Blacking up: nope, it's still not funny

Tory MP asks why it is offensive to black up in one-man mission against political correctness

At the weekend, it emerged that Philip Davies, the Tory MP for Shipley, has been haranguing the Equality and Human Rights Commission on a self-proclaimed fight against political correctness.

Since April last year, he has sent 19 letters, obtained under the Freedom of Information Act.

The question that really caught the imagination of the press was this: "Is it offensive to black up or not, particularly if you are impersonating a black person?" In a postscript to this letter, he adds: "Why it is so offensive to black up your face, as I have never understood this."

Wow. Where to begin?

The (obviously very good-humoured) commission had yet to reply in writing to this query, but in the meantime, a spokesman said: "There are many writings produced by scholars about blacking up, arguing that minstrel shows lampoon black people in derogatory ways, and many people clearly find blacking up to portray minstrels or black people offensive."

It's true, Davies's question displays a certain ignorance: impersonating a black person is offensive because it is so fraught with history. Blacking up is mockery, and it's dehumanising, with its symbolism of a grinning, infantilised rascal dancing around for the amusement of others.

This is not the first time blacking up and the Tories have met. There was controversy in 2007 when a Tory councillor dressed up as "Nelson Mandela" -- yes, complete with skin colour -- for a fancy-dress party. The councillor defended the decision as a piece of "harmless fun". Hmm.

There was outcry this year over a fashion shoot in French Vogue that featured a white model blacked up. "It's horrible, there's nothing else to describe it. The image says we'd rather turn a European model white than hire a black model," Nana A Tamakloe, who manages models, said at the time.

Davies's query relates to a practice that is pretty much non-existent anyway: it's a deliberately provocative and pointless piece of questioning. It is another mockery, but luckily he seems to have made himself the butt of the joke.

According to the Guardian, he also asked:

  • Whether the Metropolitan Black Police Association breaches discrimination law by restricting its membership to black people. He compared this to the BNP's whites-only policy, which the far-right party has now agreed to change.
  • Whether the women-only Orange Prize for fiction discriminates against men.
  • Whether it was racist for a policeman to refer to a BMW as "black man's wheels".
  • Whether it was lawful for an advert for a job working with victims of domestic violence to specify that applicants had to be female and/or black or from an ethnic minority.
  • Whether a "Miss White Britain" competition or a "White Power List" would be racist, after Phillips justified the existence of Miss Black Britain prizes and the Black Power List. "Is there any difference legally or morally than publishing a white list [sic]? Do you think this entrenches division?"
  • Whether anti-discrimination laws ought to be extended "to cover bald people (and perhaps fat people and short people)".

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism