by John Crace
Growing up in the US as the child of Chinese immigrants, I was conscious of how indulgent American parents were. No Chinese parent would dream of praising a child unless he or she got 100% in all subjects, but Americans would congratulate their worthless offspring for getting an A–. I made a vow I would respect my children enough never to show I loved them. Feebleminded, lazy Americans feel they have a duty of care towards their children. Chinese parents regard their kids as objects to be abused and moulded in their own image and I was determined that neither of my surviving kids should fall short of my own brilliant standards, which I will boast about at length.
I admit I was ruthless and I would fire maths and music teachers at will if they did not keep Sophia and Lulu on course for winning a Nobel prize and playing at the Carnegie Hall. And my husband, Jed, did sometimes question my psychopathic narcissism by suggesting it might help if we were to occasionally tell the children we loved them. I thought about that for a nanosecond and then dismissed it, because I’m always right about everything. ‘I am the Chinese Tiger Mother,’ I yelled. ‘You are just American Pussy Father. Your job is to be useless and defer to me.’
Sophia continued to be the perfect child, winning first prize at everything and playing piano brilliantly. Lulu continued to be more trouble, complaining she was happy to do nine hours’ practice a night but not 10. ‘You’re shaming the whole family,’ I screamed at her. ‘Go on, give up the violin and make me look like a complete failure. Next you’ll be saying you want to have friends.’
Jed interrupted. ‘I thought you might like to know my book is now number two in the New York Times bestseller chart,’ he said. ‘Second?’ I screamed. ‘You pathetic American Pussy Father. You heap greater ignominy on me; even the dog has let me down by coming third at the international dog show.’
These were more difficult times for me as my sister had leukaemia and Chinese Tiger Mothers cannot tolerate such genetic weakness in their families. Luckily she recovered before I had to disown her, and I redoubled my efforts to make sure my children did not show me up. Music lessons were increased to 13 hours a day, all holidays were cancelled and any hint of vulnerability was punished by a week in solitary confinement.
I’m pleased to say it’s all paid off magnificently. Everyone says my daughters are the most talented prodigies ever known and that I must be the world’s greatest mother, especially as the American Pussy Father is a waste of space. What’s more, Sophia and Lulu are two of the happiest kids you could imagine. If you don’t believe me, ask them.
‘If mummy says we are happy then we are happy,’ they say. ‘And we’re hoping to be penpals with the Fritzls when we’re in therapy.’
How sweet.
Digested read, digested: Never has mediocrity seemed more appealing.
How to be a Woman
by Caitlin Moran (2011)
Here I am on my 13th birthday. The Yobs are shouting at me. I’m too fat to run away. The dog is licking her vagina. I don’t KNOW what to do!!! I realise I am femin-none. I go home and make a list. 1. USE LOTS OF CAPITAL LETTERS. 2. Ditto italics. 3. !!!!!! 4. Never use one bad pun where two will do.
I love Simone de Beauvoir and Germaine Greer yet I didn’t have a clue how to be a woman when I hit puberty. I thought it was something I’d discover in the underwear section of a C&A catalogue!!! I mean, WHAT DO YOU DO? How do you stop eating cake, quarrelling with your siblings and LEARN HOW to groom your pubes in a feminist kind of way? Much as I enjoyed the dirty bits, The Female Eunuch just didn’t tell a 13-year-old girl how to grow up in Wolverhampton!
OMG! I’m bleeding. I thought it was going to be a lifestyle choice!!! Actually I didn’t, it’s just HYPERBOLE!!! But tampons and stuff are so confusing when you’re fighting with your siblings and you’re trying to have your first ever wank over Chevy Chase! There, I’ve said it!! Feminists wank!!! Who would have thought it??? And porn is great as long as the women are loving it and come first. Go, sisters, go.
I’ve grown some hair!!! Down there!!! When I first see it in my tiny Wolverhampton tin bath, I shave it in disgust, but over the years I’ve come to take pride in my bush. A Brazilian is patriarchal oppression. ENDOV. Though it’s fine if you want to give it a neat ironic trim in the shape of a heart like my friend Rachel does on Tris’s birthday. I mean, it’s the 21st century and women should be relaxed and know how to have a joke about this stuff.
We need to drop the DOGMA about feminism and just get on with having a laugh being women. And there’s no laughs in doing the house work, so just chill and get a cleaner and knock back a few bottles of wine and some Es. This woman business is easier than you think. Just take charge of your vagina and off you go. Though I like to call mine a FOOF. I’ve never been sure what to call my breasts though. So I don’t call them ANYTHING!!!
I’m going out on a date with Courtney and I’m wearing my Dr Martens that I bought with my first pay cheque from Melody Maker when I was nine . . . AND I Don’t Know WHAT TO DO. I want to flirt with him, but does he fancy me and, oh my God, I think he thinks I’m fat. Sisters, I was!! How does a feminist know she’s fat??? When she doesn’t look human and when I was out with Courtney I so looked like a row of porta-bogs!!! Which was quite handy, because my CYSTITIS was killing me!!!!
So I’ve lost weight and I’m in the Melody Maker office and I’m doing some flirting and all I’m getting in return is casual sexism and a lot of heartache. Man, relationships are a minefield when you’d rather just be getting stoned with your little sister in Wolverhampton!! Love you too, Caz!! Thank God, I met my husband Pete!! He’s just about the biggest feminist I know. He never wears thongs – except in bed!!! – he hates high heels and he loves reading all the bitchy bits in Grazia!! Because you know what? Being a fifth-wave feminist doesn’t mean you can’t gossip or wear suspenders.
I literally think I’m dying!!! I’m screaming in pain as my first baby is being born – it feels like I’m shitting a hippo!!! – and Peter is crying and then I’m holding her and it feels like the most feminist thing in the world anyone could ever do. I love my children!!! And suddenly I feel, Woomph, I’m creative, I’m going to write five columns and a book while I’m breast-feeding. Wowzer!! If you want a job done, ask a working mother. They are the most productive people in the UNIVERSE.
And like it’s OK if you don’t want to have babies too. Because it’s a woman’s right to choose. Though obviously women who don’t have babies are basically lazy!!! Abortions??? If you want one, have one!!! You see, a woman can do anything really in the 21st century. Well, anything as long as I approve!!! If in doubt, just ask yourself, what would Caitlin do????
Katie Price!!! What a solipsistic bitch!! She doesn’t ask me a single question when I interview her. What a rubbish role model!!! But Lady Gaga . . . Go girl! Her music is just so brilliant, she takes me to a gay bar in Germany and SHE BUYS ME A DRINK and we get totally trashed and she says she really, really loves my hair before passing out on my lap. Feminism rocks!
Digested read, digested: How to Be Everywhere.
French Children Don’t Throw Food
by Pamela Druckerman (2012)
When my daughter is 18 months old my husband and I (he’s British, I’m American) decide to take her on holiday. Meals are a disaster. Bean creates havoc. I notice that none of the French children are behaving this badly. I wonder pourquoi. ‘C’est par ce que votre fille is called Bean,’ a maman confides in me. ‘Quel type of ridiculous nom is that? No French parent would call their child Haricot.’
I came to motherhood late and, being a hack and not having much work on, I naturally decided to write a book about it. All I needed was an angle. And then I remembered I was living in France and could pass off some general observations about the few middle-class Parisians I knew as insight.
Americans tend to make a great fuss about the birth; French mothers are more relaxed. ‘If it mourir, it mourir,’ they shrug. ‘We pouvoir always have an autre.’ French fathers are equally laissez-faire; few
are expected to attend the birth if there is a football match on TV. And this sense of calm seems to be transmitted to their children.
Bean used to scream throughout the night. I thought this was normal until I talked to Martine, who told me: ‘Tous French bébés sleeper through the nuit.’ ‘How do you do it?’ I asked incredulously. ‘It’s facile,’ she replied. ‘No French maman would reve of breastfeeding as it ruins her tits. So we tipper some cognac into the formula et Bob est votre oncle.’ ‘But what if they wake anyway?’ ‘I ‘ave les plugs d’oreille.’
One of the first commands a French enfant learns is ‘Attendez’. American mothers are taught to respond immediately to their child’s demands. ‘Why would you vouloir to faire that?’ said Agathe. ‘It is obvious que all bébés are un morceau d’un fuckwit and haven’t un clue what they wanter. That is why all enfants are made to stander for une heure chaque jour with an ashtray strapped to their têtes.’ What a refreshing change from the babycentric world of Brooklyn!
My mother was horrified that we were going to put Bean in a crèche, but in France that is routine. ‘To be honnête,’ dit Marie, ‘once le novelty is over, looking after un bébé is pretty ennuyant. En tout cas, it would be impossible to fitter dans my pilates class to tightener my vagina as well as mon cinq-à-sept liaison with Alain without la crèche. Et mon mari aussi needs the time to voir his maîtresse. So it’s better all round for tout le monde.’
It’s an accepted code of American parenting that the earlier you can get your child to do things, the better. The French don’t bother. Rather, they treat their enfants as adults, so they do not encourage them to read before the age of six. ‘C’est un waste of temps for kids to lire merde comme Thomas the Tank Engine,’ Carla told me. ‘So we don’t bozzer. We attend till they are vieux enough to read Barthes, Sartre et Lacan.’
French parents don’t feel the need to soft-soap their children. When Bean has nightmares, I try to comfort her but a French maman will dire, ‘Vie est un bitch, et puis you die’ and as a result French children are extremely well-adjusted to existential ennui. Similarly, American parents tend to praise their children for the slightest achievement; French parents laugh at their enfants’ drawings. ‘Call ça un ferking Picasso?’
Did I tell you I also had twins? No? Well, let me bore on about them for a couple of chapters. Ah, où étais-je? Oh, oui, sex! Simon and I hadn’t done it for months. Thérèse was horrified. ‘You quoi?’ All French femmes need to avoir it off four fois par jour.’ ‘But what shall I do about Bean?’ ‘Putter her in her chambre until she is douze. Et then sender her off to her boyfriend.’
‘The chose about vous Yanks,’ dit Christine, slugging a carafe of vin rouge, ‘est que vous turner your kids into a project rather than let them be them-mêmes.’ ‘I know,’ I wailed. ‘But what can I do?’ ‘Stopper écriring about them pour un start.’
Digested read, digested: Bringing up bébé.
Celebrate by Pippa Middleton (2012)
It’s a bit startling to achieve global recognition before the age of 30, on account of your sister, your brother-in-law and your bottom. But I am by nature an optimist, so I tend to concentrate on the advantages. Like cashing in while I can. No disrespect, sis, but royal marriages don’t have the best track record! So imagine my surprise when Penguin offered me £400,000 and a full editorial team to cobble up a few lame party ideas that would help to promote my family’s business, Party Pieces. I hope it takes you as long to read it as it took me to write it!
Halloween
I always think a party gets off to the perfect start with a little poem. So here’s mine. On a misty Halloween / I like to trick or treat the Queen / And if she gets a little glum / I let Prince Harry pat my bum! Halloween is a scary time of year, so it’s a good idea to think of some scary things for people to do. Hollowing out a pumpkin and going ‘Boo!’ can be quite amusing. It can also be fun to slit a cat’s throat and drain off the blood into a wine bottle marked ‘cat’s blood’. The scariest food I can think of is toad-in-the-hole, a recipe for which I found in an old copy of the Daily Express. If you think sausages in batter are too frightening, you can serve with mashed potato instead. Above all, always plan ahead.
Christmas
I love to decorate the tree / Because everyone stares at my botty / And naughty Harry gets roaring drunk / While all his mates smoke loads of skunk. Christmas tends to come at a time of year when it’s quite cold – the baby Jesus must have been a hardy boy – so I always think roast turkey is more appropriate than a barbecue. After someone else has cooked the big meal – go to www.partypieces.co.uk for bookings – I always go upstairs to change into another outfit. Christmas is a very Christmassy time, so it’s nice to allow my guests to see me in a variety of figure-hugging dresses. While giving my guests this special treat, I also try not to forget that Christmas is really about children. So if anyone knows any black ones we can use for the photos, please give my publisher a ring as we really are struggling!
Valentine’s Day
Now is the time to bump and grind / Against my firm and smooth behind / And Harry sends away his flunkey / Hoping I will spank his monkey. Valentine’s Day is the day on which people celebrate their love for one another, so one unusual thing you can try is to give a card to your special one – Me! – with a heart on it. If you can’t find any cards like this, you might want to buy me some flowers. A garage will help you out, if you don’t find a florist open on your way back from the pub. I also think nothing says ‘I love you’ more than a raspberry souffle, so I’ve included another recipe someone found somewhere. And for that final flourish, a box of After Eights is the perfect ending to a romantic evening.
Wedding day
Oh joyous, rapturous day of days / When social climbing pays its way / And Westminster Abbey doth as one all swear / I have the world’s best derrière. A wedding is when someone gets married to another person, so the clever party organiser will always remember to bake a cake and order the right amount of chairs for the guests to sit on. On big family occasions like this, it’s all too easy to imagine the day is about the bride and groom, and forget that a large, televised wedding is the perfect way to launch your own career. So never be afraid to upstage your sister, and once you have made yourself the centre of attention, you can relax with a glass of wine and a sing-song, knowing you will never have to work again.
Digested read, digested: Cutandpaste.
Antifragile by Nassim Nicholas Taleb (2012)
Wind extinguishes a candle and energises fire. How deep is that? The answer, counter-intuitively, is not quite as deep as me. For I, Nassim Nicholas Taleb alone have discovered the secret of the universe. It is the antifragile.
‘What in God’s name is that?’ Wittgenstein asked me over lunch in a three-starred Michelin restaurant in Paris. Let me explain. You know how some things are quite fragile, and we’re really scared of them breaking? Well, my brilliant new idea is that sometimes it’s good that things get broken, because that’s when important changes like evolution can happen. And because I’m the only person who has ever thought this, I’m going to call it Antifragile.
‘I know you are the cleverest man who ever lived,’ Einstein told me over cocktails in my private jet, ‘but I’m not sure I’m quite getting this.’ Think of it like this. In an earlier work of staggering brilliance, I invented the idea of vanishingly rare Black Swan events that skewed our understanding of probability. Well, now I’ve proved it, as the publishers have assumed that because I got lucky with some bullshit once then I’m bound to do the same again with the next book. The easiest way to understand the concept is this. Think of the fragile as a book for which I’ve written the antibook. A work of massive consequence for the universe that is so self-important it will go unread by everyone.
Forget everything you ever learned from Harvard drones and Nobel laureates, for in them lies no salvation. They think only in the sort of teleological heuristic iatrogenics that would appeal to a Seneca or a Nero. The
world is really composed of Triads: the Fragile, the Robust and the Antifragile. Now abideth these three. And the greatest of these is the Antifragile. Don’t just take it from me. Look at this bar chart that shows how everyone else is very stupid, and I am right about everything. Case proved.
A week or so ago, I was bench-pressing 250kg in the luxury gym in the basement of my Manhattan condo, when I was interrupted by Nelson Mandela who wanted to know why I kept repeating the triadic dualistic mantra of fragile and antifragile. ‘Dats simpul,’ I replied, using the voice of Fat Tony from Brooklyn, a character I created who never fails to make me laugh out loud. Though he may not have the same effect on you. ‘Becoz I’ve nuttin more to say and 400 pages to say it.’
Let me put it another way. When I interrupted the World Economic Forum in Davos to expose the central fallacies of non-optionality in the markets, I was shouted down by everyone except Buddha. But it is now clear to me that I have been proved entirely right on absolutely everything except those things that I may have got wrong. And that uncertainty over which is which goes to the very essence of the antifragile.
But where’s your evidence, you might tediously ask? If so, you wouldn’t be the first, as I had this out with Plato over a glass of the finest retsina to be found in the Peloponnese. As long as you stay stuck in the mindless pursuit of empirical cause and effect, you will be lost in the darkness. The key to enlightenment is the simple convex transformation that the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. I will say that again in case you missed it. The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.
Recall that we once had no word for the colour blue. So we had no word for complete tosser. Until now. The apophatic should always take the via negativa and assume that every doctor is trying to kill you unless you happen to get better. ‘How then,’ Confucius asked me when I was staying in the Forbidden City, ‘am I supposed to be able to tell which changes are antifragile and which are not?’ Let go of your doxastic epistemes, grasshopper. The answers lie within.