Amy Cooper
Smirters fight for right to party
In democracies you don't tend to see giant, dramatic people's revolutions, but every now and then there are quieter acts of collective rebellion which are equally meaningful. And I don't just mean tonight's election result.
I've just returned from the UK and on this trip home I noticed that the entire populace seemed to have been sent to detention, where it was being scolded non-stop by a grim-faced, sanctimonious schoolmarm.
The increase in what the government there calls 'stewardship' and what sensible people would call unwelcome interference in their private lives was striking. You couldn't walk a metre without seeing a safety notice of some sort, there was talk of government initiatives to curb people's drinking at home (the measures there are larger than in pubs, you see) and even a slated plan to put a state-decreed limit on the temperature of hot water in houses. It's worse than a nanny state - it's the headmistress from hell.
The first time I switched on the TV, hapless members of the audience on a popular morning show were being hauled on stage and given on-the-spot blood tests to see if they had liver damage. It was Salem with recreational drinkers instead of witches. I was half-expecting the poor sods to be ducked into a giant vat of Merlot to prove their innocence.
The long-suffering Brits are being lectured by stern-faced organisations on just about every aspect of their behaviour, and they're fed up about it. But they're also fighting the nanny state in the most effective way - with fun.
'Smirting' is a direct and delightful result of the July ban on smoking in indoor public spaces. It's what happens when men and women meet while standing outside pubs or offices having a cigarette: smoking and flirting. It began in Ireland in 2004 when the ban took effect there, and has since spread to pavements all over the UK. Smirting has created couples and a whole new courtship culture where conversation and shared interests replace loud music and crowds.
The heady combination of camaraderie, rebellion and risk offered by smoking with your outlawed brethren is such a potent aphrodisiac that even non-smokers are heading outside to join in the fun. Bars have jumped on the trend by providing non-smoking singletons with candy gaspers to take outside and prettying up the outdoor areas to make them more flirt-friendly. Trendy bars have queues for their outdoor spaces longer than those at the entrance.
Even the chilly British temperatures haven't marred the fun - one man I met said he hooked his current girlfriend when he placed his jacket over her shoulders while they stood outside a Scottish pub puffing in below-freezing temperatures. "I wouldn't have had the chance to show off my chivalry like that indoors," he said.
I prefer to see this as a victory for fun rather than a triumph for smoking (and it's important to remember that most people -smokers included - prefer the clean air inside cigarette-free spaces. Initial reports also show that the number of social smokers has dropped since the ban).
But if the tobacco companies seize the trend and work it and ciggies do become the next big thing, the Nanny bureaucrats will only have themselves to blame. Impose too many rules on people and they will rebel. Smirting - and the enthusiasm for it - is fuelled by the Blitz spirit of a nation sick to death of being nagged and hectored at every turn, and perhaps it's only a matter of time before we see cheeseburger speed-dating, binge-drinking societies and exclusive clubs for those who eschew exercise.
I'm off to crack a bottle of bubbly and celebrate tonight's history with one hell of a party. And hopefully our new leaders will always respect my freedom to do that.
- by Amy Cooper at 05:41 PM
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England's gone mad - only Kylie can save us
For those concerned about Australia's image on the world stage, the presence of good old Kylie and Elle here in London must be reassuring. This week, they've even reassured me - and I'm from here.
Pretty soon after arriving home (despite my frequent serenades to Sydney, I am a Pom - Australia is just my glamorous stepmother) it became clear the very fabric of English society was disintegrating.
Blue Peter, the venerable children's TV show so squeaky clean that an elephant pooing live in the studio once caused national consternation, has been revealed as a sham. The producers have admitted they used child actors as fake competition winners. Worse still, they've owned up to rigging a vote to name the show's cat. He should have been called Cookie, but they christened him Socks.
It's hard to convey the impact of this revelation if you didn't grow up with the Blue Peter institution, but imagine you found out your favourite aunt was actually a serial-killing bloke called Reg or that Father Christmas was alive and well and running a sweatshop in Guangdong. The Blue Peter animals were part of everyone's family. If Goldie the retriever and George the tortoise were not as they seemed, then everything must now be in doubt.
These horrors combined with royal scandals, political uproar and the unexpected appearance of Peaches Geldoff and her unruly posse in my hotel all made for a disturbing homecoming. So it was a relief to observe my adopted country's greatest institutions, The Butt and The Body, are as industrious and dependable as ever.
While America's greatest export, Madonna, spends her time here flitting about with Stella McCartney and other fluffy fashion pals, Our Elle continues her quiet campaign to rule England the most effective way - via its wallet.
Last night, as Madonna partied at Scotts in Mayfair with the aptly-named Donna Air (a local MTV presenter best known for asking the Corrs sisters how they first met), Elle dined in heavyweight restaurant-of-the-moment, Nobu Berkeley, with Air's ex, the minted Damian Aspinall. Worth an estimated $120 million, the 47-year-old tycoon is building a global casino empire and climbing the rich list like Spiderman on a burning building. You've got to admire Elle's Jane Austen-esque dedication to dating cold, hard cash. Somehow it makes me feel confident about the Australian economy.
Meanwhile Kylie, ever England's sweetheart, stars in her own one-woman UK TV special tonight to celebrate 20 years in showbiz. It's called The Kylie Show and highlights will include a "hilarious sketch" starring Jason Donovan. Kyles has promised to ride a bucking bronco and the entire UK is expected to tune in, hoping this quaint and authentic Australian spectacle will heal its Blue Peter scars.
It's a heavy burden for a small songstress to bear, but also a chance for Kylie to secure her place in the hearts of British fans and forever rule this sceptred isle. Forget the raunchy dancing and the sequined hotpants - all she needs to do is let the audience vote for the bronco's name and a wounded nation will be restored to sanity.
She may even ascend to the throne. I'll let you know.
- by Amy Cooper at 07:50 PM
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Welcome to Australia - have a brawl
Apparently, there's been something out of whack with the sun and moon of late and this has made people angrier than normal. I've noticed.
From this week's unspeakably sad case of Sylvania grandfather Ken Proctor, who died after an alleged neighbourly dispute, to the obnoxious man I saw the other night at a party letting rip at a woman - with disproportionate venom - for accidentally dropping a piece of cellophane wrapping on the floor, to the recently increased levels of altercations and scuffles in my local bars, the people of Sydney do seem collectively incensed.
Did you see the movie 28 Days Later? At the start, monkeys spread a virus to humans which infected them with rage so they went staggering around like jerky zombies, foaming at the mouth. The only part I struggled to believe was that monkeys could be so angry. These days, everyone functions in a constant state of barely suppressed fury, and recently we've stepped it up even more.
And so it was particularly refreshing to work on an article which involved observing a self esteem workshop for teenagers which urged the participants to be kinder to each other. The kids had to swap compliments and write down positive attributes about their classmates. It might sound trite, but it was actually a pleasure to witness. These young people took the whole exercise more seriously than adults would have, without the accompanying smirks and embarrassed grimaces you'd have certainly seen at a grown-up 'team bonding' session.
When I interviewed them afterwards, they all spoke unprompted about the importance of taking care of each others' feelings. Both boys and girls said they would think more before they said potentially hurtful things to each other. "But that's obvious, isn't it?" one lad said to me apologetically. Sorry, love - sadly, you'll find out. It isn't.
While bullying is being actively tackled in schools, and programmes like the one I saw seem to be making an impact, I sometimes wonder if there's any point. As soon as these friendly, tolerant kids leave school they'll quickly learn to torment the hell out of each other, because that's what we do in the adult world.
There's no patience and zero tolerance. Hesitate for a milli-second at the traffic lights and someone will hurl four-letter words at you. I picked up another girl's drink by mistake at a function the other night and she gave me a look that made my blood curdle. I swear I thought she was going to bitch-slap me. I dread my regular passage through Sydney Airport's customs, because the first glimpse of this country is a horde of infuriated, queuing travellers snarling at a bunch of hatchet-faced officials. It often kicks off like the worst kind of bar. Welcome to Australia, folks - have a brawl.
One friend even received abuse the other week via that harmless, slightly daft medium Facebook, where normally the most heated encounter is a particularly competitive game of Scrabulous. Nowhere is safe from rage.
We're all too stressed and time-poor and pressured, say the anger experts. But I wonder. Elderly people will tell you it wasn't always this way and that people were more decent to each other even in wartime, when it's fair to assume everyone was about as stressed, time-poor and pressured as it's possible to be. Maybe now, in times of peace and prosperity, we're just spoiled, petulant and selfish; a bunch of over-indulged bullies.
I'm no paragon of serenity; I'm dismayed by how easily I lose it sometimes. But I'm trying to cut people more slack, count to ten and - most important of all - not respond to or engage with bullies. That's how the rage epidemic spreads.
If you want some qualified advice about the subject, check out this guide to handling anger or this advice on cyber-bullying
and for a sobering glimspe of the global epidemic of rage, look at the stories here. And for the best counsel of all on anger, read the prolific writings of the world's most wise and peaceful man, who knows a thing or two about bullies.
I was about to sign off by saying "take care of each other," but I've just remembered that's what Jerry Springer intones without a trace of irony at the end of each of his fury-fuelled, fist-flying freakshows that turn rage into a spectator sport.
Be kinder. That's enough.
- by Amy Cooper at 02:23 AM
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