The statement that Brock Turner’s victim read out in the US court was no normal testimony. It symbolised a “new articulacy” for the anger, distress, defiance and (painfully clawed together) dignity of all sexual assault survivors. Which has always been there but, in the past, was submerged under the toxic murk of warped police protocol and societal shaming.

What guts it took for that young woman to write and read out such a piece, calmly describing the grotesque nature of her attack, sparing no one, least of all herself, from the explicit details. How she lay unconscious, humiliatingly exposed, behind a dumpster, soil and other debris from the ground between her legs, pine needles in her hair, underneath her frat-boy attacker (the one with those great swimming speeds!). The survivor also thanked the two men (“heroes”), who came to her aid, demonstrating that nothing, not even her own brutal assault, was going to rob her of her capacity to both embody and appreciate humanity.

The statement was incredibly powerful, perhaps too strong for some. In cases such as these, some people would rather not deal with specifics (blackouts, dumpsters, abrasions), because that means letting go of their pipedream that anything bar “central-casting stranger-rapist in a dark alleyway” merely amounts to stupid drunk skanks deviously carping about “sex they belatedly regretted”.

However, amid the statement’s strength and honesty, another moment popped out, one that seemed to go against the spirit of everything else, while at the same time fitting in perfectly. It was when the survivor spoke about being paranoid that people would find out that it was her.

After all she’d been through, she was saying she feared being “outed”. Despite all she was, and all she’d become, – this courageous orator, who’d commanded the attention and respect of the world – she was still scared of being that person, that “thing”, the victim.

This may have been the bravest part of the statement. How much easier would it have been for her to fake a brittle bravado that she did not truly feel. Instead, she spoke the truth about her terror of people discovering her identity and by doing so she highlighted the greater, darker truth that for her and every other sexual assault victim, these fears are not mere paranoia.

The raped are never responsible for their rapes. Yet even today, the shame of rape, the stain of it, remains a burden on the victim. Not only in the persistent archaic babble (“What was she wearing?”/How much did she drink?”), but also in less obvious, more insidious forms. There is a sense that, just by being sexually violated, the victim has been forever tainted and defined by the crime.

This is what rape does. It stands victims in front of a smeared, broken mirror and lies to them about who and what they are and how there’s no escape. For many victims, the only thing that could be worse is if their identities are exposed and there’s not even the bleakest chance of getting on with their lives.

This isn’t weakness or hiding. This is a logical reaction to a society that, even today, persists in its prurient response to rape: dictating that the sexual nature of the crime both defiles and defines the victim as much as the attacker, maybe even more.

At which point, it wouldn’t matter that well-meaning people, including the vice president, Joe Biden, praise and comfort you. You’re a victim, that’s all you are. You’ve been sexually assaulted, that’s all that counts.

So, even as I applaud this young woman’s articulacy, I also respect and understand her fear of losing her anonymity. Society has a long way to go before the shame is placed, not only firmly, but also solely where it belongs.

Time for Bernie to exit stage left

Facebook Twitter Pinterest The Bernie Sanders campaign office in Los Angeles. Photograph: Mario Anzuoni/Reuters



What is Bernie Sanders playing at? Even after his backers conceded that the fight is over, and after a meeting with President Obama, he seems determined not to step down, admit defeat and endorse Hillary Clinton as the US Democratic candidate.

It seems time for someone brave to whisper in Sanders’ ear: “Bernie, posterity has not beckoned, but your Uber cab has arrived.”

Otherwise, soon the moment will come when Sanders stops being the valid, interesting former candidate, who, for a time at least, captured the public imagination.

Instead, he will start looking like the annoying guy who refuses to leave the party. Long after everyone else has departed, Sanders will be there, sullenly sprawled on the carpet, drinking the dregs of the home brew, eating old pizza crusts, telling you that your cat has an “attitude problem” and asking if he could kip the night.

Aw, go on, don’t be tight. He won’t be any trouble, honest. He’ll just lie on the floor snuggled up under a paper tablecloth. Don’t worry about weird noises in the night, it’ll just be him looking for the loo.

He won’t flush, in case it wakes you up. And could you make him breakfast the next morning and order him a cab? And pay for it? Ta, appreciate it. By the way, do you want those leftover dips, because if you’re just going to throw them away?

Yes, Sanders is in imminent danger of becoming the US Democrats’ nightmare guest who refuses to leave.

It’s time for someone to tell him in a non-gentle manner that it’s over and the smart, gracious thing to do is to leave. Either that or a light spot of kidnapping might be in order, to preserve what remains of his dignity.

Bonkers birthday awards that are the best of British

Facebook Twitter Pinterest No need to shout about it: Brian Blessed (OBE). Photograph: Yui Mok/PA





You’d need a heart of pure granite not to giggle at the “showbiz” section of the Queen’s birthday honours list. What do you mean: “It’s naff”? Isn’t that the point?

It can also be fun dreaming up alternative reasons for honours. It might announce “Roderick David Stewart (knighthood), for services to music and charity”, but let’s not forget his selfless sporting of comedy tam o’ shanters back in the day. Astronaut Tim Peake (CMG) for giving the nation an excuse to say: “Ground Control to Major Tim”; Ant and Dec (OBE) for services to “Geordieness”; Jamie Murray (OBE) for childhood bravery sharing bunk beds with sulky brother Andy; Brian Blessed (OBE) for ear-splitting theatrical booming beyond the call of duty; Alan Shearer (CBE) in his role as a football pundit, having the perfect vocal delivery to lull people into a deep coma, thus saving the cash-strapped NHS the need for anaesthetic.

Of course, honours are about charity and serious matters as well, but for some of us, they’re less a barometer of public mood and more an unofficial litmus test of how wilfully bonkers Britain has decided to be in any given year.

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