do a job with much lighter duties. Again, some employers are great at this, but others have no choice as they have no light duty roles in their companies. The Job Centre, or the disability officers, could ensure these employees find another position in another company without falling out of work and having to rely on benefit.

In short, the benefits system needs an overhaul, we all know that but the current government's claims that the reforms they have produced are to stop people "festering" on benefits is a blatant lie. The reforms do nothing but make people live in fear and discourage experimentation and limit pushing for fear of financial reprisal that ends in destitution.

A Friendly Invitation to Samantha Brick

Dear Samantha Brick,

Hello. Let me just say straight off the bat that I am not intimidated by your beauty. No, really I'm not. I acknowledge that you are far more attractive than I, but I don't hate you for it. My dislike of you in the past has been for other reasons, but as this is a positive correspondence let us not talk of that and move on to pastures new.

How are you? Are you ok? I'm sure you're doing great in your work, getting lots of praise from your bosses for all the traffic you are bringing in to the Daily Mail with your writing. I bet you're on cloud nine there in your size 12 jewel coloured dresses. I do worry about you though, some of the things you write make me feel sad. That is, I assume you write them. For all I know, you may be a 55 year old cigar smoking male journalist who hires his cleaning lady to pose for photos and TV interviews. But let's just assume for the sake of argument - although I assure you this isn't an argument - that you believe with 100% conviction everything you've written.

I wanted to write this because I felt it was my duty to reach out to you, girl to girl, woman to woman, sister to sister and let you know that it's okay, it's all okay. Life doesn't have to be the way you so eloquently paint it in your columns. Women don't need to spend their time in fear and dread, spitting venom at each other across the neatly folded piles of skinny jeans in Top Shop.

I'm going to tell you something shocking now, are you ready? Women can be friends, real friends; friends who love and support each other even if they are beautiful, skinny, successful, mothers of 6 or simply blonde. It makes me very sad to know that you never seem to have experienced that. It seems to be that femininity is a war to you;  a war with yourself and every other woman on the planet to be the thinnest, most beautiful, most desired. It doesn't have to be like that.

I have 3 best friends. They are all slimmer than me and - in my opinion - prettier than me. And this may sound crazy to you, but I don't hate them for it. In fact, I rarely think about it. When I think of them, I'm not thinking of how their thighs look in yoga pants, or why their tummy doesn't overhang their jeans. I think of their smiles; of laughing; of laughing a lot, until tears flow (and sometimes a bit of wee too). I think of nights where much wine is consumed along with copious amounts of onion rings, Pringles and Chinese food. I think of them hugging me, crying with me, holding me up and telling me in a thousand ways verbal and otherwise how much they love me. That's friendship.

It's the life I know, where women support each other, build up each other and never tear each other down with one-up-manship over any aspect of their lives. We don't spend our time comparing the haves and have-nots of each other's lives. We're too busy enjoying the friendship we have right there. It's magnificent, and so far away from the Daily Mail world of nude shoes and misogyny, and it breaks my heart that this world seems completely alien to you.

Female company can be joyous, carefree and relaxed. So can eating.

Can I tell you something else shocking? You might need to sit down for this one. Being fat is OK. Really, believe me. I know you feel that you can speak from experience because you were "chubby" up to the age of 13, but hey, what do kids really know? Kids will bully other kids for being too fat, too thin, too stupid, too clever, too tall or too small. As an adult you realise that, and learn what and who you want to be and ignore everyone else and what they may feel about it. Someone seems to have forgotten to tell you that.

I have been varying degrees of fat all my life. I'm now the fattest I've ever been, and you know what? It's fine. I don't live my life in misery. I don't shut myself away, wear sack-cloth and believe the biggest charity work I can do is not expose my massively jiggly flesh to the world. In fact, most of the time I'm a pretty darn happy fat person.

What you may find even more shocking is that I'm married, and not to a massively obese man either. He finds me attractive naked, whatever size I am, with stretch marks, cellulite, fat rolls and the occasional fart (okay, maybe more than occasional). I have never had any problem with attracting male attention and I'm not alone.

Whoever told you that no man or woman will ever find a fat woman attractive lied to you - FLAT. OUT. LIED. There are women twice the size of me who have male (and female) lovers who are at this very minute chasing them round the bedroom, giggling and desperate to get a handful of their gorgeous soft body to make mad passionate love to them.

It's a bit depressing that you wipe the sex life of these millions of people off the face of the earth because you've been told by hateful, controlling men (and women) that they simply can't exist. For many men fat isn't an issue. It's not a plus, it's not a minus, it's just a fact like brown hair or one of those weird bendy thumbs some lucky folks have. And yes, for some men it's a bonus - a whopping great squishy, delicious bonus to see a woman whose body ripples with curves and bumps and mysterious crevices that can be touched and kissed.

If you were in need of a bit of comfort, what can be more welcoming than something soft, yielding, warm and welcoming like the bosom or tummy of a larger woman? It's tactile and glorious, and sexy as hell.

And even if it wasn't, would you want to be loved by someone whose definition of love is so strict that you can never change. A man who threatens to divorce you if you change in a superficial way, isn't a man who loves the bones of you. He loves what he sees, what you represent, but who you are? Someone who loves you as a whole being wouldn't care. Perfume in a candle, in a lotion, in a spray or bottle to be dabbed upon your neck all smells as sweet. The packaging doesn't matter.

Of course, it's understandable that Joan Collins would want to stay thin to keep the work coming in. That's her choice, and a lot of it is related to the type of roles she is offered and seeks. But the idea that she's still successful is down to her figure is troublesome, because you know who else is still successful? Pauline Quirk and Dawn French and Judi Dench and Brenda Blethyn and Allison Steadman and Kathy Burke and Kathy Bates and... Well, I could go on and on.

These ladies are successful - like Joan - because of their talent, their charisma, their intelligence and their grace. Waist size really has nothing to do with it. And despite what you may believe, that is the way of things in the real world too.

Women's successes are judged on their abilities and their hearts and not what end of the clothing rail they reach for. As a writer, you should be aware of the success of your peers. Harry Potter wasn't a massive success because J K Rowling can slip into M&S size 10 jeans. Fay Wheldon, Hilary Mantel, Toni Morrison, Val Mcdermid and a million other female writers haven't sat at home biting their fingers and refusing to write a word until they've lost that elusive 10lbs.

Of course, there are some deeply unpleasant people out there who WILL judge you on size, but they are wrong. And it's wrong to give their opinion credence, time or even thought.

Fat isn't a sign of failure. Living your life in misery in order to satisfy someone else's idea of beauty and success is failure. Neglecting the million and one joys in life to be experienced because you're not thin enough or pretty enough, is a failure.

So, I extend this hand of friendship out to you, a hand you seem to have never been offered before. Come and live life my way. Throw out your casual-wear that extends only to pleated slacks and boat neck jumpers and indulge in some jogging bottoms, or pyjama bottoms, or a onesie. Come and spend a Saturday night in with my friends and I. You can bring some of that lovely French wine, with some cheese and bread and a whacking great big jar of Nutella. We can talk about art or films or what's your opinion on the very important topic of how to fold socks (we once spent 2 hours on that topic). We even have common ground, you and I. We both have husbands with a fondness for guns (admittedly my husband's are all virtual and live in the XBox) and handlebar moustaches. We can talk about the silly things they say. Maybe we can spend some time with the works of French and Saunders, Katie Brand, Sandi Toksvig, Meera Syal, Victoria Wood and you can see their success didn't connect to how far the scales swung around under their earthly weight.

You can eat what you like, say what you like, burp, fart, puke, cry and laugh. We won't judge you. And if you stick around we could watch the whole series of My Mad Fat Diary where you can see a fat girl be awesome, beautiful, funny  - and loved by a very hot guy. Maybe you'll hear and believe the epic line: "People can either accept you for who you are, or they can fuck off".

Come and join us in a world of wonderful, witty, warm women where fat isn't a failure. Fat is just fat.

My fat says "hi"

I wrote this 2 years ago as a twitlonger. I decided I wanted to save it to my blog, and to share it with all the new friends I've made in the past 2 years.


I'm fat.

Now, if I say that, I know some people who know me will automatically jump in and say "no, you're not"  - but I am. 

If you accept that being "fat" means having more fat on you than is happily accepted by society and fashion, then I certainly am. In medical terms I am absolutely in the obese category. 

And you know what, I'm okay with it. Yes, I'd like to have less fat on me, but largely for health reasons and to make some aspects of life a wee bit easier.

But the thing is, I know this. I know I could be slimmer but it would take hard work and a bit of deprivation. I'm not very good at deprivation.

And so I'm fat. But I don't define myself by that. It's simply 1 aspect of what I look like. One that is neither wholly positive nor wholly negative, it just is.

But what I don't like about my fat is what it apparently shouts out to others while my chubby back is turned. 

As I walk down the street my wobbly arse apparently whispers to passers by that I'm lazy. My rolling tummy shouts to strangers that I'm greedy. My thighs rubbing together sing aloud that I smell. And my double chin jeers that I'm unreliable, unhealthy, and don't care about my appearance.

How an extra 45lbs of blubbery molecules can be so loud without me realising, I do not know?

You see, what so many people who listen to these accusations made by bits of my body don't realise is, they have flaws too. They are just extra lucky that their body doesn't shout it out to the world.

A smoker's lung doesn't yell out that it's suffocating. A stingy man's buttock does not let it be known that his wallet is never opened. A cruel woman's heart does not scream that is it cold and hard. An abusive husband's hand doesn't spell out in sign language that is has been used to hurt and maim innocent souls.

No, they are the lucky ones. Their flaws are their own little secrets. Known only to those closest to them. They don't wear their flaws around them as a suit signalling their very presence to any who catch even a fleeting glance at them. 

Not me, and not for others like me, who wear the fat suit of shame. For I wear my flaws - that I like fizzy drinks and chocolate and cheese and pizza - for the world to see. 

It's not the fault of the fat. It doesn't really know it's saying these things. It thinks it is only a visual sign of a slight flaw in my living habits. It thinks that if it sends a message it's that it's calling cheerfully  "Hey, I'm here. I'm soft and wobbly. I weigh a bit. Oh I'm made from Irn Bru and hummous. I float in water. I'm nice to cuddle up to and to grab hold of and jiggle about. I can be fun".

That's what my fat shouts out, but sadly most of society mishears. They read between the cellulite lines and decide that my fat is a statement, that I am trying to tell them about my inner being, my personality, my willpower and my heart.

It is those who decide to make a judgement on the existence of my fat who decide it's a bad thing and has terrible implications.

And it's to those people I ask this, next time you see me or someone else exhibiting a bit more fat than is deemed necessary,  realise that it is what it is. it is fat. Its existence says that maybe they eat a bit too much, or don't exercise very much, or exercise a lot but like delicious food, or maybe they just LIKE fat. It carries no more weight than that, no matter what you may think. 

My flaw is a small one in the grand scheme of things - I eat too many calories - and what judgements would society be making about you, if your flaw was visible on the outside of your body? Would there be a little cloud floating above your head telling us all how lonely and empty you feel because you're cruelty, or bitterness or superiority has driven others away?

Or what if the best parts of our personality were as visible as the flaw of fat? Would you have anything to show? Because I know if that were so, my fat would be lost in the folds of love, happiness, laughter and sweetness that exists in my life - and this sweetness has ZERO calories.

Twitter - power to abuse

There was a time when using twitter was like crying in the rain. Tweets sent out drifted off into the ephemera without much impact on anyone's lives. It was a place people talked about what they had for lunch, bitched about the weather and discussed conspiracy theories over the continued success of Simon Cowell. Whilst all that is still true, over the past couple of years the media have started to take twitter far more seriously and the impact it can have - both positive and negative - has been recognised.

Twitter can - and is - used for good, from making sick kid's dreams come true; to connecting friends with common interests across the world; to making "internet celebrities" of those rare people who can fit wit, intelligence and insight into 140 characters. However, with this infamy also comes the negative and it's those stories that have made the news in recent times.

For some, the ability to say whatever they think or feel to thousands of people has led them to do exactly that, without a passing thought to the consequence. Twitter has sadly always been used to make racist, homophic and simply moronic posts but now people are starting to take note, whether is be the offensive tweets about the gravely ill Fabrice Muamba, the vile homophobic threats against Boy George or sexist abuse towards Louise Mensch.

People are beginning to realise that - as in the street - you can't simply say whatever you like on twitter without it touching or effecting anyone and prosecutions have been made.

As some of you know, I recently received a second bout of abuse from a twitter user. He  to try and blackmail me, claiming to have information on me, where I live and threatening to inform my husband about my behaviour and "come up and see me so we can talk about this". FInally, he made the libelous statement that I have been "convicted for threatening to rape children."

http://twitpic.com/a2tzdv/full

At the time of the initial statements, I did noting about it. However, when he repeated these threats and accussed me of stalking him I decided it was time to take action. With all the publicity over twitter prosecutions as mentoined above and reading about a succesful prosecution by a councillor (who had a twitter user charged for calling him a C***) I thought that this kind of behaviour was now taken seriously.

I contacted the police in England, who were extremely helpful but as I (the "victim") live in Scotland they could not actually prosecute. It was down to my local police. When I contacted them the result was very different. The police officers admitted they knew nothing about twitter and in the end said the best course of action was blocking and reporting the user to twitter.

I appreciated their help but found the advice lacking. Whilst I agree that generally bullies and "trolls" are best ignored - thus starving them of the attention they thrive on - there are times when this does not solve the problem. This is not the same as someone sending you abusive emails - where the upset comes only from you seeing the unpleasant things said about and to you.

In the age of social networking, bullying and harassment is not about simply upsetting you, it's very often about attempting to defame, destroy and derail your online presence. Trolls (a short-hand, catch-all term I'll use for bullies and harassers online) are not just happy with hating you, they want everyone else to hate you too. In the days before social media and online lives, an enemy might harm your reputation by spreading rumours or making accusations against you - but it would be hard for them to reach more than handful of people. Now trolls can set up a blog, facebook or twitter account and spread any gossip, innuendo or accusations to thousands of people in a matter of minutes.

So while you may block them and not see what they are saying, all that does is mean they can carry on saying whatever they feel like about you and you won't know about it. Rather like the old "if a tree is cut down in a wood and no one is there to hear it, does it make a noise", but in this case you know the noise it's made when it's repeated to you by a well-meaning lumberjack or is recorded and played back to you when every time you try to make a phone call.

These days some "ordinary" users on twitter have the same amount of followers as a local newspaper, and with the power of the retweet or share the tweet or status about you can reach thousands more in an instant. Whilst it may be noble not to care what anyone thinks of you, it's soul-destroying to have your name or repuation besmurched to friends, colleagues, and contact - whether you are reading the slurs or not. In the past week I have spoken to several tiwtter users who are being harassed via twitter and both have found the main problem is the abuser is sending tweets ABOUT them to people they know, admire or work with.

This leaves the option of reporting a troubling user to Twitter. To begin with, I found the actual process a mine-field of clicking round and round their help and contact pages before finally locating the correct page (here for anyone you needs it https://support.twitter.com/forms) and then the form itself created a whole new set of issues.

In order to report harassment to twitter (as opossed to impersonation or spam) you have to specify individual tweets rather than just a twitetr account in general - this can be tricky when so many twitter trolls will delete the offending tweet after it has made its impact. And twitter support clearly states they DO NOT accept screenshots, so even if you capture evidence that the tweet existed, in the world of twitter support it's gone therefore it can't be reported - despite their statement "If someone means you harm, just removing the threatening statements does not make the issue go away."

Another stumbling block is the policy that Twitter will not receive reports on harassment to a user from a third party - that is, if your followers can see a person is sending you abusive tweets (perhaps while you are not reading your timeline) they can't report it. ONLY a complaint made by the person who has received the threats will be accepted by twitter.

This means, that in the case of Fabrice Muamba only HE could report that he was offended by the tweets about him, whilst he lay critically ill in hospital. Obviously this wasn't the case in his situation, but it's the policy twitter states in it's automatic reply to any Support Ticket submitted.

Now I understand why they may have this policy in place - without it they'd likely be getting millions of support ticket submissions every day with such delights as "OMG Drake just said Justin Beiber's music is crap, you have to BAN HIM" and "This bitch said Harry from 1D is ugly, I want something done!" - but it's not a policy that is in place in other forms of media. Whilst Andrew Sachs could make a complaint to OFCOM that he was abused by Russell Brand and Jonathan ROss, it was the sheer number of complaints who said THEY were offended by the broadcasted interaction that led to it actually having an impact.

This again brings us back to the blocking issue, if you have blocked the user but they are still tweeting abusive messages about and to you viewed by their thousands of followers, none of them can do anything about it - other than inform you so YOu can report it. Once again, making blocking redundant.

The main problem with Twitter's support is their belief that everyone has different levels of tolerance in terms of what is offensive, so they refuse to deem anything offensive. Therefore you can make racist, homophobic and generally abusive (they say they will respond to specific threats of actual harm) comments freely without Twitter doing anything.

That is, of course, unless you are famous. Here is the important difference. If you are a well known personality with hundreds of thousands of followers and a high-flying lawyer behind you, it's all a different story. Suddenly, the power of numbers that Twitter claims not to care about comes into play.

If a trolling account becomes "well known" due to abusive tweets sent to celebrities it becomes a double-edged sword. the retweeting and mentoins feed their attention seeking behaviour but it seems that it is ALSO the only way to make Twitter (or a higher authority) react.

It seems that if you are an influential person, you can get the power of media onto your side and get something done about inapporpriate tweeting, be it from twitter, the police or the real life employers of the Twitter user. And by influential person, i include even Keith chegwin! When a local BBC reporter used her PERSONAL twitter (she stated all opinions were her own) to give her negative opinion on the ex-BBC Tv persoanlity (she said his voice made her feel sick) Keith kicked up a fuss and she was made to apologise.

Twitter-star Lilly Allen also used her own influence and power to get a soldier who made an off colour remark to her (it seemed racist but the intent was unclear, it may have been a typing/grammar error) to get him into trouble with his superiors in the army.

But what of us "common people", those of us who don't have the money and ability to pursue a civil case through the courts? If Twitter won't help and the police find their hands tied, what do we do? We don't have the masses and the media behind us - the Daily Mail aren't going to print an outraged story that I was called a peadophile - where do we turn?

It seems that for Twitter we don't matter. Our hurt, our reputation, our lives aren't enough to warrant doing something to protect us from abuse.

We've already won the race

As my twitter account is testament to, I sobbed, swore, exclaimed, laughed and clapped my way through the utterly glorious Olympic Opening Ceremony last night. I am generally not interested in the Olympics themselves (like my infamous childish declaration that "these chips have too much potato in them", I'd like the Olympics more if they had less sport in them) but I love a good show and Danny Boyle gave us that in spades.

Far greater writers than me have today put into words how well the entire show captured what we, the people on the street, know to be the true spirit of Britishness. From the things that inspire us (great literature, landscape and music), to the things that make us laugh (A monarch with a sense of humour, farce and farts), to the things that bring us sadness (the loss of the innocent past, the loss of innocence of childhood and the loss of lives), to the things that drive us daily (hard work, the health of our families and love) - all were depicted in a wondrous technicolour dance.

So it sadness and angers me greatly to see the complaints that it was somehow too left-wing, too working-class - and worst of all - too multi-cultural.

Growing up in the 70s and 80s in a large Scottish city, I wasn't exposed to many cultures. In primary school, there was one African boy who would rub his big, round Afro and give each of us curious, fascinated kids a little bit of his springy black hair. One year we had Vietnamese twins in class, who flirted like mad, grinned and played a mean game of Heads Down, Thumbs Up, but I learnt nothing of Vietnam. By primary school, I knew a coupe of Indian kids and knew snippets about their religion and how it differed from my own Presbyterian upbringing. Racism was something I knew about only from TV and the news. I knew I hated it (at age 8 I drew an anti-Apartheid poster) but I didn't experience the glory of mixed cultures until much later in life.

In fact, it is only NOW I have read journalists talking about how unrealistic it is to find an educated, middle-aged, mixed race family living HAPPILY that I stopped and thought that I've not only witnessed it - it's part of my family.

In 2005, I travelled from my home in Dundee, Scotland to London to attend the wedding of my wonderful older brother at the beautiful Battersea Arts Centre. It was one of the best days of my life for so many reasons - surrounded by my family, on an amazingly gorgeous day, in stunning surroundings celebrating the happy event of my brother's commitment of love to his Londoner Indian bride.

All the things that certain right-wing commentators claim don't exist was there. The bride and groom were both from working class parents. My late father was a systems analyst in a factory, my mother was a cleaner and carer. My sister-in-law's father was a grocer and her late mother a stay at home Mum. She spent the early part of her life in Kenya before growing up in council housing in east London, while my brothers and I grew up in council housing in one of the poorest housing schemes in Scotland.

Yet, these two people had brains and a hard-work ethic drilled into them by their families. Both left university with degrees and both ended up working in the City in London. However, they never met.

It is here, that the other theme of the Olympic Opening Show is connected to their story - Sir Tim Berners-Lee, the creator of the world wide Web - because this story is a truly digital age tale of love. My brother had fallen in love with computing ever since his Basic "10. You smell of poo 20. Go to line 10" days and was now a software engineer. My sister-in-law had taken a much more diverse route but ended up working in the usability area of a mobile phone company. It seems fitting then, that it took the Internet to bring them together. Yes, like my husband and I - my brother met his wife online dating.


And so like Frankie and June in last night's show - they fell in love. And less than 2 years after their first email exchange, I was at their wedding as a witness to their love.

On the day it was simply a day of love and meeting new family and friends, but looking at it from a purely factual point of view the multiculturalism rolled through the day in a delight of colour and laughter. The families of the happy couple wore suits and kilts, saris and sherwanis. (The kilted men expressed their envy of those in the cool linen loose trousers and tunics as they sweated in unseasonably warm weather under their yards and yards of heavy wool). The civil ceremony was followed by a Scottish lunch (shepherd's pie and cranachan) and later everyone devoured a spicy, Indian buffet.

The traditions of east and west mixed, the drink flowed and in the evening I did my bit as I took the stage to lead everyone in some traditional Scottish dancing. I called out the moves to the experts and the enthusiastic uninitiated alike. It became a whirl of laughter, squeals and hysterics as people were swung around and around by people they barely knew. Saris and kilts swirled; kids were lifted off their feet, the confused were ushered around the dance floor and the voices that rang out lilted with accents from London, Manchester, Dundee, India, USA, Canada, France, Taiwan. The "Eightsome Reel" became the "Elevensome reel" and people told me later it was the most fun they'd had in a long time.

No one cared what colour anyone's skin was, what country they came from, how much their father earned or which god they prayed to. We were all people who cared about a couple who were declaring their love and commitment to each other and us all.

THAT is what I know of multiculturalism. That is the Britain I know that exists now in the 21st century. They are middle-aged, educated and happy? Well, my most beautiful perfect almost 5-year-old niece is a testimony to that.

She is Indian and Scottish; Hindu and Protestan; she teaches me Gujarati words and what she knows about narwhals; she kisses me and tells me she loves me but that I need to clean my bedroom more.

So yes, they're happy. And more than that, we're happy. We're happy my brother found the love of his life; we're happy she brings new wonderful things and people into our family; we're happy the union gave me my only niece and my Mum's only grandchild. Race doesn't even come into it.

Derek (No Clive)

So I decided to bite the proverbial bullet and watch Derek, merely so I could have an informed opinion of this controversial "comedy drama". 

Most of us have our hot spots, the tender places we can't be poked too hard without encurring a viseral reaction in terms of topics explored or simply displayed on television be it fictional or documentary. For some it's cruelty to animals, others it's distressed children, for me it's confused elderly. I find it extremely hard to watch, and so really had no intent to watch Derek which seemed to be mocking those mentally disabled and elderly folks in homes.

I will say straight off that I don't think Derek MOCKED anyone. That's not to say I thought it was great television, I didn't.

It is very hard to watch it WITHOUT bringing into it all I knew of Ricky Gervias, his history with the character Derek and his entire "mong" issue that has been played out over twitter and in the media. If I based my opnion entirely on all of that, I certainly would think Ricky thinks it's funny and clever to mock the disabled and those "on the edges of society" - as he terms it. So, I tried not to do that and simply watched the show only judging in what I saw on screen.

And what I saw, was a simplistic, flawed drama with very little comedy and a whacking great lack of direction.

In terms of a TV show alone, I think it was all over the place in terms of characters. Derek (and for now we'll just ignore all that's been said and ASSUME he is a man with several developmental and health problems, likely on the spectrum because that is what I SAW), we were told over and over had a "heart of gold", yet it wasn't really shown. I balked when Hannah said "I've never seen him feel sorry for himself" early on in the programme, as at that point there was little evidence he SHOULD feel sorry for himself. He had friends, a job, a flatmate, people he loved, hobbies. So, are we to assume he should feel sorry for himself because he's disabled? She said he'd been through so much but very little clues were given as to what exactly?

The comedy element was I felt the weakest, I didn't laugh once. The only part I found vaguely humourous was the scene with Derek and Hannah trying to find out if Tom was gay. This scene worked because the comedy didn't come from Derek being "stupid" but from Hannah acting like a preteen and Tom gently poking fun at her. 

I am assuming the scenes of Derek sitting in the pudding and falling in the pond were meant to be the real humour pieces but they left me as cold as that water Ricky landed in. The problem from the comedy side of things comes, in my opinion, from the flawed principle that Ricky has that it's funny to laugh at someone who is mentally disabled being, well, mentally disabled. It really isn't. There has to be MORE to the humour than laughing at a man with one leg fall over, or someone with Aspergers confuse a social situation. The humour must come from someplace else other than "aren't they useless?!". With Derek, I felt that element was sorely missing.

I don't know what (if any) research Ricky did but I'm sure carers like Hannah could tell lots of genuinely funny stories that don't involve someone simply falling over or running about naked. 

Derek's friend Doug (Karl Pilkington) was also underdeveloped. He seemed to exist with the preknowledge that we would all know Karl's personality and so would just tack that on to make Doug a rounded person. There seemed little logic in why he was part of the "in crowd". Becuase he has a bad hair do and glasses? The grumpy (but with a heart of gold) caretaker is a classic, but I felt Doug laked the bite and sarcasm of this sterotype. And the pay off of his true kindness (by fixing Joan's painting after she died) didn't ring true with him calling Derek to show him. Surely it would have had a bigger impact if Derek, Hannah or the camera crew had discovered it themselves? That way Doug can keep up his pretense about not caring about their "junk".

All of that said, I did find the latter part of the show very moving. The story of Derek's friendship with Joan, the way she made him feel, was lovely. It gave a small hint that maybe the "things he'd been through" were people who did make him feel that accidents did make him a bad person. Ricky's piece to camera was very powerful and well acted, had depth and emotion.

I just felt what was the point of it all, what was the story Ricky was trying to tell? I may be simplistic in my tastes because I like a message, a point, or something and I just felt Derek was awash with lots of half-baked ideas. Even the abuse Derek received in the pub was tame and lacking the hard bite of reality. Derek himself could have been a wonderful character who COULD teach us about the truth of life. He could be an observer who says the things many of us ignore or try not to think about. But it seemd Ricky didn't have the drive to really push that side and was lost on his need to have Derek do stupid things to make us laugh. And have the rest of the cast tell us how funny what what a heart of gold he had.

(As an aside, what did Derek do as a job at the home? He wasn't the caretaker, and seemed to look after the old people from his heart of gold rather than as a specific job, as he was often sitting with his friends, watching Tv or napping.)

The show didn't make me angry, didn't even make me uncomfortable but it did leave me feeling that Ricky was desperately trying to prove how much he cared about the "undesirables" in life and show all those nay-sayers wrong. But it REALLy is hard to stomach that idea when you've seen how the Derek character has been thrown out there time and again through Ricky's career - always a figure of fun to be pointed at and mocked. All his posting of "mong" faces on Twitter etc show he's doing them THINKING they are funny. Funny to a 3 year old who thinks funny faces are the height of wit, maybe. And every so often in Derek, that feeling would rise as I felt Ricky slip out of the character and become a comedian doing the stupid face of a slow person.

I have no idea WHY he's so insistant that Derek does not suffer any actual disablities because a) clearly he does (a grown man who has no understanding of what £20,000 would buy for instance) and b) does it make it better to laugh at someone who is simply an idiot? 

Karl Pilkington is known as an "idiot" but it's obvious he's a man of regular intelligence, who - for whatever reason - just has very odd ideas of the way the world does and should work. Laughing at him is very different from laughing at someone who is struggling to understand the simplest of concepts in the world.

I think Ricky COULD make Derek a wonderful character, there was certainly glimpses of it, but it requires him accepting the knowledge of those better educated than him about disablities. It takes him listening to the stories of those who work. I'd rather see Derek become the man he could be heartbreaking and wonderful, showing us the REAL problems people face and commenting - as only those who are not bound by our stupid polite society rules can do - on the secret of life, the universe and everything. And not sitting in custard.

Wild, I was absolutely livid.

Tonight's Big Brother finally gave us the required culture element in Channel 5's broadcasting remit.

To begin with they introduced a housemate with an IQ high enough to learn sign language and operate basic machinery (more than Jay, anyway) in the form of Yambo the gorilla. Except it wasn't. Yambo was actually an actor in a costume, much like the rest of the housemates.

He arsed about in the straw, arsed with Maisy's arse (I have decided I may spell Maisey's name differently each time I use it) and managed to allow the HMs not to arse up the shopping task. If I were doing this week's shopping list, I'd including nothing but bananas, straw and monkey nuts.

The repercussions from THE KISS rambled on. Tom suddenly realised his popularity was flying out the window with his sanity and pleaded with Sir Aaron De Stubble to "speak to him proper, innit". Aaron, still recalling the PUNCH IN THE FACE comment, hedged his bets and focussed on grammar, for he'd rather have a strained relationship than a hanging participle (and who can blame him?).

The other "men" - and I use that term loosely - rolled around in some sour grapes in the bedroom as they discussed how they never wanted Maisy ANYWAY, and she'd be shit in bed and Aaron isn't beating them at playahood without once wearing a baseball cap backwards or doing a bad rap, and...and....well, girls smell too. *scratch self, adjust right testicle, sniff*

Whilst Maisy acted subtly, Faye threw her metaphorical and literal ass into the ring. Taking hints from Yambo, she showed Aaron the back of her neck, allowed him to pin her down and was more obvious than Alex's arse hanging out her shorts in staking her claim as the shagged cuddly toy to Aaron's silverback. Their coordinating pjs sealed the deal for them as couple of the show/5 minutes.

I can't help feeling a bit sorry for Maisy, she's like that girl that the boy practices kissing with only to use the skills learned on the popular girl. She's Watts in Some Kind of Wonderful, or Jo in teenage Health Freak. Of course, in both these the bloke ended up with the practicee in the end....but I fear Maisy's scary Madonna look may have written her out of the "plain but beautiful when you look twice" friend role. She should have gone in brunette, with a bun, and glasses then dyed her hair, shook it out and Aaron would have given up the T-Birds and made Sandy his steady.

However, it wasn't all adult fare as the show wandered into Playschool territory with Alex and Tom in the craft corner, makign tinfoil people and singing little songs. I fully expect to see them making tinfoil hats to keep out the bad voices before the week is out.

Harry, bless him, began having prep school flashbacks and thought he was fagging once again by making up a "special spray" to put in some of the beds. This led to rather silly pranking, which got out of hand and the over-tired children needed to go to teh diary room for a glass of milk and a nap before cleaning up the mess.

Thankfully, in the midst of all this juvinility a real cultural highlight occured as Alex and Harry acted out a deeply significant piece of art depicting the age old class struggle. You may have thought it was merely a playfight, but actually it was a skit of real depth that Stephen Berkoff would have been proud off. The ketchup Harry squeezed on Alex represented the years of blood and supression by the upper classes on the poor lower class, whilst Alex's water symbolised the lack of resources open to the poor. I fully expect to see it at the Globe next year - Sir Ian mcKellen would make a magnificent Alex, especially in the hotpants.

Still, Lousie managed to bring us back to earth by setting the woman's movement back 50 years with he treaty on how to treat *giggle* a man *giggle*. I'm sure it changed the minds of all the men watching, with one hand.

P.S. A message to Aaron on his made rather ungentlemanly comments about Heaven. I do not agree with what you say but I support your right to say it whilst looking hot all stubbly in a white shirt.