Tag: <span>PVC</span>

Girl with a one track mind has long been a favourite read, primarily because of her open and frank discussions of her sexual adventures and preferences (and mainly because of the wit and honesty with which she writes). Surprise, huh. After the boom in popularity of Belle de Jour —does anyone still read her blog? She has posted on this topic as well— which went from “best kept secret” to “guess who” in a matter of months, the publishing of books of these so-called sex blogs seems to spark undue interest.

But, now that the true identity of Girl has been revealed, again we have the press creating a hubbub where, frankly, one doesn’t really exist.

In a nutshell the ‘story’ can be described thus:

  1. Woman starts anonymous blog, discusses her sex life
  2. Blog starts gaining in popularity
  3. Publishing house decides to cash in, offers woman a book deal
  4. Woman accepts, with some trepidation that her identity will be revealed
  5. Her identity is revealed by a national newspaper

Fascinating, huh.

One question is why the newspaper chose to run this story. It’s a tiny headline in a sea of corruption, war, death and an Englishman winning a Grand Prix, and I reckon that you can split it’s audience neatly into sections. There will be many people who will tut, tut at the decline of society, appalled that ‘sex’ is being discussed in such frank and open terms (and to continue the stereotype, they’ll later go home, tie up their partner, and start whipping them whilst dress in head to toe PVC). There will also be people who read the article and will wonder what all the fuss is about. There will be others who wonder why she wrote about it all so publically, and there will be plenty of others who will see the word “blog” and stop reading.

Needless to say it’s making ripples in blogland.

Up in arms that a journalist has broken the code of conduct, Tom Reynolds writes that “We bloggers examine every word on our blogs for their effect on our privacy, we edit what we write to reveal as much, or as little about our true selves as we desire”, arguing that everyone has a right to privacy, which we do.

Bobbie asks Why was Girl with a One Track Mind anonymous? reminding us of “The First Rule of Blogging: if you don’t want things to ever come out into the open, you don’t write about them at all.” I’ve discussed self-censorship on here before, and have to agree with Bobbie, if you wouldn’t stand on a street corner, shouting it out, don’t blog about it.

And Pete suggests that the journalist in question should “do some investigative research into what journalism is supposed to be about and do something useful with your skills“, and having read the article in question I’d wholeheartedly agree. The few snippets of information are presented in an entirely sensationalist way and, well, I just don’t see the point. WHY should I read this (a moot point as I already have, I know).

But is there a middle ground here?

Personally I think that Tom is correct, that journalists (and not just in this instance) need to exert more control and have a level of morality injected (physically if necessary). As the press scramble for publishing figures, the right to privacy for all needs to be more readily enforcable. Of course I’d suggest that society should take some of the blame here, the fascination with any level of celebrity isn’t healthy and only serves to lower the standards of the mainstream press (again, a deeper discussion of the lower education standards, and lack of discipline is probably warranted but best avoided for the moment).

Yet I also agree with Bobbie, to a point. It IS possible, if you are careful, to have an anonymous blog —the identity of Belle de Jour has yet to be revealed— and, frankly, if you want to discuss your preferences, sexual or otherwise on that blog then go for it. The personal nature of a blog and the relationship that exists between the author and the blog itself, is unique. With a little care you could publish whatever you want and not fear that your anonymity will be compromised.

But balance that with the simple fact that, like most secrets, the truth will out and you have a potential recipe for disaster. Whilst it’s easy to say that the journalists should exercise some self-control, the same can be said for bloggers. Maybe blogging needs a central charter that can be referred to, an agreed Code of Conduct?

I’ll close by saying that I sincerely hope that the fallout from this doesn’t hit Girl too hard, and I’ll leave the last word on this to the inimitable andre (ohh god, am I allowed to mention his name?).


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Having stumbled out of the house early so as to pick up a parcel waiting for me at the post office, I was a tad bleary eyed when I boarded the train. As ever I engrossed myself in the fabulous Metro (the internet; printed) and it took me sometime to notice that I was on the wrong train.

It was certainly going in the right direction but no, it was definitely the wrong train. A small flutter of panic rose in my chest (a distinctly unpleasant sensation, especially when you had to rush out of the house without having breakfast) but I choked it back and slowly glanced around the carriage with a rising dread.

I didn’t recognise anyone.

I checked out of the window to confirm that, yes, we were still heading towards Glasgow. This was most odd.

I lay no claim in being able to recognise all of the usual commuters who get the same train as I do, but you do become accustomed to them. Ms. “Walks very slowly and never smiles”, the “look at us we’re GORGEOUS” twins (both sets), and that old crone who talks too loudly. Then there’s Blackbeard the Pirate (I’m convinced that one day he’ll remove an everyday item from his beard, Captain Caveman style), the tall couple (both over 6′), there are even a few normal looking people (myself distinctly not included) and a couple of devastatingly beautiful people too. I digress.

So here I was, sitting on a train which was travelling in the correct direction and yet still I had this weird sense of disjointedness. Like I’d slipped between the cracks of the normal into a parallel world where things were the same but different. I considered this ridiculous notion for a while and realised there was bugger all I could do about it so I set about finishing the paper.

The train pulled into Glasgow Central and I joined the rugby scrum to get off the train; literally as there were five very large gentlemen wearing kilts and rugby shirts, presumably headed for Twickenham. Either that or they were on their way to some weird Scottish sporting fetish club but I’ll never know for sure as I didn’t have the balls to ask if they were wearing PVC thongs under their kilts (which of course is not the ‘done thing’… er.. wearing anything under a kilt that is, not specifically the wearing of PVC thongs).

As I alighted on the platform – pausing only to put out the flames – I looked for some sign that I was still in my world. Where was she? She sat there every morning, golden blonde hair gently flowing, those piercing blue eyes concentrating on her book, the soft curve of her breasts… ahem… where was I?

She wasn’t there. The one constant in my morning travel WASN’T THERE. The mild fluttering of panic returned and started to grow. I dashed up the stairs to street level, flying past the ticket inspectors and out into the drizzle of a Glasgow morning. Still checking for some indication that I wasn’t going mad, or was still asleep, my furtive glances became neck snapping swivels as I tried to see something, ANYTHING that resembled my normality. By the time I reached the corner shop I was three glances away from madness. Insanity beckoned me, arms spread wide.

I pushed open the door intent on asking the next person I clapped eyes on just what, in the name of Peter Kay, was going on!!

“Alright doll, whit dae ye want?” her dulcet tones rang out over the clanging of the bell above the door.

Reality shoves panic out of the road with a cleated boot to the backside. I order a roll and square sausage. My day is back on track.


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