Sex or death? Daily Mail attacks women’s health

If the Daily Mail was honest the headline would read: Teenage girls who have sex deserve to die.

But because bullies are also cowards, it headed its 26 October rant against the cervical cancer vaccine with the ostensibly less offensive: HMV voucher bribe for teenage girls to have cervical jabs: Fury at ‘promiscuity scheme’ as NHS faces cuts.

This “fury” is aimed at a Birmingham health trust offering teenage girls a few quid in shop vouchers if they complete a three-part cervical cancer vaccination. Or, as the Mail styles it the “promiscuity jab”. The assumption is, apparently, that one prick is much like another and if a teenage girl gets a taste for penetration from the experience of having a needle full of human papillomavirus (HPV) vaccine plunged into her arm there is no telling to what tawdry depths she’ll sink.

This is journalism straight out of Humbert Humbert’s fantasies, complete with sweaty- palmed speculation that vaccination “encourages girls to have sex earlier than they would.” Apart from anything else, that’s gibberish. Should it read “earlier than they would have otherwise”? If so, how is the Daily Mail able to determine how and when women “would” have sex? I’m astonished its sleazy marketing minions aren’t out flogging the information to the highest bidder.

Common sense, grammatical or otherwise, is not on the Daily Mail agenda. It hates women so much not even fiscal responsibility comes between it and its misogynistic anti-vaccine campaign.

The Birmingham voucher scheme costs a paltry £22,500 per year. By comparison the NHS spends over £200 million annually on cervical cancer screening and treatment. Nevertheless, the Mail believes the social cost outweighs the financial benefits of vaccination. It quotes Norman Wells, of “pressure group” Family and Youth Concern, who says: “This is yet another example of public money being thrown at a problem that has its roots in declining standards of morality.” According to this line of reasoning (if you can call it that) public money should be withdrawn from everything that “has its roots in declining standards of morality”—so why not do away with sexual health services full stop? Might as well get rid of AIDS hospices, domestic abuse hotlines and the NSPCC while you’re at it.

The real issue, of course, is sex, not money. The Mail is railing against a safe, inexpensive, effective public health initiative simply because it removes death as a disincentive to women having sex. “There is already evidence that the vaccine is giving some girls a false sense of security and leading them to think [they]… can therefore engage in casual sex without consequence” the article warns. Heaven forbid that girls should grow up thinking they have the right to enjoy sex without risking their lives for it. As for the “promiscuity jab” sobriquet – women aren’t having casual sex by themselves. In fairness, and in tribute to condom’s potentially deleterious effect on male morals, I propose we start referring to prophylactics as the “promiscuity sheath”.

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Own the 100 Club: Legendary club needs £500,000. Do you have it?

Simon Quinton photo

It’s been a haven for jazz, R&B, punk and indie for decades. It’s the heartbeat of London’s Northern Soul scene. Now fans of the 100 Club are in a race against time to save the Oxford Street venue as it battles against crippling running costs.

Rent and business rate increases, plus the new government’s VAT increase have convinced Jeff Horton, whose family have run the basement club since the 1960s, that the business can’t go on without new investment.

Thanks for nothing: London lawyers seek justice for Roma who finally escape toxic UN death camps in Kosovo

Somewhere in London, a team of lawyers, who, despite all the evidence to the contrary, still believe in justice for all, stare at the ceiling, searching for a chink in a dragon’s armour.

A thousand miles away in Serbia an heroic 69 year-old American expat, parts Ernest Hemmingway, Rocky Marciano and the best bits of Don Quixote, lies awake at night stoically cursing the madness of the world, grinding out reams of poetry and prose and lucidly dreaming of a victorious end to an 11-year battle he never wanted.
To the American’s south, in deeply troubled northern Kosovo, a band of Gypsies, 500— 600 strong (500 – 600 weak, actually), sit atop a mountain of toxic waste, drawing more lead into their blood than has ever before been recorded, slowly dying.

Just a little further south, in Kosovo’s capital city, Pristina, an Italian diplomat, entrusted by the United Nations to keep the peace in the Balkan powder keg, sleeps, perhaps peacefully, safely ensconced in his dragon’s armour, impervious to the darts of legal pygmies, the words of heroic dreamers, and the tears of the world’s most despised race.

Time to change: We’re the pre-eminent city in the world—when will the pubs and tube act like it?

Everyone is so used to it that it barely raises comment. But it should. It’s Friday night, the clock strikes 12, and the arguments begin. We seek it here, we seek it there, we seek the bastard everywhere. The bastard in question? A late licence pub.

Even in area well stocked with pubs, the number opening past 0100 on a Friday night are small. In Curveball’s neck of Victoria Park there are but two or three which often charge to enter. The fault lies not with them, but with the others. Licenses are available, yet they remain unused. Why? Why must we leave our cosy spot in our favourite pub to embark on a wild booze chase through the wind and rain? Is this not one of the greatest cities in all the world? And is it not full of drinkers old enough to decide their own bedtime? It will not do.

There’s a whole industry of 24 hour off licence convenience shops kept going purely by this nocturnal market. Well into the early hours the attendants sit amid yesterday’s papers and tins of unwanted goods, like sentinels in a nuclear fallout shelter. Why do these shops stay open past 0300am? On the off chance that some respectable citizen is going to pop in for some dishwasher tablets and a Wispa? No—it’s to sell drunkards and fuckheads more booze, fags, and PG Tips. What sights these shopkeepers must see each and every Friday night. What contempt they must feel for the hands which inebriatedly feed them.

The situation is nothing short of appalling. Early closing promotes binge drinking, as if promotion were necessary, because as the hour of unbooze approaches, pints and glasses are downed in preparation for moving on. No one knows where the next drink is coming from, so the temptation to double up is overwhelming. Much, much worse than drunkenness, it promotes poor conversation, because all anyone can talk about is where they might be able to get their next hit.

Some more sensible readers may balk at this point. They may feel that the problem lies not with the establishments, but with the drinkers. Stop drinking at an appropriate time, and an appropriate tipsiness, they may suggest, and the problem will melt away like ice cubes in a quadruple gin and tonic. Curveball salutes these readers’ good sense. It cannot, however, share their view. Curveball always wants another pint.

And, although it scarcely seems possible, this is about something more important than alcohol (these words are typed neither lightly nor soberly). Consider: London has claims to be the pre-eminent city on the planet. Those claims may be 100 years out of date, but they should still count for something. And yet the tube is done by 0100 every night. Nightbuses in some areas are as common as the Bullingdon club and just as vomit stained. It’s pathetic. Soho is open, admittedly, but who lives close to Soho? And who can afford to go out there? The city’s very honour is at stake.

So, as Lenin famously asked of a similarly important issue: What is to be done? Well, full-on revolutionary activity is one option, and it would be foolish to rule it out at this stage. But Curveball favours a different strategy: Non-Violent Direct Boozing.
The key weapon of Non-Violent Direct Boozing is the sit in. This Friday, or any day for that matter, it is suggested that come kicking out time, readers refuse to be kicked. Simply announce that you intend to stay. Offer the staff a well-earned drink—remember that they are victims in this as much as you. It is important that you cause no trouble, for that will diminish our cause. It is important that you continue to booze, for that will give you strength for the fight. I have a dream. I have a dream today. Come join me in making that dream a reality. JOIN ME.

Salem » 24 November

Shoreditch Church | Shoreditch High St, E1 6JN

Hindered by one of the most poorly phrased sub-genres of all time (Witch House), Salem certainly know how to play it slow. In today’s fast paced blogging world—one that has adopted them as the flag bearers for said genre—it’s taken a mammoth four years for the Michigan-based trio to get around to releasing their much hyped debut King Night. Worth the wait? Absolutely. But whether they keep the insane amount of tension and paranoia that haunts their recorded output in a live setting is in the hands of the gods. Handy then, that Shoreditch Church is the chosen venue for their London debut performance. Can we expect a live crucifixion of a sacred blogger, hand-picked from the audience? Possibly not. Will it be the first time a song called ‘Skull Crush’ will be performed inside a place of worship? Absolutely. See you down the front then.

Tallest Man on Earth » 24 November

Electric Ballroom | 184 Camden High St., NW1 8QP

Immediately after Kristian Matsson played his first ever London show at the now deceased Bardens Boudoir back in September of last year I made a prediction: “This time next year he’ll be selling out Shepherds Bush Empire” I said (probably to myself). Well, lo and behold I was (almost) right, venue aside. Though it’s doubtful The Sun will be hiring me as their new Mystic Meg anytime soon; you only had to look on the faces of the swelling Bardens crowd to realise what a special talent Matsson is. Considering at that point he hadn’t actually released a record in the UK (his debut Shallow Grave only being available via import) the level of crowd adoration was at fever pitch. Matsson—far from being tall, let alone the tallest—prowling the stage like a tomcat, his short frame hunching over as he finger-picked his way through tales of love, loss and redemption. Eye-balling the audience at every given moment, spitting the lyrics out in his Dylan-esque drawl—witnessing a Tallest Man On Earth show is in equal parts terrifying and enchanting. With a new album (and EP) now in his ever growing song cannon, you’d be mad to miss what is sure to be a much talked-about show.

Sleigh Bells » 21 November

XOYO | 32-37 Cowper Street, EC2A 4AP

Hailing from Brooklyn, Sleigh Bells are singer Alexis Krauss and guitarist-producer Derek Miller. The pair met in 2008 and realised that whilst one was stuck in a world of glossy-pop craving hardcore beats, the other was stuck in a hardcore world secretly listening to Madonna. A match made in noise-pop heaven then, tonight’s show promises to be as ferocious, gritty and infectious as their critically acclaimed debut.

Vessels » 17 November

The Queen of Hoxton | 1 Curtain Road, EC2A 3LT

Vessels make post-rock interesting again. Theirs isn’t the kind of by-the-numbers band that plagues the genre; it’s altogether farther reaching. It’s an epic, swirling soundscape filled with emotional rancour. Debut long player White Fields and Open Devices found them crafting a niche somewhere between the environmental echoes of Sigur Rós and the hardcore riff attack of Oceansize. There are also elements of Battles in their twinkling riffs and shifting time signatures, but again, it’s a sound Vessels make their own by shifting the influences around. Live is the environment to truly enjoy their sound as it allows their harder edge to come to the fore and their technical mastery to become blazingly apparent.

The Hundred In The Hands, !!! » 4 November

Koko | 1A Camden High Street, NW1 7JE

These two bands make more sense together than you might at first think. The Hundred In The Hands are the electro-pop band of the moment, a two-piece with sharp hooks and plaintive vocals wrapped in swathes of shoegaze guitar; veteran punk-funk collective !!! are a many-headed, party-drug-addled monster that stretch dance music towards stoner psychedelia. !!! might seem like they’ve topped out in the years since their genre-defining masterpiece Louden Up Now, but don’t rule out a revival from that unpredictable bunch. And it’s the perfect time to catch the opening act, so why not take the chance.

Marnie Stern

Keeping self-satisfaction at a distance