"I will not give up and I will not give in" - happy freedom anniversary to me. :)

On my 30th birthday last year, I got a tattoo.  It's my third and possibly most important one.  It says "This world will not impose its will.  I will not give up & I will not give in."  The lyrics come from this song by the Manic Street Preachers - my favourite band - and the words are surrounded by cherry blossom.  Cherry blossom is seen in some cultures as a symbol of renewal and strength against adversity.  Cherry blossom is also connected to the Manics themselves, through their lyrics and the images in their videos/press photos.  But why those words?  Why those flowers?

Last year, my 30th birthday didn't only mark the start of a new decade.  It came less than a month after the first anniversary of my leaving an abusive relationship.  At the time of my 30th, I was still not entirely healed.  I couldn't listen to certain songs.  I hated any mention of my ex's favourite films.  Any man who looked even slightly like him set my heart racing and not in a good way.  I'd had two months of one-to-one support from a charity called the Women's Rape and Sexual Abuse Centre (their website, should anyone in North cornwall need it, is here), who, in spite of the name, deal with not only sexual, but all forms of abuse.  I was, for want of a better expression, a work in progress.  But in spite of knowing I still had a mountain to climb, I was already in a vastly better place than I had been a year earlier, which was what inspired the tattoo.  I hadn't given up or given in.  And no matter how hard the road ahead might be, I knew that I wouldn't.

Today marks two years since I left that relationship and began walking the long road to recovery.  In honour of such an anniversary, I've decided to use my blog to talk about that road and the journey I took.  How I ended up on it in the first place, what it was like to walk it and how it feels to have climbed the mountain and reached the top.

I guess it would be fair to say that at the age of 27, I was pretty naive.  I was shy, not entirely self-confident and had much less relationship experience than the man I'd fallen for.  In a positive, loving, healthy relationship, this needn't have been a problem.  A kind, supportive partner would have nurtured me and allowed me to blossom.  Indeed, in the early weeks and months of my relationship, my ex would tell me how "sweet" my relative innocence was.  He'd remind me that I shouldn't put myself down; I was beautiful.  I was special.  But he soon began to use my naivity against me.

"All normal people know that it's not an official relationship until the guy says it is," he'd tell me when I gaped at him, devastated to hear that as far as he was concerned, I was just "some girl" he was sleeping with.  "If I say I love you, I mean it as a friend.  Why would I want a relationship with you?!"

But in spite of his cruel words and rejections, I stuck around.  I believed his apologies, his protestations.  His manipulation of me had worked completely; I firmly believed that I was just immature and silly.  I didn't have as much life experience as he did.  I was less sexually experienced than him.  This really was the way "normal" relationships worked.  I'd been single for years, how could I argue any different?  Besides, he was a unique case.  He'd been abused as a child.  He couldn't help his behaviour.  He had to push me away when I got "too close" and if I got upset about it, then what did that make me?!  An ignorant bitch with no compassion.  And he was always so sweet and so sorry for making me upset.  He really did love me.  He needed me, he said so himself!  Nobody else had ever understood him like I did.  It frightened him, that was all.  He didn't know how to deal with his feelings, so he said nasty things, or slept with someone else, or ignored me for days on end, because he was damaged.  Vulnerable.  He needed me to be the strong one.  The one who waited for him to "get well."

He'd played the "poor little boy" act so well, that I stopped standing up to his behaviour.  I listened when he told me he couldn't help it.  I felt so sorry for him, when he told me stories about his childhood, that I just wanted to show him what it was like to be loved unconditionally.  So I learnt to be silent when he wanted to talk about his past (he'd tell me to "shut up" if I didn't).  I learnt to put up with hearing about other girls (he'd tell me I was "clingy and disgusting" if I didn't).  I learnt not to expect a mutual sex life (if he wanted sex, I was expected to give it immediately.  If I wanted sex, I was a "slut").  I learnt that I could only have physical affection if he wanted to give it (at night time, he'd tell me "don't bloody touch me; I hate it when you get all desperate and try to cuddle up").  I learnt, most damagingly of all, that everything was my fault.  I'd brought it upon myself when I'd agreed to be with him.  He'd "warned" me, after all.  He'd told me I was just a "fuck buddy."  I mean, yes, he had also begged me never to leave him.  He'd told me he loved me.  He'd told me he didn't want to push me away, or hurt me anymore; he said he wanted to get better and if I could wait, maybe everything would work out okay.  But I shouldn't have listened to that, right?  I should only have listened to his warnings or rejections.  So it was totally my fault.  Not his.  He couldn't help it.  

In the 20 months that we were together, I began to normalise his behaviour in my mind.  It was the only way to cope with it.  So it became normal to arrive, tired after a long journey, only for him to already be naked and demanding sex.  It became normal for him to openly admit that he didn't care if I was sexually satisfied as long as he was.  It became normal to satisfy him and then have him refuse to lay a finger on me in reciprication.  It became normal to have to cook for him, or pick him up from somewhere, or drive him to another place whenever he snapped his fingers.  It became normal to have to pay for half his weekly shop, when I didn't live with him and would usually only be staying a night or two at most.  It became normal to be criticised, mocked and put down.  It became normal to put up with homophobic or sexist remarks, regardless of how he knew they made me feel.  It became normal to hear about other women he was either fantasising about or already sleeping with.  It became normal to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself.  To not speak to family or friends about the side of him that made me feel that I would never be good enough.  The version of him that made me truly believe that I wasn't worthy of love.  It became normal to feel constantly guilty for my behaviour, even though I had always believed that to be caring, faithful and supportive were positive traits.  It became normal to hate myself for not being able to "fix" him.  It became normal to protect the side of him that was funny, charming and passionate.  It became normal to accept my responsibility for "making" him angry or frustrated, simply by being there.  

I've got no doubt that most people reading this might be thinking: "Jesus, love.  If someone treated me like that, I'd be showing him the door, not lying down and taking it like a bloody doormat."  Maybe a few years back, if I had read this, I'd have said the same thing.  But manipulation is a powerful thing.  He wanted me to believe that he was innocent and troubled and that he needed my patience and help.  I wanted to believe that the man who could make me laugh so much, who I was so attracted to, who seemed so out of my league, was doing his best to sort himself out.  That I had to wait and help him as much as I could.  That there would be a happy ending, if I could just ride the storm for a while first.

Two years ago today, however, I realised that the storm wasn't going to pass.  I had spent the day with my best friend.  I left earlier than she wanted me to, because I knew I was going to meet him.  He had promised me dinner out.  I had already made my mind up that unless something dramatic happened, it would be the last meal we shared together.

He'd recently started working in a new job.  He texted and told me to pick him up from the car park behind his new workplace.  I had no idea where that was and ended up driving aimlessly around a city I wasn't entirely familiar with.  I called him and asked for directions.  He sounded happy to give them.  I knew he wasn't.  I could tell that he was simply within earshot of his new workmates.  He didn't want to let his public mask slip.

Sure enough, when I eventually found the car park and switched off the engine, he was nowhere to be seen.  Eventually, five or ten minutes later, he emerged at the other end of the car park, spotted me and remained stubbornly rooted to the spot, refusing to walk over to my car, expecting me to pull up alongside him and save him the short walk.  I did it, as I had done so many other things over the last 18 months or more:  For an easy life.

His first words were critical.  I hadn't waited in the right place.  I was late.  I had never bothered to learn my way round his home city.  I didn't respond, so he laughed to himself (something he did more and more towards the end of our time together) and told me: "No wonder I don't like being with you; look at yourself!  You're so depressed.  You're bringing me down!"  He told me he wasn't taking me out for dinner after all and said I ought to drive to his house instead.

Once there, he began telling me about the other girls he was sleeping with (we'd ended our sexual relationship by that point; he told me I was "too immature" to handle it).  There were several.  None of them knew about each other.  I questioned whether that was a nice - or even a safe -  way to treat women.  He told me, not for the first time, that I was stupid and didn't understand real life; he'd done nothing wrong, so why did I feel the need to criticise?  His horrible childhood gave him every right to do as he pleased as an adult.

We went downstairs and he began cooking dinner.  I didn't say much.  I stood in that kitchen - watching a man I had loved so much it had felt like my heart might burst through my chest - feeling like a slowly deflating balloon.  The air was being sucked out of me.  The joy, the strength and every little personality trait that made me me had been draining away for months.  And it was because of him.  The thought was almost too much to bear.  My throat felt as though it was closing in on itself.  I blinked back tears as he continued to talk about the girls he was sleeping with and how much slimmer and more confident they were than me.  How much better his life was, now that he was keeping me at arm's length.  How sick it made him feel to imagine the two of us together.  And then something snapped.

I don't remember everything I said to him.  I'm fairly certain I didn't say half the things I should have.  But I spoke back.  I told him he couldn't use his past as an excuse to treat people like shit.  I told him you can't just tell someone that you love them so much it scares you one minute, then make out like they're just a casual play-thing the next.  I do remember the last thing I said to him: "If you carry on treating people like this, you're going to end up a very lonely old man."  I remember it, because it was what made him throw down the kitchen utensils in his hand and grab my arm, much too hard.  I remember it, because it was that that made him practically drag me through the corridor, before opening the front door and literally throwing me out of it.  And I remember it, because, as I picked myself up and dusted myself down, I knew it was probably one of the truest things anyone had ever said to him.

I got in the car and the self-pitying texts began to arrive.  I didn't understand him, because he'd been abused as a child.  I was selfish.  I had gotten too close and given him no choice but to push me away, because he was so scared.  Now I'd left him and he was all alone again.  Just look what I had done to him!  I replied.  Just once.  I told him I hated him for what he'd done to me.  he sent a message back, saying he was glad I was gone, because I was an ignorant c*nt.  I laughed.  And then I cried.

I cried so hard on that drive home, that I thought my heart might literally break.  But for the first time, I wasn't crying because I was upset at the way he'd treated me (and there were many drives home where I did that, believe me).  I was crying with relief.  I'd done it.  I'd stood up to him; told him I wasn't taking his shit anymore.  Okay, so he'd spoilt my big, dramatic walk-out, by turning it into a big, violent throw-out, but I had still done it.  I'd left him.

Of course, by the time I reached home, his manipulation had come into effect and I felt wracked with guilt.  That poor man.  He was vulnerable.  He was acting out because he didn't know any better and instead of being strong enough to support him, I'd abandoned him!  My mood crashed.  I hadn't ridden out the storm.  The storm had beaten me.  Over the next few days and weeks, it's not an exaggeration to say that, at times, I was suicidally depressed.  I hated myself.  I wished myself dead.  I was a failure.  I had promised him I understood him and I'd be there for him and I'd broken my word.  I found myself wondering if he was okay, whilst simultaneously dreading a message or a call from him, knowing it would only suck me back down into a world I no longer wished to exist in.  I prayed for a miracle; I wanted to rewind time and write him out of my history.

By October, I was just about surviving.  I was painting on a brave face most days; going out with my friends and keeping myself busy.  But at night, I'd lie in bed, sobbing into my pillow, wondering what had happened to the feisty, fun version of myself that had once existed.  I heard from him, via text, accusing me of contacting one of his friends and warning her against him.  I hadn't done it, but I foolishly took the chance to communicate with him; asking him for forgiveness, for the way I had behaved.  I felt such enormous levels of guilt that I felt I needed him to tell me that he was okay and that he didn't hate me.  I felt completely deserving of his hatred.

I started craving alcohol.  Not in ridiculous amounts, but just enough to "take the edge off."  I had an unhealthy relationship with it; if I had had a drink, it made me feel all fuzzy-edged and I didn't brood on what I was going through anymore.

By November, I'd sought help.  I am fortunate enough to have a certain Doctor (Doctor Ashby, for any local readers) at my surgery, who I feel I can be entirely open and honest with.  So I made an appointment and I told him I hated myself and I couldn't cope.  I asked for counselling and he arranged it.  He didn't judge me, or criticise me.  He simply told me that he'd do everything he could to make me better.

When those counselling sessions started, I used them to purge myself of the guilt I felt.  I told my counsellor that I had abandoned someone who had needed me, because I was too stupid and immature to understand the kind of relationship he had expected to have with me.  I told her how I "made him feel violent" and how clingy and disgusting I was.  I recalled how sexy and clever and funny he had been and I told her that I hadn't deserved him.  I meant each and every single word.  I hated him for what he'd done to me, but I hated myself more for making him do it.

It was during my penultimate session (in late March last year, if I remember rightly), that my counsellor leant forwards in her seat and handed me a leaflet for WRSAC.  "Women's Rape and Sexual Abuse Centre?!"  I exclaimed.  "But he didn't rape me!"

I didn't know what "coercive consent" meant, back then.  I didn't realise that when he had distracted me from standing up to his behaviour with sex, or when I'd told him I was tired or not in the mood and he had guilt-tripped me into doing it anyway, or when he had demanded that I satisfy him, then pushed me away and told me I was "disgusting," or when he'd deliberately get me all worked up, then refuse to lay a finger on me, leaving me frustrated and humiliated, that that was a sexually abusive way to behave.  I honestly believed that those things just happened in a "normal" relationship, because he'd always made me feel stupid for questioning it.

My counsellor gently explained that WRSAC dealt with all forms of abuse.  There was a fortnight left until my last session with her and she wanted me to call them before then and arrange for them to support me in a more specialised way.

I hid that leaflet away.  ABUSE?!  Was the counsellor trying to make me feel less guilty?  Well it wasn't working!  I'd feel far more guilty if I took up the valuable time of an abuse charity, when I'd not really suffered anything remotely like the idea of abuse that I had in my head.  

Okay, so he shouted sometimes and called me stupid, fat, immature or disgusting, but he wasn't abusive.

Okay, so he demanded sex and would satisfy only himself, leaving me feeling used and frustrated, but he wasn't abusive.

Okay, so he constantly demeaned me and compared me unfavourably to other women, but he wasn't abusive.

Okay, so he threw his pillow across the room and said I made him "feel violent," but he wasn't abusive.

Okay, so he made me hate myself and he blamed me for his own behaviour, but he wasn't abusive.

Okay, so he'd "play fight" with me and end up genuinely hurting me, leaving me with permanent pains in my upper back, but he wasn't abusive.

Okay, so when my period was late and he was concerned I might be pregnant, he threatened me with a coat hanger, but he wasn't abusive.

Okay, so I literally wanted to die because of him, but he wasn't abusive...

In my manipulated mind, abuse was rape or actual physical assault.  I couldn't accuse him of either.  If I rang WRSAC, they'd laugh at me.  Or worse, they'd be angry with me for wasting their time.  

In the end, I called them a few days before my final counselling session, because I didn't want my counsellor to be disappointed that I hadn't taken her advice. I deliberately rang at a time when I knew there'd be no answer.  I left a mumbled message, explaining that I was probably just wasting their time.  When they didn't call me back the next day, I reasoned that they agreed with me.  So when the phone rang a couple of days later, I wasn't expecting it to be them.  And when I realised it was, I fully expected a lecture on the importance of not contacting an abuse charity when you've never experienced abuse.  Instead, what I got was understanding.  The opportunity to talk and simply be listened to.  

By this point, I had slowly begun to open up to my family and friends, so I should say here and now that without them, I wouldn't have gotten this far.  But the lady I spoke to on the phone was the first person to ever tell me that I had survived something and that I should be proud.  As far as I was concerned, I had abandoned a vulnerable person.  I had taken the coward's way out and walked away, rather than stick around and see it through.  I saw myself as "weak and pathetic," because that was what my ex had drummed into me.  The idea that I might have reserves of strength I had never even realised were there came as a total revelation.

WRSAC are a busy charity, helping women from all walks of life to overcome their experiences of abuse.  For that reason, it was a long wait before I could see a one-to-one support worker.  By the time a date was arranged, I had gotten the wobbles again.  Was she going to laugh at me?  Was she going to tell me it was my fault?

But Chloe did no such thing.  Chloe gave me unconditional support.  She looked upon me, in my broken state and she got to work, putting me back together again.  She'd never met me before, but somehow, she knew exactly where all the pieces went.  She gave me a safe space in which to cry, rant, laugh... Anything I needed to do.  And all the time, she listened.  Whatever I said, however trivial, she listened and she remembered for next time.

I didn't notice it at first.  The changes were so gradual and the sessions, as helpful as they were, could be painful and intense.  But over time, I suddenly realised that I was smiling more.  My shoulders started to feel lighter.  I began talking back; standing up for myself.  I stopped believing all the vile things about myself that my ex had filled my head with.  I didn't blame myself anymore.  I blamed him.  And I was furious.

Chloe helped me to turn that anger into positivity.  To use it to make me more determined to achieve my goals.  To allow it to power me up the mountain when I felt my legs starting to give way.  It was okay to be angry.  It was okay to be sad.  Most importantly of all, it was okay to be me.  There was nothing wrong with me, after all.  I wasn't some vicious, selfish bitch who'd abandoned a poor, vulnerable young man when he needed me most.  I was a woman who'd taken nearly two years of abuse from an evil, manipulative bastard, before I had found the courage to put a stop to it.  I hadn't faltered.  I hadn't gone back to him (not this time, at least).  I had been brave enough to seek professional help when I realised I wasn't coping on my own.  I was stronger than I had ever given myself credit for.  I had survived.

It took nearly a year of counselling with WRSAC before I felt ready to carry on by myself.  I walked the last few steps up that mountain on my own; safe in the knowledge that I could do it.  I can't pinpoint a date when I knew I had reached the top.  All I know is that eventually, I stopped wishing I could rewind time and go back to being the Emma I was before I met my ex and started being incredibly proud of the Emma I am today, instead.

My experience of abuse doesn't define me, but it has shaped me.  I know now that I am a far tougher cookie than I ever imagined.  I understand abuse much better and I campaign to highlight it and stamp it out.  I understand myself much better.  

There are aspects of me that remain coloured by what I went through.  I know that certain personality traits would, rightly or wrongly, put me off a man within minutes.  I don't trust as easily as I used to.  I perhaps react a little too quickly to things that I see as wrong, as a result of having stood back and not said anything all that time with my ex.  Every now and then, something seemingly trivial will upset me far more than I'm prepared to admit, because of the memories it stirs.  But those instances are a price worth paying for having survived.  I am incredibly lucky.

When I think of the heartbreakingly large number of people out there, living in a similar situation to the one I was in, two years ago, I cannot help but feel desperately sad and passionately angry.  Abuse is abhorrent.  To wilfully and systematically erode a person's sense of self-worth, as abusers do, puts those who commit these acts beyond contempt.  When we see abuse, we must call it out.  Refuse to be silenced; yell and scream, if we have to.  We must let society know that we won't accept abuse in any form to be considered an unchangeable part of our cultural landscape.

And to those who are living in the same situation as I was:  It is NOT YOUR FAULT.  There is help out there.  People who will believe.  People who will listen.  People who will help.  The road to freedom is long and hard, but you never have to walk it alone.  I didn't; I couldn't have.  Reach out.  It might just save your life.

Walking away from my abusive relationship was one of the most terrifying, difficult things I've ever done, but I can't even begin to count all the ways in which doing so changed my life for the better.  It saved me.  It gave me a chance to be me again; not just the "old" me, but a new, improved version.  I'm silly sometimes, yeah.  I'm stubborn as a mule when I want to be, too.  But I have something that nobody can ever take away.  I have strength.  I survived.  And you can too.

Jennt Trout's "The Girlfriend" - cover reveal!

So, you've all read "The Boss," right?!  Abigail Barnette(also known as the rather brilliant Jenny Trout)'s awesome story about a sexy billionaire who gets up to all sorts of kinky stuff with his young employee, sassy Sophie?!  If not, catch yourselves up here and do it fast, because today I'm extremely excited to be a part of the cover reveal crew for the sequel - "The Girlfriend!"

Ready...  Steady...

TA-DAAA!

So, if you're after something sizzling to read, I can recommend strongly enough that you check out "The Boss" and follow it up with "The Girlfriend."  Need more encouragement?  Here's the blurb for "The Girlfriend" (I know, I'm spoiling you):

Unemployed, blacklisted, and pregnant, Sophie Scaife’s life is totally upside down. Her relationship with publishing magnate Neil Elwood is on the rocks. Her best friend’s career is igniting. And Sophie is afraid she’ll make one of the toughest decisions of her life alone…

When a devastating diagnosis forces Neil to return to London, Sophie throws caution to the wind to follow her heart across the Atlantic. Keeping a scorching D/s affair as red-hot in sickness as it was in health is a challenge, even for two lovers as inventive as Sophie and Neil. But Sophie is more than willing to try anything her Sir commands, and their fantasies of control become a welcome refuge from the daily stress of illness.

While Neil’s wealth and privilege make adjusting to her new situation easier, Sophie finds herself rebuilding her life around an uncertain future. And while both of them face the changes between them head-on, they’re all too aware that their happiness could be fleeting—and Sophie could lose Neil forever.

For more information, head straight to Jenny Trout's blog (which frankly, you might wanna bookmark).

Oh, hang on...  You wanna know what you'll be reading?!  Have an excerpt.  Yes, it's your birthday.  We're gonna party like it's your birthday...

After a delicious course of vegan plum pudding for dessert, we went back to the drawing room to exchange gifts and have cocktails. We were all happy and relaxed, chatting amicably when Emma, a twinkle in her eyes, said, “Dad, please tell me you made Sophie do the shoe thing.”

“Shoe thing?” I raised an eyebrow.

“There was a tradition my father’s family had when he was a child, and he passed it on to us,” Neil explained. “You left your shoe in the window on Christmas eve, instead of hanging up a stocking by the fireplace.”

“Sophie, you are going to be so confused,” Emma said with a laugh. “There are like twenty-seven Santas in Iceland.”

“Oh no, was I supposed to set out twenty-seven shoes, then?” I teased Neil. “I didn’t even leave out one, the staff here pick everything up the minute you leave it unattended.”

“Not to worry, I did it for you.” He smiled his mysterious half smile and pointed to the tall windows behind the tree.

Rising from the sofa, I went off in the direction he’d pointed. In the corner of the low windowsill, a gorgeous nude-colored Christian Louboutin pump waited with an envelope inside.

I picked up the shoe reverently. It was goddamned beautiful, shiny, and oh, such a sexy tall heel. I slipped one of my own shoes off, took the envelope out of the Loubou, and tried the shoe on immediately. It fit perfectly. I thought of Neil carefully examining my shoes while I had packed. He’d gotten this before we’d left New York.

“What’s in the envelope?” Emma asked, snuggling closer to Michael on the velvet upholstered setee.

I unfolded the paper inside and read the note silently.

My darling Sophie,

The other shoe is waiting for you upstairs. Be sure to pack them when we leave for Paris for New Year’s Eve.

Merry Christmas, and all my love,

N

“Well, what does it say?” Emma demanded.

I raised my head, beaming, momentarily speechless. “Neil is taking me to Paris for New Year’s.”

“Go Dad!” Emma said, giving him a thumbs up. “Very romantic.”

I went to Neil and leaned down to kiss him briefly. I’d save the utter mauling for when we were alone. “Thank you. You’re wonderful.”

“Speaking of romantic,” Michael said, nudging Emma. “Remember when you said you thought Christmas-themed proposals were romantic?”

Neil’s attention shifted sharply. I looked up, my focus drifting with everyone else’s toward Emma and Michael. You could have heard a pin drop as Michael rose from the couch, then took a knee in front of her.

“Oh my god,” Valerie said softly, her hand flying up to her mouth.

The expression on Neil’s face echoed Valerie’s sentiment, but for the opposite reason. His facial “Oh my god,” was more like, “Oh my god, that bear is eating my loved one.”

“Emma, I am… so in love with you,” Michael said, his voice breaking with emotion. “And I know how important family is to you. So that’s why I wanted them with us when we started our family together. Emma, will you marry me?”

My knees went weak at the adorableness. A tear rolled down Emma’s cheek, and she wiped it away with her knuckle as she nodded frantically, and giggled, “Yes!

And if you head to Jenny's blog, there's a much, much steamier excerpt for your reading pleasure. ;-)  Enjoy!

On Sunday, we're getting a new Doctor... Who?!

THIS Doctor is mine.  You can't have him.

It's official.  Last night, the news Whovians have all been waiting for got that little bit closer.  On Sunday, at 7pm, BBC1 are to show a live programme, during which, the actor or actress playing the Doctor once Matt Smith hangs up his bow tie, is to be revealed.  Ever since Smith made public his intention to step down from the role, the Internet has been awash with speculation as to whom the TARDIS key will be passed to next.  I have resisted posting my Potential Doctor Wishlist, seeing as I know with almost 100% certainty that nobody on it will actually end up getting the job, but you know what?  There are just two days to go until we find out who has ended up with what has to be one of the coolest jobs in television.  In the massively unlikely event that I've stumbled upon the person to be revealed on Sunday, I don't have much longer to get this out and rehearse my "I told you so" speech.  So...  Here's my top ten (not necessarily in order of preference):

1. Joseph Gilgun

Okay.  I said these weren't necessarily in order of preference, but in this case, Joe is 100% my number 1 choice.  He may be best known to some as Eli Dingle from Emmerdale, but don't let that put you off.  Misfits fans know Joe as Rudy Wade, whose "superpower" in the series is that he has something of a conscience in the form of a whole other version of himself, who breaks free at will.  Therefore Joe technically plays two characters in the same show:  A cheery, loudmouthed, borderline sociopath, who speaks without thinking and acts without consideration for the consequences and a shy, caring, moralistic type, who broods deeply on life.  The second of these personalities is often berating the first for his behaviour.  As a result, Joe shows in almost every episode that he's capable of switching between characters and would be perfect to portray the light and shade in the Doctor's character.  In one episode of Misfits, a third version of Rudy was introduced; a psychotic, manipulative murderer, whom both other versions of the character were terrified of.  Any actor who can carry off a scene in which he is playing three separate, wildly different characters has got to be worth a punt.  After all, the Doctor is nothing if not mysterious and multi-layered.

2. Iwan Rheon

No, not all my choices are from Misfits...

I'll be honest.  When I first started to consider potential Doctors, I was comparing each one not to Matt Smith, but to David Tennant.  And I'll be even more honest.  I wasn't entirely thinking of their acting skills.  So when Iwan popped into my head, it was more a case of "Oof, I'd watch him as the Doctor... I wonder if they could do a few episodes where he gets wet and takes his top off?"  But then I actually thought about it...

Yes, I'm going to mention Misfits again, but Iwan plays Simon Bellamy, who, out of the whole gang, is the one who most embodies the term "misfit."  His superpower is the ability to become invisible; a "gift" borne out of his feeling of never being noticed by anyone.  Simon is a shy, geeky character, unsure of himself, but with a deep sense of right and wrong.  But thanks to an unshakeable determination to save his friends and the woman he loves, by the time he leaves the series, he's brave and strong.  He's a freaking super hero for crying out loud!  Enough said.

3. Philip Glenister

I am a feminist.  I hate anyone who is inherently sexist.  I also have no time for those who are racist or homophobic.  And yet when I watched Life On Mars/Ashes To Ashes, I was pretty much desperately in love with Gene Hunt (and let's not lie, he did embody quite a few of those traits).  That was, in part, thanks to the fantastic writing, but it was in no small way down to Philip Glenister's utterly wonderful acting.  He gave a character that might have seemed shallow and unappealing, a level of depth and humanity that I cannot imagine anyone else could have pulled off.  He can swing between furiously angry and heart-warmingly vulnerable.  He has impressive comic timing.  He's older, so there'd be no cries of "not another baby-faced Doctor!" either.  He'd be a wonderful Doctor.

4. Olivia Colman

Oops, how did David Tennant get into this blog?!  *cough*

Yes, I know that Olivia has officially ruled herself out of the running and so, in this most unlikely list, she's possibly the very least likely of all.  But I'm still going to talk about her, because she's still on my list, even if she bumped herself off the real one quite some time ago.

Olivia Colman has become one of the UK's most beloved actresses in recent times and it's not hard to see why.  She's warm, she has excellent comic timing and she is utterly believable.  Everything she does, she does with heart and that's important for the Doctor.  I would've absolutely loved to have seen her go toe-to-toe with a cyberman, because beneath that sweet smile and lovable nature, I strongly suspect she'd have kicked his ass.

5. Robert Webb

If anyone but Robert played the role of Jez in Peep Show, I reckon we'd like the character a lot less.  We're back to the question of giving a character heart and if Robert can give a junkie layabout the vulnerability of a big-eyed puppy, then I'd love to see what he'd do for the Doctor.  

We all know that Robert is capable of making us laugh, which I think is a personality trait the Doctor should embody (he travels through space, saving the world; if he didn't have a sense of humour, he'd be screwed), but I'd love to see him really get into the Doctor's moody psyche, too.  Robert's also the only person on my list who has ever bought me a cake. 

6. Whoopi Goldberg

I NEVER SAID THESE CHOICES HAD TO BE REALISTIC.

Whoopi has been one of my favourite actresses since I was a child.  Which is my nerdy way of saying that Sister Act is one of my favourite films (and, as it happens, one of my favourite stage musicals) and I don't care who knows it.  Whoopi has warmth and she can certainly act, but most importantly, she's feisty as Hell.  Would you mess with her if you were a Dalek?!  Didn't think so.

7. Adrian Lester

The Doctor can be many things.  One of the key aspects to his personality is you can never entirely tell what he's going to do next, or what side of himself he's likely to show.  Much like Joe Gilgun in Misfits, Adrian showed in Hustle that he's able to play different characters within a single show, thus proving an ability to swing between personality traits and keep Clara on her toes, were he given the role of the Doctor.  He's also incredibly good at being suave and charming, which I think is pretty vital for this role.  After all, the Doctor has to convince perfectly sane people that they should give up their lives to travel time and space in a blue box that's bigger on the inside, with a total stranger.  And a bit of charm can always get you out of a sticky situation!

8. Patrick Stewart

The man is a legend.  And he has experience of flying through space...

I realise that there's almost definitely no chance of this whatsoever, but Patrick Stewart would be a bloody incredible Doctor.  He's commanding, he's strong and passionate, he's brave... If I were Clara, I'd feel pretty safe with P-Stew at the helm of the TARDIS.

9. Hugh Laurie

Hugh falls into the "actors I fancy and therefore would like to see more often on my telly box" category.  But he's also brilliant.  So brilliant, that in spite of having been a fan of him for most of my life (I grew up on Jeeves & Wooster, Blackadder and A Little Bit of Fry & Laurie), when I saw him interviewed on TV shortly after I started watching House, I was genuinely stunned that he spoke with an English accent.  I just accepted that he was House MD.  As with all of these choices, I'm not asking anyone to agree.  But man, I would watch the heck out of him as the Doctor.

10. David Tennant

SHUT UP.  I KNOW HE CAN'T BE AND I DON'T CARE.

So there we go.  Nine - deeply unlikely -  potential Doctors and someone for me to lust over.  Bring on Sunday and good luck to whichever actor or actress inherits the role.  No pressure...

Cyber-Bullying: Why ignoring it won't make it go away.

The Internet can be a wonderful thing.  It has taught me invaluable lessons, helped answer questions that had long been bugging me, introduced me to some of my closest friends and kept me in touch with school mates who've moved to pastures new.  I can't imagine my life without the Internet and that's no overstatement.

I found THIS thanks to the Internet.  For that alone, it is WONDERFUL.

However, there are downsides to the Internet.  It's not all David Tennant pictures (sadly).  With the invention of social networking sites, such as Twitter and Facebook, as well as blogging and online forums, we've all been handed our own little corner of the World Wide Web, from which to spout our silly thoughts, our angry rants and our idle daydreams.  All of us.

And not all of us are nice.

The term "Internet Troll" is one I take issue with.  Because all too often, the real description for these people who seek out others to belittle, tease or threaten, is "bully."  And in much the same way as victims of school bullying are told "just ignore them," we are told, in our online lives, that we must not "feed the trolls."

There is some reason behind that suggestion.  When faced with someone who seeks only to get a reaction out of you and who won't listen to any reasonable defence you may put up, there's some sense to the notion that it's wise to turn your e-back on them and refuse to engage, particularly if you are sensitive and don't feel able to speak out against them.  They'll get bored soon enough, after all.

The trouble is, they'll get bored and they'll move onto another victim, unchecked and seemingly free to say or do whatever they please.  Being ignored isn't pleasant for a bully - they crave attention, after all - but it's essentially harmless to them.  They learn precisely nothing from remaining unchallenged, other than that they can make hurtful remarks or casual threats and receive no comeback.  And that is a dangerous lesson.

Why should we allow bullying to go unpunished? 

People say that sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you.  And I call bullshit on that.  In big, shouty capitals.  I've blogged about my own experiences of bullying and how profoundly it affected me at the time, as well as the way it has continued to influence me throughout my adult life (you can, if you'd like, read that blog here).

Words aren't like physical blows, although when they're harsh enough, they can feel like it.  They aren't like physical marks that fade with time and gradually disappear altogether.  Heard over and over, insults begin to seep beneath your skin.  They sink into your pores until they become part of your psyche.  Tell someone they're ugly enough times and they'll start to believe it.  And then it becomes more than just a word.  It begins to define who you think you are.  Because once those words are in your head, they cling on and don't let go.  The bully's negative opinion of you eventually becomes your own negative opinion of yourself.  "Words will never hurt you?"  In the words of Jim Royle: My arse.

Never search for "my arse" without Google's "safe search" turned on.  Just so you know.

So, if we're going to quite rightly state that words can and do hurt when screamed at us, or snidely whispered into our ears by someone right there in front of us, I see no reason to argue that those words aren't just as effective when typed on a computer screen.

All too often, people dismiss online bullying as something easily ignored.  "Just don't respond and they'll go away," they say.  "How can it upset you?!  Just turn your computer off!"  Or, possibly worst of all: "Lighten up, they're probably only joking."

Try being the target of cyber-bullying.  Try experiencing relentless threats and insults.  Try, as I had recently, having total strangers believe utter crap about you and write nasty blogs in which they call you a bully because you've called someone out on their own negative behaviour.  Try, again as I had recently, having someone attempt to use your own writing career against you, by posting Amazon links to your books and making nasty little digs, thus encouraging their followers to slag them off as well!  Then tell me it's all just one big joke.  Tell me you can just turn off your computer and forget about it.  Because when someone is actively stalking your Twitter timeline in order to insult you or lie about you, it's not easy to ignore.  

When you're bullied at school or in the workplace, home becomes your sanctuary.  It's your safe place.  When you're being bullied online, it's happening within your home.  Your safe place is gone.  The Internet is everywhere and that means so are the bullies.  If you genuinely can't understand why that idea is utterly terrifying to those who experience this kind of harassment, then you're part of the problem.  Cyber-bullying is very real and has no less power to affect lives as "real life" bullying does.  The Internet is part of our real lives.  The sensation of dreading checking your emails, or visiting a social networking site is just as powerful as the sensation of dreading getting on the school bus.  I know.  I've experienced both.

The subject of cyber-bullying has come to the fore on Twitter, recently.  Feminist campaigner, Caroline Criado-Perez, successfully protested against the Bank of England's decision to replace the only woman on a UK banknote with a man, thus leaving women entirely unrepresented on our currency (the Queen will someday give way to a king, before anyone pipes up about her presence on every banknote/coin and she's there not due to achievement, but purely as a birthright, which is hardly the same).  Following the Bank of England's decision to introduce a new £10 note featuring Jane Austen in 2017, Ms Criado-Perez was rightfully congratulated by hundreds of her supporters.  However, not everyone was pleased by her victory.

Alongside the tweets of support, Ms Criado-Perez began to receive messages of an altogether different nature.  "You're just a media hungry attention seeker," one Twitter user ranted.  "Stop breathing," demanded another.  Both horrible and entirely unnecessary. Then came: "Can I rape you?"  Hang on... WHAT?

These tweets got worse and worse as time went on.  Descending into genuine threats ("Don't come to Newcastle, bitch!") and several mentions of rape and violent sexual assault.  These cyber-bullies attempted to post Ms Criado-Perez's address online publicly. 

"If your friends survived rape, they weren't raped properly," one vile Twitter user crowed.  "Wouldn't mind tying this bitch to my stove," leered another.  "Hey sweetheart, give me a shout when you're ready to be put in your place."

This wasn't a case of one, sick, pathetic little voice, needling someone whose success they were unable to stomach.  This was dozens - hundreds, even - of sick, pathetic loud voices, yelling their obscenities at one person who had done precisely nothing to any of them.

Caroline Criado-Perez is not of the "don't feed the trolls" mentality.  She believes - as do I - that ignoring these disgusting individuals does precisely nothing to solve the problem.  Calling them out, shouting back and reporting cases to the police and to Twitter/Facebook/wherever online abuse takes place, is a much more effective method.  As I write this, one man has already been arrested for his part in the torrent of abuse and illegal threats of rape and violence and I say that can only be a good thing.  I'm glad to see the police taking a case like this seriously.

Every day, all over the world, bullies take to their computers.  They sit in relative obscurity and send hate out across the Internet.  They make threats, they issue deliberately hurtful insults, they victim-blame and lie and they do so because they can.  Because they're behind a screen.  Because they believe they are untraceable.  Beyond punishment.

They are not.  When we raise our voices against these hateful bullies, we can become noisier than they are.  When they shout abuse, we need to shout louder. Our social network providers need to sit up and listen.  We need easier reporting methods when we come under attack from these bullies.  We need to know that we're protected by authorities who take these vicious threats and harassment seriously.

Imagine rape threats - hundreds of them - being sent to your mother.  Your daughter.  Would you be able to ignore them?  Would you be telling her that it was just a laugh and that she should turn off her computer and get a life?!

When we do nothing to challenge abuse, it will only worsen.  I know that from my experiences with my ex.  Not standing up to him only ever made him nastier.  It's no different with bullies, hiding behind their laptops. Ignore them and they'll eventually move onto someone else.  But why should someone else suffer?!  Why should any of us?

Speaking out is hard.  I have been guilty of silence too many times.  I've even told others to "just ignore them hun," with nothing but the best intentions.  But it's time that we took our heads out of the sand.  There is a problem - a very real problem - with bullying online.  According to the Cyber Bully hotline, roughly 20% of all teenagers who experience cyberbullying will consider suicide.  One in ten will attempt it.  How can we ignore a problem that causes our young to attempt to take their own lives?

The time has come to stand as one and shout back.  It doesn't matter who you are; what gender, nationality, sexuality or religion you may be.  Nobody deserves abuse.  It's time to support each other and say "enough is enough."  If you see cyber-bullying, report it.  Call the person out on their behaviour.  We don't have to "feed the trolls."  But we don't have to tolerate them either.

Dear Westboro Baptist Church...

Yesterday, the news broke that 31 year old Glee actor, Cory Monteith, had been found dead in a Vancouver hotel room.  Cory had spoken with searing honesty about his past addiction to drugs and at the age of 19, he had spent time in rehab.  Whilst the cause of Cory's death is currently still unknown, earlier this year, the star had checked into rehab for a second time.  Now, there will always be narrow-minded people who claim that any death that may have even the slightest connection to substance or alcohol abuse is somehow less important the death of a "clean-living" person.  That the deceased person "had it coming."  But Cory Monteith was open and honest about his issues with drugs and had sought help.  He was 31 years old and, according to rumours, hoping to marry his long-term girlfriend and Glee co-star, Lea Michele.  He most certainly didn't "deserve" to die.

Try telling that to the Westboro Baptist Church.  Yes, yes, I know.  The Westboro Baptist Church are despicable maggots, crawling on the face of our planet and polluting it with hatred, bigotry and intolerance.  Their words are to be taken no more seriously than the words of Tinky Winky, Dipsy, La La and Po in a particularly silly episode of The Tellytubbies.  However, they have a large platform and their disgusting words reach a big audience.  And even more dangerously, they honestly seem to think that they're right.  So this is how they chose to announce Cory's death to their followers on Twitter:

"STRUCK DOWN BY GOD."  Yes, according to the WBC, Cory died because he was a "fag enabler."  He had gay friends and was part of a TV show that appealed to gay people and which featured gay characters.  So far, so pathetically predictable.  But wait...  What is that underneath the words "STRUCK DOWN BY GOD?"  Ah yes.  They tweeted this to Lea Michele.  Let's rephrase that in nice, big words, shall we?

These parasites tweeted the grieving girlfriend of a man they never met, in order to inform her that the person she loved and was hoping to marry had been killed by God.  On purpose.  And that they plan to picket his funeral.

Now I know what you're thinking.  I'm giving these useless excuses for humans the oxygen of publicity just by writing this blog.  But you know what?  If we don't make our voices heard against them, then theirs become the only ones shouting.  And of course, all reasonable, well-adjusted people know that the WBC are just shouting ridiculousness.  That their words are vile, ludicrous and not to be taken even slightly seriously.  So maybe we should leave them to yell obscenities into the ether for all eternity.

Or maybe we shouldn't.

Why should we allow anyone a platform from which to preach hate?  Is it because this group calls itself - laughably - Christian, that we feel no need to intervene?  If this was a Muslim society, would we be quicker to pour scorn over their words?!  Why is that fair?

For a start, the WBC is as far removed from true Christianity as lard is from freshly churned butter.  For all their anger, vitriol and bigotry, here's what the Bible actually says about God's forgiving nature in Psalm 103:8-12:

"The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.  He will not always chide, nor will he keep his anger forever.  He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities.  For as high as the Heavens are above the Earth, so great is his steadfast love..."

HE WILL NOT ALWAYS CHIDE.  HE DOES NOT DEAL WITH US ACCORDING TO OUR SINS.

Now, I'll admit here and now that I'm not particularly religious, but even I can see that that psalm doesn't point towards a vengeful God who will STRIKE DOWN a man purely because he has gay friends.  Yes, the Bible famously contradicts itself, but I still see no reason to believe in the God that the WBC claim to be serving.

The WBC however, opted not to stop at that first tweet.  They then sent this one:

So, in case you didn't get it the first time, Lea, that guy you're devastated over losing?  These people are thrilled to bits about his loss.  So happy, they feel the need to tell you personally.  I actually don't have words for how abhorrent this is.  I can't even go down the "what if someone tweeted YOU to tell you that YOUR partner deserved to die?!" route, because these people are so utterly unable to see beyond their own atrocious opinions that they'd simply tell me that their family members are pure and perfect and will sit in God's Heaven for all eternity, pissing on gay people from on high.  Or something.

They didn't stop there, either.  The above tweet was sent to every actor on Glee.  Every producer, director and assistant they could find.  Every fan page.  And in case you weren't aware of it, Glee has some pretty young fans.  Fans who would have been mortified to discover that their beloved "Finn Hudson" was gone.  The Westboro Baptist Church was sending this message not only to Cory Monteith's family and friends, but to children.

The WBC then took to using the name of the show that made Cory famous, in order to further express how pleased his demise had made them.  Phrases such as "we are GLEE-ful!" made an appearance.  Because God hates fags, but he just loves a pun...

Still, this was as low as they could stoop, right?  Right?  Wrong.

In case this tweet/photo causes any confusion, let me explain:  An organisation, claiming to be a CHURCH OF GOD, has tweeted a woman whose partner died less than 48 hours earlier, encouraging her to COMMIT SUICIDE and just for added extras, encouraging her fans (some of whom, to reiterate, ARE CHILDREN) to do the same.  

There are many, many more tweets of this nature, even including messages suggesting that George Zimmerman murdered Treyvon Martin because we live in a world that "allows fags to exist" (don't even get me started on them bringing that case into their shitty little world of hate) but if those reading this blog are anything like me, they will have been shocked, saddened and disgusted enough for one evening.  I don't need to post any further evidence that these inhuman parasites are dangerous and morally wrong.

So I'll say again:  To give the Westboro Baptist Church the oxygen of publicity is no good thing.  To draw attention to their hate is negative.  But to stand back and do nothing is worse.  

I'm aware that I may be inviting hatred on myself.  But hey, I've been stalked online this year and had malicious lies written about me already, so it's nothing new.  I would rather stand up and shout back than sit down and keep my mouth shut.  It's not good enough to quietly say "I disagree with that" when you see something wrong.  It's not enough to shake your head and watch as minorities are treated with contempt and disgust.  We need to do more than wring our hands over racism, sexism, homophobia and all other forms of bigotry.  We need to speak.  We need to stand as one and speak with our voices united when we say we will NOT accept hatred.  We will NOT accept intolerance.  We will support those who need justice, we will encourage those who want and deserve equality and we will comfort those in need.  Because, Westboro Baptist Church, if there is a God, that is what he'd want.

“Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgement you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye."  Matthew 7:1-5

OMG this blog is SO GAY!

I've just been for a walk with my dog.  It was your typical trip into town, with an over-tired one year old Labradoodle, in that my primary thought whilst walking was "bugger, why didn't I give him time for a nap before we came out?!" I wasn't planning on blogging once I got home.  But then, I wasn't planning on overhearing blatant homophobia, either...

Whilst strolling alongside the river, I chanced upon a group of teenage lads.  They were sitting around in the grass, chatting amongst themselves and to be honest, I thought nothing more of them, until one of them announced that he'd have to leave soon, as he was getting a haircut.  The loudest of the group then shot to his feet and yelled: "YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!  ARE YOU GAY?!  THAT IS SO FUCKING GAY!"  Everyone joined in and I was almost at the other end of the park, before the shrieks of "you're gay!" died away.

To be frank, my first thought on the situation was: "Why is having your hair cut, gay?!"  But my second, more pressing concern was: "Why is "gay" being used as an insult?"

It's not a new insult.  When I was at school, "bender" was the term bandied about in jest, when the boys in my class wanted to insult one another, but it does seem to have become even more prevalent since.  Why?  And why the Hell is it even remotely acceptable to use that word in such a fashion?  Okay, with right-thinking people it isn't acceptable in the slightest, but it's all too common and I'm sick to my back teeth of it.

My abusive ex is a good case in point.  He frequently used the word "gay" in a derogatory sense, in spite of knowing that my sister is gay and that I find that use of the word offensive.  He'd simply say the word, no need for anything else - his tone would provide the rest. 

Me: I really want to go and see that show at the theatre if it comes down here.

Him: Gay.

Me: I had to call the RAC for help today; I felt a bit stupid, but I don't know how to change a tyre on my own.

Him: Gay.

Me: I don't like hearing that word used as an insult; I find it offensive.

Him: GAY.

Pictured: Me.  

The thing is, using the word "gay" as an insult says so much more about the person saying it, than it ever could about the recipient.  You may as well respond to something by saying: "I have nothing original or useful to say, but I disagree and want to make you feel stupid and, being utterly devoid of intelligence myself, I'm going to pick on a minority group that's somehow acceptable to offend, what with my being a massive, insecure homophobe."  Except that response would require too many brain cells for your average idiot.

It wouldn't be thought of as remotely okay to start responding to something stupid or annoying by using a term for any other minority group, so why is it alright to use "gay?"

In my eyes, the only people who can get away with using the word "gay" as an insult are gay people, should they choose to do so.

I didn't hear what the teenage lad I walked past said in response to his friends, once they all started picking on him for the heinous crime of getting a trim.  Sadly, I'd imagine he probably leapt to his own defense, insisting on how straight he actually is, as though being thought of as homosexual, even in jest, was the worst thing in the world.  And that just upsets me even more.

It's time we all grew up and found some more adjectives.  Don't like something?  Call it "stupid," or just plain "shit" if you want.  Don't show yourself to be prejudiced and lacking intelligence by labelling an entire group of people's lives as an insult.  People don't choose to be gay.  But you can choose not to be a moron.

Dear Nick Ross...

I'm writing this blog in response to comments made by Nick Ross recently and I'm going to say right here and now that there should be a trigger warning to anyone who reads this.  This blog is in response to this article (and in the coming days, I may well blog on this further Nick Ross controversy too).  In this article, I will be discussing female rape victims only, as Mr Ross' comments centred on women.

Nick Ross, former presenter of Crimewatch, believes that there are "degrees of seriousness" to rape/sexual assault.  Nick compares women going out whilst dressed "provocatively" to a bank "storing sacks of cash by the door," or to a laptop, left on the back seat of a car, in full view of potential thieves.

Rape is a crime that frequently goes unreported.  This is for many reasons, one of the most prevalent being fear.  The victim may fear that they will not be believed.  It may be that the victim doing the reporting will be blamed for what happened.  Unfortunately, attitudes within the media - such as Nick's - don't help to ease this fear.  All too often, our society chooses to question the victim, rather than the perpetrator of a rape or sexual assault.  Did she dress in a manner that left little to the imagination?  Did she lead the man on?  Had she been drinking?  Was she walking alone, late at night?

What society fails to mention, is that not one of those questions has an answer that really changes the facts of the situation.  If a woman says "no" to full, sexual intercourse, or if she is not in a position to consent (i.e. drunk, drugged etc) and the man continues to have sex with her anyway, that is rape.  Plain and simple.  Her outfit doesn't matter.  Her actions up until the point of saying "no" (or becoming unable to consent) don't matter.  Her alcohol intake only matters if she has drunk so much that she can't actively consent and the man has sex with her anyway.  Her decision to walk alone doesn't matter.  When a woman says "no," it means STOP.  When a woman is too drunk to actively consent to sexual activity, you STOP.

The responsibility for rape lies solely with the rapist.

Unfortunately, Nick Ross is not alone in his views.  It doesn't take much digging around online to find people victim-blaming, or defending rapists.  Welsh footballer Ched Evans is currently serving a prison sentence, having been found guilty of rape.  Ched is accused of taking a drunk girl back to his hotel room (along with a second, male friend) and having non-consensual sex with her. Only Ched Evans, the friend in question - Clayton McDonald - and the victim herself truly know what happened in that hotel room.  Yet Ched's girlfriend, who is - somewhat shockingly and some would argue blindly - standing by him and protesting his innocence, frequently points to the victim's drunken state and her willingness to engage in sex.  She argues that the girl has ruined Ched's life (whilst conveniently ignoring the fact that the girl's identity became public and the ensuing storm of abuse she faced from Ched's supporters caused her to flee her home).  A jury convicted Ched Evans and he has twice been refused the right to appeal against his sentence, yet a quick stroll around Twitter will lead you to fans using the "justice for Ched" hashtag and saying things such as: "Ched comes out of jail in October next year,  CANNOT WAIT!  I miss him SO much!"  That last tweet was written by a fan of the football club Ched played for.  Because football is much more important than a woman being sexually assaulted.

Speaking of which, when a sixteen year old girl was violated whilst passed out at a party in Steubenville USA, media outlets were seen to be mourning the loss of the rapists' promising football careers, rather than showing sympathy for their victim.

So it's not as though Nick Ross is the first person to heap blame onto a rape victim, or to show solidarity with the person who carried out the crime, rather than with the victim.

Yet his voice is being heard, louder than most.  And it's a voice that has no place being listened to.  Any person who claims that a victim of rape or sexual assault may have "brought it on themselves" is clearly coming from an unhelpful place and we shouldn't be handing them newspaper column inches, or TV interviews.  Because the fact is incredibly simple:  I could be naked, strolling down a dark alley at midnight, drunk out of my skull and it would still give nobody - NOBODY - the right to lay so much as a little finger on my body without my permission.  To assume that it somehow would be an invitation to rape, is to also assume that men cannot help themselves.  That if they see a bit of flesh, they have to have it.  Personally, if I were a man, I'd find that hugely offensive.

Now, if you've read this far and you're thinking "nope, I disagree with this woman; if girls go out, get drunk and wear revealing outfits, they're asking for trouble," then I suggest you click the "X" in the top right hand corner of your screen.  Because this is where I'm going to tell you the story of something that happened to me on a night out.

I was around twenty years old and out for the evening with a former friend (the reason for the "former" will become clear).  We'd gone to a bar for a couple of drinks, with the intention of heading to a nightclub later.  After a while, a group of 3-4 lads came over to our table and asked if they could join us.  One of them looked a lot like the lead singer of my favourite band and as shallow as it might sound, I thought "HELL yes, you can join us..."

It turned out that I wasn't the first to tell him he looked a bit like the aforementioned singer and the guy told me that he was a fan of the band, too.  We chatted about favourite albums etc and after an hour or so, my friend suggested that the lads come with us to the club.  Whilst walking down the street, the guy stopped and kissed me.  I kissed him back.  I thought I'd met someone who was good looking and nice and we had at least one thing in common.  I was enjoying myself.

On arrival at the club, we discovered that my friend and the rest of the guy's mates had already gone in without us.  The guy told me that one of the others had his wallet and he therefore couldn't pay to go into the club. He suggested that we go "somewhere quiet, just us," instead.  I've always been a bit old fashioned and I wasn't quite sure that I wanted to go off somewhere with a guy I'd only known for an hour, so I told him I'd pay for him to get into the club and he could pay me back when he was reunited with his wallet.  Needless to say, that was money I never saw again.

When we got into the club, I started looking for my friend and for the guy's mates.  Spotting them on the dance floor, I suggested to the guy that we joined them.  He agreed.  Once on the dance floor, he kissed me again and I kissed him back.  Again, I was just a girl, out having fun.  And I thought I'd met someone nice.

That was when things changed.  He took me by the waist and pulled me off the dance floor.  He found a dark area and pushed me against a wall.  He started kissing me much more roughly and I didn't like it.  I moved my head away and told him to stop.  He pinned my arms to my sides and told me: "You know you like it," as he started trying to give me a lovebite on my neck.  I told him that no, I did not like it.  He called me a prick tease and said that I'd "been asking for this all night."  He then grabbed the hem of my dress (which, Nick Ross, was almost knee-length, so my "laptop" was definitely not visible to "thieves") and shoved a hand up between my legs.  He started trying to pull down my underwear.  I tried to push him away, but he was stronger than me - a rugby player, with a solid physique.  I told him to stop.  I said "no" in the strongest possible terms.  He told me to stop fucking around and said I'd led him on by kissing him and now he wanted what was owed.  He tried to grab at my breasts when I managed to push his arms away from my thighs.  He used words like "this is going to fucking happen."  At NO point did anyone interrupt, in spite of the fact that I was, by this point, in an obvious state of panic and distress.

Somehow - and I really don't fully know how - I managed to push him off me and I ran over to where my friend was on the dance floor.  She was in the arms of one of the guy's mates and as I approached, they started kissing.  I called her name and when she turned, I told her what had happened and said I needed to leave.  She laughed and told me "I've pulled, Emma!  If you don't fancy that one, find someone else."

The guy came back up to me and went to grab my arm again.  I darted out of his way and spotted a security guy - a member of the nightclub's team of bouncers - heading upstairs to the club's upper level.  I ran over and told him that a man had tried to force himself on me and I needed help.  The guy had followed me and was busy making "she's been drinking" mimes behind me and laughing.  The bouncer paid no attention to what I was saying, focusing only on what the guy was doing behind me.  He laughed and walked off.

In order to avoid the guy getting hold of me again, I rushed into the ladies' toilets.

Thanks to paying for the arsehole to get into the club, I hadn't got enough money for a cab home by myself and - stupidly - I didn't want to call my parents for help, as it was late and I didn't want to wake them.  So, knowing that my ex boyfriend was a taxi driver and it was the firm that he worked for that had dropped my friend and I into town earlier that night, I called his number, hoping he might give me a freebie, or at least agree to let me pay him for the lift back another time.  When he answered, I told him what had happened.  His response: "Typical you, getting yourself into trouble!  I bet you're wearing a little dress aren't you?  And if you kissed him, what did you expect?!"  Then he laughed and hung up.

My friend and I had a cab home booked, but it wasn't due to arrive for another couple of hours.  Thanks to not one, not two but three people laughing when I asked for help, I felt as though I must have been making a fuss over nothing and that what had happened was entirely my fault.  I spent the rest of the night locked in a toilet cubicle, too frightened to come out, until my friend sent me a text saying that the cab had arrived.  Before we got into the cab, one of the guy's friends told me: "Sorry about tonight.  He gets like that after a drink or two.  He's quite intense, that's all."

Basically, Sorry my friend attempted to force himself on you.  He does that sometimes.  Well that makes it alright, then.

During the journey home, my friend told me that me that I was making a drama over nothing.  I felt so humiliated, so totally stupid for "letting" the events happen, that I continued to blame myself and never said a word to anyone for years.

I was extremely lucky.  What happened to me was nowhere near as bad as it could have been and certainly not comparable with an actual rape.  I wasn't raped and I was able to move on from what happened.  But that incident isn't uncommon.  I've spoken to friends and discovered that many of them have similar tales to tell.  Tales in which they said "no" and were ignored.  Tales in which nobody came to help.  Tales in which they were blamed, or simply not believed.  Tales in which the person responsible was defended by onlookers.

And that's the crux of the issue.  The guy I met was entirely responsible for his actions.  He chose not to listen when I asked him to stop.  He chose to try to take things further after I'd said "no."

I was not drunk.  I was not wearing a particularly skimpy outfit.  But even if I had been, it would make me no more culpable.  If, God forbid, that man had taken me out of that club and done God knows what to me, it would've been HIS conscious choice to do so.  Nothing I said or did, nothing I was wearing, nothing I had drunk would excuse it.

Nick Ross says "rape is not always rape."  Let's make it really, really crystal clear:  If you're a man who has sex with a woman after she says "no," or whilst she's in a state in which she cannot give her consent, then you are a rapist.  If you make excuses for that man and blame the victim, then you are a rape apologist.

If a woman wears a dress, she is not inviting rape.
If a woman goes out drinking, she is not inviting rape.
If a woman walks alone, she is not inviting rape.

To use Nick Ross' own analogy, if a bank stored piles of cash right by the door and someone stole it, that person would've chosen to do so.  If a person left their laptop on the back seat of their car and someone stole it, then that "someone" is displaying the actions of a person who knows that what they're doing is wrong and does it anyway.  It is no different with a rapist.

It's time we stopped questioning what a victim did to bring about her attack.  It's time we started realising that "no" means "no" and that when someone ignores that, the only person we should be blaming is the person who chose to rape.