Why Stuart Hall's conviction makes me happy

Stuart Hall's conviction of sexual assault is a landmark case, in my eyes, for three reasons.

First, the fact that he confessed to the crimes. Anyone who has studied sex abuse cases knows how rare it is for the defendant to plead guilty, and the main reason for this is the fact that it's notoriously difficult to prove a sexual offence. Unless the assault was particularly violent, and the victim was left with visible signs such as cuts and bruising (the rarest forms of sexual abuse), evidence is circumstantial indeed. Even if the victim went to the police straight away, and a sample of the defendant's semen was taken from the victim's clothes or body, the case will probably come down to whether or not the act was consensual.

This is why in court the defence will do everything in its power to convince the jury that the victim is a slut and a liar: because whether or not the defendant is found guilty boils down to a she-said-he-said battle of words and character.

Hence my surprise at Stuart Hall's confession to the crimes – an apparent change of heart, after he first furiously denied the allegations and called them 'spurious'.

Second, the fact that he was sentenced for his crimes. This really shouldn't be surprising – in English law, a victim never loses the right to tell the police about a sexual offence, there's no time limit. So although the crimes are historical, they should get as much priority now as they presumably would have had at the time. However, until now it was still unprecedented for a celebrity to be convicted for historical sexual assault, and quite rare for historic convictions even for non-celebrities.

Third, and this is most heartening of all: the fact that people are furious, shocked and depressed that Stuart Hall only got 15 months. That means a lot to me. A loveable public figure for many years – now a bastard who deserves to rot in jail. Never mind that it was 'a long time ago', and his victims grew up and 'got on with their lives'. Never mind that he's 83. In the public's eye, he's a child abuser just like any run-of-the-mill paedophile.

It's still not long enough, 15 months. I know full well it's not enough. But I imagine the fact that people believe that it's not long enough means a great deal to his victims, who must have sobbed alone in their bedrooms many times over all those years, thinking they'd never be believed.

To me, it's not long enough, but it's a huge ray of hope: it's the signal of the end of a misogynistic, brutal era. More and more abuse allegations, not just against celebrities, have come to light since the Jimmy Savile case, and this isn't because more people are being raped or abused – it's because a taboo is ending, and more victims feel that they can come forward and speak about what happened to them.

It's a sign that one day, jokes about rape and domestic abuse won't be funny, and intimidating others – children, women, and men – just because you're bigger than them, or more powerful than them, will be taboo. Because it's not – not for a lot of people, not just yet. But we'll get there. There's hope for us yet.

On Brighton Rock and the film industry

I despise the film industry.

I read Graham Greene's Brighton Rock the other week. It was evocative of the couple of times I've been to Brighton – both times were vastly romantic, exciting, gloriously sunny, and I fell head over heels in love with Brighton's architecture, history and welcoming laid-backness. Before Brighton my favourite place was Cromer. I found I love Brighton for the same reasons I love Cromer, but moar. I love cities. I love the sea. Brighton is the only city by the sea I've been to, and it's a-maze-ing.

So Brighton Rock had me bawling throughout the first chapter, for two reasons. Firstly, I'm a sensitive soul who enjoys weeping to fictitious misery because it's much more fun and pleasantly indulgent to weep at a misery that's not your own. I fell a bit in love with Fred Hale, as he desperately tried to find someone to cling to to protect him from Pinkie's gang. His growing desperation and panic touched my heart.

Secondly, Greene's descriptions of Brighton took me right back there. I felt like I'd been in every pub, every restaurant, every bit of promenade Hale is forced to visit as he ambles towards his death. The descriptions of the West Pier – a small obsession of mine (I have a framed picture of it burning down in my living room) – made me ache and sob with nostalgia.

Anyway, these two reasons have made me want to see either one of the two Brighton Rock films, the first made in 1947, the second in 2010. Well, I'd rather actually go to Brighton, but until both Scott and I have a long weekend off and surplus money, that's not going to happen.

So I've been eagerly scouring IMDb and Youtube for bits of background scenery, and have concluded I must see one or the other of the films. So far, the 1947 version is looking like the safer bet. I have it on good authority that it's 'supposed to be brilliant', and from looking at Youtube clips, I can see that it probably is. Besides, I've got a better chance of West Pier pr0n, seeing as it had burned down by 2010.

However, of the two clips I watched, both were untrue to the book. I know it's petty of me, and they can get away with it in the name of 'artistic licence' and answering questions posed by the book, but it still makes me fume. I don't know why this is. Even to me it's obvious that, as the book does not explicitly tell you how Hale died, the film should maybe show him dying; and as Rose never heard the message Pinkie left for her in the book, perhaps she should in the film (sorry for any spoilers). It just seems to me to be in flagrant disregard of the book, sticking two fingers up to Greene's back as if he didn't know what he was doing when he wrote it. Even though Greene helped to write the screenplay.

The 2010 version is even worse. Although the Guardian hailed it 'a masterpiece', and I admit the opening shot of the pier in the trailer made me swoon, the year in which the story is set has changed from late 1930s to, er, 1964. Purely, it would seem, so they could weave in some mods and rockers appeal. One synopsis I read described Pinkie as “top mod and gangster Pinkie Brown.” Another called him a “razor-wielding disadvantaged teenager with a religious death wish.” Ok, he's known to wield a razor. He's a teenager, technically. He's Catholic (although I wouldn't describe him as religious per se). I wouldn't say he has a death wish. I know I'm being very pedantic, because this synopsis was probably written by someone who's seen the film once and got bored halfway through, but can't you see – that's why I hate the film industry. Casually destroying everything I hold dear (literature, Brighton) through its own half-arsed laziness.
I love some films. Some films I think are beyond amazing. V for Vendetta. Kill Bill. 300. Hot Fuzz. But do you see a pattern there? My favourite films are either based on graphic novels – in which case the storyboard is already bloody drawn for them – or are not based on a book at all. And that is an incredibly rare thing these days.

On Dahl's chickens

The same year that I was born, one of the greatest writers who has ever lived died. His name was Roald Dahl. His brilliance was his seemingly effortless talent for writing for children.

It's funny how it's only when you grow up and read children's books again – and maybe have a go at writing one yourself – that you realise how difficult it is to write for the young. You can't swear, or make reference to things they wouldn't understand, and you absolutely mustn't be boring. A vivid imagination is also essential.

Dahl's skills went much deeper than this, though, because his books also appeal to adults and I would urge any adult at all to read them (they're nice and easy, with lots of pictures!). I bought a boxset of Dahl books in the January sales and am rapidly working my way through them. They make me laugh heartily. Perhaps I have the sense of humour of a child, but hopefully it's Dahl's magic making me laugh. For example, the BFG sitting down on top of a chest of drawers, which in turn was perched on top of a piano, and gleefully exclaiming: “What a phizz-whizzing flushbunking seat! I is going to be bug as a snug in a rug up here,” had me giggling like a schoolgirl.

Dahl has written his own personality into each book. You don't just picture his characters when you're reading his books – you picture him too. Personally, I've always imagined he looks a bit like the BFG. I recognise the same love of language and the jumpy excitement in both of them. And I love what Dahl did with words – nooks and crannies became crooks and nannies, while a catasterous disastrophy was never far away. And, of course, “Dahl's chickens” wrote Nicholas Nickelby.

Dahl was obviously a truly kind man and he valued it in other people. He once said: “Kindness is my number one attribute in a human being. I'll put it before any of the things like courage or bravery or generosity or anything else. If you're kind, that's it.”

So if he didn't exactly set out to enrich the lives of the youngsters (and adults) who read his books, he achieved it nonetheless. They are filled with references to great literature, for one thing. The BFG taught himself to read and write from Nicholas Nickelby, which he borrowed from a small boy. If that's not an endorsement from Dahl that this book is not only good, but suitable for children, I don't know what is. Matilda is filled with the titles of books that Matilda has read – classics including plenty of Dickens again, the Brontës, Austen, Kipling, Orwell, Hardy and Steinbeck, to name a few. Surely nothing can encourage a child to read these classics more than a ringing endorsement from the heroine of a book they love? They might even fancy themselves a bit of bookworm, like said heroine.

But to say that Dahl wanted to 'educate' children is surely to use far too stuffy and academic a word for it. It is entirely possible that he didn't, anyway. I didn't know him. But he had a wonderful gift for entertaining them with mischief. He taught kids that adults can lie and steal and be every bit as bad as children, and far from being appalled, the children were delighted – after all, being a little bit bad is a human's failure, not a child's failure, and I'm sure most children would like to know that.

However, there is much to be said for Dahl's sense of morality and the way he conveys it in his books. His best and most honest characters can still dish out the odd light-hearted punishment to those who deserve it. Matilda was particularly adept at this. The BFG couldn't resist blowing that rotsome trogglehumper into the sleeping Fleshlumpeater. George's marvellous medicine put paid to that horrid old witch of a grandma. And Danny and his father were borderline thieves, poaching pheasants from the despicable Mr Hazell's wood. None of this is ever done maliciously though, and the reader is always left with the certain knowledge of who is in the wrong.

So in conclusion: go back to your childhood at once and read Dahl's books again. You'll love it. You can borrow them from me.

A Mole in my life

I'm clearly not going to get any more work done tonight; my bag-on has put paid to that. And if you're reading this Loz, it's too fucking late to go to the pub now anyway, so don't start!

I've just been reading Sue Townsend's True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole, and thanks to the bag-on, it's made me all emotional. I have known and loved Adrian Mole since I was nine years old. He has aged quicker than I have, thanks to the fact that he was already 32 when I started reading them, but I've sort of grown up with him. I've watched his vain attempts to put himself across as an enigmatic intellectual, I've seen him get married and divorced a couple of times, father children, work his way through terrible jobs, had the most almighty calamities befall him, develop cancer and become a grandad. I weep for his sense of loss as he grows older and realised he's achieved nothing of what he wanted when he was 13 and three quarters. And he's got me through years and years of my own teenage, 'intellectual' angst. He fuelled my ambition to be a writer. He inspired me to write countless fictional diaries, poetry and even the odd 'opus' of my own, grandiosely calling it all 'manuscripts'. He's kept me awake in bed laughing till the early hours in a way few other men ever have. I cried when Bianca left him, I cried when his Grandma died, I cried as I read through The Prostrate Years – but oh, how I laughed. When he delicately enquired of Nigel what the worst thing about being blind is, and Nigel snapped “I can't fucking see!” in reply, I laughed for whole minutes and woke my sister up.

The most beautiful thing about the way I've read these books is that every time I've re-read the teenage years, as I've got older, wiser and better-read, I've discovered one of Townsend's wily, ironic jokes. After Adrian reads Animal Farm, he innocently writes in his diary: “I cried when Boxer was taken to the vets. From now on I will treat pigs with the contempt they deserve. I am boycotting pork of all kinds.” The entry was lost on me aged nine. Then I grew up, read Animal Farm, learned what the words 'contempt' and 'boycotting' mean, and found it all the more hilarious.

Which is why I'm going to lend the books to my sister, who's 10. She'll love them for their simple style and for Townsend's brutally accurate account of being a teenager – and of course, she'll love them for Adrian himself, who despite it all is one of the most loveable characters in English literature. Then when she grows up she'll know why they're so good for adults too. Read these books please.

The Virus of Life

At college today, I asked my tutor, Peter, a question. “Do you, as a man, fear rape when you're out and about?”

His reply was “no.”

“Well women do,” I said. “Most women basically can't walk down the street without the possibility that she'll be attacked crossing her mind.”

“Yeah, it's true,” agreed Najmah from across the room.

Peter, bless him, was dumbstruck. You poor men, you don't know you're born! But his reaction surprised me. It has never occurred to me that men don't know how much women fear rape. I take it for granted – as a small child I was warned not to talk to strangers, accept sweets etc., and I knew why, and it stayed with me forever. I feared being abducted then and I still fear it now. I suspect most other women are the same. To suddenly be reminded that men shrugged off all that 'don't talk to strangers' stuff once they felt they were too old to be targeted by paedophiles, and it didn't occur to them that women can't so easily shrug it off, is quite a realisation. Or maybe they never feared creepy old men with sweets as much as I did in the first place.

I bring this up because I'm in my third year at uni, approaching dissertation time, and I've chosen to write about how rape is portrayed in the media. I feel the need to explain why rape is such a big deal to women. I know men get raped as well, and I will write about them too in my dissertation, but where rape is concerned men do not feel the same culture of fear. Women are more vulnerable, primarily because they are physically less strong than men.

I also know that statistically, the stereotypical scenario of a woman who gets raped by a stranger in a dark alley doesn't compare to the number of rape cases in which the woman knows her attacker, and which in all likelihood takes place indoors. So really, why should we fear being attacked when we're walking home in the dark? Is it only the fact that we are weaker than men? Why do I feel particularly vulnerable if I'm walking home in the dark wearing heels or a low-cut top?

Rapists do not commit rape because they are so horny they can't stop themselves. It's got nothing to do with sex. It's about power and control, it's about violating another person to give yourself a feeling of superiority.

That's why I get so, so angry when people lay blame on a woman who's been raped because she was wearing a short skirt or a low-cut top or whatever. Nobody MUST have sex just because they get turned on. Normal people cut their losses, go home and masturbate. No one 'asks' to be raped. I'd hoped such a dim view of rape victims was long buried in the past where it belongs, but then recently a woman in her early 50s said to me: “If she dresses like that, she deserves it.”

One more thing before I crack on with my ever-relentless mound of coursework. Young teenagers who dress like sluts do not do so to appeal sexually to the boys. Typically, their feelings about sex range from afraid to merely giggly, and they don't want it until they are 15 or older. No, they dress like sluts because to them, that's how you look older. That's all it is – they just can't wait to grow up and be considered an adult. Trust me, I used to be one of them.

To say that they're little slags who deserve what they get is tantamount to child abuse, if you ask me.

Another Love Song – Part 1

Inspired by this legend, I'm going to write about music, why I love it and the origins of my own epic taste.

I'm the fifth of seven music-loving children, so for my first 12 years or so my older siblings pretty much did all the hard work for me when it came to discovering chooons. I vividly remember sitting with my brother Daniel, 11 years my senior, when I was about four, watching the video for Guns N' Roses' November Rain. I loved it. I lost it for several years, then my sister Soph re-introduced me to it when I was about nine and I fell in love with it all over again. It was like being reunited with an old best friend.

That's one of the things I love most about music: its ability to recall you to a different time. I listen to QOTSA's Everybody Knows That You're Insane now and it's suddenly Christmas 2006 again and I'm wrapping presents in my old house.

But anyway, Daniel did a lot for me in the '90s. He had mixing decks in his bedroom (at least that's what he said they were; they were probably just glorified tape recorders) and he used to make me tapes. They were random as hell – usually an eclectic mix of the likes of The Corrs and Eminem – but by the time I was nine, I was never seen on a car journey without my beloved cheap imitation Walkman, a set of dodgy Woolworths' headphones and a little case full of tapes. Shame Dan went on to borrow my CDs without permission, do drugs, take on a great many bouncers and eventually marry a chav. But in the '90s he was awesome.

I was a bit retarded and loved playing with dolls and shit long after all the other girls at school had started wearing high heels and make-up from Claire's, so I was probably about 12 (all right, 13!) before I stopped asking my parents for Playmobil for Christmas and asked for a CD player and a CD instead. To my eternal shame, the CD was Busted's second album, A Present for Everyone. More on that later.

In the years between listening to Daniel's tapes and obtaining my very own CD player, I was eavesdropping on Soph's and my other brother Ben's chooons. We had a PC on the landing, and they would take it in turns to play games like Baldur's Gate and The Sims while listening to music. I copied them both. I thought they were both awesome. So I very well remember playing Diablo (the only game I've ever completed, because it was a piece of piss) on that old PC, listening to their music. Two songs that have stayed with me from then are Achilles Heel by Toploader and Citizen Erased by Muse. Citizen Erased was another lost song. I struggled in vain for years to remember what it was, then when I was 15 my best friend gave me Time is Running Out to listen to and I knew it was the same band. I got Origin of Symmetry for my 16^th birthday and as soon as I heard the intro of Citizen Erased, I knew it was my lost song.

The same thing happened with Macy's Day Parade by Green Day, which Ben used to play on the PC all the time while I sat on the stairs listening. And Gone Away by the Offspring, which I only rediscovered last Christmas. It really is the best thing I can think of, to suddenly have long-forgotten memories of being 10 sitting on the stairs listening to a song you didn't own flooding back, and to suddenly have that song all to yourself on an iPod, to listen to whenever you want. So I'm eternally grateful to my siblings. In Part 2, I'll attempt to excuse myself for that Busted album.

Four nights in the North of the South

Day 1

Jiff and I set off for Clacton at around 1200hrs. Jiff and I arrived in Clacton at 1600hrs. Let's never speak of that journey again. Thank goodness for phone-enabled Google Maps, that's all I'll say.

I spoke to my father and he congratulated me on my mad navigational skillz, obviously inherited from him. Then I spoke to Mum and she harped on about Billy Butlin for 20 minutes. Having satisfied our parents that we were alive and safe in our caravan, we took stock of cupboard space and shower power, that sort of thing. Jiff relaxed after the harrowing journey. We'd spotted a 24-hour Tesco right opposite the caravan site, so we drove over and stocked up on pizzas and washing-up liquid. We spent the rest of the evening watching Ricky Gervais DVDs, which we could've done at home.

Day 2

After an uncomfortable night on the world's smallest and boniest mattress, we decided to explore Clacton. We left the car in a very organised car park, patrolled by a man who clearly had a degree in car parking. He took your money and told you precisely where and how to park. He'd packed cars into that little space like sardines in a tin, but without the need for a tin opener. The man was a genius and I hope they paid him well.

And so we explored Clacton, which involved walking up the pier, which was full of amusements, fair ground rides and other tat, and then walking through the modest town centre, which has recently been spruced up with fountains and stuff – hey, a bit like Peterborough! But actually with less naked pikey children running through them. Mind you, it was overcast. The whole time I was looking for a toy Angry Bird, as my little sister's birthday is coming up and that's what she wants. Every arcade we walked past had a claw machine full of them, but my goodness, they're impossible to grab. I could've used all the money I spent failing to get one to just buy one. I'm still looking for one now.

We stopped at a little fish and chip kiosk – “Susie's Al Fresco”. Yeah, Al Fresco. Went to school with him. Little Italian feller, had a moustache by the time he was 13. Anyway, the chips were good. Having eaten, we left the immaculately organised car park and drove to Clacton Factory Shopping Village, one of those 'designer outlet' things. It was still a rip-off. And it reminded me strangely of Ely, a megalomaniac of a place, a village pretending to be a city.

In the evening, back at the ranch, we went to see what the, er, ranch had to offer. A bar/restaurant called the Boathouse, a crappy amusement arcade where the only prizes in the 2p machines were tickets and the Guitar Hero was switched off, and a clubhouse with 'entertainment'. The kind of 'entertainment' that makes you want to slowly murder the entertainers by asphyxiating them with their own furry costumes.

Day 3

The mattress problem was solved: there was a spare mattress under the bed and it didn't have springs.

We were planning to go to the zoo today, but we got up too late. So instead we took a leisurely drive up the coast, towards Walton-on-the-Naze. I spent the week wondering what the hell a Naze is, and I've just Googled it and it's a bit of peninsula. Awesome.

We stopped in Frinton-on-Sea because my mother wanted us to. Apparently it had stuffy by-laws long after most other towns had given them up, like not allowing public houses and forbidding washing to be hung out on a Sunday. It finally got its first pub in 2000. It's one of the weirdest and blandest places I've ever been to – an odd juxtaposition of model village quaintness and modern '70s towerblocks. It's also the only place where I've ever encountered a 'Warning: blind people' sign, and then seen some blind people trying to cross the road. I don't get those signs anyway. As Jiff proved today, seeing a blind person warning sign does not alter your driving at all. You notice the blind person, but you can't slow down because that'd confuse them, and you certainly don't want to stop for them because they won't see you. If anything, there should be 'WARNING! CARS!' signs for the blind. Y'know, audio signs. Oh, bless them.

I paid 20 pence to use the loo in Frinton, and got another first – automatic sanitary towel bins! You wave your hand, and it opens, allowing you to deposit your 'doings' securely and hygienically. Never mind that you'll flush the toilet with the same unclean hands, open the cubicle door, turn the taps... jeez Frinton, for 20p I expect better things. Especially in a place like this. Mind you, automatic pad bins are probably an important by-law in Frinton.

And so on to Walton-on-the-Naze, a truly lovely little seaside place, so removed from Frinton you can't believe they're on the same small stretch of coast. It's pretty, with just enough tat to keep plebs like me happy, but not enough to make your eyes want to throw up. It has shops that sell buckets and spades and cheap sunglasses and painted seashells. I only wish the weather had been a bit nicer, because in the sunshine this place must glow. The clouds didn't stop me taking off my shoes and having a little paddle in the sea. The beach was deserted. It was awesome. You can see why they call it the Sunshine Coast – the beaches are lovely and the sand is clean, which is one of the things I look for in a seaside town. That's why Skegness is shit and Cromer is paradise. Well, it's obviously not the only reason Skeggy is shit, but it's a rough indicator.

In the evening the weather started looking a little bit nicer, so we parked the car on the Clacton seafront and had a walk round the amusements and on the beach. Still didn't grab an Angry Bird. Speaking of birds, there are absolutely no attractive women in Essex. You may think they look sort of all right on the telly, but they're caked in make-up and then airbrushed. I'd noticed myself becoming less and less attractive as well, like it's a curse. We didn't use either of the campsite's two swimming pools the whole time we were there because I was too busy hiding my face, Quasimodo-style, thanks to a spectacular break-out that occurred the moment we got there. And every time me and Jiff spotted a girl who might be attractive, she turned out to either have a face like a bulldog, or she was 15. I reckon they're all right until they hit 18, then they're slowly but surely transformed into gargoyles. Oddly enough, the men were all right. In fact, more than all right. We felt sorry for them, doing their best with what Essex had given them: munters.

Day 4

Went to the zoo. Colchester Zoo. Follow the elephant signs! To be fair, it is well-signposted, even if the signs do make you feel like you're about five years old. It has to be really, because Colchester is apparently Britain's oldest recorded town and negotiating it by car is like trying to make dinner plans with the Riddler.

So we saw some animals. It's a good zoo. That's all I can say about it really. A zoo is a zoo is a zoo. Nothing hilarious happened there, but we did see a child fall out of a pushchair onto its face because its mother hadn't bothered to strap it in. Other examples of bad parenting were also rife, but none of it was malicious – just sort of careless in a chavvy way. Anyway, who am I to get on my high horse about it? We'll see how well I manage when I've got kids. “Jiff... JJ's got his hand in the fire again... sort it out will you?” Don't panic, that's just an example. I'm not really going to call my child JJ.

Jiff bought me a cuddly toy wolf. I liked the leopard the most, but they didn't have any toy leopards so I got a wolf. His name is Seth and he was very expensive considering all he will do is sit on our Sky box collecting dust for the next few years.

Jiff and I got loads of KFC and took it back to the 'van. Then we started cleaning up and packing.

Verdict

Essex is essentially the North of the South. It's where the real southerners come for weekend breaks, and it's cheap and cheerful in much the same way as Blackpool. You know how some Coronation Street residents bugger off to Blackpool at this time of year? If Eastenders wasn't so depressing, some of that lot would go to Clacton once a year too. Actually, what am I saying? They'd go to Turkey. But you get my point. I hope.

The only major flaw with the Sunshine Coast (apart from chavs wearing so much white you can't look at them... remembering how ugly the women are, maybe that's the point) is that it only has one chippy, Susie's, which after the first time we went seemed to be permanently shut. So we ended up eating a lot of pizza and KFC, but that's what we do at home anyway.

This holiday wasn't as exciting as I may have made it seem. A lot of the time we just lay around the 'van, Jiff playing Angry Birds on his phone while I read Dan Brown, with the news on in the background, the full hideous glory of the phone-hacking scandal unfolding before our eyes. I wasn't watching it. I was on holiday! Give me a break! It's exciting to live through history though. People will talk about the scandal for years. By 2050 it'll be in the school history books, and Rebekah Brooks will be compared to the likes of Hitler and Stalin. I'll save a copy of the last News of the World forever, and tell my grandchildren about how my profession used to be reviled because newspapers called 'tabloids' were full of sleaze.