The English Gentleman is Dead

"A gentleman is any man who wouldn't hit a woman with his hat on."
~ Fred Allen

I promise you now, this is not one of those tragic extremist-feminist posts that defy the very principles of feminism which I will no doubt rant about at a later time, no, this post is merely a discussion of something I have had a point of view on for a while but never thought to express such.

As the title may suggest, I want to discuss the idea of 'The English Gentleman'. What springs to mind? A man in a top hat, opening the door of a hansom cab so that a woman wearing too many layers of frilly lace can step onto a dirt track in the middle of London, smiling bashfully before taking the man's arm, as if it were a life-protecting necessity.

This is an idyllic and picturesque image, but it is one that belongs in an Austen novel, not in the real world. Some people will question 'where everything went wrong'. When did men stop being gentlemen and start being bastards?
This unanswerable question actually has a very succinct answer; it was about the same time that women started being complete bitches to the standing order of society.

Why don't men tip their hats to me in the street or rush ahead to gold the door for me?
Well, because they have a little more respect. They recognise that I am quite capable of working a door handle all by myself. The exception is, of course, if I'm carrying something heavy, then you'd better open the door or else you're going to end up looking like a bit of a shit.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that the ideal was and is flawed, because the intentions were never genuine. Of course, I'm talking generally, there were no doubt individuals who had real respect for women, but most men who were considered gentlemen of the nineteenth century didn't believe women should have the vote, didn't believe they had the same rights to work or earn a living or live on their own or lead any kind of life that women of today are accustomed to.

So, basically, to those girls who harbour sad regrets in their heart that they're unlikely ever to be whisked away by Mister Darcy I say this; grow a proverbial pair.
The fantasy of the gentlemen isn't dead, it never existed, but what we have now is a right side more respectable, if not as well-dressed. Be thankful that society has moved on to a moment in time when you're not patronised on every street corner by a man in a dusty bowler with a ludicrous moustache, enjoy the freedom to wear what you like, even when I, personally, think you look hideous and maybe, just once, you should run ahead and hold the door open for the elderly man in front of you, provided the intention is as sincere as the action itself.

The Feeling of London

"You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."

~ Samuel Johnson

I recently spent a week in London. I chose London because it has always been one of my favourite places in the world, or, rather, my favourite place out of the very few I've actually ever been to.
I was a little worried that spending a whole week in London would somehow kill a little of the, what shall we call it? Magic? Intrigue? Every possibility sounds either absurd or clichéd but London, to me, is a place that invokes the most intense feeling.

London is an amalgamation of impossibilities; nature springing up through the stones carved by humanity occupying over 620 square miles.

It is the most population dense city in all of Britain. Now, I'm not exactly what you'd call a 'people person', I'm not a sociopathic hermit or anything, but there are days when I'm not too far off, so to feel completely comfortable wandering through the throngs of bustling Londoners is unexpected.
Perhaps more unexpected, from the point of view of a girl, under twenty, living alone in the overwhelming city, is that I found myself generally relaxed and unabashed when walking alone. Even at night, when I would have expected to feel at least a little on-edge, I felt at ease, obviously I was cautious, I'm not a complete idiot but, as the girl who, when left alone in the house once when little, his under the table brandishing a candlestick because she'd heard a noise upstairs, I was just surprised that rational caution didn't lend way to excessive paranoia.

Whilst I was in London I saw a group of men, who called themselves 'The Beach Boys', who were creating sand sculptures on a beach next to the river Thames.

There's something phenomenal about this picture. Seeing, in the foreground, what is the stereotype of the idyllic Summer holiday and yet, glancing past all of that, the steely blue of the heart of London.

I saw five shows in the week I was there, had lunch with three businessmen, went to a reading by one of my favourite authors, accidentally ended up in a gay bar with two straight blokes from Chelsea, had a man predict my Birthday almost accurately, took over forty trips on the tube, wrote about ten thousand words of a story I'm working on and saw my favourite Youtubians form a band called 'Sons of Admirals' and then play songs about cats, colours and eyelashes.

All in all, I had a fabulous week, better than I hoped for, and London remains now and, I think, forever, the most irritatingly illogical but utterly beautiful city, reflective of humanity in a less distorted way that I would like and indescribably chaotic. It is a place that allows you to walk without being seen whilst taking in every colour, every sound and every unexpected sight found in the most interesting of places.

My week in London, the first holiday I've ever been on completely alone, offered me a freedom I have never experienced and my only regret is that I now have to find a way to readjust to a less spontaneous and, sadly therefore, less entertaining style of living.

Anticipating Sylvia

This is the product of over-dosing on Sylvia Plath's poetry, I think...

----------------------------------------------------------

ANTICIPATING SYLVIA

An enveloping hand,
Expansive, vast and ever-present,
Evaporates upon contact
With the crystal whiteness
Of her slender neck.

The frost creeps back
Into the dull brown sockets
And the universe is sucked
Into a vortex, explosively deep,
Cast blue-black shadow.

The inner and outer workings
Of schemas and lists upon lists
Upon paper torn from under
Bright red fingernails;
Painted or stained with sin.

Tugging a heartstring
Sounds like a Stradivarius crying
In anguish, mourning days
When a worthwhile artist
Lived to cry alongside.

If art is beauty then
It be only for the beholder
Who can only hold and not touch
Or fly or fall or feel
As deeply as is wished.