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...

The O-level? O no!

Dear Mum,

About this time every year the media takes to the subject of exams and slates the current education system.

Every year I find myself scrunching at newspapers, the blood rushing to my cheeks as I grimace and snarl at the headlines and read those undying words: “easier”, “new plans” “replace” and “properly testing.”

It seems students are never safe from new plans.

I feel for all of those students who have just finished their exams, reading Michael Gove’s plans to reintroduce O-levels over their morning porridge, previously elated at having jumped the first hurdle in examination procedure.

They must find this completely undermining. I certainly do.

My GCSE’s were the hardest exams I’ve taken and this includes my degree modules.

This being the first set of proper exams (SATS don’t count – they’re not on my CV) it was a whole new challenge... The sleepless nights of not knowing what to expect; the chopping and changing of subjects (German on Monday afternoon, maths on Tuesday morning, then history in the afternoon, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday...); all squashed into a couple of weeks, everything riding on how you felt on that day.

Come A-levels and university, I was a dab hand. There were coursework and exams throughout the academic year, not just in the summer, so I could hedge my bets. I knew what to expect in the hall (such as invigilators looking over your shoulder, judging me. They definitely do it). And I had selected the subjects I was interested in and, ultimately, good at, i.e. not foreign languages, maths, sciences, or any subject that persistently uses the word “hypothesis.”

The GCSE’s where physically and emotionally exhausting due to the number of exams, concentration of exams within a short space of time and resulting amount of revision required. Plus in some cases, primarily ‘hypothesis’ subjects, I had a lot to learn for the first time, lessons on trigonometry and the Doppler effect having gone over my head. At 200 miles an hour. In fact I doubted I was even in those lessons.

But here we are. Listening to a middle aged, middle class man bang on about a set of exams he has not taken.

It was so refreshing to read in last Sunday’s Sunday Times Magazine that a group of celebrities sat the 11+ and respectively failed to get into Grammar School.

Finally – a group of adults giving it a go before passing judgement.

Are GCSE exams easier? Or are students working harder?

After all, university places are more competitive than 30 years ago and they’re sodding expensive – most students are probably aware they need the best results to ensure they make the most of their future.

And, aware of the above, aren’t parents generally pushing their children more?

Plus teaching resources are vastly improved since you were at school – there are self-help books, practice papers and online sources.

Students are training themselves to give the examiners what they want, which is surely what exams boil down to.

And yet this is not enough.

Because us youngsters are working hard and succeeding an MP resolves to throw us a curve ball, to diminish all of that hard work by taking a social step backwards.

Perhaps next they’ll be re-introducing the cane and dunce hat.

We’ll be that grey area in history – The GCSE Debacle.

In twenty years time an employer will look at my CV with a puzzled expression, the GCSE column meaning very little, and I’ll lose out on a job to a younger or older O-level candidate. 

My year group also missed out on the A* at A-level, meaning an employer who does not know the year this initiative was introduced could look at our A-level grades sniffily.

There was clearly a reason for O-level exams being scrapped and replaced by GCSEs but this reason lies dead and buried and forgotten underneath the paperwork sitting on Michael Gove’s desk.

It doesn’t take a genius to note the faults in his new plans. My hypothesis is that Gove doubts students’ ability, ambition and the varying modes of revision at their disposal.

But then I only took those easy GCSE exams so what do I know...? 

Remember my journey through the world of scriptwriting...?

Dear Mum (and other family and friends),

You might remember a month ago I submitted a script to the BBC Writersroom – I kept a diary of my progress (from ‘One Day’ in April through to ‘Walking into the sunset’ in May).  

Well, I have some rather encouraging news...

Before you jump up and down, clapping your hands, and scream “Your script is going to be made into a radio drama! YOUR SCRIPT IS GOING TO BE MADE INTO A RADIO DRAMA!” --- It isn’t.

 I received an email t’other day from the Writersroom informing me they won’t be taking my script any further.

However...

The email informed me that they received a whopping 1900 scripts. They read the first 10 pages of each script and, from these 10 pages, decided which scripts would continue to the next stage.

Only 20% of received scripts were put forward to stage 2. And mine was one of them!

Which means just 380 scripts were put forward, and mine was one of them. Which means 1 in 5 scripts were put forward, and mine was one of them. Which means I’m not a total lost cause when it comes to writing a half decent script.

You might’ve guessed, I’m very excited!

Yes, that is the end of that venture. You won’t be hearing my name on Radio 4 any day soon.

But I’m one step closer to making a good stab at it...

Lovely Sweet, not Hideous Kinky

Dear Mum,

This time last week I was lolling in the Moroccan sunshine, a mirage of orange juice sellers ready and willing to quench my thirst and a host of unrecognisable coins tinkling in my pocket.

Now I am penniless and shivering, the joy of my short lived city break embodied in a Moroccan scarf wrapped tightly about my neck and a fading henna tattoo.

I am remaining faithful to my New Years Resolutions and I have ticked Resolution Number 6's box in Arabic. This was my first trip to Africa and I felt oddly anxious. (I know you felt the same, having recited the ‘I-know-you-know-this-but-I’m-your-Mother-and-it’s-my job-to-say-it’ speech).

Fortunately for me, my travelling companion was my roommate from uni; a seasoned traveller and bona fide African, her parents residing in Kenya.

Swathed in maxi dresses we floated about the city, Nat’s golden tresses catching the amber light as it ricocheted off the red buildings, my pale (and uninteresting) skin letting our glamorous selves down by almost conducting the sunlight, like a living solar panel, blinding all passersby into donning their sunglasses.

(One friend once called me ‘whiter than white.’ After the initial ouch I accepted this as a truth, the proof of which is in all photographs as I tend to blur into one white blob – the sort of image of which is sent into cheap magazines on pages dedicated to paranormal activity).

We were made to feel very welcome by the Moroccan natives and particularly by the Marrakechi men. No doubt this was simply because men carry out the vast majority of business in their culture and upon witnessing two European faces (punctuated by Nat’s golden hair and my freckled, sweating, pink and peeling face) money signs materialise in their eyes, like the cartoons of yore.

In the context of the souks their flattering sales techniques was very successful. We had cash to spend and wanted to stock up on souvenirs. Where better than the Aladdin’s Caves that line the mini malls of Jemaa el Fna?

Flattery was an excellent prologue to our spending. It’s certainly nice to be appreciated.

While some salesmen simply asked us to just look at their stock, others complimented us on our outfits. This had us hook, line and sinker.

One chap, Abdul, called us sisters. “Goodbye, sisters! You’re welcome back to Marrakech anytime.” He was charming (and a totally hunk) and we did return to his stall… twice. Nat bought three leather bags from him.

This was largely down to his beautiful goods, partly due to his beautiful face (and arms), and most definitely because he made us, his sisters,  feel so welcome. He even offered to buy us tea! What’s not to like?

If we weren’t eager to make a purchase, we would assure the salesmen “Maybe we’ll have a look later.” A frequent reply to this was “later alligator.”

Others simply took note that we were English and croaked “Lovely Jubbly!” Whilst this was not a particularly appealing call (the image of Delboy pulling dodgy TV’s out of his yellow car’s boot not being on the top of my holiday wish list) it did make the two of us giggle like schoolgirls.

We were puzzled when the younger salesmen would attempt to attract our attention by yelling “Hey Lady Gaga! Lady Gaga!” or “Shakira! Shakira!”

On the one hand, both are influential women, both attractive, both talented. But as neither of us shimmied down the alleyways, neither bellydancing with hips that don’t lie and neither dressed in meat outfits, these nicknames were somewhat defunct.

Similarly, a food salesman telling us that his cuisine was like Sainsbury’s’ delicacies meant we both recoiled. No offence to the food connoisseur, and no offence to Sainsbury’s, but we were on our holiday and wanted to leave everything British behind us.

(Apart from, perhaps, a cup of tea. Ideally with Abdul).

Yet these were all enjoyable sales pitches. Similar declarations would undoubtedly fall on deaf ears in Lord Sugar’s boardroom. But for two young women looking for a good time in a foreign country we relished these situations.

We were at a scarf souk with a salesman who was determined for us to “Relaxxxxx!” and rest our bags on a side table. If we so much as nudged one of the bags he would order us to “Relaxxxx!” before returning the container to its original position.

We stood, bagless, and he draped beautiful scarves over our shoulders. If it hadn’t been 35◦ I would have bought more.

He took quite a liking to Nat and told us he would buy her for 5,000 camels. We both smiled indulgently.

If this happened in the UK I would have no problem throwing the guy a dirty look.

Indeed, when men in European countries toot their horns (I know I’m stereotyping, but as a rule they tend to be in vans), perhaps blowing kisses or licking their lips as they pass by, I have no problem in flipping the bird in their direction.

Oh dear, I sound like Samantha Brick. 


I must highlight this is not a regular occurrence. But I importantly never pander to their lusts or make use of their flattery by encouraging them to buy me a train ticket. 

But when the tables are turned, and men are flattering you so that you will give them money for a taxi ride, or scarf or leather bag, I confess I really enjoy it and I do indulge them.

Especially if they’re Moroccan.

Hit the Road Jack

Dear Mum,

I felt very smug yesterday, watching TV from the comfort of my home. I’m inclined to think toward the end of the river pageant the Queen herself was thinking that an inside viewing with a lap blanket and a hot toddy would have been preferable.

The Duke of Edinburgh, on the other hand, looked like he was having a jolly good time and it was lovely to see the Queen light up when the warhorse bucked on top of the National Theatre.

It was clearly a well organised affair and with the highest security, especially with the top seven members of the Royal Family amassed and shivering on their royal barge.

I’m confident there is a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service whom the Royal Family can always depend upon.

Someone who respects Her Majesty immensely, who will do anything to protect Her Majesty, whether wrestling a gobby protester bursting in on a royal meeting to the floor or holding an umbrella over her bouffant in drizzly rain.

Someone ruthless, streetwise and not distracted by the rears of any Duchesses or, more probably, Duchesses’ sisters.

Someone like Jack Bauer.

There are occasions where I wish I was Jack Bauer. Situations in which sense and logic are non-existent, where being polite and patient achieves bugger all.

When setting up a savings account, for instance.

I applied online for a high interest saving account and, almost a month after applying, received a letter requesting proof of identity.

Their list of acceptable ID documents included the usual examples – passports, driving licences, utility and credit card bills. This same letter pointed out “We would recommend, for security reasons, that you do not send original documents.”

Sensibly, therefore, I photocopied my passport and a credit card statement.

A week later, I receive a letter in which the photocopies were returned because “Photocopy document was not acceptable”, the same letter shortly after repeating “do not send original documents.”

What do they suggest? A photograph of these documents? A hologram? A video of me on my hand and knees, holding up my passport as I beg “Pleaaseee let me bank with you!!!”

The letter I received does not include ANY telephone number or contact email address, making the writers of this letter elusive and slightly suspicious.

It is occasions like this, when writing a letter which effectively gives a literary middle finger, does not make one feel better. And when “Dear Arsewipes” is probably not going to get the banking bozos on my side when they first open my letter.

These are the situations in which I wish I was an employee of CTU, the Counter Terrorist Unit and former employing body of Agent Jack Bauer.

My first move would be to hack into the bank’s system and tick the “Applicant has sent proof of ID” icon.

“I can’t get into their system. There firewall is like nothing I’ve seen before,” the slightly geeky but highly competent data analyst would say.

“Can’t you try getting around it?” I’d breathlessly insist.

“They’ve got security measures in place. Our system might be jeopardised if I hack into their trunkline.”

“Then get me an address.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking.”

“I need it NOW, Chloe!”

“I’m going as fast as I can.” (There is a long pause while Chloe trawls through data, satellite images flashing across her screen).

“Dammit, Chloe!”

“Okay, I’ve got it.”

With Chloe on comm., I’d climb into my white Toyota Yaris (this might be a fantasy but I can be a bit of a nervous driver so best stick to a car I’m familiar with) and put my foot down to the bank’s head office, wheels skidding around sharp corners, driving through red lights, never being stopped or running out of petrol.

I’d park up (in my fantasy I’m very good are parallel parking) and knock out the first security guard.

I’d bark “WHERE ARE THE ONLINE SAVINGS TEAM?” to the second, who’d nervously reply “Third floor.”

I’d run upstairs and burst through the third floor door. Ten heads would turn towards me, cries and hands to mouths as they glimpse my anger, panting heavily, sweating profusely. Someone not to be messed with.

“Bring up your applicant records.” I’d say to the nearest individual and I’d tell them to enter in my name.

My record pops up on their screen.

“Tick the ID box.”

“I can’t” the employee would say, “I need to see your passport.”

“I don’t have time for that. You’ve wasted enough of my time. If I’m going to start making some interest on my savings, you’re going to have to tick that box dammit.”

“But my boss... he’ll kill me.”

I need leverage. I pull a picture of Her Majesty from the wall.

“Tick the box or I’ll smash this.”

“...You wouldn’t...”

“Just try me.”

“But, it’s her Jubilee. Surely even you wouldn’t go that far.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to. But I’ve been put through enough thanks to your organisation. If you tick the box I promise I won’t do anything. I’ll leave the picture safely on the wall and we can forget about this whole affair.”

There is a pause as we stare at one another. I don’t blink. 


They slowly move their mouse, the cursor circling the screen. They tick the box.

I carefully place the picture of Her Majesty on their desk and back out of the room.

“You weren’t really going to smash that picture, were you?” I hear through my earpiece.

“Of course not. But thankfully my bluff worked. Put the kettle on, Chloe, I’m parched.”