Teacher appreciation LIFE

This post had been kicking around in my drafts for about a week, when yesterday I discovered that today is National Teacher Appreciation day. What serendipity! And so, here is a waffly blog post about teaching, and why teachers are tip-top humans.

'Those who can, do. Those who can't do, teach.' And those who trot out this old adage can get stuffed. Those who give enough of a shit that they devote their lives to enabling others to do, teach. Teachers are heroes, inspiration, the best of people. I know it's clichéd, and I'm sure repeated watchings of Mona Lisa Smile* have given me an even more romantic view of teaching, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that I wouldn't be where I am without the effort, support and general brilliance of several staggeringly excellent teachers. Yeah, I'm passionate about learning, and about linguistics specifically, but if through random happenstance I'd not progressed through my schooling having been taught by the people I was, I'm not entirely sure I would be this excited, this driven, this in love with studying.

**

At my high school, every single student between years seven and nine was terrified of Mr Taylor. He was a force of nature, and everyone knew not to cross him, lest face his wrath. And what a wrath it was - he could stand inches from your face and bellow at you, never faltering, almost sinister in his eloquence. Thankfully, this never happened to me, but I saw it many a time, and that was more than enough to stop me crossing him. Of course, it didn't help that Mr Taylor was also a PE teacher, and thus his yelling was also heard on freezing November afternoons as we did cross-country running (or as it was more commonly known, institutionalised torture). Basically, we were shit-scared of the man.

Then came GCSE English, and Mr Taylor was assigned our set. It was like knowing a different man. Mr Taylor smiled, laughed and joked his way through our lessons, vibrant and hilarious but still with an incomparable command of the class (probably from the residual fear that he'd explode - the man crafted his reputation well). He encouraged critical thought, pushed us to be better, but mainly let us feed off his enjoyment of the subject, of poetry and prose, of literary history.

I remember his teaching of Second World War literature in particular. I can recall his explaining the translation of "dulce et decorum est pro patria mori"; needing us to understand the terrible irony of the 'glories of war' was incredibly important to him. And the pause, during Wilfred Owen's Disabled, after he read 'In the old times, before he threw away his knees' -- I've never quite been able to shake the power of that line, and I think the pain in his reading of it is the reason. He cared so much, about history and suffering and the importance of art and literature in allowing a generation who never had to live through it to understand, to appreciate what came before them, and how we're able to live so well now.

As is a pattern with all of these teachers, I was a bit of a pet to Mr Taylor. Not because I was particularly academically adept, but I spoke up in class, and went to him for extra help. He used his lunchbreak to gently dissect a piss-awful poem I wrote and help me to draft another (to this day, I remain a piss-awful poet, but he did help), and another to calm me when I freaked out about reading the bit in Great Expectations where Mrs Havisham catches fire and dies, and to read that section through with me, making sure I was okay after every few lines. We also bonded over being Manchester City fans, and thus started my long career of pretending to know more about football than I actually do. At one parents' evening, as my folks sat down at his desk, he said 'Hannah's doing fine - so, did you see the match last night?' and proceeded to talk to my dad about City for fifteen minutes.

When we left year 11, he wrote the whole class a poem (still pinned to my noticeboard), which contained a line for each of us. He also wrote individual poems for a few of us, and I can remember mine off-by-heart, even now.

Hannah Leach
A blue
Good for you
Stay true
To your calling

Hannah Leach
The beach
Lies across the water
Don't do what you think
Do what you ought to
And the sun lounger will be yours

I hope I never forget that.

We went back to see Mr Taylor a few times after leaving school, but haven't been in over a year now. I hope I get to see him again, but more than that, I hope he knows the lasting effect he had on our class. (I'm realising this is getting a bit Dead Poets Society all up in here. I promise none of these stories end with a classmate shooting themselves and a bunch of us standing on tables.)

To complete the picture, a school-aged Han (who apparently only had one photo-pose)

**

Then came college. In my second year, I studied English Language and Literature with the same teacher - Stewart McNicol. Here again was a a teacher who gave a shit, who was interested and interesting, and a little bit weird. He taught us about diphthongs by talking about hyaenas, schooled us in l337 speak, and littered child language acquisition lessons with anecdotes about teaching his infant son the word 'meteorologist' so he'd look super smart when anybody asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He just enjoyed it.

Stoo also invented McNicol's Gallery of Tedious Anthropomorphism, a new instalment of which greeted us nearly every lesson, and elicited a welcome chuckle.

One of the things I remember most clearly is, when talking about books written for children and their simplified syntax, I spontaneously quoted Black Books without thinking - 'look in the alligator's mouth: it's not there either!' Being met with stony, confused silence from my fellow classmates, Stoo finished the quote - 'we all drank lemonade, the end!' - simultaneously a) making me feel like less of a moron, and b) cementing himself as teacher-type extraordinaire.

Since leaving college, Stoo has been kind enough to help me complete my undergraduate dissertation, giving up his free time for naught more than a bag of Tangfastics. Actually, considering he follows me on Twitter, there's every chance he's reading this sycophantic waffle right now. If so, cheers, Stoo!

**

My lucky streak extended into University, where I was fortunate enough to be taught by some cracking linguists, many of whom had paved the field of linguistics in the first place. (I still get a frisson of excitement when I see a book and think 'the author of that book taught me!') Specifically, I was particularly felicitous to be taught extensively by Kevin Watson. While I loved English Language at A Level, it was my three years at Lancaster University that saw me actually fall head-over-heels in love with Linguistics, and Kevin had a LOT to do with that. Here again was a teacher who radiated enthusiasm for the subject, who took pride in the field, and who was sure of its importance and relevance.

Kevin also supervised me through my dissertation, and the man deserves a MEDAL for putting up with me. One time, having gotten nowhere with an assignment for a course he didn't even teach, he sat quietly by as I cried and waffled about the Turkish noun data in front of me that just didn't make any sense god dammit, and calmly told me that I just needed to read a bit further and think a bit harder, and - lo and behold! - having found the right book in the library, it all finally clicked. He made me feel like I could actually do something in this field, make an impact, and do it well.

Beyond that, he's just a damn good teacher. Eloquent without being confusing, clear without being patronising. And, sharing a common thread with the other brilliant teachers I've mentioned, he gave a shit. He cared.

And a uni-aged Han (no seriously, why do I only have one pose/expression when a camera is pointed at me?)

 **

There have been times where I've felt more of a nuisance than a pupil, and generally discouraged from doing anything innovative, challenging, or left-field. Instead, I've felt encouraged to sit back, take the easy option, to not really try. It happens, and while I don't blame certain teachers for occasionally being this way (teachers have bad moods too!), it can be disheartening.

I've been struggling, lately, feeling a little lost academically. And then last week, I had a brilliant meeting with an MA lecturer, who - yet again - seemed to give a shit, and who encouraged me not to abandon my ideas. Good teachers make me I feel like I can do stuff, and do it well. I now have to actually do the stuff, of course, but the encouragement I've received throughout my academic career has been absolutely invaluable.

Teachers are heroes, and a good teacher can make a cosmos of difference.

*I knowww, it's terrible, but it's so pretty! And their faces! And the clothes!

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside

I am British. As such, when I experience freak, out-of-season sunshine, I roll up my trousers, throw on my douchebag sunglasses and defiantly bake myself. 'It's March!' the haterz cry, 'March, you fools!', yet I push my fingers into my ears and chime 'la la la I'm not listening' as my pale, pale skin pinkens within five minutes of seeing the sun.

Yes, for the last week we've been experiencing a HEATWAVE. I should, by all rights, dislike the sun, being the palest of pale Janets who burns preposterously easily, but as soon as the sun comes out I'm infected with SPRING FEVER, wherein I listen to happy-clappy folk music non-stop, skip in public and beam at strangers. I don't dislike the late-in-year seasons, but spring and summer are my favourites, and make me even more giddily enthusiastic than I already am. Which is saying something.

Caught up in the spirit of the sunshine, Becky and I decided that we very much needed to sack of any work we should have been doing and hotfoot it to the seaside. Enlisting Alex, Jamie and Ellen, we got an early train to Scarbrorough on Thursday morning, and spent the day being achingly touristy and embarrassing, and loving every second.

After eating our lunch on the beach at 10.30am (deciding early on that we were totally buying fish and chips later on), we steadfastly refused to move from the sand as the day took its sweet time heating up. (Hoodies on the beach - yeah, we did the whole, clichéd shebang.) Cheering when the sun finally showed its face, we proceeded to play tick, leapfrog and show off our manifold gymnastics skillz.

Y M C A!

Y O R K!

We then preceded to eat our bodyweight in seaside-y treats (fish and chips, ice-cream, doughnuts, rock), before making the sensible decision that we should swim in the North Sea. In March. Yup, five postgrad students thought that would be a good idea. We managed about half an hour of intermittently running in and out of the water and screaming bloody murder as it froze our respective reproductive organs, which was a thoroughly enjoyable endeavour despite it making our skin actually burn with the cold.

My cornea-burning fashion sense: let me show you it.

Sunny, smiley beachfolk.

It was basically the most delightful of days, spent with the most delightful of people, and was the perfect break from the essay madness that has been clutching us in its grasp. One assignment down, with another to go, plus two exams and a dissertation proposal to prepare for, it's been heavy duty, of late. But with seaside sojourns as joyful as this one a possibility, I realise how lucky and happy I am right now.

Linguistic smack talk: it's a thing.

This is going to make sense to approximately nobody, but I needed to document the GLORIOUS SASS of the linguistics article I am currently reading.

Basically, in 1989, a bunch of linguists discussed and voted on revisions to the International Phonetic Alphabet, and as such some new symbols were added, while some existing ones were changed, and others dispensed with entirely.

Geoffrey Pullum, prominent linguist and scholar, had some stuff to say about these revisions, and - boy - is he not one to mince his words. He wrote a piece* for the Journal of the International Phonetic Association expressing just what he thought about the proposals, and (indirectly) those who supported/rejected them.

He starts by telling us how his article will be laid out:

'Following two standard practices that are in fact objected to on phonetic grounds by many phoneticians, I will organise these notes by pretending that there are such things as clearly identifiable segments, and that among these segments there is a clear distinction between consonants and vowels.'

People who believe in the tangible segmentation of speech sounds? What imbeciles! God, I love that this dig is so unnecessary, and SO sassy. 'Let's just pretend for a second, in some crazy, imaginary world, that the ideas of 'consonant' and 'vowel' even exist. Come on, kids, let's play. LET'S MAKE BELIEVE.'

'It is unfortunate for the IPA to have had to introduce no fewer than eight new letter shapes for a set of sounds that are so rare ... But it is done.'

I am sobbing, this guy is the best. 'You guys just do whatever, see if I care. I mean, your idea is STUPID, but whatever, it's your funeral.'

'A long-standing movement to introduce a symbol for a (fully) open central vowel (a turned small capital A is the symbol of choice for this faction) raised its head once more again and was defeated once again. Students of the deja vu will be amused to note that the first known move  to get an open central vowel ordained was in 1907.'

Students of the deja vu! I honestly could not love him more. Also of note: the sassy use of the term 'faction' for the pro-open-central-vowel types, which for some reason makes me think of an underground sect holding hands and chanting 'aaaaaaa'**

'The [ɶ] symbol for Cardinal 12 survived - the unusable in pursuit of the unspeakable, as Oscar Wilde might have said, since Cardinal 12 is an unpronounceable contradiction in terms with jaws fully open and lips rounded. Perhaps one day it can be acoustically synthesised so we can hear it uttered as nature never intended.'

STOP IT, I CANNOT HANDLE HOW GLORIOUSLY BITCHY YOU ARE. Invoking Oscar Wilde! Imagining hypothetical futures to prove your point! Messing with common idioms to add extra sass! I think I love you.

The end of the article is too long to quote in its entirety, but it's a brilliant and oddly heart-wrenching few paragraphs that compares the debates between phoneticians about various symbol usage with the fall of the Berlin Wall. I shit you not. It is, like I said, actually really lovely, and suggests that while huge political conflicts can be overcome, such silly bickering about the use of the letter [j] in American vs. IPA graphic representation of sound should easily be dispensed with.

But, at the same time, it is comparing debate in linguistics to the fall of the Berlin wall, so.

I have to stress that I have no strong feelings for or against Pullum's opinions - this isn't a vehicle for mocking his ideas, it's just a celebration of the cattiest, most entertaining scholarly article I have probably ever had the joy of reading in my brief career as an academic. Four for you, Geoff Pullum - you go, Geoff Pullum.

*Pullum, G. (1990) Remarks on the 1989 Revision of the International Phonetic Alphabet. Journal of the International Phonetic Association 20, 33-40.
**I would have used the symbol for a fully open central vowel here, but - quelle horreur! - there isn't one! Oh, I amuse myself.

The only type of 'cardinal' I like is the vowel kind. Ba-BAM.

I'm sure, twelve hours after the offending article was published – in which Cardinal Keith O'Brien (President of the Bishops’ Conference of Scotland and Britain’s most senior Catholic) aired his views on the potential legalisation of same-sex marriage – that there will have been no less than eight million angry blog posts in retaliation, all of which are likely to be better than this. However, having read the article on the first leg of my eight-hour journey back to York from Winchester this morning, and having spent the following two hours hand-writing a three-page long strongly-worded rebuttal on a wobbly train tray-table, it would seem the most phenomenal waste of my efforts not to type it up. Plus, an hour of angry typing will be excellent catharsis for any deep-seated frustration I may be harbouring.

I also appreciate how special-snowflake-y and horribly appropriative it is of someone who identifies relatively low on the Kinsey scale to write a blogpost about this. I really, really don't want it to come across like that - I just give a shit, and wanted to write some words to that effect.

And thus begins a paragraph-by-paragraph dissection of the Cardinal's article, with a something of a linguistic, capslocky, sweary slant.

Those of us who were not in favour of civil partnership, believing that such relationships are harmful to the physical, mental and spiritual wellbeing of those involved

(Alas, the blogpost should really begin with an intelligent deconstruction of the Cardinal's arguments, but since his does not offer any kind of logical, sensible argument in the first place, I shan't offer him the same courtesy.) Of course! For someone who identifies as a man to be in a loving relationship with someone who identifies as a woman is a healthy, safe and wonderful thing, but should their partner identify as a man (or vice versa), it immediately becomes disease-ridden, breakdown-inducing and spirit-crushing? Excuse me while I laugh so hard I cough up a lung.

Since all the legal rights of marriage are already available to homosexual couples, it is clear that this proposal is not about rights, but rather is an attempt to redefine marriage for the whole of society at the behest of a small minority of activists.

Well whadd'ya know? The Cardinal starts out by being kind of right! (Bear with me.) I mean, his point is phrased horribly, but he's got the gist: it is about redefining marriage. Many non-heterosexual people don't want to get married; aligning themselves with a tradition that has ostracised them for hundreds of years is not something they fancy doing - completely, completely understandable. But some do, and this is where the Cardinal's point falls short: it is also about rights. It's about the right to get married, a right which is denied many people for no good reason. And yes, despite the pejorative connotations of the phrase 'behest of a small minority of activists', it is absolutely about redefining marriage for the whole society. Why the Cardinal thinks this is somehow inherently bad, and can thus stand alone as an argument, is beyond me.

Redefining marriage will have huge implications for what is taught in our schools, and for wider society. It will redefine society since the institution of marriage is one of the fundamental building blocks of society. The repercussions of enacting same-sex marriage into law will be immense.

And he's done it again! The Cardinal speaks the truth! I concede, his intended tone is drawn, apocalyptic and disparaging - I imagine it could be read like the voiceover for one of those 'natural disaster hits NYC and only Mark Whalberg can save the world with a mixture of lifting things and blank looks into the distance' sort of film trailers. However, try reading the same paragraph in the voice of a child in the car on the way to the pound going to pick up their new puppy. That adequately expresses how I feel about the whole thing. Redefining marriage will have phenomenal consequences for society – phenomenal, brilliant, boundary-breaking consequences that will shape the future for the next generation of young Britons.

But can we simply redefine terms at a whim? Can a word whose meaning has been clearly understood in every society throughout history suddenly be changed to mean something else?

In short: yes. That's the brilliant thing about words: they change, evolve, move with the times. Language change isn't the issue here, and the Cardinal really needs to stop masking his prejudices behind linguistic euphemism.

If same-sex marriage is enacted into law what will happen to the teacher who wants to tell pupils that marriage can only mean – and has only ever meant – the union of a man and a woman?

Well, Cardy my sweet, they will tell those pupils that marriage means the union of two people, regardless of gender, because THAT WILL BE THE TRUTH. If the law redefines marriage in this way, and a teacher claims otherwise, they will be lying. This isn't about belief, it's about what is the legal case, and in this hypothetical future, the only answer will be to explain that marriage is not restricted by the gender of either spouse. If a child asked a teacher 'what is murder?' and they answered 'it's when a person tickles another person with a feather', that would be a lie, just like telling a child that marriage is only for heterosexual couples. I'm afraid, to put it bluntly and a little childishly, that teachers – imparters of knowledge, not arbitrary moral judgements – will have to suck it up.

Will both teacher and pupils simply become the next victims of the tyranny of tolerance...?

I can't even finish this quote, gobsmacked as I am that the phrase 'tyranny of tolerance' can even exist in real life. Good Christ I hope it doesn't catch on as a buzzphrase for this bullshit. How dare a nation suggest for a second that each and every one of its citizens be treated equally! Quelle horreur! What of us who want to direct hate and abuse at an arbitrarily selected group of the population? We're being oppressed, I tell you, oppressed!

Fuck off.

In Article 16 of the Universal Declaration on Human Rights, marriage is defined as a relationship between men and women.

I'll let the selfsame Declaration of Human Rights speak for itself (and me) here:

Article 1: All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights.They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

Article 2: Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status. Furthermore, no distinction shall be made on the basis of the political, jurisdictional or international status of the country or territory to which a person belongs, whether it be independent, trust, non-self-governing or under any other limitation of sovereignty.

Many people will spout back article 18 at me, here – 'Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion'. I don't deny people like the Cardinal the freedom to hold their horrid beliefs (being involved in religion quite heavily in the past, religious freedom is something I believe deserves a great deal of respect – though the issues and technicalities of this are lengthy enough to warrant their own blogpost). What I – and the Declaration – do disallow is the right of those beliefs to impinge upon the rights of another person, which is what the Cardinal is advocating. He believes that his personal belief is enough to prevent certain people from enjoying the same freedoms as others. How about no?

Instead, their attempt to redefine reality is given a polite hearing, their madness is indulged. Their proposal represents a grotesque subversion of a universally accepted human right.

Dude, 'reality' used to constitute a person's right to keep slaves, or murder people. Redefining reality is what moves our society closer towards freedom and fairness for all. I'm finding it hard to comment upon the extreme stupidity of this particular quote, but perhaps it need explicitly saying:

Dear Cardinal,
Your proposal represents a 'grotesque subversion' of the universally accepted #1 tip-top human right that 'all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights'.
Love, Hannah xoxo

As an institution, marriage long predates the existence of any state or government. It was not created by governments and should not be changed by them. Instead, recognising the innumerable benefits which marriage brings to society, they should act to protect and uphold marriage, not attack or dismantle it.

Who gives a rose-tinted fuck if marriage predates the government under which we operate? So did murder, but I don't hear any complaints about governments imposing pretty strict 'don't kill people' regulations. Marriage is a legally binding procedure, the technicalities of which are in the remit of the government. If the government can offer various legal benefits to married couples, they can sure as hell alter the technicalities of who can marry whom in the first place.

And, hello, the government clearly do recognise these 'innumerable benefits' (issues I have with these so-called inherent benefits notwithstanding), and hope to open them up to everyone, so that everyone may benefit, and we can all bask in this marital bliss the Cardinal speaks so highly of, should we wish to.

...yet today advancing a traditional understanding of marriage risks one being labelled an intolerant bigot.

You said it, Cardy.

It has been damaged and undermined over the course of a generation, yet marriage has always existed in order to bring men and women together so that the children born of those unions will have a mother and a father.

This brings us to the one perspective which seems to be completely lost or ignored: the point of view of the child. All children deserve to begin life with a mother and father; the evidence in favour of the stability and well-being which this provides is overwhelming and unequivocal. It cannot be provided by a same-sex couple, however well-intentioned they may be.

The sheer, staggering arrogance of words like these kind of make me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit. Is the Cardinal trying to suggest that the potential for love, care and compassion is rendered null and void should we choose to pursue a life with a partner of the same gender? Or perhaps he's saying that those children raised by homosexual parents, in single-parent households, by aunts, uncles, grandparents and other relatives, or by any guardian of any kind, have not received the same level of care as those from a mother/father home, regardless of the stability or happiness of this heterosexual family foundation? Now that really is intolerant, illogical and incomprehensible bigotry.

It would create a society which deliberately chooses to deprive a child of either a mother or a father.

Newsflash: a court of law can already do that (should the parent be deemed unfit), as can a person choosing to parent alone, whether through surrogacy, adoption or using a sperm bank. And, I repeat: why is this a bad thing?

Other dangers exist. If marriage can be redefined so that it no longer means a man and a woman but two men or two women, why stop there? Why not allow three men or a woman and two men to constitute a marriage, if they pledge their fidelity to one another? If marriage is simply about adults who love each other, on what basis can three adults who love each other be prevented from marrying?

Possibly a more controversial opinion here, but if all parties are happy and consenting, would this be so terrible? I'm inclined to say it wouldn't, but I'm more inclined to say it is none of my damn business, and no right of mine to dictate what people can and cannot do with their lives.

In November 2003, after a court decision in Massachusetts to legalise gay marriage, school libraries were required to stock same-sex literature; primary schoolchildren were given homosexual fairy stories such as King & King. Some high school students were even given an explicit manual of homosexual advocacy entitled The Little Black Book: Queer in the 21st Century. Education suddenly had to comply with what was now deemed “normal”. 

Has the Cardinal ever seen the figures for LGBT teen suicide? Can he not fathom that this kind of early visibility and normalisation of what is – shock horror! – NORMAL human sexuality might help a child with confused sexual feelings to not feel alone, ostracised and driven to self-abuse? It is precisely telling children that non-heterosexual behaviour is normal that can save lives in the long run. You're not warping children's minds, you're widening them.

Imagine for a moment that the Government had decided to legalise slavery but assured us that “no one will be forced to keep a slave”.

Would such worthless assurances calm our fury? Would they justify dismantling a fundamental human right? Or would they simply amount to weasel words masking a great wrong?

I come to the Cardinal's next point rather serendipitously, having forgotten what he'd written while making my former point about slavery. How odd that we both compare the legalisation of same-sex marriage to the abolition of slavery, but in such different ways. The Cardinal seems to be forgetting that LGBT people and slaves are the oppressed minorities in these cases, and he instead aligns the slaves with those poor souls who believe that marriage should be a strictly heterosexual institution (a group that cannot, by any stretch of the imagination be described as 'Christians', as so many firmly advocate same-sex marriage, and so many non-Christians don't.)

The Universal Declaration on Human Rights is crystal clear: marriage is a right which applies to men and women, “the family is the natural and fundamental group unit of society and is entitled to protection by society and the State”.

This universal truth is so self-evident that it shouldn’t need to be repeated. If the Government attempts to demolish a universally recognised human right, they will have forfeited the trust which society has placed in them and their intolerance will shame the United Kingdom in the eyes of the world.

One of the things that is linguistically confusing about the Cardinal's argument is his consistent invocation of the phrase 'human right'. According to the phrasing of the declarations, article 16 is as follows:

1) Men and women of full age, without any limitation due to race, nationality or religion, have the right to marry and to found a family. They are entitled to equal rights as to marriage, during marriage and at its dissolution.
2) Marriage shall be entered into only with the free and full consent of the intending spouses.
3) The family is the natural and fundamental group unit of society and is entitled to protection by society and the State.

The Cardinal talks of 'dismantling a fundamental human right' twice, as if legalising same-sex marriage will somehow impede upon heterosexual couples' ability to marry freely and unhindered. Should same-sex marriage be legalised, this will not be the case – the only thing anybody may lose is the ability to discriminate and dictate who is free to declare and ceremonially cement their love in a public ceremony with friends and family present. The only thing the Cardinal is losing is his right to be such a dickhead, and – as far as I can tell – the Universal Declaration does not support 'the right to be a massive dickhead', and as such his invocation of the statute is nonsensical and erroneous.

I was going to say that, in direct contrast to old Cardy's views, legalising same-sex marriage could make the UK a bastion of tolerance from which other governments may take lead. I then stopped to think about the word 'tolerance', and it left a bad taste in my mouth. 'Tolerance' smacks of begrudgingly putting up with something – the way I tolerate takeaways who put ketchup on my burgers without me requesting it. We shouldn't tolerate same-sex marriage, we should fucking celebrate it; celebrate the slow but optimistic progress towards a society where sexuality and gender have no bearing on how one person treats another, not does affect the rights, liberties and opportunities afforded to us all.

Silent films, Streetcars and super exciting sojourns!

I haven't posted here since what I later realised was Valentine's Day (only the coolest of girls spend the ~most romantic day of the year writing blog posts about Shakespeare and fake sheep), because life seems to have SPIRALLED OUT OF CONTROL somewhat, not quite giving me time to get a foothold.

I expected the past fortnight to be a little calmer (not least because the first five days were Reading Week, the euphemistically titled break from studies that encourages most people to piss off on holiday), but with a formative phonetics assignment, several articles to write and subedit for my freelance job* and a smattering of this thing I believe people call a social life, I found myself with less time than ever. Throw in a motherbitch of a cold and the last fortnight pretty much flew by in a glorious, mental blur.

I did, however, manage to take in some culcha, feelings about which will be vomited below, in traditional listy format.

THE ARTIST
Bringing the grand total of main 2012 Best Picture Oscar nominated films I have actually seen to one, I got to see The Artist on Thursday evening. But, to be fair, it was the only one that, on the surface, made me want to watch it (aside from Tinker, Tailor, which I need to get on asap, because god knows I love me some tragic homosexual spies).

While I'm not sure it deserves the utter, unrelenting adoration it has received in every single way (in that, while wonderful, it was flawed), I bloody loved it. The combination of the novel, unique cinemagoing experience, vintage charm of the era, beautiful direction and extreme handsomeness of Jean Dujardin (more on that later) made it an utter delight from start to finish.

The direction was, as I said, beautiful; one shot in particular, in which George Valentin is angstily sitting at a mirrored table, and pours a glass of whiskey over his reflection on the surface, was really just staggeringly well done. The costumes were stunning, and I'm not quite sure who was more adorable, Berenice Bejo or Uggie the dog (utter scene-stealer)**.

While George Valentin was perhaps a tad whiny as a character, Jean Dujardin was heartbreakingly good at both beaming swagger and utter dejection. Also, as Emma has previously put it, his face should really just be pictured adjacent to the 'handsome' entry in the dictionary.

I mean REALLY. That's basically just obnoxiously handsome***.

The music was perfectly lovely, and I loved the experience of seeing a silent film (though I am Team Talkies - sorry George!). I found myself holding my breath in parts, terrified of disturbing the silence, and I admit that other people's rustling becomes that bit more frustrating in this setting, but I wouldn't give up the cinema experience of The Artist for a DVD viewing in a million years.

A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE @ Liverpool Everyman
(once again, I have taken the majority of this review from a shameful email to Rob)

A brilliant, uncomfortably intense production of a play I was utterly unfamiliar with (I do shame myself with my ignorance at times) before Saturday afternoon. Weak in parts, Amanda Drew and Sam Troughton shone in the most painful way.

I admit, I was kind of ruined for at least the first half-hour, because dear lord some of the accents were ATROCIOUS. I'm no expert on the specifics of the New Orleans accent, but the supporting cast were jarringly bad at the start, and it made it very, very difficult to engage with the characters straight from the off. It seemed so pantomime, so distant, if that even makes any sense. Amanda Drew and Sam Troughton were much better, but Matthew Flynn (Mitch) in particular was in and out like a yoyo! Which is such a shame, because his performance was heartbreakingly good.

The stage was three-quarters of a room, which rotated to reveal an outside spiral staircase at the side and occasionally only gave us shots of the action through an open window, which I really liked. You could really feel the stickiness and claustrophobia of the tiny apartment, and how much that must have driven Blanche to distraction, particularly being so close to Stan.

Amanda was undoubtedly the star - she was INCREDIBLE. When we first meet Blanche it was really, really hard for me to see her as a real person; because her extended periods of solo dialogue seem so unnatural and staged, she seems like a written character rather than an actual person, if that makes any sense. She's SO dramatic and SO verbose that she seems ridiculous, but as the play continues and you see that it's just her, and that verbal diarrhoea is her reflex, her being terrified of silence and being alone, a frantic need to talk and talk and have someone listen (which plays off so heartbreakingly well against Mitch's need to have someone talk to him, oh my soul).

AND SAM TROUGHTON. Having only seen Sam as doe-eyed hopeless cases, I was completely unprepared for Stan's swaggering dickishness, but he absolutely killed it. He's basically all chest, and it is MAGNIFICENT. His Polish-American accent was very strong, and he was masterful at that sinister sexiness that absolutely made you understand why Stella fell in love with him in the first place, and remains so entranced by him. He was equal parts menacing and heartbreaking, and filled the stage brilliantly.

Also, and I am toning down the creepy A LOT right now, daaaaaaamn Troughton! Where'd you get them arms? Flex them for me a little more! Grasp that bottle/doorframe/wrist a little harder! Oh God I hate myself, but he was ridiculously attractive, and spent a good 40% of the play changing his shirt.

And this one time he totally poured a bottle of beer all over himself while wearing a vest.
It was awesome.

UNIVERSITY CHALLENGE!!!!111!1!1!!
So on Sunday, in what was basically the pinnacle of my existence, I got to go to Granada Studios in Manchester to watch the filming of University Challenge. Since my darling friend Becky ass-kicked her way into the captain spot, I've been spending an awful lot of time with the team as they've trained (having subsequently come to accept my own extreme intellectual inferiority), and have become disgustingly fond of them all. They're all wonderful, stupidly smart humans, and I was so honoured to have been able to go and watch them.

Of course, as this series is not airing until July, I am strictly verboten from divulging any of the scores or successes, but I can give you a giddy account of the day - which, I'm sure you'll agree, is even better.

I TOOK THIS PICTURE. THAT'S HOW CLOSE I WAS.

Arriving late, I was made to sit on my own at the front, and thus had to contain my ridiculous excitement at being on the University Challenge set oh my godddddd. INSIDER FACT: they hold the nameplates on with sellotape. Oh yeah, no expense spared. I eventually found some people supporting Warwick Uni, who were just as exuberantly hyperactive as I was, and spend a good few hours freaking the fuck out every time we heard the theme tune or Paxman walked past.

SPEAKING OF PAXMAN: there's some feelings I never thought I'd have. He's kind of simultaneously the worst person - really rude and obnoxious, quite stroppy and a little too overly fond of Oxbridge colleges for my liking - but also brilliant - he was fab with the teams, and cracking jokes throughout. Also, the commanding thing? Yeah. Pleasant.

He also may have walked past us on the way out and I may have taken a photo. Just a little bit.

We got to watch four matches, and all of them were brilliant. We also did a lot of scary 'filming the audience applauding' shots, so there's my claim to fame for the next ten years sorted. Basically, it was the best day ever, and the York team are my absolute heroes for dealing with the utterly terrifying prospect that is Jeremy Paxman firing questions at you at speed.

Man, this blogpost got LONG. I'm going to go drink tea with Bri before salsa class. Laterz.

*I write and subedit for publicservice.co.uk, by the by.** HE WORE A FUCKING BOW TIE TO THE OSCARS KILL ME.
*** If you have been intrigued by this ridiculous specimen of handsomehood (if not, have you not eyes?!), then I insist you go here to briefly luxuriate in his extreme handsomeness, and here to see how fucking adorable he is in real life, too.

The Winter's Tale, Propeller Theatre Company - Sheffield Lyceum

I cannot lie, the majority of this review is copy and pasted from a ridiculously lengthy email I sent to Rob, and will thus be ridiculous. However, I have edited it slightly, because gmail is a much safer home for my shamelessness, and this blog must retain at least a little decorum.

(There be spoilers below. Big ones. Do not read on if you want to remain unspoiled for the production. This means you, Emma.)

To summarise, I loved it. I have a soft spot for it having studying it for A-Level, but it cannot be denied that the play itself is bizarre; with its halves in complete opposition, it can leave an audience a little unsettled, I think.

However, I think the best thing about this production was the fact that they completely embraced the juxtaposition of the two halves. Pussyfooting around it can often result in a weird middle ground that doesn't work for either (as has been the case for other productions I've seen), but with Propeller's they had intense, haunting drama in the first half and proper, balls-out ridiculousness in the second, and I loved it. I've never seen such a polarised version of the play, and it was brilliant.

I was originally a little bit unsure about Robert Hands' Leontes, because his character is basically one of the biggest dickbags ever, and his suspicions hit so instantaneously that to play it more subtly kind of makes him seem like even more of a dick? I mean, the one I compare it to is Anthony Sher in the RSC version, who goes properly nuts with the accusations, so at first Hands' more restrained Leontes seemed wrong. BUT, thinking about it more and reading a couple of reviews made me like it, because it was more sinister and calculated - more knowing, maybe. And I like that. But regardless of how the character was interpreted, his delivery was brilliant.

I loved Vince Leigh's Paulina, and his performance in particular highlighted something I loved about the production as a whole: that, in the first half, none of the guys put on funny voices to be the women. It was all in the physicality, but it wasn't pantomime or stereotype. Brilliantly done. Paulina in particular is badass, and Leigh showed that really well.

Mamillius was done really well too, and I LOVED the way he was in the background for a lot of the scenes, witnessing the dissent and reacting to it - the breakdown scene was heartbreaking, and it makes it even more gut-wrenching when he dies.

Richard Dempsey's Hermione was one of the highlights of the show - he holds himself beautifully, and managed to capture the stalwart strength that I love about the character. I don't see her as resigned and passive, I see her as sure in her goodness and wise to the fact that having a fit about it won't make anything better, and he did that beautifully. The trial scene was incredible, with the microphone and us as the jury, augh.

Richard Dempsey as Hermione - credit: Manuel Harlan

The only thing I wasn't so keen on was the reaction to the Oracle - I always see that as the moment Leontes goes too far, to claim to know more than God, and I've always liked it to be properly shocking rather than played for laughs. But that's only a minor niggle.

THE BEAR! I was underwhelmed, but in a good way, I think. I expected ~A SPECTACLE~, because this is Propeller, but I liked the way it was done (particularly because it carried on the theme of the dolls that had been used throughout).

Final note about the first half, and back to the shallow end - THE SUITS. dsjahfgajhsgjhg such beautiful sartorial choices. Everyone looks good in a charcoal grey suit, particularly these guys.

AND THEN THE SECOND HALF.
OHHHH, THE SECOND HALF.

I knew I was in for a treat, having seen some of the production stills, but OH MY GOD. I hardly know where to start!

Everything was magnificent and preposterous and I loved every second. John Dougall as the Old Shepherd was so tenderly done, especially when he finds out about Perdita. Gorgeous. Karl Davies is just too cute for this life; the scene where Autolycus strips him is always one of my stand out favourites in any TWT production, and this one was SO GOOD - the physicality of it is so perfect, and there was a knitted g-string involved, so yeah. I really liked Tony Bell's Autolycus in general, and the decision to play him as a drunken waster rather that a quick-witted rapscallion - like nothing I've seen before. It makes him all the more cringey and ridiculous. 

The bit with the Young Shepherd, his shopping list and the sheep was INSPIRED, and I was howling throughout. The sheep in general were a fantastic addition, and The Bleatles! And Robert Hands' shimmying! Ohhhhh, this cast <3

Karl Davies as the Young Shepherd, and a sheep - credit: Manuel Harlan.

AND THEN
OH SWEET LORD

I can hardly even do coherency about the ballad. If I say the words 'Lloyd from the Demon Headmaster and Peter Pevensie from the BBC's Narnia series performed a Shakespearean ballad to the tune of Beyonce's Single Ladies, with dance routine', you'd think I'd entirely lost the plot, but I can assure you that I haven't. It was absolutely the highlight of the show, without a doubt. Both were balls-out ridiculous with it, which is the only way to be. A magnificent spectacle, and one which I shan't be forgetting in a while.

I absolutely fell in love with Perdita and Florizel. Ben Allen is ADORABLE and I want to see him in more things because his faaaace, but it was all about Finn Hanlon. SO DREAMY. EVEN IN WHITE JEANS. And then he sang and was so in love and kept touching Perdita's waist and sdjhfgajhsdgfaj. I was absolutely dying for them to make out, I cannot lie. But was thwarted, alas.

I loved the Polixenes/Camillo disguises, and the scene with Autolycus tricking the shepherds into thinking he was a gentleman. Even better was the bit where the shepherds get him back, and have the whole speech about being 'gentleman born these four hours' - always brilliant, and Karl Davies was rocking that blazer.

The ending is always a strange one, because you kind of have to suspend your disbelief for it anyway, but it was touching and beautifully staged, and Leontes' metamorphosis was wonderful. However, the stand-out moment of that section (perhaps the whole show, Single Ladies aside), was Vince Leigh's closing moment as Paulina. Every production I've seen has played the Paulina/Camillo thing for laughs and jollity - 'hurrah, everyone is happy now!', etc. - and it was a real punch in the gut to see her so heartbroken at the end, because everyone got everything they lost aside from her, and it's so, so sad. Perfect touch.

A fortnight of firsts!

The last two weeks have been an epoch of elementary experiences (horrendously clumsy and slightly nonsensical alliteration, yeah!), all of which have been quite monumentally delightful, and so I thought a blog post was in order. I'm always up for trying new things, no matter what they may be, and you know how the saying goes - if at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not your sport.

HAGGIS
I was lucky enough to be treated to my first proper Burns supper on the 25th January. I say 'proper Burns supper' - it was a charmingly haphazard affair, orchestrated by our resident Scot (the aptly names Scott), who provided a traditional dinner and some not-so-traditional speeches. The haggis itself was delicious - very strong, and I couldn't eat much of it on its own (much nicer paired with a forkful of neeps and tatties), but peppery and warm and extremely filling. Scott did a wee speech about the enduring relevance of Burns' poetic message and his national importance, which was delightful, and us awful English types subsequently lowered the tone by reciting rude poetry about each other. A cracking night, in all.

YOGA
Last Wednesday saw my first Yoga class. I've never thought twice about it, but some friends were going, and I was looking for new opportunities for exercise, having been a little underwhelmed by the trampolining society up here. It was an absolutely brilliant workout, and I thoroughly enjoyed it - though it was bloody tough. The class was organised so the more difficult, standing postures were tackled first (many of which saw me trembling like a leaf), before the respite of sitting/lying positions. I could really feel the benefit throughout, and while I don't quite sign on to the ~finding your inner core~ namby-pamby-ness, as a strengthening and flexibility exercise, it was brilliant.

The next day, my main feelings were OW OW FUCKETY OW MY ABS WHYYYYY, but I still maintain it was a worthy use of my time.

SALSA
I am writing this in the half-hour before my second salsa class, and the fact that I'm going back for seconds should hopefully indicate how much I loved my first. It was great fun - a little socially awkward, of course, because omg we have to dance with BOYS what if we get COOTIES, etc. But after everyone had settled down, it was a fun hour of partner switching and sashaying.

I blame Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights entirely for my choosing a salsa class, and I am SO glad I did. I danced for eleven years, and didn't realise how much I'd missed it until last week - I felt a real fizz in my bones, an excitement that's been absent for the last five years, one I'm ecstatic to have back. It's a new style for me, and I'm very much looking forward to progressing with it.

edit: This is added after my second salsa class, wherein I stayed for both the beginners and advanced lessons. Oh sweet lord. It was strenuous, and very tough, but I think I managed to hold my own fairly well, despite massive dizziness - so much spinning! Highlight of the night has to be the tall Tom Burke-alike who, upon seeing my Shakespeare t-shirt, proceeded to recite Sonnet 18 as we danced. Swoon!

SHEFFIELD
I spent last weekend in the delightful company of Becky and pals in Sheffield - the main reason for the visit being to see Propeller's The Winter's Tale (which gets its own blog post, spectacular as it was), we nevertheless spent some times exploring what was, to me, a whole new city. And what a charming one it is, with its fountains and fountains and fountains (seriously, so many fountains). I did have a rather embarrassing moment wherein I spotted a restaurant called Bessemer's; I piped up with the thought that it must be named for Henry Bessemer, who invented molten steel (Sheffield being a famous steel town), and when asked how I knew such a factoid, had to respond that I learnt it from yet another Horrible Histories song. Still, at least I knew it, right?

SOUP
My lovely housemate Cath and I made soup for the first time, and naive little me was staggered by how cheap and easy it was. Ours was leek and potato, complete with homemade bread rolls, and we ate so much we could barely move. Excellent stuff.

CARD GAMES
Finally, I spent Sunday night with the superlative Bri and Ali, swapping our favourite card games. I imparted my Slam skills (and subsequently lost - I'm clearly that good a teacher), Bri showed us a collaborative solitaire-like game called Kings in the Corner, and we also played Mao. However, I have chosen to re-christen that one to Mao (Ali is mean), because Ali is MEAN. I say that, she's not actually mean, but the GAME is mean, and the game means that she has to be mean. Basically, you have to figure out the rules for yourself as play continues, and so it resulted in Ali handing me penalty card after penalty card for reasons I could not fathom while I panicked aloud and was subsequently told off for talking. However, it was brilliant fun. (But Ali is mean.)

ALSO IT SNOWED HERE! FINALLY!
If I ever wake up to a blanket of snow outside my window and don't grin like an excited seven-year-old, just shoot me, because I am already dead. Stomping home through the snow at gone midnight on Sunday meant I could happily dance about in the absence of anybody else nearby. And that I did. Glorious.