He/She-Man/Woman

In my list of rules for monologuing I used the pronoun “he” to describe the hypothetical monologuer. In her comment, H said that this choice of pronoun was “interesting” and asked whether monologuing is a male trait. From my experience, most monologuers seem to be male. What do you think?

H certainly wasn’t suggesting I use “he/she” instead of “he” – that wasn’t her point. But it did get me thinking about this topic. I keep changing my mind about it, as you’re about to see. Should we use “he/she” as a generic term to describe males and females?

When I was in my late teens, someone at school told me that I shouldn’t use “he” when I was writing about both males and females, because it was sexist. I thought that this was silly. Using the word “he” doesn’t say anything at all about my opinion about either sex, I thought.

A couple of years later, I started to change my mind. Someone else told me that using “he” when I meant “he or she” excluded the female. Women have been oppressed since time began, it was argued. A case was built up gradually by a few lecturers and fellow-students. I began to use “he/she” in my essays.

I didn’t go all the way, though, and start using “she” instead of “he”. Indeed, one of my lecturers was a very strong feminist and she used “she” in her books. However, she put me right off doing so too because of what she did in a lecture once. She was trying to use a projector, but the bulb had gone. She’d called for help, and in came a workman. Not well-endowed with intelligence, it took him a while to understand what the problem was, and he left without solving it to go and get a new bulb. After he’d gone, the woman turned to the assembled students – probably 250 of us – and said, “Look at that! The power and strength and masterfulness of a man!”

I was angered by this sexism and felt sorry for the chap who had been humiliated without even knowing it. So annoyed with her was I that I followed her out of the lecture and made sure she heard me telling a sexist joke behind her. I was trying to provoke a response from her so that I could accuse her of having double-standards, but, of course, she ignored me. Quite glad about that now. Think she probably would’ve humiliated me, too.

What annoyed me about her is what annoys me most about many people who have very fixed opinions: they forget about equality and tolerance and end up being very similar to those whom they’re opposed to.

Teaching a language and gender course increased my awareness of this issue. Analysis of everything, from 1950s Hoover adverts, through newspaper reports about politics, to advertising of video games revealed that women were excluded, oppressed or marginalised. Men were “normal”, generic and powerful while women were “abnormal”, subservient and weak. I advised my students to use “he/she” or “s/he”.

This brings us back to the present day. As I was writing the monologuing rules, I made a conscious decision to use “he”. One reason is because the bloke who inspired the blog entry was (obviously) a he.

The other reason is that I’ve recently taken yet another position on the “he, she or he/she” debate. In fact, it’s a position about writing in general. Anything that spoils the flow of a piece of writing, or draws attention to itself, or makes the reading of the text harder work than it needs to be, should be avoided. I have reached this position after years of reading unimaginably difficult-to-read texts: essays by students. It’s no wonder young people flounder as they try to use our complicated language if they are picked up for every last pronoun choice. The battle against 1950s gender roles (woman stays at home looking after house and children, man goes out to work expecting slippers to be warming by the fire on his return home) is surely all but over now anyway. Is it really necessary to keep saying “he/she” when it looks and sounds awful? Can’t we go back to using language in a nice way?

Monologuing

Following my last post about my encounter with a noisy man on an aeroplane, and my coining of the term "monologuer" to describe his conversational selfishness, I've started to develop the theory.

Before I expound, I should explain that I might be slightly jealous of monologuers. You see, I’m quite a quiet chap and usually try to express my opinion in two sentences or less (in spontaneous conversation with strangers especially). Less is more for me, largely because I don't want to invade the other person's temporal space. However, maybe I just don't know what I'm missing. Maybe, instead of trying to change monologuers, I should first give monologuing a good try myself.

In order to try monologuing, I needed to come up with a series of rules. If monologuers exist, there must be trends, or qualities, that characterise their behaviour. So here are a list of the rules of selfish conversationalism which I'm going to try at some point in the near future when I'm talking to a stranger in a public place. At present I have no hard evidence to back up these rules, but I do have a lifetime of experience of being on the receiving end of these techniques.

1. Monologuers want as many people as possible to hear their conversation.

2. Monologuers have a complete inability to detect signs of boredom in others.

3. All questions asked by the monologuer will be answered, not by the listener, but by the monologuer himself.

4. The monologuer frequently talks about and gives opinions about topics which he freely admits he knows nothing about.

5. The monologuer often denies feelings of hostility towards a group of people before expressing a hostile opinion about that group of people. For example, “I’ve got nothing against gays, but…” or “I’m not racist, but…”.

6. Monologuers have a well-established set of catchphrases which they use to cement their arguments. For example, “All I know is I had more money in my pocket under the Tories”.

7. The conversation of a monologuer is peppered with references to his own bravado, or his ability to find loopholes, or his ability to win battles, whether they’re physical or mental.

8. If from England, the monologuer will think that the country has gone to the dogs, but will also insist that foreign countries should be more like England.

9. Monologuers’ opinions are entirely those of other people that they digest and then spew. The opinions come from places like the pub, or from tea break at work, or from The Sun. This means that their opinion today is unlikely to still be their opinion tomorrow.

10. Repetition is a key tool of monologuers. Monologuers often say the same thing more than once, but they might change it slightly each time they say it. If they’ve already said it, chances are they’ll say it again.

Any more?

Strangers On A Plane

Just got back from a week in Australia – been on a school trip. It was great. This focuses on the flight home.

I’m a little bit nervous about flying, although I’m gradually getting more and more comfortable with it. On my first flight over here from England I spent an awful lot of time wondering how something as heavy as a plane could actually stay airborne. I can put it out of my mind much more easily these days.

On the flight back from Australia I found it no problem at all to keep all thoughts of impending disaster out of my head. This is because I was sitting in the seat right at the back of the plane. This, I discovered, is where people congregate when they want to stretch their legs. One bloke, who is the subject of this entry, ended up stretching his legs for the last half hour of Walk The Line and the first hour of March Of The Penguins. His incessant, moronic disgorge of conversation ruined both films.

And now I’m going to share what he had to say with you.

He was from London and lived in Luton. I know this because he shouted it at anyone who had to queue for the toilet. He started off talking to an Australian bloke who stuck around bemused for a few minutes, wondering when he would be allowed to go to the toilet. Finally he interrupted Motormouth and went through. To his relief, when he came out, he had been replaced by a couple from Derby who had also come to the back of the plane to stretch their legs.

I listened to their conversation because I had no choice. Motormouth was leaning against the wall of the plane with his head directly above my head and he was bellowing:

“You know what the problem with England is? It’s gone to the dogs. It’s that Tony Blair. Tony Blair is shite. I don’t know nothing about politics, but I do know that he’s messed up the pensions. He just don’t understand that people don’t care about pensions. Live today, sod the future, that’s my motto. When he understands that’s the way people think, he might get more votes.”

I had Morgan Freeman’s monologue on penguins in one ear and this geezer’s monologue on pensions in the other. Next:

“I love going to Australia. Thing is, the amount I drink, the flight don’t cost that much. 750 quid my flight cost me, and I reckon I drink about a hundred quid’s worth of booze on the flight, so it’s only cost me about 600 quid.”

He returned to politics, but only to reiterate how little he knew about it (or anything) and to restate his stance on the future:

“I don’t know nothing about politics, I don’t know nothing about the NHS, I don’t know nothing about nothing, but what I do know is live today sod the future. And the other thing I know is that I had more money in my pocket when the Tories were in power.”

Religion:

“In Australia I noticed there weren’t any Church of England churches, which I thought was out of order. In England we’ve got all these funny churches from all over the place, don’t we? So our church should be everywhere too. And I got a question. Do you know the difference between Roman Catholics and Catholics?”
“They’re the same, I think,” replied one half of the bemused couple.
“That’s the kind of question you ask, isn’t it, and no one knows the answer to it. Where do you get the answers to them questions from?”

I began to realise that Motormouth reminded me of about five or six different characters from The Fast Show all rolled into one.

Alcohol:

“Usually I gets all my booze for free. Well, not really. Cos I delivers it, see, that’s my job, so it falls off the back of the lorry. I makes sure of that. Every couple of days another crate goes missing. It’s all right, though. They expect it. Everyone’s at it. It’s easy to get away with, too, cos I deliver in London. No one asks any questions.”

On his lorry’s mobile phone:

“Yeah, I got a company phone in my cab. I really abuse that phone! They can’t get me for it, neither, cos if they ever ask me to pay for it, I ask them for a VAT receipt, see?”

He then went on to explain how this meant that he could get away with it, but he lost me a bit there.

Finally, he also explained how he wouldn’t let a security guard at work search his car as he was leaving the premises:

“He asks me to open the glove box. I says no cos it’s not my car, it’s my girlfriend’s, and what’s in there’s private property. He says he’s gonna call the police, so I says go on then. And there’s loads of people behind me trying to get out of work too, but I don’t care. I sat on the bonnet of my car for ten minutes while they tried to get me to open the glove box but I wasn’t having none of it. They’re all beeping their horns behind me. In the end he just says go on, go home. See, I didn’t have nothing to hide, but if I can pick a fight, I will.”

This is the kind of person that I often find myself sitting next to. Usually I do exactly what the poor couple from Derby did, which is laugh politely, nod, say “yeah” a lot and pretend to agree with and approve of everything the man says. I feel that it’s much less hassle that way. A coward’s way out.

I’m not sure what’s worse: actually being spoken to by this sort of person, or being forced to sit there and listen to it because the conversation is taking place just above your head.

It’s not so much what he said that was objectionable, though. It was how he said it. He wanted as many people as possible to hear his conversation and wasn’t the slightest bit interested in anything the couple from Derby happened to say. There must be a term for this type of behaviour. Conversational selfishness, perhaps, or maybe monologuism.

Next time I’m sat next to a monologuer, for the moment at least, I’m feeling determined to tell them when I disagree with them and tell them when they don’t give me a chance to speak. By the time it happens, this determination will no doubt have become diluted by a resurgence of apathy and I’ll turn into a nodding dog as usual.

The Elasticity Of The Scalp

Following my previous experience at a barber shop and three more recent haircuts by the same bloke, I decided to change my barber. If you can't be bothered to read the previous post, to cut a long story short, I have frizzy hair which, when blow-dried, looks like a limp bouffant, if you can imagine such a thing. So, instead of a $12 haircut, I'm now the proud owner of a $10 haircut (just over three English pounds). Indeed, the barber shop window advert says "$10 for 10 minutes". That, I thought, seemed just the place for a guy like me. I hate sitting in that chair.

I need to recount my other haircuts at the old place before I tell you about the new place. The problem with the old place wasn't just the fact that he blow-dried my hair. I always ask for the same thing - a grade 2 round the sides and back and a trim on top. The second time I went, he did what I asked, but after blow-drying my hair, he told me that next time I should just ask for a trim. I shouldn't, apparently, ask for a grade two round the sides and back. So, some six months later, having had my hair cut in England (quite beautifully) in the interim, I went back and asked him for just a trim. He proceeded to get the clippers out and put the comb in between the clippers and my head, and I ended up with what amounted to a grade six, I suppose, all the way round, but slightly longer on top. And then, of course, he blow-dried it.

I went straight out to the toilets, which are about five doors down. This time I'd even taken some hair wax with me, so I ran the tap, put my bag onto the side of the sink, and started to undo it to retrive the wax. The door opened. In the mirror, to my horror, there was my barber.

"Just washing my hands," I said, making a great show of just washing my hands. He washed his, too (I suppose I could have been offended by this), then left. I spent the next few minutes cringing and waxing.

Of course, I couldn't possibly go back there. It has struck me since that there aren't any reasons why I would want to, even if this hadn't happened. I've since spoken to a friend about my experience of barbers blow-drying hair and he said, "Yes, they always try that with me, too. I just tell them not to."

Eureka!

I was determined to try this at $10 for 10 minutes.

My experience yesterday at $10 for 10 minutes wasn't without its embarrassing moments. You see, I know that you're supposed to have nice clean hair if you go to a barber, but if I wash my hair and don't put any wax in it (or "reshaper gum", which is what I use these days), it frizzes up and gets blow-dried by the wind on the way to the barber. So I tend to risk going to the barber with a day's worth of wax and dirt in it. They don't ever complain, but I always feel a bit uncomfortable about it (especially when the first thing the barber does after cutting my hair is wash his hands). Right at the start of my haircut, she was combing through my hair and then stopped to pick out a clump of matter. "Dried hair wax?" she asked.
"Yes," I lied.

In fact, the previous day I'd been making bread fajitas, you know, from scratch, with flour and water. I thought I'd picked it all out from my hair, but obviously not. Indeed, looking round my flat, I think it's going to be weeks before I've finally got rid of all traces of dough.

Anyway, she cut my hair, ignoring all the other dough she may have found (she only had 10 minutes, after all) and got to the end and started to pull this monstrous snake-like thing towards my head, which I assumed was some kind of new blow-dryer. I'd been building up to this moment for the entire 10 minutes of the cut. I'd been sitting there rehearsing the various ways of saying no to a blow-dry. Surprisingly assertively, with hand raised in a commanding gesture (although she couldn't see just how commanding the hand was, as it was covered by the sheet), I said, "No blow-dry, thanks!" to which she replied, "No. You need this. Hair very dirty."
"Oh, ok," I relented, my assertiveness having dissipated alarmingly rapidly. I resigned myself to finding a toilet as soon as I could and splashing it down with water again, whilst hoping I didn't bump into any pupils or friends while looking like Eraserhead.

I was relieved to discover that the monstrous snake-like contraption was a sucking device rather than a blowing device. Actually, I think the device is a larger version of that thing that dentists' assistants use, supposedly to suck out moisture from your mouth, but actually to give the inside of your mouth a good stretch when the assistant "accidentally" gets too close.

It goes without saying that my hairdresser did the same thing to my head. Although it felt unusual to have my scalp sucked - the skin around the skull has surprising elasticity - at least it hoovered up the dough. It also didn't make my hair any less greasy, so I went home looking unclean, but not ridiculous.

I think I'll make a suggestion to the good people at $10 for 10 minutes. They have video screens at each hair-cutting station, showing young people with fun haircuts having fun. Instead of this, they should have a countdown timer, with Countdown music. Or, in the last minute of the cut, the Ready, Steady, Cook! music should come on like it does in the last frenzied minute of cooking, and they should take a few last random snips at your hair in the last couple of seconds, throwing a sprig of wax on just as time is up.

The Not Very Quiet American

I was at my local electrical shop today, mulling over and discussing a potential purchase. Bizarrely, this shop is called Paris Silk. I call it Paris Hilton.

I was talking to the chap behind the counter about electrical goods when there was a bit of a commotion to my left. A bearded chap with an American accent was shouting into his mobile phone. We were all slightly distracted by this. I was trying to listen to what the shop assistant was telling me, but was actually more interested in what the American chap was saying. I could tell that the shop assistant felt the same way, as he kept breaking off in mid-sentence and flicking his eyes to the right.

The American was clearly angry about something and wanted everyone in the shop to know it. My conversation with the shop assistant came to an end, so I was able to devote my full attention to the American. "You've offended him!" he barked into his phone. "I can't believe that you've done that! You've upset him!"

This went on for some time, but it also developed embarrassingly. You know how some films have very cringeworthy expositions in the first 10 minutes? Where someone in a bit of dialogue says something very unrealistic because it provides a piece of important information about a character or something? Wish I could think of an example...

Anyway, it felt like that was what he was doing. He was trying to tell everyone in the shop, for some unknown reason, how in touch with local culture he was. He carried on shouting into his phone thus:

"Do you mean to say that you did that to our customer? You ripped up his business card in front of him? That Chinese customer of ours? Did you know that will have offended him? You've probably lost us his business! If you rip up the name of a Chinese person in front of them it offends them!"

He was turning this way and that to ensure that his voice carried to all parts of the shop while he continued to labour his point.

"Don't phone him, don't contact him, don't do anything. I'll come down there myself and sort it out. If you ever do anything like this again I'll fire you on the spot. Idiot!"

And then, possibly in response to the victim of his tirade:

"I'll calm down later!"

Then he hung up and told the person next to him, whose conversation he'd interrupted with his grotesque display of "look at me, I know my local culture", that one of his staff had offended someone Chinese by ripping their name up in front of them.

It got worse.

Ella and I left the shop to get a coffee while we were deciding whether to buy something electrical. Who should arrive but beardy American. He was carrying a laptop and a small rucksack, but he made a great show of struggling through a gap between two tables as if he was carrying two slabs of concrete. He sat down, opened his laptop and turned it on with a flourish and a little look round to see if anyone was watching him. We, of course, were, but averted our eyes when his observed us. He then did a magician's gesture as the laptop fired up, as if the magic of computer technology oozed from his fingertips.

We left 15 minutes later and he hadn't touched the thing. I think he was just making sure that everyone in the coffee shop knew that he had a laptop. And that he could turn it on.

Finally, we made our way back to Paris Hilton (the electrical shop) to tell them whether we were going to buy something. I walked up the steps at a fairly normal pace, then proceeded into the narrow aisle. Ella was a few metres behind me. I came to a wider bit in the aisle and suddenly, beardy American appeared to my right, then bounded extravagantly in front of me like some kind of triple jumper. Ella had been watching him walking behind me and she told me he'd been doing an impression of a train, as if to suggest I was walking too slowly and I was holding him up.

I didn't say or do anything, but I was seething. I did that muttering under the breath thing that Mutley does in The Wacky Races, actually, but that didn't seem enough. Hopefully I'll bump into him again and something will come to me.

Can anyone top this account of a display of attention seeking behaviour?

Another Another New Writer

H has also joined the "blog-club". She and Jonny have emigrated together, and now you can read about their adventures in stereo, as it were. Well worth a read in my humble one. Same goes for Andy's latest post, which had me a-chortling.

The "blog-club" sounds like the kind of thing losers at school join because they're not very good at football or top trumps, so need to fill their lunchtimes with dweeby computery things, doesn't it?

Hoping to have something interesting to say again soon.