John Amaechi talks homophobia in sport

After reading about Jason Collins’ coming out, I decided to take a look back at my interview with ‘professional gay’ (his words, not mine) and retired NBA player John Amaechi that I did for my Master’s feature. I’ve cut about 3,000 words out and as much of my attempts at being a journalist as possible. He says some interesting stuff though.

So yeah, here: 

Former NBA basketball star John Amaechi came out publicly in 2007 at the age of 37 – long after he had retired.

Since joining the handful of other openly gay sportsmen – which recently welcomed Welsh rugby player Gareth Thomas into the fold – Amaechi has become something of a professional gay. He continues to campaign tirelessly against homophobia in both the world of sport and society as a whole.

“The chances of becoming an elite athlete – you’ve got more chance of being hit by a meteor,” says Amaechi, keen to remove the burden of responsibility from closeted players. “You’re more likely to be hit by a meteor than to make it to the highest level,” he repeats for effect, “so what we’re saying, and the FA is saying, is that it’s the job of an individual to make that change and it’s so contrary to the way any organisation should work.

“Anytime you’re in an environment where it’s up to one person to change the system, you know you’re up shit creek. Because then you’re talking about Rosa Parks, then you’re talking about Martin Luther King. When you’re talking about that, the environment is so crooked, so twisted, so evil, that the only way change can happen is for one individual to step up.”

Kicking out homophobia

Earlier this year, the Football Association shelved its plans to ‘kick out’ homophobia after pulling their commercial to tackle the issue. The official reason was that the FA needed more time to work on their campaign but it is widely believed that they suffered from a severe case of cold feet ahead of releasing the video in which a man is shown making homophobic slurs in an office. The piece concludes by saying homophobia is not acceptable in that environment before cutting to the terraces and asking ‘so why should it be acceptable here?’

Amaechi was consulted prior to the video being made and was adamant in his opposition every step of the way.

“The advert is poorly thought out,” says Amaechi. “The reality is that sexuality defeating prejudice in any arena are nuanced things, they can’t be attacked with a sledgehammer. And that’s what this advert is, it’s just one big uncouth sledgehammer that’s aimed at shocking people. What they forget is that this behaviour, that they are showing in the ad, is the behaviour that gay people already know exists and that’s why, as sports people, they choose not to take part in mainstream sport or choose not to go and sit in the terraces.

“It’s badly formed because they’ve treated this advert like it’s the be all and end all of some kind of strategy. The FA keeps talking about how they are trying to start a debate but there is no debate – homophobia is unacceptable. What they are actually doing is that they are approaching their anti-homophobia strategy in a completely different way to anti-racism; with racism, they were unequivocal – it is unacceptable and with this, they end the advert by asking a question, a conditional question at that.

“Football is acculturating entity,” adds Amaechi. “It has the potential to disseminate culture, to establish norms but it’s abdicating its responsibilities.”

Chris Moyles’ gay comment

Away from the world of football, back in 2006, a listener complained after DJ Chris Moyles famously – or rather, infamously – dismissed a ringtone on his Radio 1 breakfast show by saying “I don’t want that one, it’s gay.”

The listener argued that the use of the word in this context was homophobic. The BBC, however, ruled that Moyles was simply keeping up with developments in ‘English usage.’

This too, angers Amaechi.

“I think homophobia is devastating to straight boys,” he says, “which I think most people will think is a curious idea.

“I think the idea that boys must behave in a certain way to prove that they’re not a sissy. These ways include shutting off their emotions, being less intelligent, being less interested in education because all these things make you gay in schools. It’s devastating what it does to boys – straight boys and gay.

“Language is everything,” adds Amaechi. “It’s interesting to me that when we get this argument about the use of the word gay as the pejorative; people like Chris Moyles do it and the BBC says ‘well, you know, it’s not that important.’ It’s funny how language is so important in schools that we teach it but when it comes to issues like this all of a sudden words aren’t important anymore.

“When a photocopier can be gay, when someone making a mistake is gay, when somebody whose smart who’s a boy is gay – these things are destructive.”

Running and I

I can unequivocally say that starting training for the Paris Marathon and a blog at the same time was a bad idea.

And — because I don’t want to start crying at 15 and a half miles — it’s running which is winning the battle for my time. Additionally, my social life has been cut down to one night of non-exercise a week (rock on), my flat looks like I’ve been robbed, and I’m constantly plagued with guilt because I’m putting running before everything else. You texted me 12 days ago and I haven’t replied? You’re on my to do list. PROMISE.

I honestly don’t know how people with kids and many, many more responsibilities than me do this. If I had a two kids — let’s call them Cosmo and Betty — they would have starved to death or run away. And I probably wouldn’t have noticed.

One of the reasons I really liked running when I started was having so much time to think. In my three hour run yesterday I thought about everything there is to think about. Including — if i know you — YOU. I wonder if my friend’s had her baby yet… did I put my water bill on direct debit… are they a couple? She has funny hair… I hope I turned my 3G off and I’m not streaming this from Spotify… etc etc.

Why I like running

So on my most recent runs, when my knee or my achilles or — inexplicably — my ribs are hurting, I’ve been remembering why I like running. And the reasons are…

1. Running, and exercise more generally, has helped me through bad times. When I first graduated and I was job hunting day after day after day, running gave my day a purpose, gave me time to think and helped me to sleep. I don’t know what it is — happy hormones or endorphins or whatever — but the fresh air and the aim of beating the Fraser from the day before, really helped me feel better and like I was achieving something. Being unemployed isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, obviously, but I told you I struggle to open up.

2. When I was a teenager I ate awfully and did no exercise. Incidentally, I also used to struggle to get out of bed, would have a nap after school and then still go to bed and get to sleep. I felt awful all the time and wasted years of my life. And as much as I regret being like that, I’m glad I stopped.

3. I like time on my own and running gives me that. It also gives me a break from twitter and facebook and texting. Which is so needed because I check them too much and get antsy when I’m away from my phone. I love and hate my iPhone in equal measure. But that’s a whole other blog post.

Running and I

So, in essence, I’m doing a marathon to celebrate my relationship with running and all that running has given me. As twatty as that sounds. I’m also doing it to raise money for a great charity. And thank you to the people who have already sponsored me — it is such a weird but lovely feeling to know that someone is willing to go out of their way to give you money for, essentially, doing a run. Especially when it’s someone I don’t know that well.

And finally — for balance — I also run so I can eat a packet of biscuits at my desk before 9.53am on a Monday without getting fat. Just in case you were buying into the idea of me as anything other than a deeply flawed individual.

Charity choosing — what do I care about most?

There’s two things you should know if you’re planning to ask me for sponsorship:

1. I will not give money to an animal charity — there are PEOPLE dying.

2. I won’t sponsor you to do something fun* — suffer for my money, then we’ll talk.

*unless I REALLY like you or you’ve sponsored me previously (I’m a slave to social convention)

Show me the money

But when it came to choosing the charity to support with my attempt at the Paris marathon — which is both HARD and distinctly NON-FUN — I didn’t know which charity to support. I know it won’t be one helping pandas mate or rehouse birds in the Lake District or whatever, but that doesn’t really narrow it down.

I know as dilemmas go this is up there with my diamond shoes are too tight and my wallet’s too small for my £50s (yes, I’m quoting Friends) but I feel that, as it’s other people’s hard earned money, it should be something worthy that I feel passionate about. And obviously there are lots of causes I feel passionate about. Cancer. Alzheimer’s. Bullying. Rape. Depression. Eating disorders.

Getting personal

But I decided to keep it simple and choose a charity that means something to me. Because if that doesn’t help me to get round the streets of Paris then nothing will.

And so… DUN DUN DUN… I’ve chosen Nottingham-based charity Headway,  which helps people in the UK affected by brain injury. And that’s because last year, just before Christmas, my aunt had a subarachnoid brain hemorrhage (which I still can’t spell, apparently).

Six weeks on, she’s responding really well and doing as she’s told. Lots of rest and not too much of anything else. That’s why — despite all the drama queen-ing above — this was the only obvious choice. Because my aunt is pretty brilliant and I’m so happy she’s doing well and I want to help other people and other families who go through this to recover from the trauma and achieve a good quality of life. And it’s Nottingham-based (as am I) so it’s win-win.

If you want to sponsor me and contribute money to Headway, then visit my Just Giving page.

LOVE YOU XXXX

Open up, open up

When I decided to start blogging, I didn’t really think about what I would write about or who would read it. I just thought it would help me write more and that could only be a good thing. I’m trying to find my ‘voice’ or something.

So I write my first post (it’s brilliant, obviously) and then a whack it on Twitter and Facebook. And people read it and generally like it and that’s all fine. But then I remember the myriad of different people I have on Facebook. People from work, former colleagues, friends, frenemies, family friends, people from school I haven’t seen for a DECADE. And, of course, my FAMILY.

It’s weird for each of these groups to read it (and this) for so many reasons. Is it unprofessional to expose workmates to this? Probably. Will it change my family or friends’ opinion of me? Possibly… but is that a bad thing? Do I want to let people who know me 10 years ago see what I’m up to now? And, more importantly, do I want them to see that photo of me looking like Beaker?

HERE'S MY SOUL

HERE’S MY SOUL

And the family thing is a funny one. My family has known me my whole life but not necessarily this me. But that’s not to say blogger me is anymore or less me than the one they know. Plus it’s not just me who keeps the F-bombs to a minimum around their mum or refrains from telling their sister that they dropped their phone in the toilet for a second time.

This different exposure – here’s my Twitter, here’s my blog, here’s my soul – all came to a head at a family gathering this weekend. Like Christmas but with less turkey and faff. And there was talk of my blog (Liz Jones, solo living, my Twitter) and what I’d been writing about and it was weird with a capital W.

My mum and dad didn’t know I had one and my aunt and uncle barely knew what a blog was. It felt like one of those interviews in a magazine – you know the ones – where an actress talks about her dad or her gran seeing her boobs in her new film. My famiy has seen my blog boobs and it feels weird.

IT’S FINE THOUGH

But, now that I’ve processed it, I think it’s good. I need to be more open about who I am across all of the different relationships in my life – and this is a good start. And this will remain true until I’m sacked and/or my mum hates me. So maybe I’ll start letting more of myself out there (WATCH OUT WORLD) because I’m glad I’m writing this and I’m glad whoever it is that’s reading this is doing so. Keep up the good work you guys.

Also…

While this blog discussion was taking place, I was also asked what the point was (as if anything else in my life has a point) and this quote from the TV show Felicity, courtesy of @Emma_Jayne of Emilia Hearts fame, is as close to the truth as I can think of:

Felicity: “Why do you have a webpage?”
Noel: “Why does anyone have a webpage? Too much free time, not enough friends, justify owning a computer.”

Jo Brand judging celebrity diving and Liz Jones attacking mums in their 30s – is this the future?

If you’re not familiar with Liz Jones, you might want to stop reading now. That’s because – in this case – ignorance is bliss.  But if you’re unwilling to accept my well intentioned warning then allow me to present you with the opening to her latest comment piece in yesterday’s Daily Mail:

Nearly half of all babies are now born to women over the age of 30. Does this matter? Should we care? Well, we all know mums are not my favourite people but, having considered this topic carefully, I have actually narrowed down my dislike to mums who are middle class and above, and who gave birth to their first child in their 30s and 40s. Why? Because women who wait until their eggs have shrivelled to have a child are selfish.

Yes, THAT’S RIGHT. She said WOMEN WHO WAIT UNTIL THEIR EGGS HAVE SHRIVELLED TO HAVE A CHILD ARE SELFISH. She (quite possibly) just dissed your mum. Or your wife. Or YOU.

 An introduction to trolling…

But very few people read Liz Jones’ column because they think she’s a reasonable human being or capable writer. People read it because their mate tweeted “OH MY GOD, LIZ JONES IS SUCH AN AWFUL HUMAN BEING: http://www.dailymail.co.uk #jesuschrist”.

What Liz Jones is doing, and what she’s paid to do and is very good at doing, is trolling en masse. A clever but morally repugnant concept that the Daily Mail is really, really good at. And one Caitlin Moran sums up beautifully in an interview with Stylist mag: “Because if you look at its website, your presumption that Daily Mail readers actually like bitchy headlines about female celebrities putting on weight (“Fuller-Faced Cheryl Cole”), is blown out of the water. All the comments are actually from reasonable people baffled by the Mail’s tactic (“Can’t celebrities put on an ounce without it being news?” Ivy, Barking) – making you realise that the Mail is, in practice, trolling its entire readership. Amazing.”

EXHIBIT TROLL!

EXHIBIT TROLL!

But now trolling is making its way onto our TV screens too. ITV – the Daily Mail of television channels – roped in Olympic diver Tom Daley to coach celebrities for Splash, this year’s ‘surprise’ ratings hit. And, in doing so, totally TROLLED US.

Granted, this is a different type of trolling. The ‘brains’ behind Splash are making us watch something because we can’t believe how bad it is. So basically millions tuned in the first week expecting Daryl Hannah dressed as a mermaid falling in love with Tom Hanks and then couldn’t stop watching because they were so shocked to see Jo Brand judging diving. JO BRAND JUDGING DIVING.

Don’t feed the troll…

And anyone who’s ever spoken to me for more than 20 minutes will know that this ties in with my fear of the media. Or rather the media’s power over us. We stop shopping because the media tells us we’re going to lose our jobs. Politicians change their stance on issues because the media pressurise them into it. The entire world was scared of getting AIDs in the 80s because of the media.

I mean, I wasn’t around in the 80s — but I’ve seen Philadelphia.

The expert advice (and Caitlin Moran’s) is don’t feed the troll. Like if a kid in playground is picking on you, you shouldn’t rise to it and they’ll get bored. So if you think Splash is the worst thing you’ve ever watched then simply don’t watch it. Don’t write about it (HA! IRONY KLAXON), don’t tweet about it and don’t let it become a thing. If you think that women over 30 who have babies aren’t in fact selfish? Keep it inside. Just, whatever you do, don’t feed the troll. But it’s hard to do. In fact, I’m undermining my own point more and more with every word I type.

Is this the future of TV and ‘journalism’?

Probably. The Daily Mail’s website is a massive, massive success — a guilty pleasure for, you know, EVERYONE — and TV bods are no doubt brainstorming their next ridiculous TV hit. “Let’s make celebrities wear prosthetics and blindfolds and we’ll redo the Paralympics!” “YEAH. GOOD ONE. Do you think We can get Lawrence Llewlyn Bowen?”

SIGH.

The worst thing about the iPhone…

Most days, while eating breakfast or mooching around my flat or fannying about at work, I see something that I think is worth taking a photo of on my trusty iPhone. Don’t get me wrong, it’s usually not (you saw my last blog post, yeah?) but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.

So maybe I’ve made some photogenic looking poached eggs, click on my camera, andddddd….

MY BIG FACE FROM BELOW.

MY BIG FACE FROM BELOW.

ALSO MY BIG FACE FROM BELOW.

ALSO MY BIG FACE FROM BELOW.

MY BIG FACE FROM BELOW AGAIN.

MY BIG FACE FROM BELOW AGAIN.

And I can unequivocally say that — as you can see — there are few things more horrifying than being greeted by your BIG FACE, CLOSE UP, FROM BELOW.

If anyone’s reading this who doesn’t have an iPhone, this is because the iPhone’s default (most of the time) is the function which allows you to take SELF PICS. But, as everyone knows, one takes a self pic from above to minimise MASSIVE CHIN and keep self esteem nice and high.

Yeah. Okay. These aren’t that bad. They’re usually more like thiiiiiiis: 

I LOOK A BIT LIKE BEAKER.

I LOOK A BIT LIKE BEAKER.

So, Apple, why’re you ruining photos for us?

My view in autumn and in winter

My view. With a little help from Instagram.

My view. With a little help from Instagram.

The window in my office looks out onto a courtyard full of big trees. It’s kind of weird looking into a courtyard — especially one like this, that no one ever goes out into — rather than out over a street or field with people and cars passing by.

A courtyard’s a bit like a box. And other than the weather and the trees, and the people walking along the corridors opposite, it doesn’t really change. So that’s why, when I stumbled over the photo from September and looked out to see such a different view, I decided to fire up instagram and take another snap. And because when it snows and you have an iPhone, this is the done thing.

My view. Also with a little help from Instagram.

My view. Also with a little help from Instagram.

Yes, yes, I KNOW I’m a gifted photographer.

Stop the world, I want to get off

When I sit down in the morning with wet hair and one sock on to eat a couple of slices of toast, I stick breakfast telly on for a bit of background noise. I only watch for about four and a half minutes before making myself presentable enough for work and dashing out the door. Usually I get the least important story from the local news and maybe a report about a talented border collie.

But this morning my little snippet of news struck a chord. So much so that it’s all I’ve spoken about, tweeted about and thought about since. Widower Ben Brooks-Dutton was on to talk about the lack of support for men who lose their wives. I actually missed the bit where he talked about what happened to his wife Desreen. But this article in the Evening Standard – Father pushes child to safety but runaway car kills his wife in West Hampstead crash — fills in the grim gaps. It was random, it was horrible and it could’ve happened to anyone. 

There’s not much that I can say about Ben’s blog. But that’s only because he does that better than I ever could for himself over on life as a widower.

So all I truly want to say is…

READ BEN’S BLOG. READ BEN’S BLOG. READ BEN’S BLOG.

Because seeing someone that’s so brave at 8.24 in the morning and the fact that he’s actually trying to help the men that will inevitably go through this in the future is really brilliant. So I hope millions of people flock to his beautifully written, heartbreaking blog and he gets to make the impact that he wants to.

So read life as a widower. All of it.

Anyone selling a cat?

At the start of last year, my friend emailed me a piece in the Guardian. It was called I want to be alone: the rise and rise of solo living. And now, less than a year later, I’ve joined her in living solo and making hilarious jokes about being a spinster and getting a cat.

The piece is really interesting – and not just because you get to find out why Alex Zane, 33 (presumably now 34), chooses to live alone. So here’s why I, like Alex, have signed up for a spinster pad…

Cohabiting: 1986-2012

Up until last August, I’d always lived with other people. First my family in various different incarnations depending on who was at university, who was on a gap year and who was staying at friends or away with work. Then it was strangers turned friends and frenemies in halls, then two lots of student houses in my 2nd and 3rd years. Then back home for a take two.

And each of these stints of co-habitation were sometimes great and sometimes awful. So that’s why, when I finally moved out to become some sort of grown up, I wanted to do it on my own. No housemates, no sharing with a friend of a friend of a friend for convenience, no searching on gumtree. Because I could afford to live on my own (sort of…) and I decided to do it. Oh! And because I’m single, of course.

Now I’m not trying to be overdramatic and I know I’m talking about moving into a flat on my own (in the same city as my mum and dad no less) and not  a sex change or the decision to re-train as a rumpologist, but it felt like a big deal at the time. Plus I hear “so how’s living on your own?” A LOT. Often by older people who had a partner and a couple of kids by the time they were my age, but STILL.

I bought a sofa! And a hoover (not pictured).

I bought a sofa! And a hoover (not pictured).

“So how’s living on your own?”

It’s mainly GREAT.

I honestly think I’m a better son and brother and employee because I get all my on my period moody angst out of the way in my little flat. That way when I choose to go for coffee with a friend or arrive at work (even on a Monday), I have lots to say about the book I read or what I watched or a new spinster joke that I’ve added to my repertoire. Quite literally, living on my own makes me a pleasant person.

I can also do things that no one will ever know about. That sounds dodgy, I realise, but it isn’t because I’m just not that interesting. It means I can watch Celebrity Big Brother or eat LOADS or spend ages watching YouTube videos of tennis matches from 2001 without anyone knowing or telling me I’m wasting my life. I mean, today I’ve made a list of the top 100 best spinster jokes not involving cats – what of it?

One of my worst memories of living with friends is my martyr mate dramatically brillopad-ing a saucepan that I used three days ago. And that kind of rubbish (and the fact I’ve been the brillopad-er as well as the brillopad-ee) is the reason I’m happier to opt out.

What next?

So next is just staying here and living alone. Hopefully it’s not forever but if it is then that’s fine too. And I think that’s because I kind of like being on my own and the fact that living on my own has made me more a yes man for parties and tennis matches and  night outs. And when I stay in, like tonight, I do it because I want to.

Anyway, that’s enough. The cat won’t feed herself.