• Feminists: Hey. We'd like for women to be treated as equals.
  • Society: Oh sure. You want "equality" but then you expect men to open the door and pay for meals, is that it? That's not equality! That's special treatment!
  • Feminists: Um, no not really. You don't have to open the door and pay for our meals. We can do that ourselves.
  • Society: *gasp* What? You don't want men to open doors for you? Why do you hate nice people? No wonder chivalry is dead! You'd yell at a man for just being polite and opening the door for you?
  • Feminists: No! We're just saying you don't have to do it just because we're women!
  • Society: And while we're at it, how come you don't protect male victims of abuse and rape, huh?
  • Feminists: Actually, we think it's really terrible that men are forced to stay quiet about their abuse because they're worried about not being taken seriously. It's this Alpha Male myth that causes it. Men are abused and raped and they're not helped because men are supposed to be tough and able to handle it. This also goes for men not being able to express emotions.
  • Society: Oh, so you just want men to be a bunch of pansies then, huh? You hate men for wanting to be strong LIKE NATURE INTENDED THEM TO BE. You'll be sorry when you end up married to some weak, simpering fool who likes to talk about his "feelings"!
  • Society: Also, you can't have equal rights because women aren't aggressive enough to want higher pay and stuff.
  • Society: Jesus, calm down. No need to be so aggressive.

I think the reason that lots of people think Steven Moffat’s version of Doctor Who is sexist is because it repeatedly acts and sounds sexist. It may be that Moffat consciously tries to craft his Who as feminist or pro-feminist. If so, I don’t think there’s any better illustration of the crucial point that, in a sexist society, however much of an ‘ally’ you may be, if you’re a man then you still enjoy male privilege, and probably don’t realise it half the time.

The Doctor describes Clara as “a mystery wrapped in an enigma squeezed into a skirt that’s just a little bit too tight”. The Doctor describes Marilyn Monroe as though she really was nothing more than the stereotypical ‘man crazy’ ditz she played in some of her movies. Rory likens being married to Amy to being trapped inside a giant robot duplicate of her. We get dialogue like “Why did she try to kill you and then want to marry you?” “Because she’s a woman”. Osgood, a scientist, is shown to be secretly obsessed with jealousy towards her prettier sister. A Dalek develops a female alter-ego, and she spends her time cooking.
In Moffat’s show, women are overwhelmingly defined by their traditional gender roles or bodily functions. It doesn’t matter that their excellence in these gender roles is praised by show and lead character. It doesn’t matter that we’re supposed to be impressed by the virtuosity with which River tricks people using her feminine wiles. It doesn’t change anything that the Doctor goes into rhapsodies about the wonders of motherhood. That isn’t liberating; it’s still the mapping of male, patriarchal conceptions of female value onto female characters.

River exists entirely because of the Doctor. Who the hell is River? She is an assemblage of gender essentialist tropes and wisecracks. When does she ever – beyond, arguably, her first appearance – behave like an academic or a scientist? When does she ever display anything resembling erudition or intellectual curiosity? When does she ever do or say anything to show or engender love? Admittedly, the Doctor seems to be sexually aroused by the way she shoots people… which is just charming. In ‘Let’s Kill Hitler’, she is incarnated as Mels, a character we’ve never seen or heard of before, and plonked unceremoniously into the story out of sheer, brazen convenience. She stalks Amy and Rory (her unwitting mother and father) for years, pretending to be their friend, all because of her pre-programmed monomaniacal desire to get to the Doctor. She regenerates while “concentrating on a dress size”. She spends the rest of the episode obsessing over her hair, clothes, shoes and weight. River’s instability is finally conquered by the love of a good man. This seems intensely hostile and patronising. If that isn’t what was aimed at, then somebody is a very bad shot.

It doesn’t matter that River is ‘powerful’. Fetishizing ‘power’ in women characters – having them kicking ass and always being ready with a putdown - isn’t the same as writing them as human beings.

Steven Moffat: a Case for the Prosecution

[…]The reason I feel ill when the Doctor snogs River’s ghost at the end of ‘Name of the Doctor’ is not that I hate emotion in Who, or that I want – because I’m a sexually and emotionally repressed nerd or something – Doctor Who to be emotionless.  Rather, the opposite of this is the truth.  The reason I feel ill at moments like that is rather that I hate fake emotion, cheap emotion, unearned emotion.  Commodified emotion.  Packaged, marketed, profitable, sugary, junk emotion.  Sentimentality, in other words. 

Sentimentality is disgusting because it’s not fundamentally about other people, or relationships.  It’s about oneself.  It’s self-regarding, self-comforting, self-pleasing.  It isn’t social.  It’s narcissistic.  This is precisely what is so horribly wrong with all those Moffatian emotional tornadoes.  How can they be touching when the characters and relationships are so shallow?  When we’re watching narcissists adoring their own reflections in their partner’s eyes?[…]
 I don’t like having to hate this show.  I want to love it.  

(via blake-wyatt)

So sehen Sieger aus!

"Dammit!" I yelled, watching the crowds of students stream into the ZHG to watch the match on a huge screen. The tickets were sold out, and it was raining. Hard. One hour until kickoff.

"Where u at?" Simon texted me.

"Raging in futility that there are no ZHG tickets left. You?"

"Got some of the last seats at Deja Vu. No guarantees, but come down if you like."

It seemed like a better option than sitting in the library or my room feeling sorry for myself, so I hoisted my umbrella and waded through the people streaming in every direction, decked out in black, red, yellow and white. The screen at Deja was outside, with a couple of large umbrellas in front of it. The rain was getting heavier.

"I think there’s a seat over there?" said Simon. One of his friends pulled it in further under the shade cloth. I sat down, tucked my still-open umbrella into the crook of my arm to deflect the rain still pelting over my right shoulder, and propped a third umbrella at my feet to stop the splash back from the water hitting the cobblestones. The situation called for a beer.

In the 84th minute, disaster struck. The power went out, and the TV went black. Almost without pause, we leapt up and sprinted across the street to Monro’s Park, and I climbed up onto a pool table to peer over the heads of the crowd. Still no goals. The 90th minute came and went, and we went back outside to find Simon’s friends.

"Wo geht ihr hin?"

"Nach Hause! Es ist trocken, und gibt’s keine Verzögerung-" (Deja Vu’s screen was five seconds behind Monro’s) "- kommt ihr mit?"

Simon turned to me. “Shall we go?”

I shrugged, and we ran for the car. Ten minutes and one hectic spin through the city later, the radio was announcing a near miss by the German team, and we spilled out of the car, pelting across the road, through a car park and up four flights of stairs into their apartment. Still no goals. And then! Götze in the 113th minute! Torrrrr! The game was over, and Simon and I went out into the street, to find-

… Silence? There were cars honking in the distance, but people walking down the street seemed so sedate. “What the hell?” We passed ZHG again, the students inside all cheering, but the streets continued to be eerily calm. As we approached the city centre, the cars became noisier and more reckless, and more cheers echoed from the buildings. And at Gänsliesel a small crowd was forming. Smaller than expected.

"I know what it is," Simon said suddenly, "First time in 24 years there’s been a reason to watch the ceremony!"

Sure enough, the crowds started building. “WELTMEISTER! WELTMEISTER!” Several people climbed on to the statue. “HINSETZEN! HINSETZEN!” The crowd crouched down, building up a cheer to scream “HUMBA HUMBA HUMBA TÄTÄRÄÄÄ!!”

I got a phone call from Morgane - Allison had lost her keys and was coming to find me. She’s gonna be so mad, I thought, it’s chaos. From out of a flurry of camera flashes, Miao leapt forth to hug me, and we rejoined the yelling. “SO SEHEN SIEGER AUS, SHA LA LA LA LA!” Several people were now actually clustered on top of the statue. Fireworks burst in the sky. “OLE, OLE, OLE OLE OLEEEE! SUPER DEUTSCHLAND, SUPER DEUTSCHLAND, SUPER DEUTSCHLAND EYYY OLE!”

The rain had started again, and nobody cared. I fell asleep to the sounds of jubilant singing.

An den Grenzen. Wrapping up the semester by seeing the rest of the Eichsfeld Grenzlandmuseum, trekking up to the observation tower it was too cold to visit in March. Despite all the angst and stress organising this event brought us, in the end it’s been a hugely thought provoking three days. Today we walked where just 25 years ago we would never have been allowed, where 35 years ago mines littered the earth - designed to violently destroy anyone who tried to break free of the society restraining them. A physical border separating states - it’s not a unique thing in the world, and many of those walls continue to exist today while the inner German border has dissolved, and the division between the two former states lessens every year. But that it happened in such close cultural proximity… It doesn’t make it more important, but it makes it more vivid. That wall existed for the first six months of my life, it isn’t the distant past. Making these things realer helps to give shape to the conflicts that continue in regions that seem more distant to us, and to frame our understanding of the people who live there. Given the increasing problems faced by refugees and asylum seekers around the world, that seems like something worth developing.



Just one of those things that I always wondered about. Stags and otters are all very well, but what if you end up with a tiny chameleon or giant blue whale? I mean, it could be a giant tub of nutella…

Anyway, so glad I got around to doing this pic -drawing the less attractive animals was awesome.

Popped it up on Redbubble because they have tote bags and cushions now which is just wow - can grab it also on cards or posters - check it out here!

magikarp tho

Not all men!

Yes but enough men that every girl is terrified of smiling to that guy on the bus or talking with the boy in the coffee shop. Every girl has been walking late at night at one point and been afraid of who might be following her. Every girl has referred to someone as a “creep” and every girl has refused a drink from someone she doesn’t know.

Not all men.

But enough men that all women are now afraid of most men.
It’s gotten so bad that we have to be afraid of even telling you we are afraid. We can’t ask that you please stop talking to us. Because if we do we run the risk of being labeled a “stuck up bitch” and blamed for murders and rapes in which we are the victims.

So we speak to you with body language that we hope you’ll understand. We cross our legs and look out the window and wear giant headphones that are giant signs that subtly read “DON’T TALK TO ME!” But you insist on ignoring those signs because you have it in your head that our body language doesn’t mean anything. That our bodies aren’t our bodies.

Not all men.

You can start fucking saying that when all women can stop being afraid. But that’s not gonna happen if every man a women opens up to about this issue dismisses her by saying “Not all men.”

an unofficial letter to the skeezball at work all men.

(via thehansoloist)