Tag Archives: bullshit

Heroin, buttchugging and the Young Conservatives: Why I Will Not Be Reading ‘Grey’

As you have probably heard, we are in the end times.

In just a couple of days the world will be once again bothered with another Fifty Shades book, as EL James goes even more Single White Female on Stephenie Meyer and releases her own terrible version of Meyer’s thankfully aborted Midnight Sun. Yes, it’s 2015 and the thing is still not going away. At this point the Fifty Shades franchise is rather like being in a relationship with its hero; you can kick and fight and scream NO! at the top of your lungs, but it’s still going to keep happening.

However, I will not be reading this book.

I admit, I’m curious, but I’ve been curious about a lot of things in my life, including buttchugging, heroin and the Young Conservatives. Curiosity is a good thing, but in some cases you have to let your sanity speak louder and just walk on by. Eavesdropping on the gross mental perambulations of a dollar store Patrick Bateman is definitely one of those times.

I’ll be keeping an eye on reviews; it’s going to be interesting to see how the critics respond to a romantic hero who fantasises about sexually assaulting the heroine within the first five pages and openly admits that he thinks women are toys he can buy, but reading the thing? Nope. This has gone on too long as it is. I have other things planned for this year and they don’t include wading through this bloated yawn of a book again, especially not through the eyes of a character who calls grown women baby and says things like ‘she’s an alluring little piece’. Not if I ever want to be able to open my legs again without the aid of a car jack.

So, to all of those brave bloggers who are attempting to chronicle this sad, desperate cash in, I wish you the very best of luck, a constant supply of booze and plenty of lovely soft pillows to scream into. You’re going to need them.

Also, I’d be very interested to know what the billionaire dick God actually does for a living. Three books and I still have absolutely no fucking idea. (My current theory is leprechauns.)

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Fifty Shades links page now available

For everyone who’s here for the Fifty Shades stuff, I’ve just added a new page to the site so that you don’t have to suffer the extreme annoyance of searching WordPress tags. Fifty Shades Freed and Darker indexes will be added later, but there should be enough horrible to keep you all amused for the time being. Click the link below to go to the index page or click Fifty Shades Recaps on the page bar above.

For all your ‘When does he pull her tampon out?’ and ‘Is there anal in Fifty Shades of Grey’ search needs.  (And no. There is no anal in Fifty Shades of Grey.)

Fifty Shades of Pants

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?

CHARLIE TANGO

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.

Writer’s Block And Other Myths (Mostly sasquatches)

Some books are easy to write. Whether it’s a character, an idea or a setting, sometimes something grabs you so hard that its impossible not to write it down. In the most serendipitous of these moments, the thing that grabs you is so grabby and so good that you can blast past the initial uncertainty and even flick two merry middle fingers to the dreaded Mid-Book Blahs.

The other extreme is a much more familiar story. It’s the one where you’re just putting words on page without much clue about what you’re actually doing or any real enthusiasm for the wordmatter you’re forcing yourself to excrete, two thousand words at a time. It’s those times when you’re staring at the screen wondering how the pink, frilly hell you got into this state in the first place, when the extent of the upfuckage seems so severe that nothing short of gasoline, a match and maybe a judicious ploughing of the earth with salt is ever going to even atone for the dreadful mess you’ve made, never mind clean it up.

At the very worst extreme it’s the point where everything grinds to a halt and you become that most pointless of creatures – a writer who doesn’t actually write anything.

This is usually the moment where a lot of people start blaming that mythical friend of all pun-inclined forum headers – the dreaded writer’s block. Before I can get into any more of the reasons why your novel might be stalled, we need to talk about writer’s block.

There is no such thing as Writer’s Block.

Look at it. Just look at what I just typed. Look at that fucker sitting there in the heading line like it’s an actual thing. I even gave it capitals. I don’t even give the sasquatch capitals and the sasquatch is more real than writer’s bullshit block.

Writer’s block is a myth. It does not exist. If you want to write, you will write. It’s that simple. There’s nothing stopping you. There is no magical anti-muse working against you. Writer’s block is bullshit. Say it out loud. Say it louder. There – doesn’t that feel better already?

Now, you may be side-eyeing this advice, which is fine. You may be thinking that it took Joseph Heller ten years to write Catch-22, and that James Joyce’s existence was a daily brawl with the written word when he would have much rather have been knocking out farty love letters to Nora. One of Joyce’s friends, so the legend goes, found James Joyce prostrate and groaning over his desk one day and asked him how the book was going. “How many words today, Jim?” the friend asked, only to meet with the despondent reply – “Seven.”

The friend attempted to cheer Joyce up by telling him that seven was better than nothing and that actually seven was pretty good going, for him, at which point the author raised his head from the desk and wailed “But I don’t know what order they go in!”

If you’ve read much of Joyce’s work – particularly Ulysses – you might understand the great man’s frustration. Every word, line and even punctuation mark in Joyce’s work is carefully considered and measured for shape, strength, pun capacity, resonance, texture and wit. It nearly drove him mad on numerous occasions, but the point is that Ulysses is complete. It’s done. If poor old brainstrained James Joyce can get from Stately plump Buck Mulligan all the way to yes, I said yes I will yes, then what the hell is your excuse?

If you’re citing – as the Bukowski poem goes – ‘light and air and time and space’ as the reasons why you can’t write, then maybe do something else. Find another form of creative expression that you like. Nobody cares that you can’t write unless you have the right chair and the right music and all your pencils are sharpened in a very specific way – we’ve all been there. Anyone who has ever put words on a page – either as a hobby or a profession – has at some point indulged in sometimes byzantine methods of procrastination, sometimes to the point of building entire houses in order to have the ‘perfect creative space’.

And it’s all pointless. It’s all utterly useless. If you find yourself tooling around in this way, maybe it’s time to ask yourself if you really want to do this at all. It’s not an easy question to ask yourself, and you may not like the answer, but that’s all it is – ‘writer’s block’, procrastination – call it what you will. It’s nothing more than your own laziness and reluctance to commit to a thing that – when you get right down to it – is actually a whole lot of fun.

Once you get past that and the answer is still ‘yes, I want to write’, it becomes much easier to stare down the real obstacles to writing (work, time, family) and make the time to write.

Stripped of its demonic, mythological status, writer’s block is often nothing more than a perfect storm of problems – plot problems, pacing problems, character problems or just outright problems with the entire premise of a novel in the first place. These are scary things to face, but like most problems they can be a) overcome, b) worked around or c) thrown screaming from a precipice into a gigantic pit of fire, scorpions and spikes.

I won’t lie – when it comes to problems, I have a sentimental fondness for option C.

Things You May Have Mistaken For Writer’s Block

  1. Your main character has suffered a radical personality shift halfway through the book and you don’t know how to deal with it. Relax. This can be fixed.
  2. You look back at the first half of your novel and realise that it not only has pacing problems but could be used to euthanise coma patients by gently sapping their will to keep breathing. Once again, relax. This can be fixed.
  3. You have no idea what happens next. Take a deep breath, pull up a notepad and relax. This can be fixed.
  4. The thing that was supposed to happen next has not happened next and you’ve rambled off wildly into an experimental mess. Calm down. The solution may hurt, but only for a moment. This can be fixed.
  5. Laziness. Admittedly this one is the most difficult to fix.

Fifty Shades of Grey – Chapter Twenty-Four: I’m Flying, Flying, Flying Over You

Chapter twenty-four starts with another one of Ana’s ever-so-meaningful ‘symbolic’ dreams.

Christian stands in a steel-barred cage. Wearing his soft, ripped jeans, his chest and feet are mouthwateringly naked…

This is my second favourite participle mess of the entire book. While it doesn’t quite come close to the one where he was wearing a tie with eyeballs and a shrewd expression, it’s still pretty special in context. Just a heads up – Thomas Hardy fans might want to grab something to bite down on before reading any further. Continue reading

Fifty Shades of Grey – Chapter Twenty Two: A Big Bunch of E-Mail Bullshit

This post comes from a place of deep, heartfelt joy. Yes, that’s right – yesterday I finished reading Fifty Shades of Grey and it can’t hurt me anymore! It’s over! I am FREE!

You, however, have got another five terrible chapters to read. Sorry about that. Continue reading

Fifty Shades of Grey – Chapter Twenty-One: Crackwhore Vertigo

Run, do not walk, to get your free Kindle copy of Fifty Shades of Neigh. Seriously, not even kidding – the giveaway ends at midnight PST.

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Got it? Good. Let’s get down to (horrible) business. Continue reading