I am not good at blogging. I tried – I really did – but it turns out I just can’t pull it off. I’m only doing this now because I realised it has been six months since I updated this blog and because my stats are currently blowing up with people looking for the inside scoop on the tampon scene from Fifty Shades of Grey.
Yeah – did you hear the news? Apparently they’re not doing the infamous ‘whip that out and stick that in’ scene from the blandest book ever to be relentlessly marketed as pornography. So there’s going to be no cock and no tampon stuff, which kind of begs the question why you’d ever bother. Perhaps the most depressing thing is that the marketing creatures are still trying to polish this turd in 2015. I thought by now this book would be sliding into the ‘what the fuck were we thinking?’ file where it belongs
Okay – no. I thought that was the most depressing thing, but I was wrong. There’s actually something sadder.
I’ve been incredibly busy for the last year or so, writing almost continuously as Jessica Pine as well as breaking into the Kindleporn market with some really silly books about sasquatch and aliens who steal people’s dicks. I’m seriously struggling to find time to write stuff for myself but I’m working on it.
Another thing that happened last year was that I got really fucking fat. I knew I’d porked out a bit since I quit smoking three years ago, but it was when I realised I’d tiptoed – like a portly tutu’d Disney hippo – over the BMI threshold for obesity that I’d traded one set of health risks in for another.
Time to put the fork down.
It was a whole new world for me; I’d never really struggled with my weight before. I maintained my teenage figure through my twenties by smoking continuously, eating seldom and generally being crazier than a sack of cats. I’d never really had to buy clothes beyond sometimes picking something out for a wedding. I worked from home and generally lived in the same lazy slob outfit of tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt all year round.
And then suddenly I kept changing sizes. It was the weirdest thing. I realised I had to do something about my weight, so I figured calories in/calories out. This had to work. Unless my bum was somehow rewriting all known laws of physics, this had to work. I knew this logically, and yet there was this voice in the back of my head that said it couldn’t, because weight-loss this close to forty is some mystical thing only achieved by bony movie actors who haven’t kept down a meal since about 1997.
But, lo and behold, it turns out I’m subject to the laws of physics after all, and my bottom got smaller. And my clothes got bigger. And some of them – stressed to their limit by my fluctuating mass – just quit that bitch and fell apart at the seams.
Short version – I had to buy some new shit.
So I was browsing the clothes rails in Tesco, spotted the sale rail and went to see if there was anything I could stand. It was all kind of jumbled up end-of-year stuff, so it was bathing suits and acid green muu-muu dresses and plaid shirts and sweaters and no real rhyme or reason to it. Then I spotted a rather pretty ivory ruffled bra. Nice. I went to look for the cup size and then I saw it.
FIFTY SHADES OF GREY
I didn’t even know this. I had no idea this was happening. Yes, I read the books for the purpose of comedy, but I didn’t realise they were doing Fifty Shades themed pants.
I think I may have made some kind of noise when I discovered this, because I could hear the squeaky wheels of our shopping trolley disappearing at speed towards the fruit and veg section as he made himself scarce. It was probably as much of a shock to him as it was to me; just when he thought I’d stopped ranting about those fucking books he got blindsided by a Tesco knicker hanger and it set me off all over again.
It gave me a nasty turn. I’d been happily ignoring everything to do with those books for over a year and then boom – it’s back like a dose of herpes. And on a bra hanger of all places. What the hell? Is this piece of shit going to be stamped on our cultural DNA forever?
Lingerie. Seriously. I could think of far better products that would benefit from a Fifty Shades of Grey endorsement. Like rape whistles. Self-defence classes. Discount legal services offering buy one get one free on restraining orders.
I settled down and told myself that eventually THIS WILL GO AWAY. Nothing is constant. One day the sun will go foom and swallow the inner planets whole and the whole of our existence and all of human history will be nothing more than an obscure cosmic joke. And maybe on that day they’ll stop trying to sell things by sticking ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ on them. Maybe.
But there was a sequel (and you know they’re going to make those). The next time I was shopping I saw the same Fifty Shades of Grey tag in the menswear section. This piqued my curiosity, because while if I hit myself over the head and drink half a bottle of Tia Maria while crying I can maybe see the mad unlogic in selling knickers to women by using the name of a book that promotes endless violence and abuse against women, I am utterly fucking stumped as to why they’re selling this to men.
I know one man who read Fifty Shades of Grey. One. And he gave up after about three chapters because he said the syntax made his head hurt.
I looked closer at the rail. It was a t-shirt. A plain, cheap grey t-shirt. And you know what it said on the front?
Someone bought this for their husband. Someone bought this for a man and expected him to wear it. A cheap, money-grab t-shirt featuring an unfunny reference from an unfunny book that he’s never read and will never read and will never get. Bought for him by a woman who resents him for not being more like a stalker and a rapist.
And I could almost picture his face, this husband. I knew that when he was wearing this t-shirt he was also wearing the same confused, bewildered and sad expression that dogs wear when you put Santa hats on them to take photos at Christmas. Their eyes say ‘why?’ and it’s both funny and shameful and absolutely fucking heartbreaking.
It was terrible. It was the saddest insight into relationships I had ever had in my life, and once again it was – like many such sad insights – all because of Fifty Shades of Grey.
I’ll tell you – even without the tampon scene, this movie had better be funny, because lord knows we need the laughs.