Thursday, 19 October 2017

IS THAT A WEINSTEIN ON YOUR DRESS, OR ARE YOU JUST PLEASED TO SEE ME?




What surprises me is that anybody is surprised.
We know that sex abuse is endemic: in religious institutions, in church schools, in residential care homes. Sexual violence and molestation of pupils and students is on the rise. Harassment in the workplace is rampant: you wouldn’t want your daughter to work in the average bar, would you, facing endless abuse from beer-swilling louts?
We’ve had it in television, in radio and in PR. We’ve had it in football and other sports. Even in politics. And we have long known about the casting couch.
So why was anybody shocked about Harvey Weinstein?
Because he had so much money that they believed he could walk on water?
Because he owned Hollywood?
Because he could do no wrong?Let’s see who else falls out of the woodwork. I'm guessing Michael Winner, for one.
And now Sir Tom Jones, revealing that it was rife in the music industry, and not only against women. It happened to him.
Blow me down. Of course it went on in the music industry. It probably still does.
I remember feeling deeply shocked, during the Eighties, when I worked for a record company, on hearing from my friend at a rival label that the boss of that outfit - a male, for the avoidance of doubt - had slept with every one of his female employees. It was a joke in the industry. He was a legend because of it. It seemed almost expected. You would know who I mean.
I had another friend who was PA to a world-famous British rock star. He seduced her at the first interview. She got the job, yes, and she worked for him for twenty years. He paid her extremely well, but was that right? Well, no.
I was once taken to a party at Dolphin Square, the exclusive residential complex in London, by a household-name DJ. Again, you would know who I mean. I was twenty-two. He was a giant, and I was a slip of a thing in size six jeans. He fed me a lot of champagne and, at the point of no return, backed me through a pair of double doors with the palm of his dustbin-lid hand, pushed me down onto a huge double bed and flung himself on top of me. I was felled, like a tree. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I grabbed him by the barnet and I’ll never forget it, his hair came away in my hands. It was a wig, complete with bits of double-sided tape and bobby pins. He was so shocked that he jumped up, clutching his raw head, and made a run for it.
Did I ever tell anyone?
NO!
I was ashamed.
My mother would have killed me for having gone there in the first place.
I always believed, when such things happened, that it was my fault in some way.
Is it a sex thing? A power thing?
Sometimes one, sometimes the other. But probably both.
We live in the twenty-first century, in the first world, in an enlightened society. Nobody’s asking the thousands of female Muslim victims of military rape in Myanmar what they think about Harvey Weinstein.
Certain types are banging on about the fact that the predators are not always men, and that the victims are not always women. Which changes nothing. it must be talked about. it has to stop.

I can think of a few old-timers who must be quaking. 

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