Pink buildings the colour of Kashmiri chai, dust covered palm trees and women in colourful Jalabas riding their Mopeds- these were the first sights of Marrakech that I beheld, as my taxi took me from the airport to my hotel near the medina. My first time in Morocco and I only had the wise words of Trip Advisor and Lonely Planet users to guide me through. Needless to say, I was nervous.

Morocco first made it to my list of countries to visit back in 2002, when I took an Arabic literature in translation class at university. I remember feverishly reading about the mysterious snake charmers, the exotic musicians, the enigmatic storytellers, the zealous spice sellers, the statuesque beggars, the persistent henna artists, the ardent lovers, the boisterous children, and the performing monkeys- all gathered in a magical square that hustled and bustled with an energy and life that is beyond imagination.

According to legend, it is the storytellers of Morocco that, to this day, maintain the charming tradition of embedded story telling, first started by Princess Scheherazade and forever captured in the Tales of A Thousand and One Nights.

I was determined to discover this dreamy Morocco.

Jemma El Fna

It was almost sunset, by the time I started walking towards the famous Jemma El Fna Square- a UN World Heritage site. It was a chilly evening and I was comfortably wrapped in a woollen shawl. From at least half a mile away, I could hear the beating of drums, the shimmer of blue objects launched into the sky, the radiance of hundreds of tube lights, the pungent smell of spices and meat, the high-pitched laughter of people mixed with the neighing of horses- the sounds of utter chaos. I didn’t have to ask for directions. I just had to follow the sounds and the smells.

Nothing prepares you for the violent assault on your senses when you first step into the square and the market. You are pulled in all directions – quite literally at times- to sample the bountiful food and the endless merchandise. You smell an odour, which can only be explained as barbecued meat cooking in heavily scented tagine spices mixed with the smell of horses that crowd the outer road. It is unfamiliar yet not extremely offensive.
Over the next few days, I spent my evenings at the square chowing down shawarmas and the not-to-be-missed Moroccan bread and tomato chutney.

Marrakech being a foodie haven boasts food carts, juice stalls, snail bars, and proper sit down eateries to choose from. Every restaurant hustler thinks that his joint would put Gordon Ramsey to shame and that his grub is worthy of a Michelin star. As a testament to their skills, a wide range of red meat, poultry, assorted seafood and seasonal vegetables are on display for one’s culinary pleasures.

Medina

The Medina in Marrakech is expansive and busy and has a galactic selection of ceramics, leather merchandise, spices, jewellery and clothing for awe-struck tourists. The wild colours on display, coquettishly flaunting their hues, demand some attention and a moment of reflection.

Unfortunately, a moment of reflection is one thing you will not get anywhere in Marrakech.

The instant you pause or even slow down, you’ll have people clambering over each other to try and get your attention. Street peddlers urging you to buy things; beggars coaxing you for alms; and young boys soliciting their salons to you for the ultimate hammam experience. It just doesn’t stop.

Architecture

It takes about a day or two to get acclimatised to the volcano of chaos that is Marrakech. I thoroughly enjoyed walking around the Medina, exploring the shops and the architecture. I visited the beautiful Bahia Palace, the Kutubia mosque and the Saadian tombs.

To say that I was mesmerised by the architecture in Marrakech, or Morocco as a whole, would be an understatement. The intricacy of the geometric designs, in keeping with Islamic tradition, was exquisite. From the wooden panelling with emerald green and cobalt blue details that form the interior of most constructions to the curvature of the meticulous calligraphy that embellishes the exterior of most buildings- the elements of design had hypnotised me.

Another spectacular display of opulence and extravagance is the legendary La Mamounia hotel. It has housed famous names through history such as Winston Churchill and continues to be the premier choice of hotels among Hollywood A listers. A coffee or a drink in the garden is a must for those who cannot afford to stay there. A giant platter of fat, juicy dates is laid out at the reception for all visitors to enjoy.

The magic is not contained just within the buildings, but spills on to the streets of Marrakech as well, where voluptuous orange trees shade the roads to keep passers by from wilting. A horse carriage ride through this scenery is a perfect way to end an evening in Marrakech.

Hammams

To break away from the hustle and bustle, one can dip into any of the million hammams that Marrakech is so well known for. Relaxing black-soap scrubs and deep-tissue, argon oil massages are perfect cures for the brittle nerves that this city leaves its travellers with. It should be added that the experience takes you way out of your comfort zone. This was the first time since my childhood that someone else, besides my mother, bathed me.

Entertainment

Night life in Marrakech can be Parisian chic or Arab modest. Le Comptoir Darna is one of the finest if you want an uber stylish French experience. Dark grey walls with patterned wallpaper; ornate gold edged mirrors; and gleaming chandeliers. The patrons sport the newest fashions and smoke cigars, cigarettes and sheesha inside. The gorgeous belly dancers put on a stunning show twice in the evening and the rest of the time is filled by a live dj who plays a mix of all time hit music that you can sing along to.
For a more casual night, there are plenty of local clubs and sheesha bars that don’t require a dress code and aren’t heavy on the wallet.

You may wonder, whether, I found it to be the magical experience it was promised to be in all my books? That’s a tough one. It is not a fairytale experience and it is not for the faint hearted. However, if you have an adventurous spirit and are up for surprises- good and bad- then Marrakech can give you all of that. And that is the magic of Marrakech.

Who could blame me for my enthusiasm? I was a recently graduated, documentary filmmaker teeming with ideas. The fact that I was from Pakistan, one of the most volatile places on the planet and thus, the most heavily reported, made things even better. Naturally, I believed everyone would want me. In a very dramatic, cinema style fantasy, I visualised myself entering the studios of the BBC and being welcomed by an eager and servile staff whose adoration was palpable. All this to the tune of Chariots of Fire, of course. Nothing else felt appropriate.

A few weeks later I realised that the reality, unfortunately, was going to be quite different. Tragic.

Reality check, please! London is saturated with filmmakers and South Asians and South Asian filmmakers.

I was naïve enough to believe that most Pakistanis still chose to become engineers and bankers, and that somehow, my profession made me unique and desirable. Certainly not the case.

The fact that I had worked in the media in Pakistan and produced and directed an award winning documentary in New York did not elicit much response from anyone I happened to mention these facts to. This was shocking to me. I lived for films and I loved making films. I take pride in saying that I gave up my (not so thrilling) career in an ad agency to become a filmmaker. I wasn’t born to be ignored. More importantly, I couldn’t afford to be ignored.

Moving on…

I spent a gruelling six months sitting on my couch, unwillingly watching insurance ads and daytime television, while submitting job applications, résumés (or CVs as I was snobbishly told) and stalking production houses through cold calling and email. My efforts paid off. Kind of.

I got my first big break – an unpaid internship at a small production house and documentary training company in East London. From being an independent self-shooting director/producer in New York, I suddenly found myself relegated to the position of a chota of sorts in this company. I had the glorious job of crushing cardboard boxes for recycling; hand delivering packages all over London; washing dishes; fetching lunch; and very occasionally, packing up camera equipment after shoots. The redeeming point was that I was in a ‘production’ environment and I thrived on that.

I was also responsible for making tea – which did get me somewhere.

A cuppa: The thought that a Master’s degree would get me only as far as serving tea and biscuits to directors and filmmakers, had never really crossed my mind. Yet, that is exactly what happened – at first, at least. There I was asking people whether they wanted milk and sugar in their tea, while I laid out an assortment of Bourbons and Digestives on their plates. Anyway, I like to think that I am somewhat of a perfectionist (OCD more like it), so if I had to make tea, then I had to do my best and if I was going to serve biscuits, then I was going to do that with utmost grace – even as the total amount of my student loan flashed urgently in neon lights over my head.

The best lesson I learnt was that no work is pointless, least of all, making a cup of tea. In the UK, where tea breaks are more frequent than cigarette breaks, a hot brew, at the right time, gets you opportunities and that proverbial foot in the door.

So, as the story unfolds, it was over steaming cups of builder’s tea that I got to know the various directors, editors and producers that walked through the doors of this little media house. It was while discussing how sinful and calorific custard cream biscuits are, that I told people about the films I had done and the ideas I had for conquering the world. Basically, I did not stop blabbering.

I gave this internship my all, working even on Sundays – a day London sets aside to construct and reinvent itself for the 2012 Olympics – and a day, on which, public transportation is restricted, to put it mildly.

I even discreetly handed DVDs of my films to my new found ‘contacts’, acting like the dodgy vendors that prowl the subway stations of New York, selling pirated films out of their briefcases. Point is – making that cup of tea gave me the chance to be seen and be heard, and in the filmmaking world, that is gold. With this in mind, I kept boiling and brewing.

Brewing experience: Film production is not an easy profession to break into. Besides a wide set of skills, it requires passion, grit and a willingness to do more for less, and sometimes for nothing at all. Basically, it means killing the ego.

On one occasion, I happily agreed to travel three hours on a train from London to Sheffield, just to deliver copies of a film to my supervisor for an ongoing documentary festival. What did I get out of it, you ask? The chance to watch amazing, never-seen-before documentaries, and meeting the directors who made these, in person. Was it worth it? It depends on what day you ask me.

The thing is, hard work does get noticed and every dog has its day. Despite my bruised ego and shattered self esteem, I eventually did get a chance to do things besides make tea. I have been directing films and doing production and training work ever since. In fact, my first proper television documentary about child slavery in Ghana (Slaves of the Lake), will be broadcast on a channel in the UK in March. Not a bad end for someone who started out by making tea.

The ultimate blend: The thing with being a freelance documentary filmmaker is that there is no sitting back and waiting for things to happen. If I do that then chances are I will end up once again in a room full of cardboard boxes, using my talent to flatten them.

If I am lucky, it will be with a teapot in one hand saying, “Milk and sugar, anyone?”

To avoid that, I stay hungry for work. When there is hunger there is determination. I spend hours on the internet, researching story ideas and manically calling people to follow up on leads. I am perpetually trying to get funding sorted out as well as finding new ways to distribute existing work. I do any and every project I get. Paid or not. And most importantly, I never stop learning, because this is a game where the rules are always changing and if you don’t plan ahead, you will be left far behind.

Sheherzad Kaleem is a freelance documentary filmmaker. sheherzadk@hotmail.com

http://auroramagazine.blogspot.com/2011/03/every-cup-of-tea-is-opportunity.html

Bradford Experience from Sheherzad Kaleem on Vimeo.

In all the years I spent living in Pakistan and the US, I never once faced the question of identity before. It was only after arriving in the UK that I somehow started to feel the need to defend my ethnicity and my religion. A sort of self-defence mechanism kicked into action and my own passive aggressiveness in the face of these prejudices surprised me and made me realize that something was amiss and had to be investigated.

The history and experiences of Pakistanis in the UK are quite unique. This has to do with the class of Pakistanis that immigrated to the UK and the circumstances under which they migrated. Across the UK, dense pockets of Pakistanis exist, some with more notorious reputations than others. One such city is Bradford, famous for the Bradford riots of 2001 besides its textiles mills, curries and south asian clothing stores. I decided that if I had to understand the origin of this discrimination against Pakistanis, then I would have to take a trip out to Bradford to figure out where everything went wrong.

With that in mind, I drove out to Bradford on a recce trip last weekend.

After four hours of driving through intense rain and snow, I got to Bradford. Mr. Chris Johnson, my contact at the Bradford Youth Development Partnership (BYDP) took me on a grand tour of the city in his large, red van. We drove through the streets where the infamous riots took place, saw many derelict buildings that are now a permanent feature of the Bradford landscape, and experienced the beauty of the glorious mills that have now been converted into luxury flats and NHS offices. I also walked through the slum areas of Bradford, where cramped, back-to-back houses are common.

The streets of Bradford were reminiscent of Pakistan- shalwar kameez clad men and women walking on the streets, even in the snow. A huge Junaid Jamshed outlet store strategically situated on a busy street corner. Akber’s, Mumtaz, Anam’s, famous south asian restaurants, packed with eager foodies, boasted long queues outside. It was quite extra ordinary for me to see these scenes outside Pakistan. I mean, I had seen this on a small scale in London, but Bradford was a different scenario completely. I saw white people there as well, I should add, but in their own areas. That fact that the two communities are geographically segregated, is not lost on you when you are in Bradford.

The racial divide in Bradford is real and it exists in actual physical boundaries that separate the whites and the non-whites. Children from residential areas that are purely white, go to white only schools. Similarly, children living in areas that are predominantly Asian, go to largely Asian schools. The local government has made no attempt to bridge the two communities.

Despite growing side by side, the whites and South Asians have remained separate from each other. They are guided by mistrust and prejudice and have little respect for the other. A young British woman of Pakistani origin, that I spoke to, mentioned how she doesn’t dare venture into the white only areas of Bradford because she feels threatened by the white folks there. A college going girl of Bangladeshi descent expressed how people still holler out racial abuse at her in the city centre when she goes there with her friends. A white woman who does community work with some of the Bradford youth shared how some non-white people yell obscene things at her. The stories are endless.

Though the racial tension exists, it is not exactly as the media makes it out to be. The real issue, according to people I spoke to, is that the government has neglected the youth of Bradford – be it white or South asian. This has added to the festering bitterness and angst. The youth, paralysed by a lack of opportunities, indulges in anti-social behaviour and rowdiness. The media then exploits these stories and makes monsters out of some. In the case of Bradford, the media has been largely responsible for creating paranoia and hysteria in the minds of the whites against the Asian community, especially, the Pakistanis.

The Pakistani youth are targeted, admitted a white British resident of Bradford. He said that his son, who is about 20, walks around with a chip on his shoulder, just like some of the Pakistani lads, but added that no news report would use discriminatory language (as happens with boys of Pakistani/Muslim heritage) against his son if he were to commit a crime.

This is the same distasteful discrimination that defined the reporting of the Bradford riots of 2011 as well. After watching the Channel 4 drama ‘Bradford Riots’ a few days ago, I started going through newspaper archives from those days. I was startled to see mainstream newspapers and news websites, not just the tabloids, being so one-sided and sensational in their reporting.

The thing is that in any area where poverty is rife and where unemployment ravages people, such tensions would continue to grow. The on going spending cuts, courtesy of the Tory government, are affecting the young even more negatively. Educational opportunities and subsequently jobs, are limited and the youth feel disenfranchised from their communities. It’s not just the South Asian youth, but also the white that are facing this bleak future. Yet, in the grand plans of developing a Big Society, these small people that hold the future of Britain in their hands, are being ignored.

It’s coming to the tenth anniversary of the Bradford riots and unfortunately, not a lot has changed. With less and less money going into youth programmes, it won’t be surprising if we continue to witness the disenfranchised youth acting out in one way or another in the future.

http://communitychannel.mediatrust.org/featured/slaves-of-the-lake/

Please watch and vote for my film. The more votes I get, the better are my chances of going to LA for the actual festival. Comments are more than welcome. Also, please share the film with your friends and family.
I… am a woman

I… Am a Woman from Women's Voices Now on Vimeo.

Joan Rivers is an American comedian, who, besides her caustic humour, is known for her penchant for plastic surgery, her acute sense of fashion on the red carpet and her very sharp tongue. This is a woman who has challenged tradition many a times and at the ripe old age of 75, still continues to shock and bemuse – jokes about 9/11 and anal sex are very much on top of her list. Rivers doesn’t shy away from using foul language in public (she had to be asked to hold back the ‘f’ word at an event for government officials in Washington – most of whom were Republicans). She is uninhibited and fearless.

I attended a questions and answers session with Rivers about the documentary that she has recently featured in, “Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work”, by filmmakers Ricki Stern and Anne Sundberg. The documentary itself is fantastic to watch, because it gives the audience a chance to see Rivers in a more holistic light (not that that was River’s purpose at all in doing this film). We see Joan Rivers, the queen of cosmetic surgery and the goddess of red carpet events, as an honest and sincere woman, who, in real life, doesn’t give a rat’s arse about other people and their opinions.

The Q&A session was a light hearted event – very Riveresque. She laughed at herself and didn’t care much for pretentious questions such as, ‘who is the real Joan Rivers?’; She spoke of her insecurities about her career; her love for drama, comedy and acting; her husband’s suicide, and her relationship with her daughter and her grandson. She made fun of some British pronunciations and even humoured the interviewer for his prudishness and uptight questions. She thoroughly entertained us with her over-the-top jokes and her hallmark honesty.

Rivers is a celebrity through and through and is not apologetic for any of it. She was an Anthropology and English major in college and says that she’d happily take up anthropology again if only she could be allowed to take her hair stylist and make up artist along with her on her ventures. Of her life style, she admits that it is very ornate and opulent – perhaps more so than even that of the Queen of England – but she says that she works damn hard to maintain it and will have it no other way.

Rivers defends her plastic surgeries and endorses the importance of physical beauty. She kowtows to the latest TV fads to increase her ratings– her participation in Celebrity Apprentice is a testament to that – and will agree to do almost anything and everything showbiz related to make some money. To summarize it all, she is quite the television wh*re.

And yet, despite all these superficial things, she appears more honest, sincere and down to earth than most other celebrities (or regular people for that matter).

Joan Rivers’s openness about herself and her disregard for convention, are what keep her act from getting stale. Add to these her love for attention and drama and one can be sure that no other would be able to take her place – without a proper fight at least. In the not-so-exact-words of one of her managers – you will see claw marks on the red carpet before Joan will give it up.

A Zimbabwean woman in the audience felt that many documentary filmmakers who film in Africa, are not giving back to the African community and accused us (all filmmakers in the audience and on the panel) of making these films just to gain a name for ourselves and earning loads of money. I think everyone on the panel felt personally committed to responding to that question/statement.

Brian Wood (famous for his documentary The Dying Rooms, among other works) was quick to dispel the idea that documentary makers get big money from these projects – or sometimes any money at all. He emphasised the fact that documentaries are born out of people’s passion for issues and films, rather than their hunger for money and fame. We all know that in documentary filmmaking, monetary gains are certainly not the driving force behind our hard work and perseverance. Jane Stephenson, executive producer at Media Trust and the executive producer on my film as well, made it a point to tell this lady in the audience that Media Trust didn’t make any money on this project, and that I (the filmmaker) had put in a lot of my own unpaid time into this project to make it work.

Sally-Ann from DFID – the organisation that gives funding for such ventures, also highlighted how in the UK there is a need to view more content from Africa and Asia and not just the US and the UK and that in the future, they would continue to fund more films from these two continents.

I, of course, was the last to answer and said that documentary making is a two way street. People will not agree to feature in your documentaries, unless they are gaining something from the process. In the case of my film Slaves of the Lake, the charity that I worked with, Challenging Heights, was really keen on the publicity. They need money, they need volunteers and they need people world over to know about them. This documentary will help them achieve all this.

Anyway, watch the documentary trailer that sparked the debate.

My film is called Slaves of the Lake, and it was funded by the Department for International Development (DFID). I was one of 6 filmmakers who was shortlisted to come to a public pitching event at the Sheffield Doc Fest last year. I pitched a different film idea that day – a documentary about children growing up in the Swat region in Pakistan. I won the pitching contest by a unanimous vote, and was awarded the funding money. Unfortunately, the situation in Pakistan deteriorated quite a bit in the following months, and DFID did not feel comfortable funding the original film idea anymore. Good news was that they didn’t take the money away. They gave me time to find another idea – and Slaves of the Lake was born.

This film is more or less complete now. It just needs some sound mixing and grading and then it’ll be ready for broadcast on the Community Channel. Sally-Ann Wilson from DFID has been kind enough to invite me to be a speaker at this year’s World View pitch event. They will play a 3 minute trailer of Slaves of the Lake and will then do a Q&A with me about my experience with this whole project.

Once the promo plays at Sheffield, I will be posting it on my website and facebook, so do look out for it.

My husband and I had been invited to the game by his work colleagues, so we got the VIP treatment through and through. Personalized invitations, no lines, fantastic entertainment at the tail gate party, a sit down three course lunch and fabulous seats. I had felt thoroughly spoilt before the game had even begun.

The football stadium was packed, which I hadn’t expected. Apparently, american football is quite popular in the UK – I encountered a 7 year old British boy who was a die hard fan. He came in his New York Jets t-shirt. The majority of the people attending, however, were Americans (I could tell from the accents I heard all round me). As per conversation conventions, I threw in some stories about my exposure to college football (the music, the barbecues and supporting the Cavaliers) to appear interested and informed. I passed with flying colours.

The pre game entertainment in the VIP suite included music by a jazz band called The Curious Collective, interviews of former NFL players such as Jerry Rice, and a special performance by the SF cheerleaders, Gold Rush, who were extremely dolled up and looked like tarts right out of Sports Illustrated . People queued up to get their autographs and be photographed with them. These ladies don’t get this celebrity status back home and they seemed ecstatic for it. Needless to say, we queued up as well and my husband was quite happy getting close to the pretty ‘uns.

After a few hours of this lovely hospitality, we were shown to our seats and the stadium entertainment commenced and I was blown away once again. Jeff Beck played ‘God Save the Queen’ on the guitar and the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ was performed by another award winning singer, whose name I am forgetting. I remember her lovely red shoes though. Then there was more music and more dancing and finally, the fireworks went off. Giant blimp style balloons in the shape of helmets and a football were flown in the stadium, and then the US and UK flags were unfurled. A beautiful opening show to get the audience into the spirit of the game.

Then the game started. Then it got interrupted 5 seconds later. Then it resumed. Then it got stopped. Then there was a commercial break. Then it started. Then it stopped. Then there were some announcements about season tickets and merchandise. Then it started. Then it stopped. Then there was music and the cheer leaders danced (I saw their undies and they all matched). Somewhere in all this, the 49ers scored three points through a kick, but I missed it (I was relying on audience applause and a crowd wave to inform me of such developments). I had some Coke and salt and vinegar crisps to keep myself awake and was just about to pull out my imaginary sleeping bag when the game resumed – for one full second. Then it was half time.

As much as I had wanted to stay back for the post game hospitality and entertainment, there was no way I could have sat through the second half of the game. I decided that it was time to leave. My husband and I helped ourselves to the the half time cookies and coffee, made some conversation about the game with our hosts and then took off. The good part was that we made it to the tube without any rush or queues. The bad part was that we heard the game got really exciting in the second half and that we missed seeing some of the current 49ers as well as Richard Branson after the game. Still, can’t say I regretted leaving. I watched Scott Pilgrim vs. The World that night.

The woman responsible made an apology and seemed sincerely remorseful about her actions. Unfortunately, that was not good enough for the public. This woman was brutally criminalized. She started receiving hate mail, then death threats and eventually, she was more or less ostracised by her neighbours. No one seemed interested in the fact that this woman had just visited her dying father before the incident happened, and that she may have been in a depressed state of mind. This woman has since then, lost her father, lost her job and is not in a very good place in life. But the people have not forgiven her.

It’s true that a civilized society is one in which animals are treated well. But should this be at the cost of fair treatment to human beings in that society? The public reaction to the wheelie woman’s actions was completely unjustified. I am all for animal rights, but to send death threats to a woman for throwing a cat into a bin- that I consider extremist behaviour.

Another recent victim of this extremism was Cheryl Cole. She received numerous death threats and hate mail, when she dismissed Gamu, a Zimbabwean singer, from X-Factor. Instantly, her popularity stats dropped amongst the twitterati, and many were keen to loath her in the blogosphere. Thousands of people voiced their dislike for Cole and her decision. Some in more violent tones than others.

There is also a quirky side to extremism in the UK. The best way to describe this is to tell the story of Pushkin the cat who was blessed by the Pope on his recent visit to the UK. Ever since Pushkin has had this hallowed experience, he has been receiving fan mail from across the world – from humans (including priests) as well as other cats. Call me narrow-minded, but writing letters to a cat? It seems just a tad bit odd to me and borders on fanatic.

Britain is a progressive and civilized nation, which reveres politeness, political correctness and self-control. A far cry from the emotional, reactive and irrational people of places like Pakistan. However, the reactions of the British public to these rather bland events have been quite shocking and quite like something I would expect to witness back home. This just tells me that there are fanatics here in the UK as well. Unfortunately, they are never branded as such by the media and it is only because of the UK’s fantastic law and order system that we don’t see these extremists burning tyres outside Cheryl Cole’s house or trying to set the wheelie bin woman on fire.

The truth is, words like ‘extremist’ and ‘fundamentalists’ are reserved for beard wearing, burqa donning, halal eating muslims. Now, I agree there are a handful of Muslims who do indulge in hate mongering and may deserve the label ‘fundamentalists’, but they are not unlike people at Fox News or in Tea Party politics. In fact, the two have more in common than they know. (Note: I don’t consider terrorists to be Muslims or representatives of Muslims).

Words like extremism and fundamentalism have become the legacy of Muslims world over. Others, despite their excessive behaviour, will never have the profound experience of being called extremists.

I say we change that. I think it’s time we re-evaluate words, labels, meanings and context. Every person who threatens Cheryl Cole should be labelled an extremist. Any person making a jibe at the wheelie lady should be called a fundamentalist. Anyone fighting violently over football or not bathing for ten days or corresponding with animals should be called excessive or extremist or fundamentalist or just plain crazy. It’s time we understand words and their consequences and become more sensible about using them.