The drugs don't work....?

A new study from the University of Hull suggests, apparently, that the new generation of anti-depressants have 'little effect'.

At least, this is how it has been reported on the BBC website.  The actual findings suggest that a placebo is just as effective as certain SSRI's in cases of mild to moderate depression, which is not quite the same thing as saying that the pills don't work. In cases of severe depression, anti-depressant medication is considerably more effective than a placebo. 

So, the breaking news guys is that placebos have....well, presumably  a placebo effect.  

The story here seems to be less about the efficacy of SSRI's, and more about lazy journalism, scientific illiteracy and our insatiable desire to sensationalise every bit of news that comes our way. 

(I can't believe I just wrote a post in defence of the pharmaceutical industry. I may need to lie down for a while.)

Say No To Ugly People...

Launched today:

NEW MAGAZINE "ELIXIR" – WORLD'S FIRST QUALITY CONSUMER GLOSSY DEVOTED TO BRINGING YOU WHAT'S HOT IN ANTI-AGING AND REJUVENATION

Why do we need this? Asked John Humphrys, on this morning's Today Programme on radio 4.

Because we'd much rather look at attractive people than unattractive people, replied Avril O'Connor.

I have never heard John Humphrys laugh quite so loudly.

Avril O'Connor is editor of Elixir. Not for much longer, I suspect...

Sprat To Catch A Mackeral, Anyone...?

On today's PM programme on Radio 4, Eddie Mair interviewed a US military official (or some such like) regarding the death in Iraq of Lance Corporal Matty Hull, who died when the convoy of armoured vehicles he was travelling in came under fire from US aircraft. The US official began the interview by offering his sincere condolences to Matty Hull's family. To which Mr Mair replied, quite bizarrely, "fine words butter no parsnips." There was a pause, before the US official admitted that he had never before heard this particular phrase. The correct response was, of course, "Mr Mair, you are nobbut a donkey's whippet." But we couldn't expect him to have known that.

The Word On The Street...

The size zero model issue rages again. It is undeniable that the fashion industry and certain sections of the media are setting norms that for most young women are largely unattainable, resulting in an increasing number of young women with anorexia and body dysmorphia issues. That much is true. But is that the extent of the story? I have never heard anybody argue publicly that they prefer a size zero, apart from a minority of adolescent girls, top designers (apparently clothes just don’t hang right on women with a woman’s body) and a minority of men who prefer pre-pubescent girls but, in a bid to stay the right side of the law, choose women who just happen to look like pre-pubescent girls instead. I have a hunch, though, that alongside this truism the fat girls are voting with their feet. I followed a young woman down the High Street this summer. She was in the uniform of most young women: crop top, hipster jeans, far too much flesh on show. It wasn’t a particularly warm day, and I worried for the cold on her kidneys in a rush of maternal concern. She was also revealing a considerable roll of corned beef-mottled flesh over the top of her jeans, and I couldn’t help but admire her for it, cold kidneys aside. I liked the fact that she was more than happy to show off her quite considerable belly, complete with belly-button piercing. It seemed a sign of her liberation, within the parameters of today’s cultural norms.

I loathe the fact that young women today seem to have abandoned any notions of old-fashioned feminism, and dress in a way that advertises first and foremost their sexual attractiveness. Their pat answer to this charge is that ‘I dress to please myself, not to please men’, which is the biggest pile of hypocritical pants since Hillary Clinton took part in that nauseating bake-off with Barbara Bush. But if we old Kate Millett types accept that that is how it is for young women today, then it is pretty cool that fat girls feel that they can pull it off too. In my teenage years – which was actually only ’79 to ’86 – there is no way a fat girl would’ve dreamt of wearing the same sexy clothes that her skinny friends were wearing, for fear of public humiliation. Walk down any High Street at 11.30pm on a Friday night, however, and you will see any number of curvy young women showing off their curves, their bulges and their magnificent cleavages without a hint of shame. And although I do wish they would all cover themselves up and leave a bit more to the imagination, I admire the curvier girls their self-confidence and their blatant two-fingers to the size zero culture.

PS. I have a rather curvy friend who wears very low cut tops with no bra, and her breasts can often be seeing escaping from the briefest of material that feigns to cover them. She once complained to me that ‘men only talk to my tits’. I pointed out that I only talk to her tits, as it is quite impossible to take your eyes off them as they swing out of her plunging tops. When I invite her over to dinner my poor husband has to take a very deep breath and chant “eyes forward” quietly to himself until she has left. I love her very much but come on, what is that all about? I will show you my tits, but you mustn’t look? Come back Andrea Dworkin, all is forgiven.

The Mystery Is Solved...

Dear Sirs,

I would like to object in the strongest possible terms to your link to my blog. It is most impolite to creep up on somebody after a barely coherent rant on one of her favourite topics, and invite a host of right-wing readers to identify with it. I now feel obliged to defend the liberal sentiment of my position, which will require a new post paying more detailed attention to the internal logic of my argument. I deeply resent this.

Yours Sincerely,

Ms Melancholy.

In Praise of Radio 4...

For someone with a penchant for melancholy, Start the Week yesterday was a lovely, erm, well, start to the week, featuring as it did both Patti Smith on poetry and Nicholas Cleobury on Mozart’s Requiem. Mozart’s Requiem happens to be one of my favourite pieces of music, ranking right up there with Devo’s Whip It and Dead Kennedys’ California Über Alles. (For anyone who is yet to discover the deliciousness of melancholia, listen to the Lacrimosa whilst sitting alone at the top of a very big hill. Bliss.)

Following yesterday’s programme I feel I can finally make a confession, however. I never listen to it all the way through. I cry at the Lacrimosa but by the time we get to the Sanctus I am flicking through my playlists already. I have ascribed this variously to: a) the fact that I have ADHD when it comes to things of high culture; b) I have an aversion to seeing things through to the end; c) I have yet to resolve my class issues. All of which, you will note, focus on my own inadequacies.

So imagine how bloody smug I felt yesterday on discovering that Mozart wrote the Lacrimosa and then promptly pegged it. The Requiem was finished by one of Mozart’s pupils, and Constanza’s third choice composer at that, the first two having caffled at the enormity of the task. Cleobury agrees with me that the ending is rubbish. (Well, his actual words were ‘not very good’, and he then promptly withdrew the remark, so I suppose I had best not libel him or he may do a Gina Ford and start threatening to sue anonymous bloggers for making defamatory comments. Missed that story? See it here – it’s truly hilarious. Über nanny gets sensitive.)

So anyway, a collective of modern composers have written a new ending to be debuted at Canterbury Cathedral some time in December. I live a very long way from Canterbury Cathedral so I shan’t be there, but if anyone happens to go could you let me know if you get bored?

PS. This was followed by Woman’s Hour, and I usually do love it’s rather Home Counties brand of feminism. Today Martha Kearney was interviewing a psychotherapist who has written a book - ‘The Anxious Gardener’ - about the anxiety, loss and disappointment provoked by, yes, you guessed right – gardening. I have only one thing to say: stop it lady, its people like you give the rest of us a bad name. (And if you happen to be suffering from any gardening-related neurosis, can I suggest that you just get out more?)

The BBC – public service broadcasting at it’s best.