Archive for May 2010
I’m supposed to be doing a workout DVD right now in order to get ‘beach fit’ for sunnier climes in about four weeks’ time. However, it seemed pointless. What with it definitely being the beginning of the end of the world and all.
Even if the Armageddon were not upon us (which it obviously is), chances are we won’t be able to fly anywhere any time soon anyway, thanks to some dust.
Which brings me seamlessly on to my first piece of iron-clad evidence for the impending apocalypse: volcanic ash.
Bit of a bummer really, but perhaps not enough evidence of our inevitable slide toward the end on its own. Coupled with the recent plague of greenfly that appears to have descended just this morning, however, and you can start to see why we’re definitely all going to perish.
This is Old Testament stuff, people: plagues, storms, other stuff that badly fits my ill-thought-out theory…
Such as the fact that the Tory overlords have seized power (of sorts) and we have a man with the cold, dead eyes of a killer running our finances.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer; he whose name we dare not speak.
Proof, if further proof be needed, that the world’s going to shit and we’re all just bits of soiled toilet paper being swept down the shitter with it.
Maybe it’s time to pick a religion, just in case. I’m not keen on Islam; the virgins bit doesn’t really appeal. Christianity’s soo 11th century, and orange and red clash terribly, so that particular branch of Hinduism’s out for me.
Might give Kabbalah a go. You get a free bracelet with it. Or maybe Scientology - seems like a pretty reasonable one. And I’ll probably meet Madonna and Tom Cruise. Maybe they’ll adopt me!
Enjoy the last few days of civilisation everybody. I’m off to make the most of one of my last nights on earth-as-we-know-it, in the same way every red-blooded female should, by getting into bed with my Bagpuss hot water bottle and listening to Radio 4.
The title of this blog post is a clever, ironic and highly satirical comment on the fact that we’ve just had a general election (in case you missed it) and everything’s a bit buggered, like what it is in Aldous Huxley’s book. It’s also display of my considerable literary knowledge, in that it shows I’ve read a book. Actually, it doesn’t. It shows I know the title of a book. Pretty impressive either way.
Speaking of which, I like my books like I like my men: exciting, many layers, and purchased from a charity shop for 50p. (A shiny cover and a moth ball-like smell are desirable but not compulsory.)
Hilarity aside though, I do love my thrillers and consume them like I consume nachos: fast. Any thriller will do as long as it keeps me in suspense and keeps me turning those pages.
What I don’t like, is crap ‘chick lit’. For starters, the name sounds like a part of the female genitalia. Men, you might need some help from a lady in identifying which part. HA HA HA. I made a sex joke. Hilarious. Anyhoo, I really don’t need to relate to a genre in such a personal way in order to want to read books from it. You may as well call them ‘books for people without penises’. This would be slightly more cumbersome to say, granted, but at least it doesn’t sound like clit. We’re British for god’s sake.
Another crap thing about crap chick lit is the way in which they all seem to be stuck in the fucking 1950s. The female protagonist in these books is always ‘sassy’ and ‘independent’ to begin with, but that’s just a silly front. What she really wants is for a big strong man to rescue her from the scary modern world and occasionally throw her over his knee when she gets a bit flighty. It’s for her own good. We may have the vote, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves here girls! Yep, that’s the world according to low grade chick lit. I’m exaggerating slightly for comic affect (I know, you’re in stitches), but seriously, read one. You don’t even have to be a bone fide English Literature aficionado like myself to read the startlingly subtle subtext.
A particularly bad one, if you feel as though your brain cells are weighing you down these days and you could do with discarding a few, is Love Rules by Freya North. What a pile of utter dross. The sex scenes were a particular revelation. Note to Freya: MY VAGINA IS NOT MY ‘SEX’. Nor is it my ‘heat’. No woman has or ever will call her vagina her ‘sex’ or her ‘heat’ in the history of womankind. It’s a vagina. I can’t fully remember what she called cocks, but it may have been ‘mound’. And I can’t imagine any man has ever got his ‘mound’ out in a moment of passion, unless he’s Ken, of course, in which case, he’s always bumping mounds with Barbie.
You’re thinking about dolls having it off now aren’t you?
You disgust me.
I’ve just realised this blog post has become much more about genitalia than about books. Brilliant.
I disgust myself.
On that note, I’m off to find me a man with a nice big mound to take me away from all this scary grown-up world stuff.