Advertising and moral panic

According to popular stereotypes, feminists are an angry lot. We rage, we harangue, we breast-beat, we berate. Media ring us wanting fury; nine times out of ten we give it to ‘em. Sometimes this anger however, is just so thoroughly misguided.

This week the Advertising Standards Board ordered Calvin Klein to remove billboards displayed in Sydney and Melbourne. Women’s groups had complained. The ad is a black and white image: three men, one woman, each in varying stages of undress; a straight-from-MTV chain-link fence in the background. The woman’s head is arched back on the thigh of one man, that man has his hand on the bare back of another bloke who’s about to kiss the woman’s throat. A fourth man, seated, looking all broody and Brando, stares off camera. The “overall impact” of the billboard, according to the ASB, “is suggestive of violence and rape.”

I won’t go so far as to say that I’ve made my career from condemning the ASB, but indeed my PhD and first book devoted many a paragraph to documenting their hopelessness. Yes, I raged, indeed I harangued and of course, I loquaciously berated them for their apparent policy of dismissing complaints about sexism. And yet this week they bucked trend. This week they upheld the complaints. Feminists, I assume, are supposed to rejoice. Our gratitude, no doubt, goes without saying. Me? Nope. For the moment I’m leaving the party poppers in the drawer.

Calvin Klein is always an easy target. A company that built a brand from pimping a 15-year-old Brooke Shields in the 80s, having an off-camera pervert direct underwear-clad kids in the 90s and for which underweight, drugged-up, glazed-over models are their bread and butter: this is simply how Calvin Klein roll. It’s about branding, it’s about “cut through” and it’s about all the copious free advertising they get while we all claim to be offended. I don’t care less about Calvin Klein; I expect absolutely nothing better from them.

What I do care about is that one of the scarce times that the ASB has acted on public outrage, that instead of acting to stop sexism, to stop objectification, to – God forbid – encourage positive presentations of women in all their body-size and ethnic diversity, instead, the ASB has banned the ad on the spurious grounds of rape and violence.

Consent of course, is notoriously fraught. Men and women know that when things are at their hot and heaviest, “can I have sex with you?” is rarely asked. Yes and no are heavy, heavy words. But to look at a photograph of an, albeit orchestrated, sexual encounter and to readily assume that rape is depicted, to assume that violence is occurring, to then go so far as to ban that image; let’s not overlook that this decision has nothing to do with gender equality and everything to do with moral panic.

When I was at high school in the 90s, Magic Eye was all the rage. Computer generated hokum that involved various eye-straining techniques to have something “pop out”. I could never see anything and I’m still convinced it was all rather Emperor’s New Clothes. I’ve looked at the Calvin Klein billboard. I’ve strained my eyes, I’ve ogled and ogled. At most I see sex. I see the earliest stages of a threesome with the uninterested guy on the left acting as lookout / time keeper. I see stock standard fashion photography. Rape? Violence? No. No matter how hard I squint my eyes.

To call this scene rape, to dare suggest it’s violent, presupposes consent is absent. Presupposes the woman is unwilling. Presupposes that the men are taking advantage of her, presupposes she is a victim. Shock horror, women can actually consent to sex. They can even consent to it with more than one man. Hell, they can even want this kind of sex.

In this, our Zeitgeist of wowsers and over-parenting, group sex has suddenly become a synonym for gang rape. In this, our culture of Christian claptrap and conservative curmudgeonry, apparently there’s no capacity to even consider that a woman just might agree to this kind of sex. Such antiquated presumptions serving women no favours.

Sex isn’t always lovemaking in the soft-focused, Vaseline-on-the-lens, Marvin Gaye on the stereo kind of way. Sometimes hair pulling is even involved. Sexual fantasy is complex, it is diverse and to assume that the only way a woman would have group sex is if violence, inebriation and coercion are involved is thoroughly offensive to both men and women.

Go ahead and ban the ad because it’s exploiting a woman’s body to draw attention to a billboard – to a brand – that we’d otherwise happily ignore. Ban the ad because it is in public space where every single commuter is forced to view it. Ban the ad because it’d be completely inappropriate during on TV during Saturday Disney and thus is completely inappropriate for the general audience of public space.

But don’t ban it because we want to pretend that consent can only occur when one man, one woman, a bed and a long cuddle is involved. Don’t ban it because sex that isn’t vanilla makes us uncomfortable. And don’t ban it because we don’t want to accept that the sexual desires of men and women are thoroughly complicated.

A little bit sexually assaulted: a cup of Milo and a bad lie down

A woman can’t be a little bit pregnant, she can’t be a little bit dead, she can’t be a little bit equal, and she most certainly can’t be a little bit sexually assaulted.

If consent is absent, rape has occurred. There is no grey.

While the details get shuffled about – the code, the players, the seedy nightclub providing the backdrop – in essence the same story is being retold. Footballers and sexual assault. The same story and frequently, the same public reaction: scepticism.

Blame it on misogyny, blame it on our cultural pastime of cynicism or blame it on a media ever on the hunt for an “angle”, the more frequently these stories appear in the press, the greater our scrutiny of the victim.

As a rule our society may accept that rape is wrong, rape is heinous, rape is unforgiveable, but when these cases involve demi-Gods and ball sports, suddenly the game changes. Suddenly, not only is the case treated as a bit iffy, but more startling, we revert to the bad old days when it’s not only healthy scepticism about rape but outright victim vilification.

Unlike rape cases not involving sportsmen, footballer assault stories are treated to a front page, 6pm airing. Unlike “real life” cases played out in police stations, crisis centres and court rooms, in the footballer cases every known – and merely speculated – detail is put under the public microscope. Great attention is given to terms like allegedly and groupie and fan and partying and inebriated and not only is the nameless, faceless victim scrutinised, but publically demonised for daring to besmirch the pristine reputation of Australian sport.

Endless fascination exists with considering allegations to be fabricated. Extensive speculation occurs about morning-after remorse, about attention-seeking, about story deals with New Idea. Enthusiastically do we lament the smudged reputation of “heroes”. Rarely do we flip the coin. Rarely do we dare talk about the tragic numbers of unreported rapes. Or the ruined life of victims. Or the reality that men – men in numbers too frightening to consider – sexually assault women. The media have groomed us so keenly to hunt for an angle ourselves that thinking about the victim just seems thoroughly superfluous.

Our culture spews forth numerous paradoxes. A favourite is the mixed messages we send young women about sex and sport. On one hand we trip over ourselves to laud footballers. We throw them parades, pay them ridiculous sums of money and call some “God” and “Son of God”, the irony having been lost long ago. WAGs become celebrities, not because they have contributed anything meaningful to society, but because they have reached the pinnacle of womanly success: they’ve nabbed a ‘baller.

While we worship ball wranglers and laud WAGs as though it’s a profession befitting a peace prize, in the same breath we like to talk about individual responsibility. To advise women about their obligations not to stir the lust of men, to not – God forbid – start something they can’t finish. We’re “treated” to the deep insights of an outed racist reminding women to expect sexual abuse – not Milo – if they dare drink.

When the grey of footballer assault is mooted, the evidence offered is young women worshipping players. Of shadowing them at known hang-outs, about following them spaniel-like on pub crawls. Like our anachronistic perceptions of knee-high boots and low cut tops, apparently if a young woman participates in state sanctioned athlete adulation, she needs to brace herself for the inevitable. The inevitable, apparently, being a ball player’s inability to act decently. We tell women to be sensible around their idols, to keep their wits about them, to preempt the toxic mix of their lip gloss and gushing. Rarely do we dare tell footballers to be careful of their celebrity. To not exploit it. To not see a besotted drunk girl and think score. To dare to say no.

For all their gross tragedy, these assault cases do serve a few educative purposes.

They remind us that, as we always suspected, our love of sport has affected our judgment.

They remind us that, as we always suspected, if athletes are involved, different rules apply.

They remind us that, as we always suspected, gender equality is at most a pipe dream.

Oh the humanity.

Money Never Sleeps – but I do

On Friday night I went to see the Wall Street sequel Money Never Sleeps. About half way through I fell asleep. Nope, I wasn’t particularly tired.

Money Never Sleeps had relatively decent performances. In its favour Talking Head’s fantastic “Naive Melody” was used over the closing credits. But the film was boring. Boring enough for me to exploit the darkness and comfy chairs for napping. Boring enough for me to wake after half an hour and still follow the plot. I am committed to my the belief that anesthetising an audience is the ultimate betrayal.

This is not a film review. Instead, it’s a brief recap on films I’ve slept through. The last time it happened was The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. In fact, I only woke up because of the snoring from the man behind me. The Black Dahlia. Sleuth. Righteous Kill.

I fell asleep during The Da Vinci Code because I had taken some really strong painkillers. Accidental temporary coma: doesn’t count. I fell asleep through a few semesters of weekly Cinema Studies screenings at the now defunct Carlton Movie House. (I blame poor ventilation). Doesn’t count either. Films on aeroplanes induce brief sleep. Nope, they don’t count either.

$17 is a princely sum for a nap. It’s also possibly the worst way I can criticise a film. In recent weeks The Killer Inside Me offended me. But I didn’t sleep. The Girl Who Played With Fire disappointed me. But I didn’t asleep. In recent days Dinner For Schmucks made me roll my eyes. But I didn’t sleep.

Wound me, depress me, scar me, scare me. Offend me! Make me sleep? No. Diabolical!

Shoe charlatans and their captive audience

It’s been a good few years since I’ve photographed billboards. 2003. A year of it. Photographing every single one I passed travelling to and from work. The album became my PhD dataset.

Truth be told, I’ve got a kind of academic ADD. When a book is finished, when a project is over, I need to move on to something else. Quickly. Something ridiculously different. My PhD was done and dusted at the start of 2006 and the book came out in 2007. Since then I’ve eyed billboards but felt absolutely no need to photograph any for a good few years.

Until today.

 In my book Sex In Public, I wrote about the infamous 2000 Windsor Smith campaign. Simulated fellatio. A campaign that perfectly highlighted all of the very many shortcomings in advertising self-regulation. And lo and behold, those shoe charlatans are back at it.

I teach public policy to postgraduates. One day I envisage teaching undergraduates. Young upstart kids each thinking that feminism is just so very passé. I imagine patiently listening to their rhetoric. To their hyperbole about equality. And then I’ll show them this billboard. And I’ll point to things like his body language. The aggressive expression. The spread legs. The headless woman in the background. The role of alcohol. And the billboard’s positioning on the corner of Swanston and Lonsdale Streets in Melbourne where nobody can avoid it.

And as side notes, I’ll mention the incredibly ugly shoes and the fact that the protagonist has left them – along with his socks – during his little boozy peccadillo. Nice.

Legitimacy, lunacy and the gender agenda

Elections offer a handful of certainties. There’s the packet of stale lamingtons procured when voting at the local primary school. The sad efforts made by TV news to gussy up coverage (cue clumsy visits to Gillard Street in Brighton East and Abbott Street in Gunnedah). And then there are all those bloody political illiterates.

Way back in July, back before the campaign started, back before voters used their ballot papers to kvetch, back before both sides were forced to listen to crackpot Katter with straight faces, the politically illiterate were bandying about words like legitimacy: just how legitimate a prime minister was Julia? Alarmingly, she feed this insanity herself by agreeing to wait before moving into the Lodge. To wait until she was voted in by the public.

How many times do political scientists have to repeat that Australia doesn’t have a presidential voting system? The vast majority of us didn’t see Tony or Julia’s name on our ballot papers because we simply don’t live in their electorates.

The media turn it into a two-horse race, parties themselves often play the same game, but this just isn’t how the system works. We vote in our local electorate, a party (God-willing) holds the majority and then the party chooses the PM.

I got a phone call a week or so ago from a journalist writing about gender and the election. She asked me whether I thought Julia’s gender was the reason behind the result. An interesting question; a question that was at the forefront of my mind throughout the campaign. In the wash-up however, I suspect gender played only the scantest of roles.

Way back in July there was much talk about whether Australia was ready for a female PM. Of course, those delightfully ordinary folk in Brighton East and Gunnedah weren’t musing about this, rather, it was journalists posing the question. Journalists put gender on the agenda, journalists asked whether we cared, and most of us, rightly, just shrugged and speculated that other issues were at hand.

As a political scientist, it was my job to watch the election. Closely. No, not a particularly enjoyable task, but the life of an academic is fraught. Indeed, early on and Julia’s dress sense was criticised. Early on and there was indeed stupid talk about a clothing allowance. Early on and her hairstyles were scrutinised, her lover was scrutinised, there was that inevitable Women’s Weekly spread sans boa. Do we blame this for Labor’s horrible result? No, much sadder factors explain the mess.

A couple of weeks before the election I went on a date with a lovely man who seemed to have absolutely no interest in politics. Not normally a problem: there are only a handful of times each decade when the issue would even come up; alas, that night was one of them. Over dinner, casually, I asked him who he planned to vote for. He was cagey but – after an extensive amount of prodding – I didn’t get the answer I wanted. Gently I tried to coerce him to explain himself; surely he had good reason (read: surely I could make him see the error of his ways). He ate a few more mouthfuls and then politely suggested we not talk about politics. Fair enough, fair enough. We only had that one date.

As someone disproportionately interested in politics, of course, I admit that part of me does believe that if people knew more about politics they’d never vote conservative. I know it’s arrogant; Liberal voters keep telling me it’s arrogant. On the flipside, as an academic, as a writer, I’m always very open to new ideas, to being corrected. A bloke voting Liberal on its own isn’t a deal breaker. It’s the voting Liberal and not being able to explain his vote that’s the problem.

It would be so much easier to blame the election result on a public not being ready for a female leader. To pretend that we don’t like em’ childless; don’t like em’ without the ring on the finger. It would be easy to pretend we’re all so easily wooed by images of Tony and daughter at the fish market re-enacting the knife-goes-in-guts-come-out scene from The Simpsons. Seduced by images of Tony and daughter walking down a staircase holding hands. That somehow crazy Mark Latham made us rethink our vote. Of course, I dare say we dramatically overestimate media effects.

What we dramatically underestimate however, is our broad lack of understanding about politics. People readily cast supposed protest votes without casting any thought to a) what they were protesting about and b) how the preferential voting system works. People spoke about voting for Abbott, voting for Gillard, without having any idea who their local member was. People voted Greens with negligible knowledge of Greens policies. Most disturbingly of all were those who spuriously voted to protect the honour of the former PM; a man who, pre-ousting polls, showed that they didn’t much care for. What’s going on here?

Our first female PM is an easy target. An easy target because of her gender, an easy target because of her messy July ascension and an easy target because her Tuesday “victory” again puts an asterisk against her prime ministership. An asterisk perhaps, but one that makes her prime ministership no less legitimate and certainly no less real than those that came before her.

Turkey, tonnage and tears

The first time I saw poor people peddling Klennex was in a Spanish film. Under bridges, offered to passing cars. I remember thinking they’d do a better trade in condoms. Real-life and I first saw the industry in action in Istanbul in 2008.

I’m back in Istanbul this week for the 2010 WALTIC conference. Had this been a travel entry, I’d be spoiled for choice in suitably blogable Turkish delights. I could write about architecture, the best baklava or the ridiculously friendly Turks. Instead, I’m just going to write about the tissues.

Istanbul’s long history as a trading mecca is world renowned. You can’t walk a metre without being offered socks or a leather jacket, counterfeit perfume or a stencil set. It’s fantastic and it’s irritating and it’s chaotic. Often all at once.

Of all the street merchants however, the most curious are those Klennex vendors for whom tissues are really only an ancillary item. I’m thinking here of the weigh stations.

The set up appears relatively simple. A poor person, a set of bathroom scales and a basket of tissue packets.

 Truth be told I’ve never understood the scales at shopping centres. As though, after trying on a slew of horrible outfits, that weighing oneself could possibly be the icing on the cake. That somehow, after pigging out in food court, knowing your weight before heading home could be crucial. But the street scales with the tissues is far more curious. Just what are the tissues about?

I asked my Turkish friends. Who had no comprehension of my bemusement. They shrugged them off as just another way to make money? Really? Because I’m thinking that for a person so odd as to want to weigh themselves while walking down Istiklal Street, tears might not be a completely outlandish follow-up. Body image issues? Yes, here, have a tissue.

Because winning the “whole shebang” looks unlikely

Even as late as Tuesday and Wednesday post-election, I was waking, reading the papers online and singing the wonderful Ryan Adams’ lyrics “Maybe we’ll win the whole shebang” over and over again like a maniac. A week on and winning the whole bloody shebang looks really, really unlikely.

To date I’ve used this blog for political musings. Today, I’m resisting a venomous vent about voters and have changed topics entirely. Music.

I’ve spent some time recently on the Defamer website in preparation for my first assignment. Today the lead article was “Some Of The Greatest Australian Pop Songs Of All Time (Part Three)”; heading the list was John Farnham’s “You’re The Voice”.

Just watch me not mock. Just watch me not judge.

Instead, I will note that music taste is notoriously subjective. I will note that determining “greatest” can be done using just about any set of (dubious) criteria. And I will, in my post-election depression, offer an all alternate list.

My “favourite songs” lists are in a permanent state of flux. Today’s list is derived exclusively from my Itunes playcount: the Australian songs I’ve played the most. The only editing done has been to only included the first song from each artist; necessary given that my 2008/9 relationship with the Drones’ Havilah dramatically distorted things!

1. Nail It Down – The Drones (2008)

2. Trick Of The Light – The Triffids (1987)

3. Come Said The Boy – Mondo Rock (1984)

4. Streets Of Your Town – The Go-Betweens (1988)

5. Boys In Town – Divinyls (1982)

6. Ill Wind – The Aints (1992)

No video, but some sample fabulous lyrics: “Send an ill wind make it real / Such a lovely clear eyed feel”

7. Hymn To Saint Jude – The Saints (1985)

Sample lyrics: “I’ve sold my shares in heaven / and I’m not going to be the same again”

8. No Secrets – The Angels (1980)

9. Just Passing Through – Augie March (2006)

10. At First Sight – The Stems (1987)

Why I’m voting Labor tomorrow

After politely nodding through one of my recent anti-Abbott rants, my brother mused that it was interesting that I was still a Labor party faithful. Faithful? I spluttered. I’m not bloody faithful! 

So the late nineties were a crazy, crazy time. People were buying Savage Garden CDs, men were popping Viagra for the first time and those creepy Furbys had just hit toy store shelves. I was in my late teens, and yes, I worked for The Party. Indeed, it was a very long time ago but, cards on the table, I did indeed earn a little cash from the ALP: (to steal a favoured histrionic lament from my grandmother): mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

By 20 however, my interest in politics became exclusively academic. Analysing, commenting, mainly mocking. Not an indictment on the Party necessarily: I feel the same now about my feminism. Less marching, less boycotts, more sarcasm, more scorn, I say! And yet, while my one ALP membership has well and truly lapsed, yes, I’ll absolutely vote for Cath Bowtell tomorrow. None of this about faith, however. It’s not about any deep beliefs. It’s not about dyed-in-the-wool fervour and it’s not about deluded optimism. Labor gets my vote because they’re our best alternative.

News Limited’s Vote-a-Matic suggests I vote Greens. An automated system would say this, of course: a passion for gay rights, women’s rights, workers rights: sure, Bob and Co make sense. Except for that one little detail overlooked by Vote-a-Matic: my hostility towards the environment. I’ll be honest here: words like the sustainability make me want to hunt down some fossil fuels just to burn them. I glaze over when climate change is discussed. I hate sun on my skin – so much so in fact, a boyfriend once believed I was Gothic - and sometimes, hell, I even drink bottled water. And boy do I love a good long-haul flight! On the flipside, I don’t eat meat and I don’t drive a car: truth be told, I really think I’ve done enough.

In a two party system, I’m going to vote for the party that supports a feminist leader. The party that puts an Asian-born lesbian on the front bench. Yes, I’ve been ridiculously disappointed with the PM’s campaign and no, Labor is certainly not progressive enough for me. However, tomorrow my vote matters more than it ever has and tomorrow is not the time for petty polling day protests.

I’ll vote Labor and I’ll desperately hope they win. And when they win I’ll spend the next few years voraciously complaining that they’re not progressive enough. As is my democratic right! But that delightful word enough will get me through. Not progressive enough is a vastly different thing from not progressive at all.

Campaigns, crackpots and colourful characters

Getting roused enough to blog about the election has been difficult. Amidst sterile speeches and predictable press conferences and those delightfully dodgy dowries, summoning creative juices has been hard. Hard, but not impossible. Something keeping me buoyant, something making the whole thing strangely bearable are the characters. The sharp-tongued, the psycho, the strange. When so many seem straight from central casting, there are those few pollies who, fabulously, are in a complete league of their own.

Truth be told, loony Latham lost me long ago. There was the incident with the taxi driver and the temper and the broken arm. And the one with the photographer and the temper and the fast food restaurant. I’ve fallen for alcoholics, I’ve fallen for drug addicts, but thugs are just… thugs. And yet, while Latham’s talents are likely better suited to the vowing-vengeance Chaouk family than federal politics, by no means am I lamenting his return.

With no qualifications in psychology, dubbing someone insane is out of my skill set. Signs however, are clearly there. From his strange stroking allegations against the PM to his Nelson Muntz-interview technique, he’s a delightful plot twist. And that twist was beautifully described by yet another favourite election nutjob, Barnaby Joyce.

My preferred Sunday morning TV fare involves Rage when the playlist is good or NBC’s Dateline when the case is gory. Last Sunday however, I gave ABC24 a go. And was duly rewarded. There, the reliably ridiculous Barnaby asked the host whether he watched Days of Our Lives. And the host, in perfectly ABC-style, looked incredulous. And batty Barnaby, in the style of every man unable to own his perverse penchants, stammered through an explanation of watching DOOL in his crazy hazy uni youth. And then he charmed me. Barnaby offered the perfect Salem/Election 2010 connection: Stefano DiMera.

Known also as Phoenix, the thoroughly Transylvanian Stefano has survived plane crashes and car bombings and drownings and heart attacks. And he’s organised  kidnappings and surgery follies, secret doors and baby swaps. And Barnaby, in that wonderful Barnabian way, likened the resurrections of DiMera to the reappearances of Rudd and Latham; ghosts of Labor past.

Ridiculous and hyperbolic but so thoroughly apt, Barnaby had me at hello. I like loose cannons. I like unvetted comments. I like failed attempts at humour. And I love the crackpots. No, I wouldn’t vote for them and I don’t want them next to me on a tram or in a lift, but my do they bring a certain special something to the table.

Reality bites

Just when we thought things couldn’t get worse, just when we though all those dial-a-cliché fair dinkums had stretched our patience to the limit, we now have two candidates promising us reality. Tony’s worst ad – the one with the tune only slightly worse than the Exclusive Photography ditty – asks voters to stand up for real action. In the last couple of days Jules has promised to show us her real self. The avuncular Kochie is asking for a real debate. The other night on Neighbours Donna chattered about wanting a real wedding.

What the hell are these people talking about?

Let’s resist the existential angle and stick to the campaign. I have innumerable questions about real action, real selves, real debates and real weddings, but I’ll focus on the obvious: what isn’t reality? I saw Inception the other day. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it and then I left the cinema and promptly forgot about it. I wasn’t thrust into a state of confusion: real debates, fake debates, real action, fake action. The only confusing bit is candidate gobbledygook.

Julia has promised to shake off the shackles of stage management. Her peculiar promise was made at a press conference. What’s real about a press conference? What’s real about an election campaign? Is Big Brother more real than Neighbours? Cameras, a voting public, a damn big prize at the end manipulates performance. It has to. But lies and spin and gamesmanship don’t affect reality. It might be a version of reality, it might be orchestrated reality, but by most definitions it’s happening. Sadly, no dreams have been tinkered with, my friends.

A chapter of my last book explored identity management. In short, I wrote about how the self we are at work of course differs from the self we are in the bedroom or the self we might be in a coffee shop or in a sex shop or in church or at a political rally but that none of those selves are any less real: they’re real at that moment.

I’m bored, I have a warped sense of humour, and truth be told I’d be maniacally delighted if being really real manifested in leaders saying what they really really thought. I’d maim to hear Julia claim to actually believe in gay marriage or for the Mad Monk to divulge that he likes ‘em barefoot and pregnant. I’d be even more giddy to hear that they’re bored too. That they’re sick of being on the buses. Sick of having digital recorders thrust up their noses. That Jules is exhausted having to devise new hairstyles everyday. Of having to move ever forward. That said, while it might make the campaign more entertaining, it wouldn’t make it any more real. More real, really real, core promises, non-core promises. In the words of Boston Legal’s fabulous Judge Sanders, it’s jibber jabber.

May wasn’t so long ago when Tone tested our faith by admitting he has some problems with the truth. Not that anyone was truly shocked. We’re all very used to exaggeration and hyperbole and every possible euphemism for lie. My guess is that voters are less interested in reality, less interested in jibber jabber and much much more interested in vigour, fervour and – God forbid – policy.