I am out running.

It’s a bright, sunny afternoon – one of those near-mythical crisp days which make me almost understand why people love autumn. I’m jogging along, listening to music through my headphones, totally lost in my own little world, when all of a sudden, two things happen almost simultaneously:

First, I feel something hit my shoulder and fall to the ground at my feet.

Almost immediately afterwards, a girl of maybe 10 or 11 (I’m terrible at guessing people’s ages, so let’s just go with old enough to know better) runs up from behind me and gets right up into my face, laughing and jeering at me, all the while pointing at whatever it is that just hit me.

What DID just hit me?

I look down, and see a small, plastic object. It is bright yellow, and about the length of one of my fingers: I have no idea what it is, exactly, but even although it hasn’t harmed me in any way, the fact that someone has deliberately THROWN SOMETHING at me, and is now laughing in my face – and RIGHT in my face, too – is enough to bring out that famous temper we redheads are always being told we have.

(Because we are all the same, us redheads. All exactly the same. It’s almost like we’re one person. Amazing, isn’t it?)

I’d already stopped in my tracks when the mystery missile hit me: now I pull my headphones out of my ears and confront Jeering Girl, who is still standing there laughing, like this is the most! hilarious! thing! ever!

“Did you throw that at me?” I ask calmly, pointing to the mystery object.

Instantly, Jeering Girl’s expression changes. She is utterly shocked to be addressed like this. She obviously thought she would throw something, hit me with it, laugh in my face and then we’d all be on our way, like nothing happened.

She is wrong.

“It wasn’t me!” she tells me, smirking. “It was one of them!”

I turn. Sure enough, standing behind me are two other kids: another girl, around the same age as Jeering Girl, and a boy who looks a little bit older, so maybe about 12 or so. He is holding a gun.

A GUN, people.

“OMG!” I think. “I’ve been shot!” But whodunnit?

Obviously Gun-Totin’ Boy would be the prime suspect in this crime, but he’s having none of it. Neither is Other Girl.

“It wasn’t me!” they exclaim simultaneously. “It was one of them!”

And then they all point at each other, in a move so perfectly executed it was almost like they’d practised it. It was like Spartacus, but with cowards.

“Look,” I tell them, “I don’t care who did it. You’re all idiots for throwing things at people in the street. Do you realise how much trouble that could get you into?”

(Yes, I know: shouldn’t have called them idiots. Bad of me. Realised that the second the words were out of my mouth. Felt pretty stupid. But still, was annoyed. And also: had just been shot in the street! And seriously: our town isn’t exactly Disney. It really IS pretty stupid to deliberately try to provoke passers-by, and it was clear from the behaviour of these kids that this wasn’t just a case of them “playing” and me getting hit by accident – they were deliberately trying to provoke me. If they’d picked someone else, a lecture might’ve been the LEAST of their worries…)

“Shut it, gingernut,” said Jeering Girl.

It was at that point I realised I was fighting a losing battle. I mean, “gingernut”, seriously? It’s a long time since my hair has been used as the insult of choice, I’ll tell you that. Why, I can’t even remember the last time someone slowed down and yelled “ginger” out of their car window at me, for instance. Perhaps I am losing my touch?

(Aside: I’ve always wondered what the correct response is to someone who shouts “GINGER!” at me out of a slow-moving vehicle. Should I yell back “Brunette!” or “Baldy guy!” or something? What IS the etiquette for this kind of thing, anyway?)

These kids may have proven themselves capable of a) shooting a moving target and b) correctly identifying my hair colour, but I suspect my short but (I thought) eloquent speech on Why We Do Not Harass People In the Street or Use Their Genetic Makeup as a Stick to Beat Them With was pretty much lost on them. I suspect this because the whole time I was making this speech, they were still calling me “ginger”.

I made the speech anyway. I did it for ALL the redheads. I did it because… well, because I might be crazy (I think they called me that too, actually, now I come to think of it?) but I just think it’s important not to harass people, you know? And when I was done, my three assailants looked at me, in silent hatred.

“They’re just little girls,” Older Boy managed eventually, conveniently forgetting that HE was the one holding the smoking gun at the time. And, of course, he was right. They’re just little girls. But one day they’ll be older girls, and then they’ll be women, and they’ll be the kind of women who think it’s perfectly OK to throw things at strangers, or call people names, because no one ever told them any different. That makes me sad.

And that, my friends, is the strange story of how I was shot in the street that one time. It’s the kind of thing that could only happen to me: or, OK, to anyone else who happened to be running past at that particular time. (I’m actually quite surprised it’s taken this long for something like this to happen. I’m used to people – both children and adults – stopping in their tracks to stare at me with open hostility as I run past them, but I’ve heard some absolute horror stories from other runners, so I have a feeling I’ve gotten off pretty lightly.) Someone else might have been called “fat” or “ugly” or some other equally offensive term: I got called “gingernut” because, as I am all too often reminded, to some people, red hair is just as bad as those other things, and just as cutting an insult.

Unfortunately for my three assailants, their insult of choice failed to have the desired effect. I didn’t rush home and cry into my pillow, or hack off the offending hair with a carving knife or anything like that, because, well, they were the children in this little story, not me.

I did, however, renew my determination to move house at some point in the next year. It’s never a good sign when the neighbourhood kid are armed, is it?

I try my best not to read the Daily Mail – or the Daily Fail, as I like to think of it. Inevitably, any time I follow a link there by mistake, I end up on the site for an hour, clicking from one hideous story to the next and ranting and raving to anyone who will listen about the sheer idiocy that’s generally displayed over there in such great levels. It makes me sad for humanity, it really does.

The link I followed to the Fail today (sent to me by reader Maayam) was no different: I ranted about it until Terry finally got up and went to the gym just to get away from me, but this time I wasn’t ranting about the poor journalism or the “lobotomised at birth” standard of the comments. This time I was ranting purely about the story itself, the title of which is “Terrified girl, 12, dyes ginger hair blonde after receiving death threats from schoolmates“.

I make no apologies, then, for linking to the Daily Mail just this once. This story really saddens me. It goes on to explain that the girl in question (Who, by the way, has beautiful hair, but even if she didn’t, wouldn’t deserve death threats over it) has actually been withdrawn from the school in question, who apparently refused to take the parents’ complains seriously, and is being homeschooled by her father.  I’m not sure how much effort the Fail went to in order to coax a response from the school, but all they seem to have said is “Meh, bring the ginger in and we’ll talk about it.”

I was bullied myself at school, although NOT because of the colour of my hair, so I know how serious it can be, and how much of an impact it can have on a child. For me, it changed me from a happy-go-lucky, confident child who really didn’t have a care in the world, into a nervous wreck who jumped at her own shadow and had to be driven to school so I could wait in the car until the exact second the bell rung, and not have to risk spending even a minute in the playground with my contemporaries. As an adult, I still cringe when I walk past groups of children or young teens. I still expect to hear jeers and insults (and sometimes I do), and when I’m with a group of females I don’t know (because it’s always the women, isn’t it?) I’ll frequently get that sinking feeling that they’re just waiting for me to go to the bathroom so they can start bitching about me.

This is the legacy of childhood bullying, and let me be clear: I got off lightly. This poor girl is apparently too frightened to leave her house, and it doesn’t sound like she’s had the kind of experience you get over quickly. There is one positive in this, however. I finished the article, and steeled myself to read the accompanying comments, expecting the usual rash of “But gingers DO deserve to die!” nonsense from the Fail readers. This time, though, they surprised me, and I found myself nodding in agreement at the person who said:

“If she’d been teased because she was non-white the place would have been swarming with lawyers, police and politicians within hours.”

Very true. But of course, because the girl is “only” receiving death threats over her hair (and as we all know, it’s perfectly acceptable to hate “gingers” anyway), no one wants to know. So very sad, and I can only hope Nicole Nagington one day comes to realise how beautiful she is, and how pathetic are the people who want to bring her down.

As a counterpoint to this story, however, I present this article about how Kate Moss has – wait for it – lines on her face, OMG THE HORROR! I mean, can you even IMAGINE a 36-year-old having LINES on her face? And OK, let’s be honest: it’s true that Kate has clearly done her share of drugs in her time. In fact, Kate’s probably done everyone ELSE’S share of drugs in her time, too. But actually, Daily Fail, not many people manage to age without getting at least a few lines, and it seems a little hypocritical to me to publish one article commenting on how awful it is that someone is being bullied because of their natural appearance, and then turn around and effectively bully another person because of theirs. Women in their thirties get lines on their faces. They do. So do men. It comes to us all. I’ve never taken coke in my life (other than the brown, bubbly stuff, obviously), am younger than Kate Moss and I STILL have lines on my forehead. It’s called “not being 15 any more”. (It’s also called “Screwing up your face every time you’re in direct sunlight, because you’re stupid.”)

I’d also love to know what the Fail and its readers would like Kate Moss to DO about the lines on her forehead. She could get Botox, of course, but I absolutely guarantee that if she did, the Daily Mail would be one of the first to write an article saying, “OMG, Kate Moss has had Botox, can you even BELIEVE it?” and she’d be called “plastic” and “fake” and God knows what else. So Kate can’t win. Women in general can’t win. And no one who’s ever read the Daily Mail is in the least bit surprised by this…

A comment I received on Saturday morning from a reader known as “Dillon”:

 

 “I personally hate gingers. the red hair is not pretty, dye your hair please! i live with a ginger and she is the worst person ive ever met. she is mean about everything and never stops complaining. not to mention she smells like tuna. don’t even get me started on the freckle situation. all im saying is that gingers really have no souls, they are heartless little gingers.”

I fail at blogging yet again this week, folks, sorry: it’s the same old “Wah! Getting ready for my trip, wah, wondering how the hell I’ll get all that STUFF in my case, wah, workity-workity-work. Wah!” thing again, but I do have this delightful question from Yahoo Answers to share with you:

Wow, Slutty Pineapple fails at LIFE, doesn’t she? Auditioning for World’s Worst Parent Award, perhaps?

The link to this was sent to me by Lucy, who correctly deduced that it would make my head explode. Happily, though, my faith in humanity was restored somewhat by the answers to the question, most of which made the point that ol’ Slutty there shouldn’t really be breeding if this is her approach to parenting. I did get a kick out of this one, though:

This person had also clearly taken a beating from the Stupid Stick:

I’d like to think our friend McPineapple is just your common or garden troll looking for attention, but sadly, barely a day goes by without the question “Can I dye my new baby’s ginger hair?” cropping up in my search referers, so there are actually people in the world who would do this, and that’s why you should need a licence of some kind to have children. I mean, seriously, can you even IMAGINE putting hair dye on a little baby’s head?

Oh a happier note, though, Kristabella sent me this:

Awesome. And also true. So all you Slutty Pineapples better watch it…

EDIT: Since posting this, “Slutty Pineapple” has contacted me to say this question was supposed to be a joke. She says: “Thanks for putting my question on your site. It was a joke, I have nothing against red-headed people.  I apologize.  I googled my  yahoo name, and that was the first thing that came up. Peoples’ comments were rather entertaining.”

So it was a “joke”. Oh, my aching sides!

Last week Terry and I were in the car, on the way to the gym, when we saw a woman with brown hair jogging along by the side of the road.

So we rolled down the car windows and shouted, “HEY! BRUNETTE! F&^%^*$ BRUNETTE! YOU’RE UGLY!” And then we jeered a bit more and drove on. If we see her again, we’ll try and kick her, though, because that would be even more awesome.

Hee! Honestly, it was so funny, you should’ve seen the look on her face! I don’t know why she was annoyed, though. I mean, has she not got a sense of humour? And the fact is, there was absolutely nothing wrong with what Terry and I did, because brown hair IS ugly. It just is. (Especially on men. It can sometimes look OK on women, but on men it’s just butt-ugly. I’d never date a brunette man, never. I would rather eat glass.) Everyone knows it, so why shouldn’t we say it? It’s just a plain fact, isn’t it? Brunettes are ugly. It’s funny to tease them. If they don’t like it, they should either:

a) Get a sense of humour

b) Dye their hair

Actually, come to think of it, they should probably dye their hair anyway. Why wouldn’t they? If I was a brunette I would dye it. Terry’s hair is black, but sometimes I think it can look a bit brunette in certain lights. I worry about it. It’s why we don’t have children, actually: who’d want to risk the chance of having a brunette? It wouldn’t be fair to the child and I just don’t think I could love a brunette anyway. Thank goodness they’re dying out, eh?

Just in case it’s not obvious, I’m being sarcastic here. And of course,  Terry and I didn’t hurl abuse at anyone from our car just because they happened to have a certain hair colour – or for any other reason, obviously. Because that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? And cruel. And it would make us a couple of assholes. Really.

(more…)

I’ve mentioned here before that while the street Terry and I live in is as pleasant and suburban as it gets, some of the areas around us… aren’t. Well, they don’t call our part of town “Bandit Country” for nothing, put it that way.

Where we're livin'

Just yesterday, for instance, I met a group of the local Bandits while I was out walking Rubin. The Bandits in question were mostly in their late teens/early twenties, and they were sitting in a little huddle outside the Ghetto Superstore, drinking. You’d think it would be too much of a cliché for me to say they were drinking Buckfast, wouldn’t you?

People, they were drinking Buckfast.

You’d also think it was too much of a cliché for me to say they had a pit bull terrier with them, no?

*Deep sigh*

As soon as the pit bull laid eyes on Rubin, of course, it went crazy.  In fact, before I knew what had happened, it was over beside us “worrying” at Rubin. Now, I should say here that it wasn’t barking or growling, or anything like that. For all I know, this might’ve been the friendliest pit bull in all the land, but I didn’t really want to take the chance on that, and because Rubin likes to think he’s a wolf (he completely ignores small dogs, but will often bark ferociously at larger ones, because… well, because he was born without a brain, obviously), I was frightened enough by the dog’s attentions that when it still hadn’t left us alone a few minutes later, I snatched Rubin into my arms and… ran off like a girl.

Only at this point did the Youth of Today dispatch a Junior Bandito (about 8 years old, I’d say) to call off the hound.

So, that’s the kind of thing we’re dealing with.

Because I never learn, though, I decided to take Rubin on the exact same walk today.  In my defence, it’s pretty much the only place I CAN walk him without having to get in the car and drive somewhere, and I rarely have time for that, so Bandit Country it is. I was about ten minutes into the walk, Rubin almost hysterical with joy by my side, when I became aware of the sound of a bicycle, directly behind me.

I was on a footpath at this point, and there were no actual roads nearby, but people often cycle on the footpaths round here, so I thought nothing of this, and moved to the side of the (wide) footpath to let it pass.

The bike moved with me.

I moved even closer to the side, until my arm was brushing the branches of the trees which grow along the pathway.

The bike moved too.

At this point it struck me that this bicycle was moving very, very slowly, given that it was able to stay behind me, at my slow walking pace.  It could also have passed me at any time: the path is a wide one, and I hadn’t exactly been filling it up even before I moved.

Clearly, then, it was following me.  Great.

I glanced over my shoulder, and sure enough, there he was: another Junior Bandito (not the Pitt Bull handler,  this time), grinning unpleasantly as the front tyre of his bike almost brushed my heels. I’m no good at estimating people’s ages, but I’d say he was probably 10 or 11. Young, but old enough to know better than to harass people in the street, I’d say.

I decided the best thing to do here would be to ignore him, so I looked away and continued walking.

“HEY! UGLY!” the bandit called.

At this point all I can say is that something snapped in my head. Because, honestly, I’ve HAD IT with people thinking it’s perfectly OK to insult and harass each other. ENOUGH.

So I stopped dead in my tracks (he almost ran into me) and turned round to face him.

“Did you say something? ” I asked pleasantly.

Well, the bandit almost fell off his bike. The look that crossed his face was almost comical as his brain struggled to register the fact that the worm had apparently turned.

“No,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “I didn’t say a thing.”

“That’s strange,” I said, still calm. “I’m sure I heard you say something to me. What was it?”

The kid quaked. He clearly had no idea how to deal with this, so he decided to go with denial. Nope, he’d said nothing, not him. Why, he was just riding along on his bike, minding his own business!

“Well, there’s no one else here,” I said, “So I’m pretty sure it was you. What did you say?”

“I just said hello,” blurted the bandit.  “That was it.”

“Really?” I said, puzzled. “That’s funny: you just told me you didn’t say anything. So now you’re telling me you DID say something: is that right?”

Silence.  Pinned into a corner by his lies (I should totally be a crime writer, right?), the bandit had no choice but to get on his hoss bike and get out of town.  Unfortunately for me, he managed to do the first bit OK, but, once on his bike (he’d jumped off for our “chat”) he decided to go back to following me, albeit at a slightly further distance this time.

“GINGER!” he shouted this time.

So I turned round and karate chopped him. No, OK, I didn’t. But I did turn round, and, once again, the kid almost fell off his bike in fright. You’d think he’d have learned the first time, no?

“Ah, so you DO have something to say to me!” I beamed. “I thought so! But I didn’t quite hear you. Tell you what, why don’t you come and say it to my face, rather than waiting until my back’s turned? That would be the brave thing to do, don’t you think?”

No, I have no idea why I was talking like this to a child. I mean, clearly it wasn’t exactly my finest hour, and equally clearly, I wouldn’t have been nearly so brave had he been just a little bit older. Of if he’d had The Friendliest Pit Bull in All The Land with him.  But, like I said, I’m absolutely sick of not being able to walk my dog close to my own home without being taunted and harassed by idiot kids.  This has happened several times now, the worst time being when I was held at branch-point in the woods, and had to phone the police. And although this was a young ‘un, I still think he was old enough to learn that following strange women in the street and calling them names is not a pleasant thing to do. And that sometimes, when you choose to do this, you just might get yourself in trouble.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the words themselves that bother me. I am not so insecure that a child calling me “ugly” will make me feel I actually AM ugly (Sorry, blog commenters who say more or less the same thing!), and the “ginger” thing is just stupid. It’s the fact that people today apparently think it’s OK to taunt strangers in the street IN ANY WAY that makes my blood boil. To follow people, and call them names, and to then try to deny it is stupid and cowardly in the extreme, and I don’t care if you’re eleven or eleventy-one: if you behave like that towards someone, you should expect to get called on it.

I know lots of people would give the old, “Ah, but they’re only kids!” argument, here, but that one won’t wash with me, sorry. If they’re old enough to be out in public unsupervised, then they’re old enough to be taught that it’s not nice to follow people and be rude to them. If your kid ISN’T old enough to understand that message, then you keep him under supervision until he is: simple. Quite apart from anything else, it’s pretty damn dangerous for kids to do this kind of thing, because while the worst thing I’d ever do would be to tell them off, if they pick on someone a little more aggressive, they could end up in some serious trouble.

So I told the bandito all of this. At length.  And … he turned and ran away. “Leave me alone!” he sobbed, jumping off his bike a few metres down the path.

“I don’t really see why I should,” I said, reasonably. “I mean, you haven’t been leaving ME alone, have you? You’ve been following me and calling me names, so maybe I’ll just follow YOU now, and call you some names, how would you like that?”

He wouldn’t, was the answer. And he agreed to stop following me if I just stopped talking. So I did. And you know, that little Bandit was as good as his word. I like to think he will grow up to be a better Bandit now: a Bandit with a basic understanding of how to behave in public, and why it’s Not Nice to follow people and shout names at them. And thus, a new era of peace will be forged between the Banditos and the ordinary people of Bandit Country, all thanks to me.

Actually, I know I’ll just be lucky if my windows don’t get broken next time I’m out. Such is life.

(ETA : not that it particularly matters, but in the interests of accuracy, this all actually happened on Saturday -I wrote the post then, but then totally forgot to publish it. Ooops.)

So, longtime readers of this here blog (look, I like to pretend, okay?) will know that people tend to find me through some weird-ass Google searches, most of which involve hating redheads, avoiding having babies that are redheads and, er, hating redheads some more.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed that my Google referrers have taken a different direction. Lately people have been seeking me out in order to find the answers to their trickiest questions and dilemmas. They come to me, like the Magic Eight Ball I undoubtedly am, for answers. And now, in a post not even remotely inspired by Kristabella (who has Bacon answer her questions for her. I can’t get the staff, so I have to do it myself.) I give them those answers…

Here’s what the Google searchers have been inadvertently asking me lately:

1. how to avoid having a ginger baby?

Well, gee, I didn’t see THAT one coming! The answer is simple, my brain-dead friend, and it’s an answer I’ve given before and will doubtless give again: you don’t procreate. It’s too risky. Risky for you, because you could, indeed, end up with a “ginger” baby; risky for all of mankind, because we could end up with more people just like you. NEXT!

2. What outfit does a zookeeper wear?

Zookeepers don’t wear outfits. They walk around naked all day. That’s how this happened:

3. Will a optician spot signs of a brain tumor?

See, you shouldn’t ask a hypochondriac questions like this. Because now I’m too scared to go to the opticians for my next checkup. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED, anonymous asker?

4. Can you wear ugg slippers outside?

No. And actually, you can’t wear them inside either. There are laws. And also because I said so.

5. How to spell pedastal?

Um, well, not like that, sister. Wait, though: how did you find my blog by Googling that? Did I spell “pedestal” with an “A”? Oh hell…

6. Who will do my work when I am on holidays?

Well, don’t look at ME, I’ve got enough on my plate what with answering all these dumb questions… The Magic Eight Amber Ball, she say… “Doris, the woman in accounts, will do your job when you’re on holiday. Sleep well tonight, my child!” (Seriously, how do people expect to find the answers to such specific-to-them dilemmas on GOOGLE?)

7. when i can report my car to the police with in seven days?

Um, I think you’ll find the clue is in the question here.

8. How to pee in the woods?

You know, I’m actually planning an illustrated entry on this very subject. Spooky, no? And also: WEIRDO!

9. brandy is’it good for the kidney?
Well, I’m not a doctor, but I’m going to say “probably not” on this one. If I’ve learned one thing in this life (and I would hope to God I had learned at least ONE THING, although the evidence would seem to suggest otherwise) it’s that everything that tastes good is bad for you. Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?

10. Give me an example of a letter thanking my mother for allowing me to spend the easter holidays at my best friend house

And what’s the magic word? You didn’t use the magic word, so I’m not going to do this. So there.

11. Are all ginger haired people blue eyed?

For the love of God, what IS it with this “ginger” crap all the time? Why can’t you people just say “red”? And for the record, I have browny green eyes, and I speak for all “gingers”, so now you know.

12. Do i have a big forehead man?
What exactly IS a ‘Big Forehead Man’? Because I have this image now of a man made entirely out of forehead. I’m scared. Hold me. Also: yes, you totally DO have a Big Forehead Man, by the way. Damn, that thing is HUGE! I know, because   * whispers * I can see you… Now your Big Forehead Man is the least of your worries, eh? Thank me later…

13. What will stick a tooth veneer back on
The dentist will. Or you could try superglue. Superglue could be interesting.

14. Does amber have one leg?

Yes. Yes, she does:

OMG! ONE LEG TO RULE THEM ALL!

15. Is being ginger a disease?

No, but being stupid is. I’d be pretty worried if I were you…

16. My brother must wear a corset

OK, so this one wasn’t actually a question, as such, but… the hell? WHY must your brother wear a corset? And why did you Google it. Come back and telll me…

Aaaaand that’s Magic Eightball Amber done for the night. My, but being a wise old sage is thirsty work…

So, occassionally I like to amuse myself by taking a look at the things you crazy kids type into Google to find this here blawg. Here are some of this week’s, which provide a handy insight into the wrath behind my last post, about Facebook and ginger-bashing. And, you know, a handy insight into how totally freaky some people are…

forever amber blog
Typing http://www.foreveramber.co.uk will get you here quicker, but hi, hello,
how are you, loyal readers who are Googling JUST FOR ME. Am flattered.

i have red hair, will my baby?
Oh, here we go. I knew it was too good to be true. You had to get started with the whole “red haired baby” thing, didn’t you? Yes, your baby will have red hair. Try not to breed.

how to avoid a ginger haired child
Um, cross the street, maybe? Or no, wait: just don’t go out AT ALL. That way you don’t have to see the ginger children and they don’t have to see you, either. Everyone’s a winner, baby. Also: you’re an idiot – have a nice day, now!

i see stupid people
Yeah, tell me about it, I see them too. In fact, one of them typed the search term right above yours, as a matter of fact…

amber mcnaught
Can we say “stalker”?

how would a red head with freckles avoid having children with freckles?
Freckles are caused by the sun. You would avoid having a child with them by protecting its skin from the sun. You would avoid having a STUPID child, on the other hand, by protecting it from YOU.

should ginger haired people dye there hair brown or blonde
I dunno: should stupid people maybe learn how to spell before hitting up Google, hmmm?

look back in amber
Hey, lookit what you did there! You made a clever pun! I’m TOTALLY going to use that as a post title one day – just so’s you know. Also: I make the jokes around here, ‘kay?

waistband stretcher
Who knew the post about the waistband stretcher would still be getting hits, almost a year to the day since I wrote it?

i hate my mirrored wardrobe sliding doors
Oh God, me too! Man, am I glad Terry broke those bad boys, giving us a cast-iron excuse to get new ones.

amber is a spoiled brat .com
Now hold on one cotton-pickin’ minute there: Amber is a spoiled what now? What’re you calling me? You don’t want to make me angry, you know – we redheads have some MEAN tempers…

can’t take my eyes off you mcnaught
Oh, you! Stop it, I’m blushing

there was a big wad of wax in my ear is that normal?
Doctor Amber, she say… No. Not normal. Now stop looking it up on the Internet and go see your doctor.

why do they call redheads ginger?
Because they are stupid. Next!

what do people do on honeymoon
Seriously, dude, if you have to ask, I don’t think I can help you…

knew shoes
Please tell me you didn’t mean “new shoes” when you typed this. Oh, you poor thing.

pretty redhead ugly redhead
I’m not going to tell you about this again, you know

ginger phobic t shirt
I mean it…

ugly red head children
OK, one more jibe about redheads and I’m leaving

mean red haired kids
…

Q: Why do redheads take the pill?
A: Wishful thinking.

Q: What do you call a good looking man with a redhead?
A: A hostage.

Q: What do you call a redhead with large breasts?
A: A mutant.

Stop me if you’ve heard any of these before, by the way. I discovered them all by chance, last week on Facebook, where I stumble upon a hitherto untapped source of redhead hatred. “Red hair sucks – I’d rather die!” is the name of the group that initially caught my eye, but a quick search revealed dozens of others, including “Redheads are gingers and they have no soul”, “If you have red hair I’m sorry, but we just can’t be friends” and the short but sour “Redheads suck!” Nice.

Of course, I’ve always known that if assholes could fly, the Internet would be an airport, but it was still a little worrying to discover that prejudice is alive, well and thriving on one of the web’s biggest social networking sites. Facebook is going through a bit of a “media’s darling” phase at the moment, but while most people are probably using it to stalk old school friends and play Tetris Tournament when they
should be working (I know I am), others are apparently using it to try and incite hatred towards that much maligned social group – the gingers.

The problem is that there’s no arguing with these people. Believe me, I tried. I sent a message to one of the more offensive posters on the “Red hair sucks” group. “Hmhmhmhmhm,” came back the answer. We’re
clearly dealing with a powerful set of intellects here, which is kind of reassuring: they’ll never prove that we “have no soul” if they can’t even string a coherent sentence together. “Am kind of dumb,” my idiot correspondent admitted in a follow-up message. Well, you said it…

The other problem with all of this, of course, is that if you are a “ginger”, you’re not allowed to be offended by it. To admit to feeling even a little bit hurt by such overt hatred is to admit to having no sense of humour, because most of this drivel – not to mention the teasing and negativity redheads get in real life – tries to masquerade as “humour”. It’s funny, you see? “Geez, lighten up!” they’ll tell you if you so much as raise an eyebrow at the “hilarious” jokes. “Stop taking things personally! You have to be able to laugh at yourself, you
know – especially if you’re a ginger!” Boom boom! I’d imagine blondes probably feel much the same way about the “dumb blonde” jokes that float around: funny, sure – as long as they’re not directed at you.

As “funny” and “lighthearted” as you may believe it is, though, there’s a serious side to it all, too. How many little redheaded girls (and boys) are growing up believing that they’re fundamentally unlovable and ugly, just because of all of these idiotic comments and oh-so-funny “jokes”.

Is it really OK to make fun of a whole sector of society and call it “humour”, I wonder? Or is it only OK when it’s not about you?

(Note: this is actually a column I wrote yesterday for Dollymix, but I figured I’d post it here, too, seeing as this site still gets so many hits from people who’ve Googled phrases like, “If my unborn child turns out to have red hair, can I kill it?” and the like. Asshats.)

… to all of the people (the many, many people) who’ve been finding this blog lately after googling some variation of “worried that baby will be ginger” or “chances of having ginger haired baby” or “can I dye my baby’s hair if it is ginger?” (No, I’m seriously not kidding on that last one):

Please, do the world a favour: just don’t breed. It’s way too risky. We have enough stupid people in the world already, thanks: we don’t need the likes of you diluting the gene pool any further.

I mean, seriously, if this isn’t evidence that people should have to apply for a license to breed (and pass all kinds of anti-stupidity tests along the way), I don’t know what is. And I really hope that these people don’t have red-haired babies: not through any concern for the sheer embarrassment of the parents (I mean, GOD, imagine having to be seen with it!), but out of real concern for the children who might be born to people like this.

It absolutely terrifies me that there are people out there who would seriously consider dyeing a newborn’s hair because they don’t think it looks nice. It frightens the crap out of me that there are people worried that they might not be able to love their child if it’s a redhead. Poor kids. What a start in life, eh.

I’m being serious: I don’t think these people should be allowed to breed. They really don’t deserve children.

That is all.