women and politics

Jenni Russell, writing in The Times (£) today, seems to be of the view that the only way for there to be a decent proportion of women in the House of Commons is for there to be quotas. If she really does believe this, and it is not just the subs (do they still have subs at The Times?) writing a headline that says so, she might do well to look at countries (like Bangladesh!) where there are significant numbers of women parliamentarians. Yes, quotas it is. This is where a number of seats are reserved for women, and they are allotted to parties in proportion to the number of "real" (ie male) candidates elected. That's one way of doing it. As Russell writes, the only reason that getting on for a third of MPs in the UK after next week's election are likely to be women is that Labour has a policy of having all-women shortlists in half of its winnable seats. How you define winnable, though, is another matter. And Labour is known to have evaded this policy where it wants a seat for a particular favourite, almost always a chap.

Russell cites the biopic of Margaret Thatcher "The Iron Lady", which I have seen twice. It notes the isolation of Thatcher when she first went into the House. Well, of course she was isolated. But she acquired allies, as you do. How else do you suppose she became leader of her party? Russell says Thatcher was shut out from the "gossipy conviviality of the members' room" (there's no such place; perhaps she meant the Smoking Room,which is open to all members) and "exiled to the emptiness of the lady members' chamber". Yes, the "Lady Members' Rooms" of which in fact there are several, are often empty, but there's no "exile" about it. I used to use those rooms quite a lot. You could have a quiet sit down, watch the news, read the newspaper, make phone calls if you wanted. It was a perk not an exile. I thought the men should have their own rooms too.

Forty years on, Russell writes, parliament is still male-dominated, and "surprisingly hostile to women". Male-dominated, yes, like the rest of the world, but I never found it hostile to women when I was a Member, from 1997 to 2005. Some juvenile behaviour, yes. But hey, we girls had all experienced that before. Russell says that Stella Creasy, Labour MP for Walthamstow since 2010, and a politician with a fairly high profile, has been challenged for taking the member' lifts. Really? In her first week there, possibly - although I found parliamentary staff, and the police, fantastically good at knowing members' faces within days of their arrival. Parliamentary staff assume that young women cannot be MPs, she says. Oh yeah? NO. Parliamentary staff are highly professional. I have been out of the House ten years now, and when I went back there for lunch with a former colleague a few weeks ago (I have a pass that allows me in, and to book a table for lunch on certain days) both the police officer I spoke to and the waitress in the Members' Dining Room recognised and remembered me by name.

When the House was prorogued last month for the General Election, there were 502 male MPs. How many women do you think have EVER been elected to Parliament? I got it wrong too. The answer is 370. Ever. In history. When I stood down in 2005 my successor was a man, of course.

In 1997, the year I was first elected, Labour used all-women shortlists. At that time local parties were allowed to choose whether they wanted them or not - mostly. My own party at the time, Labour in Reading East, chose not to have one. My four fellow shortlisted candidates for selection were all men. In that year, a landslide for Labour, how many Labour women do you think were elected for the first time who had not been selected from all-women shortlists? I got that one wrong as well. Six. Of whom I was one. Parties who think the seat is winnable want a man. They'll only select a woman if they have to, pretty much. But hey, the world of work, business, academia, journalism, whatever line you're in, is all like that. Anyone who's not so over-privileged that they can recognise reality when they see it knows that.

Next week the UK will have a new Parliament ready to go. I'm sometimes surprised that so many good and talented young men and women still want to go into politics. But they do, and that's a good thing. Those already pontificating about the results may get some surprises. In Reading, my man in the smoke-filled room says Labour know that they have no chance in Reading East. True. That chance was blown a long time ago, quite deliberately. In Reading West they think they have a better chance. They certainly have an apparently good candidate in Victoria Groulef, who appears to be her own woman (though not so much as to get on the wrong side of the Reading boys, naturally, or she will be deselected pronto) and who has now realised that being photographed with Martin Salter, former Labour MP for that constituency, is doing her no good with the electorate. But on my aforementioned visit to the House of Commons a few weeks ago, I ran into Alok Sharma, who has been MP for that constituency since 2010. We had an interesting chat, and I would not be so sure that the usual Reading Labour bluster, intimidation, dog-whistle racism, use of council facilities for election campaigning, and pictures of fat people holding up pieces of paper, that has been their campaign strategy since the 1980s, is going to do it for Labour in Reading West this time. We'll see though. Labour will have to win back a lot of seats like Reading West to compensate for the wipe-out that is coming in Scotland.

Me, I'd like to see a Tory/Labour coalition. That would actually be a better democratic solution than anything the "journalists" have been blethering about in recent weeks.

Anglicans and the Grand Order of Moose

there is a fun piece in Anglicans On Line this week drawing comparisons between the Church of England, the Roman Catholic Church,  and the Grand Order of Moose (no, me neither, but I should have), with particular reference to the ability of women to hold office and to the response to ill-doing within the ranks of those bodies.  You can read it here, and while it is amusing in a way, the point it makes is serious.  In particular, it refers to the "angry old men" who (this last is my own view) hate women, and cover their hate with supposed "arguments" against allowing women to hold office.

Just look back a little, you don't have to go far back, and remember that until 1961 female civli servants in the UK had to resign when they married.  Until at least the 1950s most female teachers were unmarried, not because they were dedicated spinsters married to their vocation, but because if they married they very often lost their jobs.  Many of them pretended to be single, and lived covertly with a partner to whom they were not married.  Women were not allowed to be ordained in the Church of England unti lthe 1990s.  There was a furious row at the time, but the Church remained strong, there are a great many women priests, and no lightning bolt came from heaven.  I am no theologian, but it is worth noting that according to the Gospels the first apostle was a woman.  Mary Magdalene.  Look it up.  Apostle to the apostles.

is she getting it?

fnarr fnarr etc etc.  @pennyred, who is a posh girl called Laura I believe, is to be congratulated for trying to get it right on Assange.  Unlike the middle-aged and elderly males of the "international left" (and George Galloway), who have come out in their droves to say that Assange is a hero and that he should therefore not stand to account for the rape he has been accused of, she has tried to say that no-one should have to choose between freedom of speech and respect for women.  Good for her.  It's only shocking that so many appear to believe, without evidence or due process, that Assange must not stand trial in Sweden.  What message does that send, especially to men on the left?  Laura quotes teenage boys in her piece who say that they do not think what Assange is reported to have done was rape.  What is going to happen in teenage bedrooms, cars and the car parks of night clubs as a result of this?  Does anyone care?  Well, Laura seems to, and I am pleased about that.  Read on in her piece in the Independent (link higher up) and you will see that she says "I believe women".  Well, I don't.  We tell lies.  We shouldn't, but we do.  All humans do from time to time, although we try not to.  Always believing women who accuse men of rape ruins the lives of innocent men, and those of their families and people who love them.  Never  believing them, which is what the elderly male left are telling us to do, creates a world in which women become pieces of property.  Which is obscene.  Laura is tying herself in knots here, but she doesn't need to.  Believing in freedom of speech, and believing that women have the right to the integrity of their own bodies, are not mutually contradictory beliefs.  And Laura is straying on to territory in which that is how they are seen.  And then she spoils herself by saying this:

The answer is, of course, that Julian Assange should be held to account, of course he should, and he should be held to account in a system where due process means something and women are respected, and currently that system does not exist. Come back to me when the 19,000 annual sex attacks committed by members of the US Army and private contractors against their fellow soldiers are prosecuted. Come back to me when Private Bradley Manning is free.

he should be held to account in a system where due process means something and women are respected, and currently that system does not exist  Er, yes it does, Laura, in quite a number of places in the world, and one of them is Sweden.
Come back to me when the 19,000 annual sex attacks committed by members of the US Army and private contractors against their fellow soldiers are prosecuted. Why?  Rape and sexual assault happen all over the world, all the time.  They're not worse when committed by the US military.  I would argue that they are worse when committed, say, against girls in Afghanistan who then have the "choice" of marrying their rapist or being killed by their family.
Come back to me when Private Bradley Manning is free. Why?  He shouldn't be released, not now.  He is to be charged with very serious offences against national security.  What he should have is due process, and the US government, and President Obama, should hang their heads in shame that he has not had it.  They have other things to hang their heads in shame about too, not least failing to intervene in Syria, but that is for another post.

So, Laura, a good try, and your heart seems to be in the right place, but don't spoil it with meaningless anti-Americanism.  Intellectual honesty is not that hard to achieve, if you only try.

that head-butt

here is what the Reading Chronicle had to say about it (so it must be true).  It's clear that Gareth Epps. former councillor and leader of the Reading LibDem group, had a go at Reading Labour when the Church ward result was announced, referring no doubt to the disgraceful desperate racist dog-whistle leaflet - the response by Wee Georgie Loughlin was physical violence.  In character.  For Georgie.  Gareth Epps made his view - disgust - at that leaflet public before election night.  Rightly in my view.  The response, according to the Chronicle, of senior LibDems was to distance themselves from Gareth Epps.  Shame on them.  Because if that is what he said, he was right.  And if Wee Georgie attacked anyone physically - and I have seen him do it before, he is a loathsome violent dysfunctional little git - nobody should be "distancing" themselves from anything, but charges should be brought and laid.  I wish they would be.  It is clear from the Chronicle piece that something did happen.  Despite the denials from Was and from Reading Labour, which have appeared as comments on this blog.  Because Dave Peasley, no stranger to tussles of various kinds I believe, was involved, and cannot be gainsaid, nor does he have party political loyalty to consider.  Makes you think really, why don't we all just start biffing our opponents?  It was Was who said, where is Basher when you need him?  But Basher kept the biffing domestic, for the most part, and confined it to women in the political sphere, hein?

Best Blessings of Existence 30

Welcome back Emma B.  In which a dog, or another creature, returns to its vomit, and things take a turn for the normal - or do they?

A room of one’s own was sufficient for Virginia Woolf – but by the close of 1982, she had a house of her own, a baby of her own and a pet of her own. The problem was, she seemed to have acquired them via a type of hire purchase.

And they could not be returned to the shop….

Getting pregnant was ridiculously easy. Not for her the five miscarriages; one ectopic pregnancy and one still birth that had been her mother’s lot.

No.

One night of pill – less sex, preceded by a Truscott extravaganza at a Greek taverna during the course of which Philippa had smashed plates; danced on tables and ogled the waiters, was sufficient.

In the pre home-testing era, she had provided a urine sample for her doctor and the requisite rabbit or frog had died or turned pink. And she knew she was properly enceinte when she began to reside in the toilet - evacuating from all orifices throughout the day and most of the night. She missed out on the traditional bloom of preg Unfortunately, a jolly good brag is dependent upon the compliance of the braggee, and here she was sold somewhat short.

Her mother was ecstatic and knitted up a storm – but her response was not reliable because she had also airbrushed the Hunt debacle from history. Her father gave her a cheque instead of saying: You’re stuck with him now. Lynne said: If you call me Aunty Lynne I shall fucking kill you - and meant it.

Nicola and the kiddies said nothing because Paul did not tell them and it would be at least five months before she could brandish the evidence on access weekend in the form of a swelling stomach and a smock from Mystical Madonnas.

So she was left to her own devices; discarding Jane Austen; Erica Jong and Cosmopolitan in favour of Penelope Leach; Miriam Stoppard and whatever Mother and Baby magazines she could buy. It was a world of trimesters; stretch marks; cervixes; brown nipples and heartburn.

What Paul thought of it, she neither knew nor cared.

It was her body; her pregnancy; her baby. And that was all.

Well – perhaps not quite all.

She felt a residual need to maintain some sort of sex life in the changed circumstances. This was difficult – because from the moment she became pregnant, she ceased to find her husband attractive.

It was not that he had altered in any way – or gone to seed especially. He had always been a sartorial mess; the Cleghorn wardrobe had been an aberration and the tousled and ruffled look was – and remained, part of Paul's charm.

It was that their intimate moments had ceased to be a deux – at least in her mind.

In the throes of passion – or what passed for it; imaginary Nicolas would loom into view; or Hunts and Cleghorns.

On one occasion too horrible to dwell upon, she had been put off her stroke by a repellent image of the superannuated bookseller – and by then there was nothing for it but to close her eyes, think of John Lennon and wait for it to be over.

But she kept her counsel, discovering that wine and vodka in judicious quantities deterred unwelcome ‘visitors’ when avoidance was no longer feasible. It was a pre Health Police era and later in pregnancy, copious amounts of medicinal Guinness (for the iron content) did the trick. She found that one bumper unbridled session would do in place of more frequent lacklustre couplings; buying her more time off in between.

And Paul did not complain.

For once, she became inordinately keen to visit Eric and sample the delights of Picks Norton as a guest of Donald and Gillian. She anticipated an Eric in grandfather-mode with the prospect of a new baby toppling Nicola from her perch in his affections.

It was not to be.

Eric was not father material – let alone grandfather - and her pregnant queasiness at the sight of one of his ribs of beef oozing complementary blood, only sufficed to cement her status as resident wimp.

Nicola in similar straits was fondly remembered for chomping her way through the side of a whole bloody calf which she had then washed down with a bottle of his best Bordeaux.

And her own value as something below the rank of amoeba was hardly enhanced by the fact that she had ruined Eric’s attempt to show off to Paul by taking them for a ride in his new Rover (drinks petrol like a fish and purrs like a pussy).

It had been a mistake to venture a boiled egg at breakfast and waves of nausea engulfed her as they purred across Tufnell Bridge above the motorway. Eric had been compelled to make an emergency stop so that she could pour out of the car and deposit the contents of her stomach over the bridge; thence into the open sun roof of an unsuspecting motorist below. Emptied and weak, she repaired to the back seat, praying that stray threads of vomit had not escaped her mouth to settle amidst the creases in the white leather upholstery.

A weekend at Picks Norton was similarly frustrating. Gillian, who had formerly delighted in ramming the mysteries of the Breast is Best League down her un-pregnant ears, was not to be tempted onto the subject.

No.

The increasing independence of David and Susan was a relief.

The tyranny of the nappy pail was now consigned to the past. And we won’t be revisiting that chapter again, will we darling? (with an arch look at Donald).

It was wonderful to exercise the brain after an eternity at the mercy of Roger Hargreaves and the Mr Men and I’ve become a bit of a men-magnet!!

(smirking).

The idea of Gillian attracting anyone other than her legally assigned spouse (and that was debatable) was ludicrous – but the point was clear. Nicola, divorced or not, was on the inside looking out; she was on the outside looking in and it could rain and hail and snow on her - with or without babies.

That was where she would stay.

The fall-out at work was better.

Head of Department Andrew, naturally assumed she would leave – which determined her decision to stay come hell or high water - courtesy of a decent nanny.

Such dedication reaped a just reward and she was astounded to hear Andrew respond in effusive tones – with the promise of a scale promotion on her return from maternity leave. It meant responsibility for university entrance; goodbye to some hated junior classes; a place on the Senior Management Team – and more money.

She bore her nausea; heartburn and cystitis with pride. She was a contender.

Chudleigh’s reaction was mixed.

The snooty Head Master who had banned her from hallowed turf before marriage conveyed a modicum of respectability, offered wintry congratulations when they crossed paths at the Corps Annual Parade.

Betty Glenn was genuinely pleased.

But shock and awe came courtesy of Dorian Chase who turned up one morning bearing gifts – in the form of: a jolly useful little book and some threads.

The book; an obscure, illustrated feminist guide to sex in pregnancy, adorned with pictures of engorged genitalia – was consigned to the bin. The threads took the form of three of Dorian’s old maternity smocks; washed and pressed but infused with the characteristic Chase grubbiness. Paul caught her stuffing them into the back of the wardrobe and insisted on a floor show:

Darling, how kind of Dorian – now you really MUST wear them! Pink and orange swirls are … (struggling) - well you won’t find anyone else dressed in that!!

So she wore the hideous sacks in strict rotation at Chudleigh functions – but never without washing them first in a vain attempt to remove any lingering trace of their original owner.

It was an intimacy too far…

But she was happy – for want of another word to describe the self absorption, epitomised by hours spent examining her body for signs of change. These were an eternity coming and by four and a half months she could still zip up her jeans; unsurprising as so much body weight had been flushed down the toilet.

Pregnancy came with a customised kit and she became inordinately attached to her Co-operation Card issued by the doctor on the occasion of her first routine examination. This large piece of card, meticulously annotated by whoever was examining her, contained fascinating facts about her blood pressure; blood group; results of scans; tests and weight checks.

It was her unique body encyclopaedia; endlessly enthralling and exquisitely intimate. She had to resist the temptation to show it to people.

Not that the occasion ever arose, because, in the absence of anyone with whom to share these exciting times – she was lonely.

Paul pottered on in his own fashion; amicable and not, as far as she could tell, engaging in Hunt or Cleghorn activities – but things had changed.

She had taken him back - but he was what he was.

What he was not, was doting Daddy to his existing three children, so expecting a rush of enthusiasm for a clump of cells was naïve. After the birth, it would be their baby, and she firmly believed that one in the house was worth three in the bush.

For now, there was Betty.

Betty Glenn; the wife of David, was not a natural soulmate and had little in common with the unconventional eccentricities of Lynne. But Lynne was in London; Lynne had no interest in babies and since the advent of Paul their lives were at best disengaged.

And Betty was there.

Betty and David, hailing from similar monied County families, had attended minor single sex boarding schools prior to Oxford for David and an Oxford Cordon Bleu

School for Betty.

(It didn’t signify; the woman was capable of ruining tinned soup).

Betty was averagely pretty in a sandy, freckled way and dressed in a ‘young mum’ uniform of peasant skirts, linen blouses and exercise sandals.

She was never without a baby-change bag for toddler Miles; her reading material rarely extended beyond the thrills and spills of a Jilly Cooper; and she occasionally omitted to shave her legs.

But she was a silent bulwark against the Chudleigh matrons and was not a cheerleader for Dorian after the latter’s off-stage skirmish with David.

She was normal and kind and nice; someone to talk to about heartburn and flatulence.

And she did not prey upon Paul.

She would do.

One of the first things they did was to spend a morning in the centre of Dorlich, shopping for clothes. After an enjoyable couple of hours flicking through the wares at the dedicated maternity shops, Laura Ashley, as usual, was the outlet of choice.

She chose ankle and mid calf length dresses, high on the bust with flowing skirts and sleeves in rust and green and midnight blue velvet. They were tasteful and comfortable without the ‘pregnancy trademarks’ of elasticated waists and panels, because they were not maternity clothes. They were lovely and she felt like a Botticelli Primavera.

With the Chases thankfully off limits since the infamous supper and the Truscotts in abeyance, they began to see more of David and Betty as a couple. The evenings were pleasant; usually a take-away at the Glenns’ (Miles was at a difficult stage in potty training and Betty was reluctant to leave the deck), followed by Bridge.

She was hopeless; Betty was quite good and David was a fanatic; regularly bested by Paul’s mixture of distracted and ruthless play. Wine was drunk; nothing was thrown or thrown up and she was glad that Lynne was not privy to any of it because it was all ineffably dull.

But it was safe.

As summer approached, it seemed natural to re-visit the idea of holidaying as a foursome and Bridge evenings in the Glenns' high-ceilinged school apartment now included this new conversational variant to add to babies and Chudleigh. Maps were bought; routes were planned and Villequier was selected as the destination for a two-week vacation. The men shared driving and she and Paul took a room in a small hotel near to the campsite where David and Betty erected their luxury tent, equipped with the essentials required for a not-quite-potty-trained toddler.

Hotel Caudebec; situated next to a forest, was clean and neat, boasting excellent views and a wood-panelled restaurant overlooking the Seine.

The Victor Hugo Museum was nearby; but she had not realised that the writer’s daughter, Leopoldine ,had drowned in the Seine; weighed down by her sodden skirts following a boating accident. Nor that the river had also claimed the husband, who had attempted her rescue.

It’s amazing – we had no idea! said Paul:

Three No Trumps! (with a flourish).

They were finishing their first rubber of the evening outside a tent door garlanded with drying training pants.

Victor Hugo was virgin soil as far as she was concerned. The film of The Hunchback of Notre Dame with Charles Laughton in grotesque mode was the extent of her knowledge, but the fact that the author was enjoying a tryst with a lover whilst his daughter wrestled with mortality was disconcerting.

She played a card, thinking of that other corpse, fished from the sea and strapped to the boat on their return from honeymoon.

Water of a different kind engulfed Betty; weighed down by the rows of training pants which had to be washed and dried on a daily basis. David was considered to be a good husband (the dalliance with Dorian was an aberration) but consigned the care of his fractious toddler entirely to Betty, surfacing to read a bedtime story or assist with Lego.

It was hardly surprising that she occasionally forgot to shave her legs. It was amazing that she managed to shave anything at all; or even to wash.

Betty was a good wife and mother with a good marriage – but what next? David would not leave her, despite infrequent Chase-style aberrations; but no doubt his sharpness to her in company would increase; he would take less care with appearance and manners (belching; farting); less note of her birthday and interests. They would live parallel lives and when Miles left home – what?

It was a life lived by many – even most people, she thought, as they walked back to the hotel.

I

t was all right.

It would not do for her.

Their last day was the day of Diana Spencer’s marriage to Prince Charles and she felt the baby kicking for the first time. She dragged Paul from the shower, clamping his hand to her stomach. He was sceptical; the baby would not perform to order ,which she liked.

She was also glad to miss Royal Wedding frenzy and said so to Paul as he tucked into a huge bowl of moules mariniere at the hotel table.

The restaurant was full; Paul rose to his feet

I would like to propose a toast to HRH and his lovely bride!

The restaurant gave voice as one in a patriotic roar:

HRH – LOVELY BRIDE!!!

Followed by four rounds of God Save the Queen.

Stupid Spencer bitch ---- what dickheads!! sniggered her husband as a French hotel became a little England minus flags and bunting.

He was not laughing the next day – or driving either; having spent the night adorning the bathroom with bodily secretions following a violent onset of food poisoning as soon as they reached the bedroom.

The disgusting smell had precipitated another attack of morning sickness and one or the other of them drowning in vomit seemed a distinct possibility. They paid the bill and she avoided thoughts of the chambermaid.

It was a subdued party on the boat home. Nobody was up to Bridge. Miles was sulky; David picked at his bites; Paul was snappish and Betty was exhausted.

She looked at the sea and thought.

Betty and the training pants; Diana Spencer, worn by her big dress; the floating body; a baby in its watery sac; herself, pregnant.

Perhaps Leopoldine had the best of it.

incumbency effect

This is from a paper by a US researcher called Fernando Ferreira. Just saying. What are the consequences of electing a female leader for policy and political outcomes? We answer this question in the context of U.S. cities, where women’s participation in mayoral elections increased from negligible numbers in 1970 to about one-third of the elections in the 2000’s. We use a novel data set of U.S. mayoral elections from 1950 to 2005, and apply a regression discontinuity design to deal with the endogeneity of female candidacy to city characteristics. In contrast to most research on the influence of female leadership, we find no effect of gender of the mayor on policy outcomes related to the size of local government, the composition of municipal spending and employment, or crime rates. While female mayors do not implement different policies, they do appear to have higher unobserved political skills, as they have a 6-7 percentage point higher incumbent effect than a comparable male. But we find no evidence of political spillovers: exogenously electing a female mayor does not change the long run political success of other female mayoral candidates in the same city or of female candidates in local congressional elections.