Latest news with #MarieLeConte
New European
27-05-2025
- New European
Dilettante: When is it the right time to leave home?
They were about as pleased with the choice as you'd imagine. Still, teenagers can sometimes be unstoppable forces, and I wasn't to be messed with when I'd made up my mind. After a number of pleas, arguments and fruitless searches for a plan B, they let me do what I wanted to do. They let me leave Nantes, at 17 and three quarters, and move to London to start a degree in journalism. It was, in retrospect, completely mad. I still can't believe they let me get away with it. In fairness to them, I didn't really give them a choice: at the age of 17, I went to my parents and informed them that I had applied to several universities in Britain and none in France. If they wanted me to continue studying, they would have to let me cross the Channel a few months later. If they didn't: to McDonald's I'd go. I'm glad I won, obviously, but can now see why my parents struggled to let me go. I wasn't even 18 yet! It was an entirely different country, with a different language! I didn't know anyone there! I did become a legal adult within months of moving but, really, it took several more years for me to stop being a chaotic child. For quite a long while, I ended up acting like one of those kittens or puppies that got separated from their mother too early, and doesn't know how to behave as a result. I was still a very rough first draft by the time I left home, and there are so many ways in which things could have gone wrong. The fact that I'm writing this today means that they didn't, thankfully. If anything, I feel lucky and pleased that I got to build a life for myself from scratch, at such a young age. I behaved like a complete idiot for what felt like decades but, at the end of the day, I'd mostly calmed down before I'd even reached my mid-twenties. My friends and peers were still partying till the small hours and consuming all sorts of not-so-legal substances, but I'd already packed all that in. I started early then got out early. I can still feel the ripples from my decision today: I may only be in my early thirties now but already feel that I've lived a lot, and have no great regrets when it comes to my misspent youth. I've been there, done that, got the t-shirt, thank you very much. Suggested Reading Have I become British? Marie Le Conte It's also what worries me about all these kids staying at home for longer and longer. A recent study showed that, as of 2024, 30% of British 18-year-olds were planning to stay at home during their studies, up from 21% in 2015. For the avoidance of doubt, I don't blame them, or at least don't blame them all. I'm sure many of them would rather fly the coop and spend three years in increasingly messy houseshares, but the cost of both housing and life in general is preventing them from doing so. Still, the results are the same. Instead of moving out as a teenager, a lot of today's youths will be celebrating their entry into the roaring twenties while still living with mum and/or dad. Hell, they may even decide to stay for a little while after graduation, as finding a job doesn't always happen immediately, and it's nice not to have to pay council tax. Twenty-one may turn into 22, then 23, 24 and… well, instinctively I just feel sorry for them. So much happened to me in those years: I did so much growing up, and learned the hard way that, when it comes to building the person you're meant to become, there are no shortcuts. What would have happened to me if I'd just stayed home for all those years? I doubt I'd be the same, and I doubt my life would have been as successful. Then again, perhaps I missed out on some things. I am, at time of writing, about to head to Rome for my mother's 60th birthday. I am looking forward to it, but still quite apprehensive; we've rarely spent extended periods of time together as adults. I'm sure it'll go well, but that relationship, alongside the one I have with my father, feels like something we've all had to work on, nearly from scratch. They didn't get to watch me finish growing up, and so we've had to rebuild our foundations bit by bit. Would things have been different if I'd spent more time at home? Almost certainly. I have friends who stayed hidden in the nest for longer than I did, and they seem closer to their parents than I am to mine. There isn't much I can do about the past, though, but that's why this holiday, and others like it, matter so much to me. It's never too late to mend the ties you once severed, because all you wanted was to feel free.
Daily Mail
23-04-2025
- Daily Mail
Chilling real reason women are allowing choking, slapping and even mock rape during sex: CLARE FOGES
What do you expect teenagers to be learning in sex education lessons in school? How to put a condom on a banana? Or how to consent to having your windpipe squeezed by someone much stronger than you, their fingers in a tightening ring around your neck, to the point where you are unable to resist, or start blacking out, or die? Teenagers in Bridgend, south Wales were recently treated to a presentation – funded by the local council – teaching them that 'consent (when it comes to choking during sex) should happen every time sexual choking is an option'. Message: this sexual practice is absolutely fine, kids, as long as you're both on the same page! 'It is never OK to start choking someone without asking them first and giving them the space to say no.' Irony of ironies that this PowerPoint was produced by the council's domestic abuse service, Assia. Are they out of their minds? Teaching 14-year-old girls that choking is just any other 'option' on the sexual menu? What about a little light beating? Or vigorous hair pulling? Is that OK, as long as a shy and embarrassed teenage girl is given five seconds 'space' to say no before being assaulted? I am not so much outraged as depressed at the world my four children are growing up in, where violent and degrading sex becomes ever more normalised. I grew up, thank heavens, in the pre-internet age, where the closest I came to hardcore material was an illicit copy of The Joy of Sex I found in my school library. While my eyes might have been on stalks at the pictures of a rather hairy couple contorted into all sorts of undignified positions, the message of the book was clear: 'Sex ought to be a wholly satisfying link between two affectionate people from which they emerge unanxious, rewarded, and ready for more.' How did we go from The Joy of (mutually satisfying) Sex to The Joy of Strangulation taught in schools? Hardcore online pornography is, of course, the main culprit. It has created a great sexual divide, with a line roughly scored through the middle of my own Millennial generation (born between 1981 and 1996). While there are of course many in their 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s who may keep a cat 'o' nine tails in the bedroom, I would wager that most would be alarmed if a new sexual partner suddenly morphed into the Boston Strangler. Yet to younger Millennials and Gen Zers (born 1997 to 2012), reared on the porn diet of spitting, slapping and 'mock' rapes, choking is standard practice. A BBC-commissioned 2020 survey, which spoke to more than 2,000 men aged between 18 and 39, found 71 per cent had slapped, choked, gagged or spat on their partner during consensual sex – with a third not even bothering to ask the woman if she'd like to act as a human spittoon/punch bag. In her book Escape: How a Generation Shaped, Destroyed and Survived the Internet, thirty-something journalist Marie Le Conte writes that, for her generation, choking is 'so mainstream' and adds: 'If I were to rank it, I would say it sits somewhere around the light spanking mark.' A 39-year-old friend recently re-joined the dating scene after the end of a 12-year relationship. She met a fun and handsome man on a dating app. After several dates, things progressed to bed, where during the act she realised the man's hand was on her neck. He squeezed, then tighter, and tighter, until she felt an unpleasant pressure in her head. 'Why didn't you just shove him off?' I asked. 'Well...' she faltered, 'it's what people do these days, isn't it?' The next morning this Romeo made a joke about being so turned on he got 'a little carried away', as though non-fatal strangulation is somehow an act of flattery, rather than a crime; the practice was made illegal when non-consensual as part of the Domestic Abuse Act 2021. Men such as these – who may be nice guys in their everyday lives – have been desensitised by years of watching extreme porn. The sexual act on its own is too 'vanilla' to arouse them. In order for the pulse to keep racing, the ante needs to be upped by increasingly rough behaviour, including choking. A lot of them will say that the women they go to bed with like being strangled – or ask for it. But how much have women's expectations of what they should be like in bed been shaped by porn too – even by women's magazines? In 2016, Women's Health magazine stated: 'If blindfolds and role play have veered into vanilla territory for you and your partner, there are still plenty of sex moves that are considered extra freaky. Like choking.' And here's a truth about women that may be un-PC – we can tend to be people-pleasers. We want to impress the man we are with. In her brilliant novel Gone Girl, Gillian Flynn captured this male-pleasing tendency of young women: 'Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex...' These days the Cool Girl must also love choking, being spat on and called a slut. Otherwise you may be revealed as – horror of horrors – 'vanilla'. The more choking is normalised, the more young people will think this is risk-free. But it patently isn't. Strangling someone restricts blood supply to the head. Oxygen levels drop dangerously fast. According to a 2020 scientific paper, consciousness can be lost within as little as four seconds of arterial pressure. The normalisation of choking and other rough sexual acts is dangerous – and it is used as an excuse by dangerous people. We are at a strange place in terms of women's rights. While ladies run businesses, conquer boardrooms and reach the highest offices of state, in the bedroom empowerment is going backwards. Perhaps the two are related? Perhaps many young men – conditioned by the Andrew Tates of this world to believe that female empowerment is the cause of a lot of their own discontents – are using the normalisation of violent sexual acts to get their own back? They have been brainwashed by misogynistic crackpots to believe that their biological destiny is to achieve mastery over women, and here in one sweaty-handed, grasping stroke, is their chance to do just that. In future it would be best if Bridgend County Borough Council stick to filling in potholes rather than propagating the idea that, with consent, choking can be safe, risk-free and harmless. It is not, it is not, it is not. I don't care if it makes me sound 'vanilla'. The normalisation of strangulation is simply horrifying. Florence's perfect accessory... Florence Pugh wore one of her signature semi-sheer dresses at the premiere of the film Thunderbolts, set off with a dash of orange eyeshadow. But her best accessory? Granny Pat who, in her 80s, is Pugh's regular cheerleader at premieres. The Spanish war on tourists continues with Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez wanting a crack-down on holiday rentals. Are they mad? Tourism accounts for around 12 per cent of Spain's GDP. I had been toying with the idea of Mallorca this summer but the prospect of being met off the plane by placard-wielding protesters has put me off. It's adios for now. Don't ban Mr Whippy! A pantomime boo to the Royal Borough of Greenwich, which plans to ban ice cream vans around Greenwich Park. Do these interfering officials understand how important a Whippy is to the British summer? This wondrous white stuff is the taste of childhood, sunshine and happiness. In my 20s, I drove an ice cream van for a while and remember the joy on people's faces as my van approached with its tinkling tune. Let Greenwich people enjoy their 99s. Try feeding your own children! This week free breakfast clubs opened at 750 schools with a national roll-out soon. Much back-slapping from politicians about how this will improve life chances for kids. I'm not convinced. If some parents have no money for breakfast, should that be addressed via the benefits system? The PM said breakfast clubs will bring 'breathing space for parents'. But surely chucking a Weetabix and milk in a bowl isn't beyond us? We can't keep outsourcing the work of families onto schools.
New European
26-02-2025
- New European
Dilettante: The privilege of feeling like an outsider
I am – try not to be too viciously jealous – writing this to you while sitting on a terrace. It's 11am, sunny and mild; I can hear motorbikes and the occasional horse-drawn cart going past the flat. Earlier, I popped into the market to buy some msemen and baghrir for breakfast. I am, in short, writing this to you from Marrakech. I've been here for nearly three weeks now, though I am leaving tomorrow. As you may know, if you read the Dilettante column published last month, I felt a bit apprehensive about this trip. I'm half Moroccan but don't quite look or sound the part; my mother grew up here and I did go with her a lot as a child and teenager, but Morocco felt both familiar and foreign to me. Would I be able to fit in? The answer is, it turns out, quite complicated. In some ways, no, I did not manage to fit in. My darija – the local Arabic dialect – is patchy at best. I counted one evening, while bored, and estimated that I know between 50 and 60 words in the language. Morocco's answer to Shakespeare, I am not. There are also some subtle customs that clearly still escape me, and I look very blatantly French, both because of my genes and my dress sense. No one here has looked at me and thought: ah, here she is, a Marrakchia woman just like us. This is something I assumed would happen, but I worried, before going, that it would make me feel sad and alienated from my roots. Instead, and to my genuine surprise, it's something I ended up enjoying. I didn't quite understand why at first: surely no one wants to feel like a foreigner in a familiar place. That's the stuff of middle-brow, neurotic 20th-century novels. What was going on? In the end, it hit me quite randomly, as epiphanies often do. I enjoyed not looking the part for once, because I feel like a bit of an alien everywhere, and it usually doesn't show. I've been living in Britain for over 15 years now, and my accent is good enough that most people who meet me don't realise I'm an immigrant. I've been asked if I studied at an international school a handful of times, but that's usually it. I'm also integrated enough to understand the subtleties of class, and the bits of etiquette which the rest of the world often finds baffling. Still, I'm not British. I don't think I will ever be. I'm a Londoner, but that's a different thing. When people assume I'm British, as they so often do, it makes me feel as if they're erasing a crucial part of my identity. I love the country dearly, and consider it my home, but wish it were acknowledged more often that I am, if anything, a bit like those rich people of old who would live in hotels for months and years at a time. I don't fully belong, probably never will, and that's an important part of me. The flipside of this is that, whenever I go back to France, people don't think twice about who I am. My name is Marie Le Conte, my French is native, and that's all there is to it. Again, that sometimes makes me feel uncomfortable. I moved away at 17 and have only been back around twice a year since. I've never been an adult in France. I've no idea what's happened there, culturally, over the past decade and a half. I look and sound the part, but I don't fully belong there either, and it's something I wish I could communicate to people, but it would be odd for me to do so. In short: I have been greedy and decided to spread myself across multiple countries, meaning that not one of them feels fully mine, but it's a decision I made purposely and happily, and I am at peace with it. Most of the time, however, I feel like an impostor in someone else's clothes, as no one can see that it's what I've done. I only realised all this when in Marrakech, and having conversations with people that felt like they were the wrong way round. Cab drivers and chatty market sellers would assume that I was a tourist, then beam with delight when I explained that my mum had grown up here, and that I could babble in darija . They then proceeded to treat me like some sort of friendly neighbourhood stray cat, always welcome inside even if it ends up leaving afterwards and going off to do its own thing. An international, friendly neighbourhood stray cat is how I feel most of the time, and it's sweetly ironic that I integrated so well in Britain that people can no longer see me as that. It probably is for the best, as it's helped my career, life and friendships, but it was unexpectedly lovely to get to truly feel like myself for a few weeks here. Marrakech both is and isn't home, in the way that Nantes and London both are and aren't, and that's a privilege, not a pity.
