Somebody wrote on Google + today that any parent who refuses to vaccinate their child should be incarcerated and the child taken from them by the state and placed in the care of a loving family. A tad extreme? Perhaps but what causes such vitriol? Why does my decision not to vaccinate my kids do you any harm. We could talk about herd immunity and this is an argument that holds some water until you realise the utter ineffectiveness of vaccines anyway.

So why do people act with such outrage when parents choose to exercise their rights as individuals. The mere mention of the lovely Dr Andrew Wakefield sends people into apoplectic rage. For those of you who doubt this man and more, accept the demonising propaganda spread against him by the media, all I beg of you is that you listen to the man for 5 minutes and then stick him on the scales balanced by Rupert Murdoch, Merck and the WHO. See you whose souls you trust then:

Is it me or are examples of such DoubleSpeak cropping up more and more? Not just in the news, might I add but also amongst ordinary people you meet. People who say something so entirely at odds with their actions, it leaves you scratching your head, wondering if you have gone mad. Is it a sign of our times, a brutalisation of society?

Bill Gates Confusing Himself

Of course we have plenty of idols whose behaviour we can emulate. Our governments are Olympic champions of DoubleSpeak and our media has no qualms about repeating all the hypocrisy and rubbish that spokesmen and women trot out on a daily basis.

Examples:
The discovery of WMD in Iraq leading to an invasion of that country to establish peace and democracy. Well, the invasion was illegal, unwanted and jingoistic resulting in the deaths of millions, no peace and no democracy.

Global banksters gambling hubristically with our hard-won cash, exploiting the poor and weak, repossessing their homes, creating a world-wide depression and then being bailed out by us tax payers and rewarded with huge cash bonuses to boot.

The capture and mutilation of Osama Bin Laden and then dumping him in the sea ‘in accordance with Islamic tradition’ – out of respect so they would never have to show the proof of this fairy tale.

Britain’s failed assassination attempt on Gaddafi 20 years ago followed by our own Tony Blair toadying up to Libya’s premier, pulling off some dodgy oil deals and then when we had what we wanted, taking him out because he knew too much.

Bill Gates talking at the Ted Conference on the need to reduce population and saying that even with the most effective vaccination programme, we could only achieve a 15% reduction thereby openly admitting vaccinations reduce fertility and kill people.

I mean I could go on… The news throws up examples of such rubbish daily and it’s clever. Because what do we do when we are confused? Does uncertainty galvanise us? Or does it leave us scratching our heads wondering it it is we who are the stupid ones.

One undeniable fact remains. The lies are getting bigger. They are getting more outrageous. The liars are getting more arrogant. And so millions of people are cottoning on to what is going on. A tipping point is coming when people will refuse to take the crap any longer. And that tipping point is not that far away.

To this end, I have even gone as far as purchasing the Daily Telegraph! My husband, Mark Attwood, featured in this venerable rag a while back so I figured it must be half decent. Indeed there is much sensible writing in it but unfortunately the rigid adherence to anthropomorphic climate change really put me off so I think I’ll try the Socialist Worker this weekend.

Part of my resolve this pregnancy is to avoid stepping foot in any filthy maternity hospital or have any patronising obstetrician tell me what I can or cannot do. No scans to tell me when I have to have my baby by or to advise termination if what is seen doesn’t conform to a graph. No inductions, fake hormones, stirrups, scalpels, forceps, protocol and other paraphernalia that characterise modern childbirth.

This birth will be like my last and totally unlike my first two – quick, quiet and unfussy, at home in a pool.

I have hired my midwife and am getting on with my ennui perfectly satisfactorily, not bothering no one.

What surprises me each time I get pregnant are the changes in state policies towards the support of our nation’s mothers. I have only been at this business five years – my children are quite close in age and yet each one has seen quite dramatic updates – the increase in maternity leave (still woefully inadequate), the introduction of paternity leave, the introduction of Child Trust Funds (which the government are now trying to scrap, given the current economic state of affairs, leaving a couple of million children with risible legacies of this ill thought-out scheme). But this latest initiative has had me in stitches (or would have done had my ennui permitted laughter). I don’t know which is more pathetic – the title of the initiative (‘Health in Pregnancy Grant’) or the pukingly cutesy URL that gives the details:

http://campaigns2.direct.gov.uk/money4mum2be/en/

See what they’re doing? Text-speak to appeal to the teenage girls this incomprehensible policy is aimed at? Or just the government being funky and in touch as usual.

Is it just me or has the word ‘mum’ taken on a rather nauseating and patronising connotation in recent years? I feel as if some civil servant one day has realised that British mothers are undervalued, ignored, misunderstood and lacking in confidence so the solution is to eradicate the word ‘mother’ and replace it by the more contemporary and empowering word ‘mum’. This gives rise to such incomprehensible gatherings as ‘mums nights out’ and baffling neologisms such as ‘mumpreneurs’. Consequently I have barred the mum word from our house and my children call me ‘mama’.

I digress. The Health in Pregnancy Grant. My midwife has just told me about this one. The gist is every woman who gets to 25 weeks’ pregnant gets a payment of £190 (tax-free) from the government to ‘help you with your wider costs in the run up to your baby’s birth’. At least that’s what is says on the website although I have been told that the aim is to get women eating healthier (hence the title). So £190 to spend on cabbage and prunes. I think we all know where the majority of that money won’t end up. Nobody gets a windfall like that and decides to empty Sainsbury’s salad rack. Some women will buy a new maternity dress, some will buy 200 packets of Benson & Hedges, some will pay off a credit card but for most it will just get swallowed up with the household bills. The nation’s mothers and the babies they deliver will be no healthier or even wealthier than before.

But get this, a quick Google search informed me that there are approximately 630,000 women a year who become pregnant. That is a staggering £119,700,000 a year (not including the administration of these grants) chucked down the pan. What if, what if, they used this money to improve the abominable state of maternity services in the UK. That money could employ another 4000 midwives, it could encourage home birth, it could fund classes to teach women about nutrition and to get rid of the culture of fear surrounding birth.

On the other hand, I suppose the money is better off in our hands, however we decide to spend it, than in the hands of our ministers… Let’s face it, if all 630,000 women said, ‘No, we don’t want this, we want improved maternity services instead’ I doubt the government would heed my advice and sort out the understaffing on maternity wards up and down the country. They’d find a better way to piss it up the wall, like investing in some ill-conceived climate change initiative or something.

Ken wrote to Ogilvy at his chateau in France before he died requesting a copy of this sales manual which was kindly sent. I have managed to get my hands on a copy also and it makes the most wonderful reading. If only all training manuals could contain so much erudition, wit, colour, sense and kindness then we would be a nation to be reckoned with. I will write another blog post about the manual at some point.

And so began my quest to find out more about this incredible man. I have started with Roman’s new biography on Drayton Bird’s recommendation. Drayton worked a lot with Ogilvy towards the end of his life and sold his business to Ogilvy and Mather so he would know.

I won’t recount Ogilvy’s whole life here as you can read it in Roman’s tremendous work. Suffice it to say that each chapter of this man’s extraordinary life is more bizarre and incongruous than the last. After a term spent reading History at Christchurch, Oxford on a scholarship, Ogilvy decided he would change to Medicine. This didn’t quite work out, presumably because he had never studied science and so he was sent down. Bereft, confused and penniless, he relocated, in modern parlance, to Paris where he got a job peeling potatoes at the Hotel Majestic, which just happened to be the best hotel in Paris with the best restaurant in the world. Nevertheless, he just peeled the spuds. On his first day, slouching by the sink and desultorily hacking away at a King Edward, he was clipped round the earhole by the famous chef, Pitain who screamed “What are you doing, you toad. Take pride in what you do. Stand up straight! Everything in this kitchen matters!” I rather think this piece of advice stuck with Ogilvy, so diligently did he apply himself to his work throughout his life. After a few months, he was promoted to egg-white whisking and then a few months later, he reached the apogee of his career as a chef: gilding the cuisses de grenouilles with tiny fronds of chervil to serve to no less than M. Doumer, President de la Republique. As Ogilvy placed each tiny frond on the frogs’ legs, Pitain called everyone round. Ogilvy’s knees trembled as he knew he was in for the routine public humiliation the head chef was so fond of. “Voila, mes hommes! ‘Ere we ‘ave a true chef” and he wiped a tear from his cheek. Ogilvy later referred to this as the proudest moment of his career.

After the dizzying responsibility and the heady praise for his chervil decoration, Ogilvy clearly felt there was nothing left to aspire to in the kitchen. He must also have felt that there must be easier ways to earn a crust than sweating away for 14 hours a day 7 days a week in the gastronomic equivalent of Hades. So he got the boat back to Britain and through a connection of his elder brother, landed the unenviable position with Aga as mentioned above.

Once he had written the definitive guide to selling Agas, David clearly felt that once more it was time to move on, so he went to America and became a spy. He hung around with all his other fellow spies, like David Niven, Cary Grant, Roald Dahl (!!!) (I couldn’t believe all this when I read it) and ended up being instrumental in dragging a reluctant America into the war thereby saving our skins in Europe.

Post-war, Ogilvy found himself again skint and with not much to do until a chance meeting with a likeable chap called Dr Gallup. Between the two of them, Ogilvy and Gallup came up with this novel idea that if you ask people what they want and then give it to them, you could make a fortune. The Gallup pole was born. Ogilvy thought the best place to start was Hollywood and he went there and told the producers he could guarantee their shows would sell out. He polled cinema audiences, found out that 65% of cinema goers were under 25 and not particularly well-off and told Hollywood to start making films about young, poor people.

After huge success, Ogilvy and Gallup parted ways amicably, Gallup with a bloody good business which Ogilvy had set up, run and had grown, and Ogilvy with little more than his youth and a pocket full of dreams. Oh and a Bentley. By now married with a child, he went and became a farmer living amongst the Amish community where he was welcomed, accepted and loved. All this despite driving around in a Bentley in a community whose raison d’etre is to shun modern ways of life and to this day travel by horse and cart.

It was only at the age of 38 that he set up Hewitt, Benson, Ogilvy and Mather. Ogilvy had never done any advertising in his life but within one year he made this one of the most successful advertising agencies on Madison Avenue. Here he found his true talent and his niche. The rest is history (and can be read in Roman’s book).

But what lessons can be garnered from this wonderful man’s life?

For one thing, it doesn’t matter how peripatetic your life is, your purpose in life and your true talents will make themselves known to you at some point whether you are 18, 38 or 88. Just try and be open to new experiences and don’t stick at the same old thing because you are scared to move on

Secondly, take pride in what you do however lowly, whatever type of potato you peel. If you do it to the best of your ability, it’s going to hold you in good stead somehow.

Thirdly, fourthly, fifthly…you will have to read the book to get to know this fabulously funny, eccentric and likeable genius. His whole life is an example of how humour, curiosity, consideration, open-mindedness, ballsiness and an ability to truly connect with people can enrich your life in myriad ways.

But in anticipation of seeing him talk at an event in London next week, I thought I might try him out and see if his style had changed any since an adolescent reading of Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less over twenty years ago.

In truth, I cannot really remember the content of that book or even if I enjoyed it. Along with other novels of its ikind, I have found a direct corollary between pageturnerishness and forgettability. I wondered if this would be the case with his latest offering.

I actually enjoyed it. In parts. And I cringe as I write this but I actually wept at the end. The genre is one that pleases me – what I call the factual-fictional biography which in case you are confused is when the outline of a celebrated life is woven with the whimsy and imagination of the novelist into a jolly good read. It is a form that introduces you to and educates you in the life of a hopefully intriguing person whilst showcasing the writers wit and skill in inhabiting the mind of the protagonist.

The Paths of Glory is the story of the half-forgotten mountaineer, George Mallory, whose ascent of Everest in 1922, over thirty years before Hillary and Tinseng, ended in tragedy – his body was not discovered until 1999. No one is sure whether he actually made the summit. What is sure is that he got within 600 feet of it.

So Archer charts the progress of Mallory’s life from boyhood, through his years at Oxford where he hobnobbed with the likes of Lytton Strachy, GBS, Dora Carrington and other Bloomsbury intellectuals. And true to form he weaves a good story. Page follows page as you devour the tale of Mallory and his quintessentially English life at quintessential Oxford, displaying quintessential English character traits such as bravery, wit, phlegmaticism and sheer genius. Oh and sheer dogged determination to get to the top. But (and this is where the book starts to flounder), Archer, almost as if he has realised half way through that this guy’s personality is getting a bit too stylised, seems to go back and embue his Mallory’s weltanschaung with a precocious and anachronistic streak of femininism. At the tender age of nine, when most lads were sucking lead soldiers and blowing up frogs, Archer has Mallory musing on the fate of women and the injustice at the inequality in the education system, “‘Isn’t it possible’, suggested George, ‘that a husband might benefit from being married to a well-educated woman?’ ‘That’s the last thing a man wants’” snaps his mother. One of the novel’s more convincing statements.

So to avoid stereotyping Mallory, Archer attempts, almost as an after thought, to flesh him out a bit by turning him into a Suffragette. Which is odd because it turns out that the theme of women overwhelms the whole book in ways which I am not convinced Archer intended.

There are many impardonnable mannerisms of style in this novel. Not least is the characterisation of the personalities surrounding Mallory and indeed Mallory himself. While the men seems to all resemble Kitchener to greater or lesser extents, the female characters have hardly any substance at all and float in and out of the narrative like ephemera with nothing more to them but rigid morals and a saintly virtue. However there is one ‘female’ character which dominates and this is Chomolungma herself. On an unforgiveable number of occasions, the climbers in the book refer to the mountain as ’she’ – the ‘unforgiving lady’, the ‘temptress’, the ‘icy queen’… Unforgiveable but enlightening. One cannot help but feel that Everest, to Archer, represents the whole of the fairer sex and that all that great mountain’s attributes are those of the other 51% of the population: majestic, frozen, mysterious, unconquerable, awe-inspiring, dangerous, frozen, distant, and above all, there. That is one point of view of course. Another maybe that mountains are mountains and women are, well, women – that is men with a slight chromosomal difference and a more intuition.

That’s why I love factual-fictional biographies. They tell you more about the author then the author would wish you to know.

The nylon tabbard brushes my dangling arm
Signalling the presence of The Hands
Which start to glide unendingly up and down my cobbled back

Relax, I tell myself
And then immediately begin to worry if I would relax before the hour is up.
What if I never relax? Then the hour is wasted.
And if I relax too much? Will I fall asleep and waste the hour?
And so my mind wanders like a butterfly alighting on flowers of triviality and anxiety

And The Hands continue their well-practised, well-oiled art
Strange that it feels a bit like love, though I know hands cannot ‘love’
And handfuls of sand are rubbed into my head
At least this is what it sounds like as the fingers rub my hair

As they travel back down my spine, delicately, considerately, persistently
They flatten the bumps I never knew were there
I wondered if the cobbles of my life be so thoroughly tarmacked

The journey would undoubtedly be easier,

Though perhaps less picturesque.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Happy Birthday to Me!

Happy Birthday to Me!