Five Shades of Rage

Dear Mum,

With all the hoo-ha over Fifty Shades of Grey, several reprehensible writers have taken to the Classic novels with the intention of adding a bit of spice.

The idea is that sexual tension runs throughout these novels and so now, thanks to the subtle insight of these writers, we will have this spelt out for us. Corsets will be ripped, boots torn off, hair unpinned and tea spilt in a flourish of sexualised writing.

Shame on these writers. SHAME.

I have no problem with Fifty Shades of Grey. I haven’t read it, so I can’t pass judgement on it.

Surely if it means people are reading rather than playing angry birds, or constantly checking their Facebook, then we should be thankful. 

But I resent the assumption that, because a sexy book is so popular, it would be a great idea to throw some sex scenes at classic novels that are out of copyright and can therefore be adapted.

I am disgusted by the idea, and on so many levels. These levels can be categorised as the following.

1)  Some things are too pure and perfect to be touched. Eroticising classic fiction is like scribbling over a da Vinci with biro or playing a vuvuzela over Madame Butterfly. If I took a classic song, like ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ or ‘Isn’t She lovely’, and threw in some swear words, or distorted classic nursery rhymes, in which, for example, Mary decides she was too hungry to keep her little lamb as a faithful pet, there would be uproar. The same can be said in this situation - if it isn't broke, don't fix it. 

2)  The world has gone mad. A few years ago, when the world was preoccupied with a zombie apocalypse (see point 5), these same novels were adapted with terrifying active corpses confusing the beauty of Austen’s texts. Now the plan is essentially Victorian porn. Why are we as a society obsessed with horror and sex? Is this the message we want to be sending out to new readers? Who ever said zombies and sex would improve things?

3) Potential confusion between the two books. Readers new to Pride and Prejudice or Jane Eyre might get confused between the nineteenth and twenty-first century editions. This could be very awkward. Students might get confused and, like Rachel in Friends talking about cyborgs in Jane Eyre, confuse the real deal with a modern take. Parents introducing their children to BBC adaptations of these novels might accidentally purchase the wrong edition on Amazon. Utterly mortifying.

4)  Literature is something our nation can be very proud of. Along with a strong navel history (do I need to remind you of the Spanish Armada?), rock music (the list here is endless) and a healthcare service (I’m not saying it’s perfect), we can be bloody proud of our literary heritage. We’re known the world over for producing Chaucer, Shakespeare, Austen, Dickens, Kipling, Virginia Woolf and J.K Rowling to name just a few. And now we’re cheapening their contributions to our heritage by injecting their novels with elements of Mills and Boon.

5)Twilight should be destroyed. Note it was after this book that vampires and zombies and werewolves really came into fashion. Note Fifty Shades of Grey was originally written as fan fiction, inspired by the Twilight series. Note Fifty Shades of Grey inspired the idea for erotic classic literature. Ergo, this is all ENTIRELY Twilight’s fault.

You might have picked up that I am not amused. I can feel the writers of our beloved novels turning in the ground beneath me, and I’m reeling on their behalf.

Which leads me onto my own small announcement.

...

I’ve decided to write my own erotic novel – JOKES!

Being serious now, I have landed on my feet. I’ve secured a job I am so enjoying, a job I never thought I’d get.

It has made me realise just how much I love publishing and writing and, whilst I enjoy blogging, I am setting my sights on bigger literary adventures.

As a result, I will not be blogging as regularly as I have been for this past year. I aim to blog every fortnight, or perhaps once a month, which seems more realistic with my daily commute.

Whilst you have not heard the end of my rants and reflections, therefore, A Blog with a View is going to take a slight back seat.

But I’m so very grateful to it – the journey this far has been brilliant!

A great feast of languages

Dear Mum,

2012 is the greatest celebration of Britishness: the Diamond Jubilee, the London Olympics, the sinking of the Titanic, the bicentenary of Dickens’ birth... All rolled into one, this makes one tea drinking, fish and chips laden, bunting adorned extravaganza which we have great expectations for.

Some organiser of Britain’s 2012 obviously thought, “Hang on. Something’s missing here. It wouldn’t be properly British without the Bard.”

And so Shakespeare is being forced upon the nation.

Particularly on the BBC. Joely Richardson, Trevor Nunn, Ethan Hawke (a bit of an anomaly) have declared their love for Shakespeare as an ever fixed mark.

This is not a complaint. I’m an English literature graduate, and any student of English who doesn’t like Shakespeare made an exceptionally foolish mistake in studying the book-based subject.

Studying English literature without the Bard would be like studying History without knowing of Henry VIII.  Or listening to Janet Street-Porter speak without a flinching grimace on your face.

I have thoroughly enjoyed the BBC’s programming schedule. This you know only too well, as once when I was recently talked to you about the complexities of The Tempest being a Romance rather than a comedy, you interrupted me mid-flow to tell Dad, “I’ve drunk all the wine.”

“What... in the house?!” was his shocked and faintly horrified response.

My comic interjection of “Have we no wine here?”, taken from Coriolanus, was, I noted, not greatly appreciated.

But have no fear. I am not going to dedicate the entirety of this blog to my boy Bill.

I have been thinking that so many of the words and phrases we use are because of Bill and his incomprehensively huge imagination.

A tower of strength. Blinking idiot. Own flesh and blood. Good riddance. It’s Greek to me. Without rhyme or reason. For goodness sake. Stood on ceremony. Vanished into thin air. Laughing stock. Foul play. The game is up. In a pickle. Foregone conclusion.

These are but a few of the phrases we owe to Bill.

Even ‘what the dickens?!’ – which is exceptionally forward thinking of Shakespeare.

The current English language is not, however, thanks to Shakespeare alone.

Obviously, we owe a lot to Latin based languages, to German and, perhaps surprisingly, to India.

BBC news recently highlighted how much we owe to the Indian languages.

Most people, for example, know that ‘pyjamas’ and ‘shampoo’ originated in India.

But did you know that ‘bandana,’ ‘loot,’ ‘veranda’ and ‘dungarees’ all derived from Indian?

I was very surprised by this nugget of knowledge. This same article did, however, diminish my elated discovery by pointing out ‘sari,’ ‘guru’ and ‘yoga’ are all Indian in origin.

Gosh, really?? Next you’ll be telling me ‘croissant’ originated in France, not Cafe Nero, and ‘siesta’ is named after the Spanish afternoon nap as opposed to the name I give to a kip required after a few cocktails.

We are all guilty of doing this – using language wrongly.

Only on Friday, when leaving work did I tell an exhausted colleague to “just try and chillax this weekend.”

Yes. Chillax. I horrified myself.

I know you cannot bear the misused apostrophe, which cafe advertisements, it seems, have a rule stating they must use incorrectly.

“Get you’re coffee here.”

“Delicious cake’s.  

“Your very welcome!”

And then there are those phrases we are all guilty of using, which no longer hold any meaning.

“At the end of the day.”

“As it were.”

“Back in the day.”

You might have seen Miriam Margolyes scold will.i.am on the Graham Norton Show for using the word ‘like’ willy nilly in sentences. She is definitely onto something here.

English is the most widely spoken language in the world and yet we, native English speakers, fail to use is well.

I will be using a similar method from here on because, at the end of the day, I’m sick of it. 

I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!

Dear Mum,

A celebrity sighting is always an event and marks the week with a notable incident.

It’s not like bumping into a friend you haven’t seen for a while. This is the kind of experience where, a few days later, you offer the interjection, “That reminds me, guess who I saw the other day...?”

And it’s even more exciting than a voucher or discount. This is the kind of event which warrants a quick text to those who’ll appreciate a “Get to Boots! They’re doing £5 off No. 7!” text.

A celebrity sighting is the type of experience that warrants an immediate text of block capitals, concluding with half a dozen exclamation marks, and sent to pretty much everyone in your phonebook.

Furthermore, some celebrities are instantly recognisable – I saw Jo Brand a few months back and immediately said to myself, “OMG! JO BRAND!!!!” Which, you’ll remember, is just the message that I texted you with.

Then there are those sightings that are rather more elusive. As I crossed a road in Covent Garden last week, I passed a chap on his phone.

‘God, where do I know you from?’ I thought as I paced the London street, ‘Who is our mutual friend? I feel like we met somewhere very stressful, and I was crying...’

The minute he threw his gaze at the 5”2” brunette, gawping in his direction with a puzzled and inspecting expression, I remembered. ‘That’s the dude from Birdsong!!”

A very exciting celebrity spot was the CIA guy from Homeland – David Harewood.

I was meeting a friend for afternoon tea and Mr Harewood was standing outside the vicinity opposite our destination. He was reading out his phone number to the person on the other end of the phone which, as my friend reminded me several times afterwards, I should’ve taken note of.

Once more I squinted and puzzled and mulled over this sense of familiarity. Upon realising it was the CIA guy, you received the “I JUST SAW THE DUDE FROM THE CIA IN HOMELAND OUTSIDE THE AFTERNOON TEA PLACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” text.

The friend I was meeting replied with “What? In the place where we’re going to have tea??!”

This completely ruined the sighting – watching him sup on Early Grey tea, a vanilla macaroon held between forefinger and thumb, a few tables away would be far more exciting than passing him on the street, completely unaware of my existence.

This made me realise that it’s far more impressive and boosts kudos if you have a pucker anecdote. Like if I’d stepped out onto the road before I was meant to, and the Birdsong guy saved me from an oncoming taxi.

Or if David Harewood had been at the afternoon tea place and asked if he could trouble us by finishing the finger sandwiches we’d abandoned on our cakestand, only he’d had a long day and was craving some refreshing cucumber sandwiches.

I did have such an experience on the train into work this week.

Being a grumpy commuter, I cannot bear people reading over my shoulder. Get your own paper.

Sitting by the window on this particular day, I was conscious of the lady sitting next to leaning over my shoulder, like an unprepared and inexperienced commuter without reading material to distract one’s self from the horrors of the daily commute.

Flicking through the Metro, my neighbour casting her eye over the day’s top news, I couldn’t concentrate.

I folded up my paper and turned to the lady over my shoulder and asked, “Would you...?” as if to say “Would you like my paper, seeing as you’ve already attempted to read half of it over my shoulder?”

She took it from me hesitantly and began to gather up her things.

“No, no!” I said, realising my rude and incomplete question was pretty ambiguous. “No, I meant did you want to read my paper?”

“Oh I thought you were getting off,” she said, settling back down in her seat.

“No, you’re alright until we’re in London.”

“Well, thank you. I’ll just put it there,” and she placed the paper in front of us, tapping it assuredly, humouring the strange girl sitting next to her who was determined for her to read the Metro.

Apart from being embarrassed for my agitated and unclear “Would you?” question, I felt this woman was very VERY familiar.

It suddenly dawned on me that this woman was Simon’s Mum in The Inbetweeners.

Nah, can’t be. But she continued to look over my shoulder. I soon realised she had a script on her lap and was clearly testing herself on her lines rather than having  literature-envy as she pursued the texts I held in my hands.

Embarrassing, yes, but this was a proper celebrity encounter, and I’ve added it to my repertoire.

If Robin Weaver is reading this blog, I’d also like to apologise for my rude behaviour. Please do sit next to me again – I won’t force the Metro on you, I shall simply place it on the table in front of us in case you want to read it.

But if anyone reads the paper over my shoulder, celebrity or not... be afraid. Be very afraid...