Yesterday just as the world was warming up to discuss Katy Perry’s flouting of the CBS Grammys dress code someone else with a flamboyant uniform came and stole her thunder. So much for Katy’s choice to ignore  broadcaster CBS’s dress code, warning attendees at the Grammy awards to dress modestly for the camera. CBS specified the problematic costumes as: 'Thong type' and urging that the 'genital region' and buttocks be 'adequately covered'. 'Bare fleshy undercurves' and 'buttock crack' exposure was deemed unacceptable by CBS, as were breasts and nipples.

Perry’s mass of cleavage (she went with cleavage instead of bare fleshy undercurves) was overshadowed when the current Pope, Pope Benedict XVI announced what many people thought was impossible – his resignation. It is not the first time a pope has resigned as we now all know from that quick Google on your smart phone.

(Trigger Warning)  The clue is probably in the ill-designed police campaigns. You know the ones. They usually go up in bus shelters and on public transport on the run up to the Christmas season. A blurry, out of focus image of a woman, who you can tell is sad and/or drunk because she’s slumped over.

It’s a message about rape. Or, depending on your local police’s choice of definition, ‘regretful sex’ -oh,  semantics! The campaigns are aimed at women, because when a woman is raped there are only 2 people to blame. Her or the girl friend who did not look after her, like a good friend should. It would seem these are the people who should stand trial. It would seem that these are the people who do.

Figures released from the Office of National Statistics reveal that 1 in 12 people believe the blame lies with the women who were raped if they flirted with their attacker or were drunk. 6% of people believe rape survivors are to blame if they have been drinking; this figure rises to 8% if the woman has taken drugs. 7% believe any flirting before the attack makes the attacked woman responsible.

Odd Couples, they’re odd aren’t they. There seems to be a rise in PR paparazzi-optimization engineered odd couples. WE MEAN A LOT OF CELEBRITIES HAPPEN TO MEET AND UNEXPECTEDLY FALL IN LOVE and that’s lovely. Odd couples can cause rather a commotion, ‘have you heard about so and so and doodah?’ We ask each other, ‘isn’t it an odd pairing?’ They make for great tittle-tattle  - until of course you get used to them, then when they split up we get all sentimental and unable to imagine them with anyone else. Great novels, major motion pictures and long-running sitcoms all rely on the odd couple. Whether platonic or romantic, we love an odd couple. Whether divided by age, height or language it seems you can’t keep love or friendship from creating some marvellously odd couples, the latest odd coupling we feverishly hope is deadly sincere is the union of Harry Styles and Alain de Botton. But what makes the ultimate odd couple? The Squeamish team have shared their favourites…

There has always been a fondness for looking back with rose-tinted spectacles. The Victorians revered the valour of medieval knights and their chaste, patient maidens. In turn, the Victorians are occasionally remarked upon for their high values. The 1950s is occasionally referred to in rather glorious terms when everyone was polite and front doors went unlocked.

This is, of course, never the full story. Else Call the Midwife would be considered a documentary of the golden age of solving any difficulties with an It’ll All Come Right in the End ethos in the 1950s. Which never happened.  As far as I can tell anyway. Wayward Sister Monica Joan seems to have the most balanced view out of the whole cast with her mystical quotes and mysteriously insightful comments.

Heroism is fucked up. But what is the alternative?

In this concluding part to my argument against heroism I’m going to describe two approaches which do not work, although they both have useful lessons for us, before offering a third way out of our present dilemma. This isn’t new material, all of these arguments can be found out there in literature on feminism, critical race theory, queer theory, black feminism, privilege theory and activism research. I do however think that we are very good at recognising what we should not be doing, but the effort and strength required to move forwards is challenging so much of critical, radical and progressive politics and action gets lost in constant critique of one another.

On Saturday I went to a fifties night (under the impression it was a skiffle night, which was fine, I’m not clear on what it is, but it meant I didn’t get to say skiffle nearly as much as I’d originally anticipated. Skiffle!). Yesterday I stubbed my toe rushing to turn my radio to switch it on as the man who lives in the flat below started playing The Commodores Easy (Like Sunday Morning) for the billionth time. My radio is tuned to Radio 4 and The Archers was on and I, uh, didn’t mind. I keep ranting to people about how annoyed I get when the word ‘purposely’ is used when the word ‘deliberately’ is meant. I am not down with the kids.   

Perhaps you were aware of that. There is just a certain point in your 20s when, as you explain something about GCSEs with your Young Person understanding , you realise actually that was a while ago and you have no idea what the pokemon you’re talking about. When I was at school there was no Facebook and texting was strictly textual.

As our latest Squeamish addition Becky Shepherd has observed the new E4 show My Fat, Mad Diary  is worthy of being our new favourite thing on TV. Rae Earl keeps our inner teen alive and, set in 1996, the show comes with a massive dose of nostalgia for those who also navigated the ‘90s and their teens simultaneously. A mean feat considering the ‘90s was a decade that regularly seemed to lose its way style-wise. In recovery from the 1980s we knew we wanted rid of shoulder pads - but how? We didn’t have time to talk about flattering waist lines until 1997 and then were so delighted with hipsters (when the word referred to trousers) (GUYS REMEMBER HIPSTERS?) we took it too far and met the New Millennium with thongs on show. The My Fat, Mad Diary wardrobe is not going to send anyone straight down Miss Selfridge, but the soundtrack? Were this truly the ‘90s we’d all be trundling off to Woolies to rifle through the bargain cassette bin. Rae Earl’s got Oasis, Beastie Boys and Mark Morrison in her ‘90s soundtrack but what would be on ours?