The Woman's Hour Power List

I was very excited about the idea of a Power List, composed by Radio 4's Woman's Hour. I thought it might shine a light on women who could be inspirational to a younger generation and generally, I just like to hear about women who are successful in their chosen field. When I pick up Stylist magazine every week I always turn first to the Work/Life feature that follows a woman for a day. It's fascinating and I often learn something.

So the Power List, I thought, would be a Good Thing. And now I've seen it, I still agree. Sort of. It's very white, but I suppose that could be a reflection of British society more than the list itself. I suspect any sort of power list, male or female, would be equally so. Disappointingly for me personally, it doesn't feature many journalists. In fact, Alexandra Shulman, editor of British Vogue, is the only print journalist on the list. Where's Evening Standard editor Sarah Sands? Polly Toynbee? Or the brilliant  Zoe Williams or my favourite Caitlin Moran? I'd argue they have just as much 'power' as Clare Balding or JK Rowling.

It's a good list, though. I spent a very happy hour trawling through and reading the profiles of all the women featured. But then you get to number one. It's the Queen. Oh, I thought. The Queen. And I felt a bit deflated, to be honest.

My feelings about the Queen topping the list are a bit confused. She does have power, I grudgingly admit. She's the head of state. So I suppose, on that basis, she should be there.

But if she does have power, and apparently she does - more so than you might expect of a monarch whose role is supposedly ceremonial - she probably shouldn't. She's not earned that power, she's not worked her way up to it, or been elected to it. Any power she does have is unaccountable. I don't have much time for Theresa May, who's number two on the list. But at least if she does something truly terrible, she'd (hopefully) lose her job. That's not going to happen to Queenie.

I also find it quite depressing that had you compiled this list 50 years ago, or 150 years ago, the Queen would have topped it. If you'd done it 100 years ago, she wouldn't have. But that's only because we didn't have a Queen then. It's just so arbitrary and I think that's why I've got a problem with it.

You could pick any woman off the street, anyone at all, and she'd have a decent crack at being Queen. Heck, I'd do it. How hard can it be? I'd even have jumped out of that helicopter for real. But the jobs the other women on the list do, can't be done by just anyone. I couldn't be Home Secretary or Poet Laureate, or run Santander or Mumsnet. I haven't written seven best-selling novels, or launched an inspirational children's charity. I don't have Olympic gold medals, or a highly acclaimed fashion line (more's the pity).

And actually, feelings about the monarchy aside, the criteria was women who make meaningful decisions to bring about change. Who "set the agenda in 2013 and see it through". Does the Queen do that? I don't think so.  What do you think?

It's like feminism never happened

For a moment there, I thought we were in the 21^st century. But nope. Seems I was wrong. Apparently we’re back in the good old 1950s. At least that’s what you’d be led to believe by the terrible sexism in the media recently.

On Friday, Rebekah Brooks gave evidence to the Leveson inquiry. That’s right. One of the leading figures in British media today gave evidence to a judge about the regulation of the press. She talked about her links to prime ministers and the Met Police, about phone hacking, about NewsCorps bid for BskyB – all pretty important stuff, I think you’ll agree.

The Evening Standard, however, thought it was vital we knew what Mrs Brooks looked like as she gave evidence.

She “sashayed” into court, wrote political editor Joe Murphy. She wore a black dress that “rode cheekily above the knee” and her hair was a “rich, dense, wild waterfall of auburn curls”.

Do you see where I’m going with this? But wait. It gets better.

Brooks “fixed her huge, hollow, rapidly-blinking eyes” on Robert Jay QC, who was asking the questions. In fact, she “gazed seductively at him” and Joe Murphy couldn’t work out what she was up to. “Flirting?” he asked. “Or trying to faze him?” At a guess, Mr Murphy, I’d say she was listening. Maybe you should try it?

It’s a shame Andy Coulson’s evidence, the day before, wasn’t written about in the same way. Did his shirt ride up as stood up, exposing a narrow band of taut stomach? Did the lights in the courtroom reflect off his receding hairline as he bowed his head in contrition? As he took off his glasses, did his wide eyes fill with tears? Possibly. But we don’t know about that because it’s not important. Because Andy Coulson is a man.

And I’m not even going to start on the front-page headline that declared Brooks: My time with PMs. How clever those Standard subs are. Look! Hilariously it looks like it’s her time of the month. Oh, that explains why she’s so prickly…

What’s annoying about this, is the blatant, outdated sexism certainly. But as with the abuse Louise Mensch received on Twitter it blurs the real issue. Suddenly Mensch’s support for Rupert Murdoch (he is a “great newspaper man” she said) faded into the background. And certainly I suddenly feel like Brooks is a victim. And I don’t like feeling like that. Because she most definitely is not a victim.

Treating women like this – judging them on their appearance or treating them differently from how a man would be treated in the same position – is a really effective way of shutting them up. What they’re saying gets lost in a maelstrom of arguments about sexism or just in the general fluff about what their hair looks like.

Joe Murphy at the Standard should be ashamed of himself. But, while there’s no way I could have ignored it, I’m a little bit ashamed of rising to his bait.

As an aside...

Similarly, the Sunday Times magazine yesterday featured an interview with Karren Brady. She’s vice-chair of West Ham United FC. She’s been on the board at Mothercare, Arcadia Group, Sport England and Channel 4. She was involved with England’s bid to host the 2018 World Cup. She was running Birmingham City FC when she was 23. Oh, and she’s on The Apprentice. So how did the Sunday Times trail the interview? Sugar’s babe. That’s how. I have no words.

Why is everything so twee?

I love a Cath Kidston bag as much as the next girl, I do (in fact, it’s possible I even love CK even more than the next girl). But I feel like cupcakes have taken over the world and it’s leaving a bit of sickly sweet taste in my mouth.

Now it’s not enough for women to juggle work and motherhood, we have to do it all in a polka-dot apron while whipping up a batch of whoopee pies. The strange creep of tweeness (it’s a word) has meant you can barely turn round in Next or M&S without knocking over another display of pink cake stands, or tripping over a Union Jack cushion cover and I’ve got to be honest it’s getting on my wick.

Consider the TV chef. No, seriously, go with me here, because it’s here that I think the rise of the twee can be seen in all its pink, fluffy glory. 

Think about the Hairy Bikers, motoring round Europe, hairnets jauntily perched on beards, on the hunt for a pie. 

Think of the Fabulous Baker Brothers, posh lads competing against each other to make the best pie. 

Then think of (gorgeous) Nigella sneaking downstairs to sneak chocolate cake out of the fridge. Of (gorgeous) former model Lorraine Pascale wafting around the white regency buildings of West London and helpfully telling us that you can buy ready-made pastry in the supermarket. Or twee-est (again, it’s a word) of them all, (gorgeous) Rachel Khoo, making teeny-tiny croque madames (or is it mesdames?) in her teeny-tiny flat. They're all great cooks. But it’s not the same, is it?

I’m not really sure why it bugs me so much. Perhaps it's because it's hard to see that glass ceiling when it's strung with bunting? 

Whatever the reason I’m starting to feel like I did on Easter Sunday – a bit fed up of all the sweetness and in desperate need of something savoury. Let’s hope it’s just a phase, eh? But in the meantime, people of Britain, I suppose I shall have to just Keep Calm and Ice a Cupcake. Bleurgh. 

Happy birthday Thing One!

Five years ago today Thing One was due. He didn’t arrive for another ELEVEN days (man, those days went slooooowly) but this means one thing – my first born’s fifth birthday is almost upon us.

Now, a fifth birthday is a big deal. It’s the first ‘school’ birthday and for Thing One it’s his first proper party.

The party is fast becoming the social event of the year. Twenty-nine invitations have been written and sent out, we have booked a church hall (our house is pretty big, but we don’t have enough room for 30 boisterous five year olds, assorted parents and one very lively two year old) and I am drowning in to-do lists.

It’s been an eye-opener I can tell you. There’s a whole (extremely lucrative) industry devoted to kids’ parties (well hello Mr and Mrs Middleton) – invitations, cups, plates, piñatas, you name it.

I tracked down a party entertainer who was going to charge me £240 for two hours. A lawyer friend of mine was aghast.

‘I’ve been qualified for ten years,’ she wailed. ‘I can’t charge £120 an hour.’

So I’m doing the games, my husband is doing the food, we’ve got a bouncy castle and we’ve roped in a few people to help us.

As the big day approaches, I’m beginning to regret this approach slightly. I can see why parents cough up £12 a head to a soft play place and get them to do the whole thing. But I can also see where this children’s party industry has come from. I want the party to be perfect. Not for the guests or to impress the other mums (I suspect it’s a bit late to start worrying about impressing them!) but just to make sure Thing One enjoys himself.

He’s so excited and every day asks if I’ve had more replies to his invitations (which by the way, I haven’t. How hard is it to send a text message?). The news that two girls from his class can’t come threw him into despair. He’s thrilled with Daddy’s ideas for naming food after superheroes and chuckles to himself about ‘Green Goblin grapes’.

So I can kind of see that parents will spend and spend to make their child’s party perfect. Luckily though, I am a sensible lady and from good Scottish, thrifty stock. So I can also see that what Thing One will love is being the centre of attention for a day, playing games with his friends, eating a Batman-shaped sandwich and maybe even having a dance to Lady Gaga. In short, what he will love is being loved. And that costs nothing.

Tradition? (Golf) balls!

Last weekend golf fans from all over the world watched the US Masters at the Augusta National Golf Club.

Augusta is one of the best golf courses in the world. Its elite membership policy means it admits only the highest echelons of US society. Oh, and by that, I mean men. Yes, women aren't allowed to join Augusta. Seriously. In a show of sexism worthy of the Church of England, it's men-only all the way. How quaint.

The Masters is sponsored by IBM. Traditionally, the CEO of IBM has been offered membership of the golf club - the last four CEOs all became members. This year, IBM's CEO is a woman - Virginia Rometty. Has she been offered membership? Augusta has remained suspiciously quiet about the whole thing.

Now, if the powers that be at Augusta want to continue this archaic admissions policy, in the mistaken belief that it somehow makes them 'posher' then so be it. Actually, to be fair, I must confess that Augusta's membership list is one big massive secret. So, in theory, there could already be a female member that no one knows about. Somehow I doubt it, though.

Anyway, if they want to enforce a no-women policy, then fine. It makes them look like idiots but that's up to them. But why does everyone go along with it? Why do the golfers - who strike me as a very sensible bunch of rather nice chaps - all agree to play there? Why oh why don't they just say no? Why does the BBC spend my licence fee on televising the event? Why did Hazel Irvine do the commentary?

Presumably Augusta doesn't care much for the opinions of women so us complaining isn't going to give them much pause for thought (that's no reason to shut up, though). In fact, Barack Obama's press secretary Jay Carney said the president's personal opinion was that women should be admitted. So if they don't listen to him...

But money talks, my friend. If the golf establishment spoke up, something might happen. If IBM pulled its sponsorship for example. Or the TV channels refused to broadcast the event. If Hazel Irvine had said she wouldn't report from the competition. (By the way, the New York Times' golf writer Karen Crouse said if it were up to her, she wouldn't cover the event again until there was a female member. She was reprimanded by her sports editor for being so outspoken). And, most importantly, if the golfers refused to play - I bet your bottom dollar (see how I speak American!) they'd change that membership policy pretty damn quick.

Stop talking about Samantha Brick!

I was born a feminist. Largely because I come from a family of strong women - on both sides - who taught me I can do anything and be anything I want. My incredible mum can turn her hand to anything, Auntie Norma is the cleverest person I know, Auntie Pauline fearlessly left home and built an amazing new life on the other side of the world and my Grandma, Jess, brought up four children (single-handedly for some of it), fostered others, ran her own business and somehow managed to find time to be a local councillor.

So it was with dismay that I watched the hoohah (I've never written that before - is that how it's spelled?) unfold over Samantha Brick's claim in the Daily Mail that women hate her because she's beautiful.

"She's not all that," some people said/tweeted/facebooked. Others pointed out that it was probably her over-inflated ego that lost her friends, not her nice hair. I admit I joined in. We gathered round my colleague's computer, read bits of the feature out loud and laughed. And then a thought occurred to me. Was this an elaborate test set by the women-hating Daily Mail? And had we all just failed it?

I'm a journalist. I know how it works. And I suspect this was an idea dreamed up by a couple of features eds on the paper. "Let's prove women hate each other," they'd have said. "And let's choose someone who's pretty but not stop-the-traffic stunning."

Up stepped Ms Brick. Why would she hold herself up to such ridicule, you may ask? Well, frankly, I'd write anything for a couple of hundred quid and a bag of Maltesers. I assume Ms Brick is the same. Freelance journalists tend not to be too fussy...

Ms Brick put pen to paper, the Daily Mail printed it, and then they sat back and watched as we all bayed for her blood. Epic fail, girlfriends. Epic. We've been played. By the Daily bloody Mail. And the worst thing about it is, it's not even true. Of course women don't hate their beautiful friends. We all love it when a friend glows with pregnancy, or wows 'em down the aisle on her wedding day. My own bridesmaids were jaw-droppingly pretty. I didn't sack them because of it.

So, like I do when my toddler's being naughty, let's give this no more attention. Let's ignore Samantha Brick and her silly article. Let's stop looking at the Daily Mail's website (oh, okay, I know it's really good for celeb gossip and pictures of awards and stuff. Let's see if we can limit it to once a day, eh?) and let's start celebrating each other. Women are all beautiful. And they rock. That's all.

Halloween horrors!

I've never been one for horror films. I'm a bit of a wuss, to be honest. But earlier this year, my husband and I watched the gorgeous Mark Gatiss's History of Horror documentaries that he made for BBC4 and I suddenly realised there was more to it than a bit of fake blood and a scary soundtrack.

My zombie-obsessed husband suggested we start the Sunday-Night Scare - and watch a different horror film each week. I wasn't keen at first, but he's quite persuasive my old man, and so I agreed. I do have a tactic - I always check how long the film is, so I know how much we've got left. It's the only way I can sit through them!

But, man, oh, man, am I converted? Horror films are BRILLIANT! We've watched some classic, some sci-fi, slasher flicks, supernatural adventures and zombie romps. Only one has given me nightmares (weirdly, it was Drag Me to Hell, which is more funny than scary) and the only one I've had to stop watching half-way through was The Hills Have Eyes, which was horrible, gratuitous torture porn.

I've thought long and hard about my favourites and I just can't choose one. So, in honour of Halloween, here's my top-five horror flicks (so far - we've got LOADS still to watch).

Best story-telling

The Shining.
Stephen King is a genius and The Shining is all the proof you need. It's got everything - an isolated (creepy) hotel, a volatile anti-hero, a cute kid, a scary maze... Absolutely brilliant.



Most thoughtful

The Exorcist
Shocking and horrifying it may be, but The Exorcist is also beautifully shot. Its plot is well thought-out and the performances are amazing. It's just much bigger than your average horror movie.


Most poignant

Let the Right One In
A tragic Swedish film about Eli, a lonely little girl who just happens to be a vampire. The story of her friendship with bullied Oscar stayed with me for a long time.


Best slasher flick

Halloween
It's a classic for a reason. Watching this was like watching the beginning of modern horror - the babysitter, the strange phone calls, the he's-dead-oh-shit-no-he's-not moment - it all started right here.


Most scary

Paranormal Activity
For a film where actually nothing happens this was abso-bloody-lutely terrifying. Who knew a bit of hair being blown by an invisible breath, or a swinging light fixture, could scare the bejeesus out of me?



My favourite film of all time is still Dirty Dancing, but (thanks to my husband) now I can see there's a place for zombies, too. And if they're dancing the merengue, then so much the better!