Land of Saints and Scholars - part two

J and I left Dublin for the beautiful South Coast and arrived in Waterford, not exactly a buzzing metropolis I'll grant you, but very beautiful to stroll around and our hotel was just as the doctor ordered. Who knew Waterford has a sex shop now ? Ye Gods, it's a far cry from my memories of buckets and spades on Tramore beach. Actually, what tickled me was not so much the sex shop but the "booth" therein, where a passing gent could spend a couple of Euros to indulge in a quick spot of porn and erm ... relief. Soho has finally reached the South coast of Ireland, well I never.

The hotel itself was deathly quiet when we checked in and I did wonder if it was conducive to kicking J up and down a corner suite with his pitiful cries going un-noticed. Happily, on our return from dinner, the population of the hotel had swelled on foot of a clapped out tour bus carrying the geriatric version of Club 18 - 30. For want of a better word, they were being "entertained" in the bar by Finbar* (*names changed to protect the completely inadequate) with his keyboard and a right foot which operated rather like a flipper, thrashing away at a drum machine at least two beats behind each note of the song being murdered.

"Quelle horreur!" I thought.

This was a crime against music and no mistake. As an aside, one of the people I most greatly admire from a musical point of view is Les Dawson, yes I said LES DAWSON. If you recall, he had the most marvellous ability to play any song just one semi-tone off key throughout, resulting in anyone with even half a musical ear fighting to control their rattling teeth. In actual fact, it takes a person who is very musical in the first place to be able to pull that off, and it used to make me howl with laughter. In fact, I've just found this wonderful clip of him singing "Feelings", click here. RIP. :(

Anyway, back to the bar; things went from bad to worse when Finbar announced he was taking requests, and there was a veritable stampede of hush puppies and other sensible shoes to the stage. There's always one, isn't there ? One very elderly man who does Elvis to varying degrees of success, in this case he was actually fantastic and sang a couple of his classic hits, I'm sure I saw several embroidered hankies being used to quell feverish brows when he swung his hips to "Suspicious Minds". I couldn't let the opportunity go and wrestled with my conscience as to what to sing. For a fleeting moment I entertained the idea of that dreadful song by Samantha Fox - "Touch me", but thought better of it, and in the end I went for a safe bet - "Crazy", by Patsy Cline. It went down a storm and I had lots of hugs, an offer of marriage and a slap on the back that nearly sent me into reception, (Irish farmers just don't know their own strength). Having secured several bookings for a 21st, a Christening and a hurriedly arranged wedding, Finbar was packing up his one man orchestra and J and I decided to call it a night, when the magic happened. It was pre-empted by the usual declaration -

"WILL YIZ SHURRUP ? MICK IS SINGIN', G'WAN MICK."

A hush descended on the bar and from the corner of the room, "Mick" began to sing in a mournful, soulful and truly moving way about his inevitable demise to Greenland with dolphins, and so it went on. Song after song from misty-eyed patriots who in all honesty, had never set foot in "The Fields of Athenry" in their lives, let alone fought in the "Great Fallen of 1916". It was all I could do to stop myself reminding one gentleman who was mourning his beautiful Motherland that actually, he lived in the bungalow, first turn on the right. I think I would have been thumped for that offence.

As I tried to explain to J in hushed tones, this is the way things are done in Ireland. When someone dies, everyone gets together for the "tórraimh", or the "wake" and remembers the person, and rather than mourn they laugh at the good memories they have of them, then they get absolutely rat arsed and sing. Following on from that is the funeral, where everyone dresses in black, pays their respects, and then they get rat arsed and sing. Come to think of it, there aren't many occasions when my country folk don't get rat arsed and sing.

Given his (ahem) Etonian accent, by now J was positively panicked, because THAT stage of the evening had begun where the songs had adopted a staunch "rebel" theme, so much so that he refused point blank to open his mouth for fear of being lynched, so we called it a night, for real this time.

You know, whenever I go back to Ireland to visit my clan, it's always really hard to leave them, and if I'm honest I usually have a howl on the way back to Scotland, but for the first time I realised that it is the people and the culture I miss too, I sat amongst those warm, wonderful people and for the first time in many years, I realised I was very, very homesick.

LL xx

Land of Saints and Scholars - part one.

Good afternoon and greetings from LL towers, where I have finally arrived home after an exceptionally enjoyable week away, to a rapturous welcome from the zoo. Firstly let me apologise again for the (albeit temporary) outburst yesterday. Sometimes we all have to release what I call my "inner fishwife", I don't like doing it, it's not befitting the person that I am but hey, when pushed far enough it's in all of us.

If the truth be known, that's twice I've had to do it this week, allow me to explain. J and I arrived in Dublin and checked into our beautiful five star hotel, situated as it was not too far from Grafton Street (which is where the posh shops are, innit) but also just a stone's throw away from some of the grottiest tenement flats in Dublin's inner city. So if you turned left, you could indulge yourself with your credit card, but if you turned right, you could be met with the traditional Irish welcome of a needle to the neck and a stamp to the head, thereafter someone else could indulge themselves with your credit card.

Come the late evening, I stood outside the front door of the hotel to admire the passing shiny tracksuits when I saw what can only be described as an advertisement for rehab, trying desperately to steal some bikes from across the street. When he couldn't free them from their stands, he proceeded to start to kick the crap out of their frames. I deplore anyone who wilfully destroys the property of other hard working people, it drives me mad. Dublin's answer to Tristan Smedley Smythe was beside me, on his Blackberry. He said that he was going to call "The Guards". Now I knew that was never going to work, the only way to get the Irish police to respond is to tell them that shots have been fired or that a perfectly happy and independent escort is working in an apartment, (whoops, did I say that out loud) ?

I will (again) apologise for the ensuing filthy language here, I'm just glad J didn't hear me because I think it would have frightened him to death, being the genteel soul that he is. I should also point out that real inner city Dubliners drop every 'd' and 'h' available to them, if you're not familiar with the dialect then you can view our own Mrs. Brown
here. So, I took a deep breath, moved towards what we Irish lovingly refer to as the "scumbag" and shrieked -

"OI !! GET DEFUCK AWAY FROM DEM BIKES ROITE NOW YE SCUMBAG, I'M AFTER CALLIN DE GUARDS. G'WAN YE KNACKER, AFORE I LOSE ME BLEEDIN TEMPER."

I'm delighted to say that seemed to have the desired effect and he scampered off, presumably to see if any of his esteemed friends had any Tesco value weed to spare.

Tristan Smedley Smythe was flabbergasted.

"I say, bloody well done. Did you go to theatre school?"

"Something like that, yes".

Wearing a large grin, I went back to join J for dinner.

I will pop back later in the week to finish my holiday tale, in the meantime I'm off to launch the Spanish inquisition, whilst I was away some fecker ate my Double Decker Easter egg, and they needn't bother blaming the cat this time, heads are going to roll.

LL xx

Inverness, Intimations and Ireland

Good evening from a very quiet LL towers. Boy cat is snoring and farting gently on the footstool beside me and La Princess is at a sleepover, (I did suggest some diazepam for the parents concerned but was met with a weak smile, I know the feeling.) I've had quite a mixed week really, firstly I was in Inverness for a couple of days and my hairy Highlanders didn't let me down, I had a whale of a time. From there I had to arise at 6am on Wednesday, (I have witnesses) to scoot down the A82 to meet S. When I say scoot, it was a four hour drive fuelled by lucozade and some very dodgy looking own-brand caffeine tablets, but I made it to Kennacraig, from where we left for Islay. It was my first visit there and I thought it was simply beautiful. The picture above was taken from the boat and is of Jura, when we sailed by.


Also this week, Dr. Brooke Magnanti, did a rather brilliant interview with The Telegraph, link here. I loved this quote -
"Her new book, The Sex Myth, fuses her personae as research scientist and sex worker. And it’s good: powerful in its exposé of knee-jerk reactions and shoddy science, social or otherwise. The chapters challenging feminist assumptions about pornography and the sex trade look likely to prove constructively controversial." Good, because that is exactly what is needed, an intelligent and well thought out challenging of society's accepted norms from an academic who can underpin and substantiate her work with real statistics.

Interestingly, the journalist concerned spoke to Dr. Magnanti about a lady who was "outed" insofar as she was exposed as having accepted cash for sex, although in fact she was underage, so it was actually rape. She had this to say - "Her exposure a couple of years later provoked an animal savagery among her peers and she felt forced to leave. I think of her often, appalled by the loss of potential that I hope she has been able to confound." Could there be anything more appalling than ostracising and casting out a child victim of rape, whether or not money changed hands ? I don't think so.

Dr. Magnanti had this response for the journalist -

“So be an ally. In terms of how you’re treated by the law and how you’re seen by society, there’s a lot of similarity between being a sex worker now and being gay 20 years ago. And what really changed that was family, friends, members of the public coming to know people who were gay. We need people like you who say: 'I myself am not a sex worker, but I do not object to their existence’.”
“If you want to identify a population that has been consistently discriminated against, it is up there with racism, with religion. There is the assumption that, once you have crossed this line, you never go back and that it says something about you as a person and your ability to do other things.”

Well said, that lady.

I'm off to Ireland with J for a week come Monday, it will feel very strange travelling around Southern Ireland without visiting family, but I don't think The Mother would appreciate meeting for afternoon tea when I have J on a lead and in full gimp regalia. Actually, I think she'd find it kind of fascinating, it would be more about what other people would think, which reminds me of that rather brilliant quote from Fr. Ted -

"DOWN WITH THAT SORT OF THING."

LL xx

Positivity and Pythons

Good afternoon and greetings from home where I am gathering my frillies for Edinburgh.

Lots of good tidings this week, firstly I found this article in the Australian news which talks in very positive and incontrovertible terms about sex work in New South Wales, in fact NSW is described as the best place in the world to work if you are in the sex industry. The article goes on to say -

The decriminalisation of sex work in NSW has resulted in the world's the healthiest sex industry, the research released today found.

"Jurisdictions that try to ban or license sex work always lose track as most of the industry slides into the shadows," the report's lead author, Professor Basil Donovan from the University of NSW's Kirby Institute, said in a statement.

"In NSW, by contrast, health and community workers have comprehensive access to and surveillance of the sex industry.

"This has resulted in the healthiest sex industry ever documented."

The report, prepared for the NSW government, found there were at least 101 brothels within 20 kilometres of Sydney's CBD and estimated that between 3000 to 4500 sex workers operated in the region in any one year.

On the whole, sex workers surveyed also reported being "well adjusted and comfortable with their occupation".

Hurrah, further support for what we have been campaigning for for so long.
In the interests of proffering a fair and balanced discourse, I should say that the report also said -

"While most of the 201 sex workers surveyed by The Law and Sexworker Health (LASH) team reported good mental health, 10 per cent had high scores of psychological distress."

However, we are not to know what the root cause of that distress is, it might be completely unrelated to the fact that they are sex workers. After all, we know that a small proportion of doctors self medicate, but that shouldn't give rise to a moral panic and an attempt to criminalise ALL doctors, should it ?

The next piece of positivity was the debate on BBC1 this morning which featured Catherine Stephens of the IUSW and Charlie Daniels to name but a few. The question being asked was whether raising the legal age of prostitution to 21 would in any way protect more vulnerable entrants to the industry. The link to the debate is here, it's about half an hour long and begins at about 33 minutes into the program, presented by Nicky Campbell. I thought that both Catherine and Charlie came across illustriously. :)

Also this week I got a new review from one of my Belfast guys here. Thank you very much Sir, I certainly did enjoy pushing those boundaries. ;)

Finally,(and on a lighter note), from this Monday onwards, I will be charging admission to LL towers, enough is enough. "Gypsy" the corn snake arrives this evening. Now, I was going to wax lyrical about how it's standing room only at this point and there is more food in the feckin' fridge for the animals than there is for us mere humanoids when I came across this rather brilliant post from a lady on an animal forum. I visit there from time to time and lurk, hoping to pick up some pointers on snakes in particular. Anyway, here it is - enjoy.

So today it's my day off, and I'd arranged to go and collect a (to me at least) rather expensive new snake which I've been dreaming about for some years.

Picked up the snake no problem after a 1.5 hour drive to the other side of London. Sellotaped it into its Braplast tub, and drove home again.

On arrival at my flat I excitedly got my camera ready for pictures, made sure his new faun was ready, opened the tub and was greeted by..... nothing. Snake was gone.

Legged it back to my car and carefully start sorting through all the assorted rubbish that's in there (mainly horse riding gear and empty Dr Pepper bottles) whilst cursing my way through the Oxford Dictionary of swear words.

In my panic, I hadn't realised that my ever-useful Honda, Harold, had locked the doors whilst the car was open, meaning that when I shut the passenger door to go to the drivers side, I was locked out, with my car and flat keys locked in...

Ran to the local locksmith to beg them to break into my flat, which they did, grabbed my phone and rang the RAC, only to be told I'm no longer a member because I no longer live at home.

15 minutes and £203 later, I'm a member again, and they were even kind enough to boost me to top priority because an animal was involved.

Went to stand by my car and await the arrival of my knight in shining RAC van. Whilst trying to kill myself with cigarettes, I'm approached by a friendly Asian man who asks what's wrong with me. I give him a quick debrief and whilst peering through my windows he makes a joke that my car is so muddy it looks like I've been farming in it. I explain that I work on a farm as a horse riding instructor and he then proceeds to tell me that he is an actor and he needs riding lessons, then asks if I'll give him a discount if he "makes me his girlfriend", an offer which I politely declined.

He then tells me that his brother was recently murdered, having been lured from right outside my flat late at night, and was then buried in a flower bed by the murderer and his accomplice. Wondering why he is telling me this, he explains that he is on his way to the hospital with his toenail, which came off last night, to have his feet checked for fungus. Nice.

Anyway, the RAC man turned up, followed by my somewhat bemused boyfriend, and got me into the car within about 10 minutes, before running back to his van and shouting "Good luck!" at me as he sped off.

So now, here I am, sat in my car with some Jaffa Cakes and a Red Bull, trying to lure out said snake with a nice fuzzy.

FML.

LL xx

Sex workers and Spanish Ladies

Good evening and greetings from Belfast where I have had a belting day. I don't want to brag about having had a particularly busy day but suffice to say that if CSI came in here, my bed would light up like a Christmas tree. So firstly, let me get announcements out of the way, I have done my diary until the end of May (I know, but I have two longer bookings coming up so I wanted to plan around them). Anyway, good news, I shall be visiting London (central, Bloomsbury) on the 21st and 22nd of May. I expect bookings for this visit to book up rather quickly so do get in touch if you fancy a bed picnic. I love London, I haven't been this excited since "Steps" announced their reunion.

This week The Met came under fire, overall they're not having a very good time of it at the moment, are they ? This time it was concerning their handling of looking for trafficked sex workers in the run up to the Olympics. A report commissioned by the London mayor, Boris Johnson accused officers of a "heavy handed" approach to brothel raids and of failing to find victims of trafficking. In his report, Andrew Boff said -
"The information I have gathered … demonstrates that police have been proactively raiding sex establishments without complaint nor significant intelligence that exploitation is taking place."

He went on to say -

"I believe the police have spent a lot of time trying to find victims of trafficking in the places where they are unlikely to be. The political drivers have been wrong on this. SCD9 is barking up the wrong tree.

"One of my starkest findings was the absence of west Africans among the women found by SCD9. These victims won't be found by going into a massage parlour and asking everybody whether they have been trafficked.

"By going in, in this way they are driving some of these women further into the shadows. There is evidence of increasing fear of the police amongst sex workers which has resulted in a reluctance to report crime."

He called on the police to rethink the way they investigate sex trafficking and to build better relations with sex workers.

Sorry to bang the proverbial drum, but is that not what I said verbatim in "The Skinny" ? Why don't the police open up communication with us, the sex workers and our clients also, specifically to combat trafficking ? We can help, we meet these people first hand. Although I am not a trafficked woman ( although under the current legislation, actually I am ... ) I come into contact with guys who have seen something they weren't happy with.

Solution - Throw an open invitation out to sex workers and their clients and allow them to come forward and report what they know, without having to give their real names or face the fact that they will forever be on some invisible register as a known sex worker or for that matter, "punter".

Meanwhile, this story really tickled me, Spain's high-class escorts are refusing to have sex with the nation's bankers - until they open up credit lines to cash-strapped families and firms.

Madrid's top-end prostitutes say their indefinite strike will continue until bank employees 'fulfil their responsibility to society' and start offering bigger loans for struggling Spaniards. GO GIRLS !!

LL xx

Pasta and Parenting

Good evening and greetings from home where I am awaiting the abomination known as "cheesy pasta" to be served, compliments of my (now) 11 year old. With increased age comes increased responsibility I suppose, so I will let her use the cooker provided I can lurk in various doorways with a tea towel handy, just in case. Where I couldn't lurk this week was when she went on a group outing to see "The Muppets" at the cinema. There was a group of 8 of them, all duly dropped off and collected by parents, who had been nominated by text - "Feck off, I did the birthday party last week". You'd think, wouldn't you, that I would relish the thoughts of a couple of hours alone in the house, to maybe get some study done, a little ironing or in reality, visiting THAT place on You-Tube, when you've followed a link from a link and end up ( as I did ) in an animated "discussion" with some semi-literate gobshite from Tennessee as to the rights and wrongs of coon hunting. I digress.

The reason I couldn't settle down into any of my favourite activities, (yes, even Porn Hub and my Magic Wand were foregone ) is because herself was on a date. Yep, a DATE. He's 12, so obviously she prefers the older gents like her Mother. On first appreciation of the horrid fact that she was "going out" with someone, I flew down to the school like a woman possessed. No way was my daughter going to land in my kitchen at the age of 15 with some tracksuit wearing clown to announce that I was going to be a Grandma and further, that we were booked to appear on Jeremy Kyle the following week, I THINK NOT.

My fears were appeased by the very wonderful teacher therein, and he assured me that these "relationships", (such as they are) are usually over before they have started and are entirely innocent. Hmmm. Nevertheless, I sent her off to the cinema with a stern warning that were she to kiss a boy, there are enzymes in her mouth which mean her tongue will turn black and I will know, instantly. You might think it's mean to send your child to the cinema in a state of irrational fear, I call it a pre-emptory strike. Parenting at this level is new, and difficult too. I could deal with hands down toilets, toast in the DVD player and decking other toddlers, that was easy peasy.

Anyway, as it happened, she came home to announce loudly that he had been "dumped". Yes, four days into romance of the century and it was all over, there goes any notions I had of negotiating deals with "Howya" magazine and securing several white doves, (all cared for and with the best of welfare, of course). My feverish search for a "Mother of the Bride" outfit can wait, apparently of more importance this week coming rather than the broken heart she has heartlessly walked away from is the forthcoming cheer leading try-outs, deep joy.

I'm off to Inverness on Monday and will catch up with you from there, there are some fantastic blogs I want to draw your attention to when I am finally alone in a hotel room, devoid of any newly emergent hormones or the zoo that surrounds me here.

LL xx

Articles and Archives

Good evening and greetings from home, where I am chilling out with the motley crew, it's very fecking difficult to write and concentrate when there is a large beige coloured hamster scooting all over the desk, intent on committing repeated hamstercide by leaping from the edge. Before I forget to mention it, I am no longer touring to Brighton ( I am going there, but I will have La Princess with me ), instead I have decided to visit central London in May, dates to be confirmed.

The recent interview I did for "The Skinny" magazine was published today - link here. Overall I'm very pleased with it, most importantly I got the piece in about the legislation although I dearly wish I hadn't being quoted as saying "for fuck sake", hahaha. Don't think that the irony of being included in a magazine called "The Skinny" has been lost on me for one minute, I think it's delicious.

Moving swiftly on, there are many blogs belonging to academic writers whom I admire greatly. I am often in awe at their knowledge and their ability to articulate it too, with particular reference to Laura Agustin. Recently on her blog, there appeared a letter from a lady purporting to be a prostitute, dating back to 1858 and addressed to The Times. The reason I say "purporting" is because according to the critics at the time, a woman who chooses to be a prostitute couldn't possibly be lucid, never mind articulate and pugnacious, so it was deemed from many quarters to be fictitious. Regardless, I think it's stupendous, and it serves to illustrate that in spite of the chasm of time between us, she speaks of the same problems that we as sex workers encounter today, the presumption of a particular social status, the stigma, the misapprehension of her job, the affiliation in the minds of most of all elements of the industry, it's all there. She speaks to the notion of the "rescue industry" too, her approach to them is quite robust and very encouraging given the times she lived in.

Although it's long, it's well worth a read -

Sir, Another ‘Unfortunate’, but of a class entirely different from the one who has already instructed the public in your columns, presumes to address you. I am a stranger to all the fine sentiments which still linger in the bosom of your correspondent. I have none of those youthful recollections which, contrasting her early days with her present life, aggravate the misery of the latter.

My parents did not give me any education; they did not instil into my mind virtuous precepts nor set me a good example. All my experi­ences in early life were gleaned among associates who knew nothing of the laws of God but by dim tradition and faint report, and whose chiefest triumphs of wisdom consisted in picking their way through the paths of destitution in which they were cast by cunning evasion or in open defiance of the laws of man.

I do not think of my parents (long in their graves) with any such compunctions as your correspondent describes. They gave me in their lifetime, according to their means and knowledge, and as they had probably received from their parents, shelter and protection, mixed with curses and caresses. I received all as a matter of course, and, knowing nothing better, was content in that kind of contentedness which springs from insensibility; I returned their affection in like kind as they gave it to me. As long as they lived, I looked up to them as my parents. I assisted them in their poverty, and made them comfortable. They looked on me and I on them with pride, for I was proud to be able to minister to their wants; and as for shame, although they knew perfectly well the means by which I obtained money, I do assure you, Sir, that by them, as by myself, my success was regarded as the reward of a proper ambition, and was a source of real pleasure and gratification.

Let me tell you something of my parents. My father’s most profitable occupation was brickmaking. When not employed at this, he did any­thing he could get to do. My mother worked with him in the brickfield, and so did I and a progeny of brothers and sisters; for somehow or other, although my parents occupied a very unimportant space in the world, it pleased God to make them fruitful. We all slept in the same room. There were few privacies, few family secrets in our house.

Father and mother both loved drink. In the household expenses, had accounts been kept, gin or beer would have been the heaviest items. We, the children, were indulged occasionally with a drop, but my honoured parents reserved to themselves the exclusive privilege of getting drunk, ‘and they were the same as their parents had been’. I give you a chapter of the history of common life which may be stereotyped as the history of generation upon generation.

We knew not anything of religion. Sometimes when a neighbour died we went to the burial, and thus got within a few steps of the church. If a grand funeral chanced to fall in our way we went to see that, too—the fine black horses and nodding plumes—as we went to see the soldiers when we could for a lark. No parson ever came near us. The place where we lived was too dirty for nicely-shod gentlemen. ‘The Publicans and Sinners’ of our circumscribed, but thickly populated locality had no ‘friend’ among them.

Our neighbourhood furnished many subjects to the treadmill, the hulks, and the colonies, and some to the gallows. We lived with the fear of those things, and not with the fear of God before our eyes.

I was a very pretty child, and had a sweet voice; of course I used to sing. Most London boys and girls of the lower classes sing. ‘My face is my fortune, kind sir, she said’, was the ditty on which I bestowed most pains, and my father and mother would wink knowingly as I sang it. The latter would also tell me how pretty she was when young, and how she sang, and what a fool she had been, and how well she might have done had she been wise.

Frequently we had quite a stir in our colony. Some young lady who had quitted the paternal restraints, or perhaps, had started off, none knew whither or how, to seek her fortune, would reappear among us with a profusion of ribands, fine clothes, and lots of cash. Visiting the neighbours, treating indiscriminately, was the order of the day on such occasions, without any more definite information of the means by which the dazzling transformation had been effected than could be conveyed by knowing winks and the words ‘luck’ and ‘friends’. Then she would disappear and leave us in our dirt, penury, and obscurity. You cannot conceive, Sir, how our ambition was stirred by these visitations.

Now commences an important era in my life. I was a fine, robust, healthy girl, 13 years of age. I had larked with the boys of my own age. I had huddled with them, boys and girls together, all night long in our common haunts. I had seen much and heard abundantly of the mysteries of the sexes. To me such things had been matters of common sight and common talk. For some time I had coquetted on the verge of a strong curiosity, and a natural desire, and without a particle of affection, scarce a partiality, I lost—what? not my virtue, for I never had any.

That which is commonly, but untruly called virtue, I gave away. You reverend Mr Philanthropist—what call you virtue? Is it not the principle, the essence, which keeps watch and ward over the conduct, the substance, the materiality? No such principle ever kept watch and ward over me, and I repeat that I never lost that which I never had – my virtue.

According to my own ideas at the time I only extended my rightful enjoyments. Opportunity was not long wanting to put my newly acquired knowledge to profitable use. In the commencement of my fifteenth year one of our be-ribanded visitors took me off, and introduced me to the great world, and thus commenced my career as what you better classes call a prostitute. I cannot say that I felt any other shame than the bashfulness of a noviciate introduced to strange society. Remarkable for good looks, and no less so for good temper, I gained money, dressed gaily, and soon agreeably astonished my parents and old neighbours by making a descent upon them.

Passing over the vicissitudes of my course, alternating between reckless gaiety and extreme destitution, I improved myself greatly; and at the age of 15 was living partly under the protection of one who thought he discovered that I had talent, and some good qualities as well as beauty, who treated me more kindly and considerately than I had ever before been treated, and thus drew from me something like a feeling of regard, but not sufficiently strong to lift me to that sense of my position which the so-called virtuous and respectable members of society seem to entertain. Under the protection of this gentleman, and encouraged by him, I commenced the work of my education; that portion of education which is comprised in some knowledge of my own language and the ordinary accomplishments of my sex; moral science, as I believe it is called, has always been an enigma to me, and is so to this day. I suppose it is because I am one of those who, as Rousseau says, are ‘born to be prostitutes’.

Common honesty I believe in rigidly. I have always paid my debts, and, though I say it, I have always been charitable to my fellow crea­tures. I have not neglected my duty to my family. I supported my parents while they lived, and buried them decently when they died. I paid a celebrated lawyer heavily for defending unsuccessfully my eldest brother, who had the folly to be caught in the commission of a robbery. I forgave him the offence against the law in the theft, and the offence against discretion in being caught. This cost me some effort, for I always abhorred stealing. I apprenticed my younger brother to a good trade, and helped him into a little business. Drink frustrated my efforts in his behalf. Through the influence of a very influential gentleman, a very particular friend of mine, he is now a well-conducted member of the police. My sisters, whose early life was in all respects the counterpart of my own, I brought out and started in the world. The elder of the two is kept by a nobleman, the next by an officer in the army; the third has not yet come to years of discretion, and is ‘having her fling’ before she settles down.

Now, what if I am a prostitute, what business has society to abuse me? Have I received any favours at the hands of society? If I am a hideous cancer in society, are not the causes of the disease to be sought in the rottenness of the carcass? Am I not its legitimate child; no bastard, Sir? Why does my unnatural parent repudiate me, and what has society ever done for me, that I should do anything for it, and what have I ever done against society that it should drive me into a corner and crush me to the earth? I have neither stolen (at least since I was a child), nor murdered, nor defrauded. I earn my money and pay my way, and try to do good with it, according to my ideas of good. I do not get drunk, nor fight, nor create uproar in the streets or out of them. I do not use bad language. I do not offend the public eye by open indecencies. I go to the Opera, I go to Almack’s, I go to the theatres, I go to quiet, well-conducted casinos, I go to all the places of public amusement, behaving myself with as much propriety as society can exact. I pay business visits to my trades­people, the most fashionable of the West-end. My milliners, my silk­mercers, my bootmakers, know, all of them, who I am and how I live, and they solicit my patronage as earnestly and cringingly as if I were Madam, the Lady of the right rev, patron of the Society for the Sup­pression of Vice. They find my money as good and my pay better (for we are robbed on every hand) than that of Madam, my Lady; and, if all the circumstances and conditions of our lives had been reversed, would Madam, my Lady, have done better or been better than I?

I speak of others as well as for myself, for the very great majority, nearly all the real undisguised prostitutes in London, spring from my class, and are made by and under pretty much such conditions of life as I have narrated, and particularly by untutored and unrestrained intercourse of the sexes in early life. We come from the dregs of society, as our so-called betters term it. What business has society to have dregs—such dregs as we? You railers of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, you the pious, the moral, the respectable, as you call yourselves, who stand on your smooth and pleasant side of the great gulf you have dug and keep between yourselves and the dregs, why don’t you bridge it over, or fill it up, and by some humane and generous process absorb us into your leavened mass, until we become interpenetrated with goodness like yourselves? What have we to be ashamed of, we who do not know what shame is—the shame you mean?

I conduct myself prudently, and defy you and your policemen too. Why stand you there mouthing with sleek face about morality? What is morality? Will you make us responsible for what we never knew? Teach us what is right and tutor us in what is good before you punish us for doing wrong. We who are the real prostitutes of the true natural growth of society, and no impostors, will not be judged by ‘One more unfortunate’, nor measured by any standard of her setting up. She is a mere chance intruder in our ranks, and has no business there. She does understand what shame means and knows all about it, at least so it seems, and if she has a particle left, let her accept ‘Amicus’s’ kind offer as soon as possible.

Like ‘One more unfortunate’ there are other intruders among us—a few, very few, ‘victims of seduction’. But seduction is not the root of the evil—scarcely a fibre of the root. A rigorous law should be passed and rigorously carried out to punish seduction, but it will not perceptibly thin the ranks of prostitution. Seduction is the common story of numbers of well brought up, who never were seduced, and who are voluntary and inexcusable profligates. Vanity and idleness send us a large body of recruits. Servant girls, who wish to ape their mistress’ finery, and whose wages won’t permit them to do so honestly—these set up seduction as their excuse. Married women, who have no respect for their husbands, and are not content with their lawful earnings, these are the worst among us, and it is a pity they cannot be picked out and punished. They have no principle of any kind and are a disgrace to us. If I were a married woman I would be true to my husband. I speak for my class, the regular standing army of the force.

Gentlemen of philanthropic societies and members of the Society for the Suppression of Vice may build reformatories and open houses of refuge and Magdalen asylums, and ‘Amicus’ may save occasionally a ‘fallen sister’ who can prevail on herself to be saved; but we who never were sisters—who never had any relationship, part, interest, or com­munion with the large family of this world’s virtues, moralities, and proprieties—we, who are not fallen, but were always down—who never had any virtue to lose—we who are the natural growth of things, and are constantly ripening for the harvest—who, interspersed in our little, but swarming colonies throughout the kingdom at large, hold the source of supply and keep it fruitful—what do they propose to do with us? Cannot society devise some plan to reach us?

‘One more unfortunate’ proposes a ‘skimming’ progress. But what of the great bubbling cauldron? Remove from the streets a score or two of ‘foreign women’, and ‘double as many English’, and you diminish the competition of those that remain; the quiet, clever, cunning cajolers described by ‘One more unfortunate’. You hide a prurient pimple of the ‘great sin’ with a patch of that plaster known as the ‘observance of propriety’, and nothing more. You ‘miss’ the evil, but it is existent still. After all it is something to save the eye from offence, so remove them; and not only a score or two, but something like two hundred foreign women, whose open and disgusting indecen­cies and practices have contributed more than anything else to bring on our heads the present storm of indignation. It is rare that English women, even prostitutes, give cause of gross public offence. Cannot they be packed off to their own countries with their base, filthy and filthy- living men, whom they maintain, and clothe, and feed, to superintend their fortunes, and who are a still greater disgrace to London than these women are?

Hurling big figures at us, it is said that there are 80,000 of us in London alone—which is a monstrous falsehood—and of those 80,000, poor hardworking sewing girls, sewing women, are numbered in by thousands, and called indiscriminately prostitutes; writing, preaching, speechifying, that they have lost their virtue too.

It is a cruel calumny to call them in mass prostitutes; and, as for their virtue, they lose it as one loses his watch who is robbed by the highway thief. Their virtue is the watch, and society is the thief. These poor women toiling on starvation wages, while penury, misery, and famine clutch them by the throat and say, ‘Render up your body or die’.

Admire this magnificent shop in this fashionable street; its front, fittings, and decorations cost no less than a thousand pounds. The respectable master of the establishment keeps his carriage and lives in his country-house. He has daughters too; his patronesses are fine ladies, the choicest impersonations of society. Do they think, as they admire the taste and elegance of that tradesman’s show, of the poor creatures who wrought it, and what they were paid for it? Do they reflect on the weary toiling fingers, on the eyes dim with watching, on the bowels yearning with hunger, on the bended frames, on the broken constitutions, on poor human nature driven to its coldest corner and reduced to its narrowest means in the production of these luxuries and adornments? This is an old story! Would it not be truer and more charitable to call these poor souls ‘victims’ ?—some gentler, some more humane name than prostitute—to soften by some Christian expression if you cannot better the un-Christian system, the opprobrium of a fate to which society has driven them by the direst straits? What business has society to point its finger in scorn, to raise its voice in reprobation of them? Are they not its children, born of the cold indifference, of its callous selfishness, of its cruel pride?

Sir, I have trespassed on your patience beyond limit, and yet much remains to be said. . . The difficulty of dealing with the evil is not so great as society considers it. Setting aside ‘the sin’, we are not so bad as we are thought to be. The difficulty is for society to set itself, with the necessary earnestness, self-humiliation, and self-denial, to the work. To deprive us of proper and harmless amusements, to subject us in mass to the pressure of force—of force wielded, for the most part, by ignorant, and often by brutal men—is only to add the cruelty of active persecution to the cruelty of passive indifference which made us as we are.

I remain, your humble servant, Another Unfortunate.



LL xx