Six months have passed since we donned our caps and gowns and
made our ways, slowly... painfully slowly... I mean, seriously, I have never
concentrated on walking so much in my entire life... down the Cathedral to
collect a piece of paper. No idea where
that piece of paper is by the way.
The Chronicler’s have been separated by cruel, cruel
adulthood, and now – scattered around the country, or at least the south coast,
and far, far up north in Solihull – we are embarking on LIFE…
If you’re anything like me, this is what you can expect…
1)Radio 1 starts to get too much, so you switch
over to Radio 3, where you catch the 18th Century Season and you
drive home calm, daydreaming of Mr Darcy and balls. As in, nice, fancy, formal dance balls. Not Miley Cyrus’ wrecking balls, Ed Balls or
hairy balls.
2)You opt for
a sensible coat. A nice, warm, puffy
coat. A coat with a hood, multiple zips
and the option to popper it over your face. There is nothing fashionable about this coat and you just won’t care.
3)You go to
bed early, ideally at around 9 pm. The
days that you could come home at three in the morning with your wobbly boots on
and still make it to a 9 am lecture become a distant memory.
4)Little things
will start to really annoy you and you won’t care who knows it. For example, when the postman used to
deliver the neighbours' post by accident, I used to take it round to the correct
house, like a friendly volunteer. Now, I run around the neighbourhood until I
find the postman’s van and I stand next to it until he reappears, handing him
the letters: 'You delivered these to the
wrong house.'
5)You have a
saving plan, and you actually save. This might even involve a spreadsheet, with the formulae you learnt and
said you’d never use. On that note, Student Finance England start sending you letters
about money you owe THEM, not money they’re going to give YOU.
My feelings towards going to the Doctor’s fluctuate
depending on how antagonistic I’m feeling. If I’m ill, I know that I’m ill and
somebody else telling me isn’t going to make me feel better. And anyway, my
local surgery is just ridiculous. It takes all your snotty effort to phone
them, only to be told they have no appointments…unless it’s urgent, in which
case you can ‘drop in’ between the hours of 11.30 and the first Tuesday of
2016, to see the duty doctor.
Previously, my response to 'is it urgent?' has been, 'yeah,
I’d say so; I can’t see out of one eye…'which was deemed important enough that I was encouraged to sit in the
waiting room from 11.30 until who knows when just in case a doctor became
available. However, I have recently figured out a sure-fire way for any girl to
secure an appointment…
'Is it urgent?'
'Uhm yeah.'
'Could I ask what it is that’s wrong?'
'Well, I’m on the pill, and…'
Sorted!
I think (well, I hope I’m not the only one) that any girl
will have experienced the way that whatever reason you are at the Doctor’s, you will
always be confronted with that dreaded, awkward question…
'Are you sexually active?'
This question is just fine if you’re in a relationship! You can answer a very
simple 'yes', perhaps followed by the story of how you met and a to-the-second
update on how long you have been together.
So what’s the answer if you’re single?!
Never mind, I think my red chinos, buttoned up colour, and cardigan with foxes
on was saying something quite the contrary to ‘absolute sex goddess’…
The awkwardness begins to peak as it’s time to take off clothes.
Unbuttoning my trousers*, which is strange enough as it is, especially if like
me you decide it to be an ideal time to make eye contact with your Doctor, I
had that crazy panic which I’m pretty sure everyone else does (okay, maybe just
me)… What knickers am I wearing? Have I shaved my legs?
(For the record, I had ridiculous yellow and pink spotty knickers on which made
my arse resemble that of Mr. Blobby, and no, I hadn’t shaved my legs…)
The crazy thing is – and I know Doctor’s genuinely don’t care what knickers I’m
wearing – but I don’t even know what underwear I would deem suitable to be
wearing. Anything too lacy, stringy or see-through would surely be a bit on the
slutty side, but anything featuring cute frogs or Disney characters isn’t
highlighting your maturity levels and making your health (sexual, or otherwise)
seem that paramount…
Since I’m tapping into the part of my brain where I store all my awkward
situations… when I went for my Cervical Cancer jabs when I was sixteen, the
(male) Doctor advised me to remove my shirt for the injections… this really
wasn’t necessary… I had a short-sleeved t-shirt on.
Perv.
Now excuse me whilst I eat an apple a day.
Harriet Baker
* After receiving a text from my friend saying "Why did you have to take your trousers off at the Doctors?!", I feel I need to justify that I was at the Doctor's coz I have dodgy legs and my chino's were too tight (or maybe my calves were too fat) to roll them up. Thus, I had to take them off. Ok?!
'I do not know what weapons World War III will be fought with, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.'
- Albert Einstein.
It's a grim thought, but a fitting way, I feel, for The Pessimist's Guide to Modern Living to hang up its cape after several months of fighting back against those little irritations and niggles which are, undeniable, the most pressing matter concerning a modern-day human being. So, with no further ado, I shall bring this most terrible of elephants in the room (or, rather, the blog) into the forefront. Let us never forget the fact that:
WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE
Now that that is well and truly out of the way, the time has come to tackle the real reasons behind the fact that
WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE
and decide how exactly we could avoid this fate. You know, the one which means that
WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE
So, let us proceed.
It's a dark story which begins over sixty-five years ago when a German-Jewish scientist, one Albert Einstein, discovered that E does indeed equal M timed by C doubled. I mean, God only knows how he worked that out, but I assure you, thats exactly what my reliable sources have told me it equals, and they're all as believable as Orson Welles' blackface portrayal of Othello. Anyhoo, this formula managed to create a giant mushroom of smoke, dust and flame, which swept through the Japanese locales of Hiroshima and, later, Nagasaki, destroying everything in its wake. Thus was born what is perhaps the most significant invention of the modern age - the nuclear bomb. It says a lot about the excitement this invention generated - here was something to finally put an end to the carnage of the present conflict, but the excitement was not to last. Already, a certain darkness, over-confidence and - dare I say it? - frivolity came into being. Yes: frivolity. Naming the most deadly weapons in the history of time 'Little Boy' and 'Fat Man' is, at least to my mind, particularly sinister, as if denying the seriousness of what these relatively small objects were capable of doing. Regardless, World War II, having already raged for six years, was drawn to a close with the final surrender of the Japanese, and peace reigned across the globe.
Or did it?
My inate pacifism could produce an entire series of essays musing upon the nature of warfare and destruction. In fact, almost all fiction I write has something to do with conflict or devastation. For as long as I can remember, my creative writing has been undeniably against organised carnage, totalitarianism and civilian murder and for democratic socialism, peace and human-wide unity. I could go on for a million words discussing the righteousness of these nuclear attacks, but I am well aware my questions would generate some rather fierce debate: how can I suggest the mass murder of civilians with a weapon against which it is impossible to fight back could be unjustified, when if the War had continued more soldiers would eventually have succumbed to the might of the Japanese army? I sometimes wonder myself, but I cannot shake the feeling that we're constantly missing the key argument in this decade-old debate. J. Robert Oppenheimer recognised it when he infamously declared 'now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.' The dropping of these bombs may have been a speedy resolution to the carnage of the trenches, but it cannot be denied that the device which ended the destruction of 1939 to 1945 will forever be a shadow hanging over God's green Earth, having bought us extra time before destroying us all. Even the frequently recited moniker of 'World War III' is unlikely, because how will there possibly be a war when there won't even be a chance to have a fight? It's a pretty disturbing thought, isn't it?
After the War, terror and alarm spread like wildfire. Tensions between US/USSR relations began to tighten, eventually reaching a point where we all almost died (or, in the case of most of our readers, were prevented from being born) - the Cold War, which 'raged' from 1947 to 1991, brought the world to the brink of destruction. We had seen what nuclear weaponry could do, so, naturally, utter disbelief was all that could be expressed at the fact that these terrible things actually began to be widely manufactured. What commenced was a long drawn-out period of political and military anxiety with the USA and its NATO allies sitting down frowning fiercely at the Soviet Union and the communist world, each leader with his finger poised unwaveringly over the big red button which would launch a swarm of devastation which would undoubtedly engulf the world and bring us all back to a world something like the one out of Terminator. Neither side had the guts the press the button, but neither side, likewise, had the common sense to kiss and make up.
It was a period of great cultural significance, of course. The political climate influenced Orwell's classic dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949), telling of a totalitarian world following a cataclysmic Third World War very different to Huxley's earlier Brave New World (1932), and from then on the theme has been rammed down our throats incessantly. You can see just how bad the situation was when you realise that of Ian Fleming's twelve James Bond novels, Casino Royale (1953), Moonraker (1955), From Russia with Love (1957), Goldfinger (1959), Thunderball (1961)and The Man with the Golden Gun (1965)each deal with nuclear or Cold War-related themes, as do the films Dr. No (1962), From Russia with Love (1963), Goldfinger (1964), Thunderball (1965), You Only Live Twice (1967), The Spy Who Loved Me (1977), The Living Daylights (1987) and Goldeneye (1995). Likewise, thinly-veiled anti-nuclear propaganda has taken the form through the ages of Robert Wise's The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), James Cameron's Terminator series (1984 - 2009), Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968) - adapted by Ridley Scott into Blade Runner (1982) -Stanley Kubrick's comedy satire film Dr. Strangelove: or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)and many more.
The War ran constantly, alternating moments of relative calm with significant near-apocalyptic moments, such as the Korean War (1950-1953), the Suez Crisis (1956), the Cuban Missile Crisis (1962), the Vietnam War (1959-1975) and the Yom Kippur War (1973); yet, of course, the bomb was never dropped again, and we're all still here; but the conflict remains, hidden from public view but undeniably still there. Political leaders simply haven't learned. Man will not destroy the Earth, despite what we are told about 'mankind being base and evil' and 'humanity being responsible for its own destruction'. It has to be remembered, whenever these arguments are made, how few people actually had a hand in making these bombs and how many throughout the decades (and even at the time they were first produced) have opposed them. We can all rest assured that, should be be alive when the bomb goes off, that we as a species had nothing to do with it. Who created our mutually-assured destruction? The political leaders, of course. As is always the case with them, conflict breaks out through their disagreements, but as always it is the common people who suffer. Nuclear bunkers were built across the country in response to the nuclear threat, but they were of course primarily for the safety of politicians and royalty. The rest of us would have to make do with hiding inside our houses and hoping everything goes okay. That's just the way of the world, it seems. Even the people who worked at the bunkers were disposable, placed there to measure radioactivity in the atmosphere but only given enough provisions to last for a months or so, after which time they would have been forced to step out into the world. 1980s pop group Frankie Goes to Hollywood probably said it best when they released their infamous anti-nuclear hit single 'Two Tribes', from their debut album Welcome to the Pleasure Dome (1984 - my, isn't that a date which just keeps following us around?).
If our leaders could just get into a ring and fight it out, wouldn't it all be a lot better for the rest of us? I'm not an anarchist or someone who truly believes we could necessarily do without our leaders, but I firmly believe all authority figures the world over need to look at their reflections in the mirror and ask themselves just why they keep hovering their fingers over the dreaded buttons because, really, what's the point of it all?
Every year, new wars break out; political reports keep getting worse and worse; and terrorism is increasingly coming to the forefront of society's consciousness. If you listen to the news enough, the all-powerful scaremongers that are the media would have you believe destruction is imminent, but in reality we simply can't tell either way.
I don't actually think it will happen for a long while yet, though. In fact, I feel particularly inclined to side with George Orwell, in fact, who, in 1945 published an essay entitled 'You and the Atomic Bomb', which aptly concludes with the most accurate description of what the bomb really means.
'Had the atomic bomb turned out to be something as cheap and easily manufactured
as a bicycle or an alarm clock, it might well have plunged us back into
barbarism, but it might, on the other hand, have meant the end of national
sovereignty and of the highly-centralised police state. If, as seems to be the
case, it is a rare and costly object as difficult to produce as a battleship, it
is likelier to put an end to large-scale wars at the cost of prolonging
indefinitely a "peace that is no peace".'
It is not therefore, a case of
WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE
But, I feel, rather that
MAYBE IT WILL HAPPEN, MAYBE IT WON'T. WE JUST CAN'T TELL, BUT THERE'S NO SENSE WANDERING AROUND PANICKING ABOUT IT FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES. WE'VE SURVIVED SO FAR, SO WHY NOT FOR A BIT LONGER. MAYBE THERE WILL BE A GLOBAL ARMISTICE. WHO CAN TELL? NOT I. OH WELL, SUCH IS LIFE. LET'S GET THROUGH 2012 FIRST, SHALL WE?
And if it did happen, it wouldn't necessarily mean the end of the world; the world would most certainly still be there, but after thermonuclear energy had done its work, would it really be a world worth keeping?
Thus go some of the worst lyrics in the history of music, I feel it would be agreed universally; yet, inexplicably, the single in which these lyrics serve as a chorus successfully reached #3 on the UK Singles Chart and, even more surprisingly, #2 on the UK R&B Chart. I'm not sure which of these little slices of knowledge angers me most: the fact that something so poorly written, with such repetitive 'beats' laid down by a synthesiser in the background, actually managed to succeed commercially and brought in a boatload of money for this whiney little talentless nobody, or the fact that it has been classed as R&B music, a genre with which I have often been much enamoured in the past.
R&B (or, as it should correctly be styled, R 'n' B, because its so cool it doesn't even need a full-length connective), of course stands for 'rhythm and blues'. It is a popular genre of African-American music which rose to fame in the 1940s, featuring a beautiful blend of blues, jazz and soul. Throughout the mid-twentieth century, it was one of the most well-respected and widely followed genres of music available, and is still one of the primary associations with the period writer F. Scott Fitzgerald terms 'the Jazz Age'. But what is perhaps most beautiful about it was the way it broke down barriers of race and nationality. During a period of history rife with hatred and discrimination, R'n'B can easily be described as the first example of a genre shared between black and white alike. Synonymous with such legends as Little Richard, Chuck Berry and Ray Charles, the genre was soon picked up by several contemportary white acts such as Free, and was even heavily-featured on the early Led Zeppelin records.
Of course, it is a tragic fact that whenever someone mentioned R'n'B nowadays, it is a rare thing that anyone will think of this kind of music, and the few who do believe it stands for rhythm and blues are sadly thinking of a completely different genre; for, what was once rhythm and blues, is now, tragically, yet another abomination of the terrible decade that was the 1980s: so-called 'Contemporary R&B', the 'contemporary' being there, of course, because that 'other' style is just too old and shocking for modern audiences to understand.
Yet the use of the phrase 'R&B' is completely erroneous in this case: where the term used to mean an African-American jazz/soul/blues fusion genre, it now refers to a style (I can't even bring myself to say 'of music') not just laced with pop, funk, disco and hip hop, but positively dripping with its influence.
And it is with that terrible change of style that songwriting like that outlined at the beginning of this article comes into being.
I have often had it said to me that I just don't understand modern music; or, if I do, I'm just an old person trapped inside a young person's body who can't accept that musical styles change. I have even had my personal tastes in music called 'boring', 'old' (which, I assume, is somehow naturally synonymous with 'boring') and just plain old 'bad'.
So I suppose this edition of The Pessimist's Guide to Modern Living comes principally as a retaliation to those few who throughout the last few years have expressed a widespread rigidity and fixedness regarding what is 'good' and what is 'bad' - and yet, along the way, a few very good points will undoubtedly be raised.
As a longstanding believer that there is no such thing as 'good' and 'bad' and that everything realating to the arts is a matter of opinion, I usually find people agreeing with me as to this sentiment; and yet, when it comes to music, all these individuals choose to forsake these beliefs. In fact, I have even had one girl say to me 'I know its onl a matter of opinion, but old music is just so... bad.'
Remember that word: 'bad'. Remember, also, that this relates to old music in particular.
With that sentiment fresh in your minds, I shall rapidly move on to my heavy criticism of the quality of modern music, through a few short comparisons, beginning, of course, with what is arguably the most important part of all music - songwriting. The quote which opened this article is, of course, from the notorious hit single (oh, how my fingers burned when I typed that phrase) 'Baby' by Justin Bieber, which is featured on his hit album (oh, the pain) My World 2.0 (2010). Much criticism has already been targeted at young Master J. Bieber regarding the repetitiveness of the song, the annoying 'oh my God I'm such a deep person because I can sing a song about love at such a young age' nature of the music video and the general tiresome fuzzyness of it all (or, rather, the attempted fuzzyness, because let's face it, even a jumper stops being fuzzy if you vomit all over it). It would, therefore, be very easy for me to criticise Bieber entirely, but that has been done so many times before, it has become an approach about as sickening as Bieber managed to make the very mention of the word 'baby'.
Congratulations, Mr. Birkmyre, you now have a beautiful baby boy.
A... 'baby', you say?
AAAARRRGGGHHHHH!!!!
But it would be unfair of me to attack Bieber alone. After all, it takes two to tango and, in the same way, it takes sometimes two to write a song (or, in the case of the talentless young Bieber, five. That's right: he needed four people to help him write that. For the shared blame, therefore, I have to direct my angst primarily to the larger franction of the workforce: so, Christopher Stewart, Terius Nash, Christopher Bridges and Christina Milian... what were you playing at? Don't you remember the days when songwriting actually took some time? It's hard to imagine what these five demons felt after so many hours of work only being able to come up with a chorus which effectively re-uses the word 'baby' every second syllable and uses up their entire 'like' quota for the fiscal year in one go. Pride? Sadness? I hope fear.
I despair, as I'm sure you must too, when you compare the greatest hit singles of the past century with this drivel. For example, Queen's 'Who Wants to Live Forever', from their 1986 album A Kind of Magic (and written solely by Brian May, it should be noted) begins with the following beautiful, philosophical lines:
There's no time for us.
There's no place for us.
What is this thing that builds our dreams,
Yet slips away from us?
And when music is filled up with lines like that, who needs the repetitive hits of today? Yes, it should be admitted, this song's chorus is very simplistic, but at least its short - we're not confronted with these lines being repeated over and over again for anything longer than fifteen seconds or so.
And that isn't all that's great about the past. It would take me forever to list all the amazing lyrics of yesteryear and all the faecal matter of today, but there are still a few examples which should be attented to, such as:
Guess who just got back today?
Them wild-eyed boys that had been away.
Haven't changed, haven't much to say,
But man, I still think them cats are crazy.
They were asking if you were around,
How you was, where you could be found.
Told them you were living downtown,
Driving all the old men crazy.
Not as philosophical as the previous example, its true; but the point here is that the lyrics are supposed to be fun, and despite the bad grammer in Phil Lynott's language use, it works, and is still one of the most popular rock anthems in the history of music. The song is of course 'The Boys Are Back in Town' by Thin Lizzy (from the 1976 album Jailbreak).
Or how about this?:
I've been alone with you inside my mind,
And in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times.
I sometimes see you pass outside my door.
Hello, is it me you're looking for?
I can see it in your eyes,
I can see it in your smile.
You're all I've ever wanted,
And my arms are open wide.
'Cause you know just what to say,
And you know just what to do,
And I want to tell you so much,
I love you.
Oh, Lionel, we can feel your pain coming through in these amazing lyrics (which you wrote, alone, for your 1984 album Can't Slow Down and which were so popular you even re-recorded it for your 2012 album Tuskegee). The lyric make you feel; but the same cannot be said for, say, this:
I don't mean to be pushy, pushy.
I'm just in it for the pussy, pussy.
Who wants to come and get a pie of the piece?
Got time for everyone, I ain't on no leash.
(N-Dubz, 'Sex', Uncle B, 2008)
Erm... 'a pie of the piece'? Surely you mean 'a piece of the pie'.
Idiots. Proof-reading, people!
Another bugbear of mine is the rapidly-increasing obsession with the synthesiser and, worse still, the dreaded autotuner. Instruments themselves seem to be becoming a thing of the past, and it is for this reason I despise Calvin Harris so much - pressing a few buttons on a contraption which is essentially a computer does not constitute musicianship. As for the autotuner, the sad fact is that where singers could in the past be picked for their vocal ability, they are now signed up if they have the right tone which can be edited by, again, a computer. The result is, sadly, that what we hear on the record is in reality not the actual singer, and whenever they perform live, the results are inevitably tragic.
Compare:
The sad fact is, of course, that no-one sounds this good live anymore; and all because of the comfort the autotuner gives. I could cry from despair.
I believe it is for this reason artists now just have no longevity. Whereas Bryan Adams released his first album in 1980 and has something new coming out later this year (and this isn't even a comeback, having previous released albums of new material in 2008, 2004, 1998 and so on) and Bon Jovi have released new stuff on average every two years since their debut in 1984, modern artists just seem to stop after a couple of years. For example, the two great hit-making machines of the 90s, Steps and S Club 7, only managed 3 albums in 3 years and 4 in 4 years respectively, whereas one of the most popular pop acts of the present era, Take That, only managed three albums before splitting, and again after reuniting only managed a further three before announcing their 'hiatus' (and despite their plans for another album to be released in 2013, I suspect the hiatus is the start of the inevitable second disbandment).
I think I need say no more. But that isn't to say that all music has gone downhill; there are still some very talented artists out there. Yes, its true that Birdie may have managed to achive fame by making an album out of the same song repeated ten times, but that isn't the case with all up-and-coming artists. Folk music, for example, is holding out pretty well, and I would argue that whether its the fun-filled wackiness of Bellowhead's traditional folk tunes or the enchanting self-composed lyrics of the wonderful Laura Marling, there's hope for us yet. As for the more obscure acts, Vintage Trouble have worked wonders with their rock-infused soul tracks, and the French singer Ben l'Oncle Soul looks set to be working his way across the globe with his Motown revival. My list of good music, in fact, is pretty large. Whether it be The Shins, Josh Groban, Seasick Steve, etc, music seems to have hope yet.
Just as God sent Joan of Arc to lead the French to victory, so he also sent Laura Marling.
Not to lead the French to victory. That would be silly. To save music. Honestly, Laura fighting.
Look at her. Couldn't hurt a fly. Although I bet that guitar can do some damage.
But what I truly despair of is the mainstream. I would encourage all my readers not to be bogged down by the 'now' or even in the charts; there's a wealth of entertainment out there, just waiting to be grabbed by the balls.
It was while sitting comfortably on the train travelling into Stratford-upon-Avon last week that I began a conversation with the dear friend sitting next to me about the man so infamously born at the site of our destination on approximately 23rd April 1564 - William Shakespeare. How surprised (and disturbed) was I then to hear him say the following words to me.
'I wouldn't know much about that: I only read trashy fiction.'
Naturally, I felt obliged to explain that there were really only a few things which could be described as 'trashy fiction', but if it is written well and, above all, entertains the reader, it is somewhat difficult to label it as 'trashy'.
But it got me thinking: who exactly has the right to decide what is worth reading and what isn't? And, furthermore, what makes something 'trashy'? And (an even more pressing matter), why is it that so many people feel they cannot tackle the 'classics', due to a belief that they are either 'boring' or 'too difficult'? After all, a recent news report from the BBC suggested that some children struggle to read at school because they see reading as 'boring' and 'nerdy', and it seems they receive no encouragement to pursue the subject (the report can be perused here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/education-18644811). I personally, feel this is very sad - after all, the popularity of reading is as high now as it ever was, and the classics even more so... so why are some people so afraid of them?
I suppose the issue of what is worth reading all derives from the literary canon. For those of you who don't know what I mean by this phrase (and, to be honest, not knowing its meaning myself before coming to university suggests that most people who aren't English students will likewise and understandably be completely oblivious), the canon is, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, '[a] standard of judgement or authority; a test, criterion, means of discrimination' - that is, which authors/works are 'worth' reading, therefore systematically un-trashy and, according to http://www.victorianweb.org,
'It means that the works in the canon get read, read by neophyte students and
supposedly expert teachers. It also means that to read these privileged works is
a privilege and a sign of privilege. It is also a sign that one has been
canonized oneself -- beatified by the experience of being introduced to beauty,
admitted to the ranks of those of the inner circle who are acquainted with the
canon and can judge what belongs and does not.'
Now, I personally am not entirely convinced by the idea of the canon myself. After all, what makes a work canon, and why is it instantly worth reading and better than everything else if it has this great status inferred upon it?
Of course, the classics are classics for very good reasons, and I do not mean to decry the idea of a 'literary prestige' entirely; and yet, it would be remiss of me to leave the readers of this article believing that everything in the canon is accessible and 'better' than the more 'trashy' fiction out there.
One of my own literary idols, the legendary George Orwell, in a 1945 essay entitled 'Good Bad Books' mused upon this same topic. In his discourse, he interestingly suggested that 'the "good bad book" [is] the kind of book that has no literary pretentions but which remains readable when more serious productions have perished', including within this category the Sherlock Holmes stories (1887 - 1927) and Bram Stoker's magnum opus, Dracula (1897), both of which have undoubtedly gone on to achieve 'classic' and, more importantly, 'canon' status today. He goes on to ask the question of '[w]ho has worn better, [Sir Arthur] Conan Doyle or [George] Meredith?' I think we all know the answer to that one.
'Good Bad Book', or literary phenomenon?
The point of including Orwell here is clear: the suggestion outlined above is that even one of the most prominent figures within the literary canon personally repudiated the idea of the classics being the be all and end all of what makes 'good' literature, a belief I clearly share. As an English student, many would expect me to be a reader solely of canon works, and yet will confess to having read (and, indeed, thoroughly enjoyed) the works of such 'brutish' writers as Andy McNab and Ian Fleming in my time, the latter of which brings me on neatly to my next point.
The vast majority of classic writers, it would seem, were never good enough to be considered so in their own day - sometimes, this is inexplicable, as Edgar Allan Poe, while never having been able to make a good living off his work during his brief lifetime, remains undeniably a master of the gothic horror genre (who doesn't know 'The Raven' or 'The Fall of the House of Usher'?), and John Keats, who was even unable to marry his sweetheart, Fanny Brawne, because his poetry wasn't earning him enough money; some were respcted in their day, and are raved about as the best writers of all time, and yet in reality aren't all that good - Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway (1925), for example, is one of the most boring narratives of all time; other writers, hugely successful in their time, are now scarcely read at all (such as in the cases of Aphra Behn and Jane Barker, of whom I am only aware because of having chosen to study Women's Writing in the Long Eighteenth Century next semester); and some, like the aforementioned Fleming, are very curious anomalies, concretely situated within the canon and widely read as classics, yet still considered by many to be trashy fiction.
Well-rounded character, a timeless storyline, and a downright dark closing line ('The bitch is dead now'), Casino Royale (1953) is the first in a literary series despised by many scholars... yet it laid the foundations
of one of the most successful film franchises of all time.
Why would this be, I ask? The answer, after much consideration, seems obscenely simple: the more entertaining, 'mainstream' fiction just isn't good enough for the canon, and it is for this reason that, when deciding what book to buy, the canon has very little bearing upon what I choose to purchase. Of course, I have become very enamoured with canon authors through my studies in literature, and if I were to look at the gothic I would be far more likely to buy a copy of Dracula than Twilight (and have done, for obvious reasons); but it is important for those of you out there, like my friend, who don't feel they can read the classics to keep this in mind: just because it is a classic does not mean it is boring and difficult - after all, Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels (1726; revised 1735) and Alexandre Dumas' The Three Musketeers (1844) must be great stories, because numerous film versions throughout history have been so popular that we all know the stories, and are not even put off by Swift's original rather surprising groin-grabbingly intimidating title for his work (Gulliver's Travels:Travels Into Several Remote Nations of the World, in Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver, First a Surgeon, and then a Captain of Several Ships); but, likewise, it does not necessarily mean it is brilliant and breathtaking. All classics are classics for a reason, but not all for particularly good reasons... and they are not necessarily so because of what Italo Calvino decided - 'classics are not what we say we are reading, but what we are re-reading'. No, Italo, that isn't the case at all. In fact, there are some classics you will never wish to look at twice...
Yawn... I blame the translator (not)
The fact is that some novels are classics for historic reasons. Daniel Deoe's Robinson Crusoe (1719), for example, was the first English novel, but despite being a great story is for the most part a torturous read; similarly, Samuel Richardson's Clarissa: or, The History of a Young Lady (1748) is the longest novel in the English language, and as a result has only been finished by a handful of people, and certainly not by me or anybody I have ever met. That said, not all classics are this bad: the majority are some of the best stories you could ever follow, and it shows when you read such greats as John William Polidori's The Vampyre (1819), classic for the fact that it brough the vampire into the contemporary public consciousness, and a thrilling read because of it, and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus (1818), a great introduction to the Romantic anxieties surrounding the growth of modern scientific knowledge.
But just because a particularly good writer is respected and canon does not necessarily mean they are perfect. Shakespeare has remained incredibly popular since his arrival on the London stage scene in the 1590s, with the Globe and Royal Shakespeare Company almost selling out at every performance, with amateur groups and schools even getting in on the the act, and being very succesful at it - I myself was taught to star as Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream (c.1595) at primary school when an amateur dramatics society visited one afternoon and got us all to join in a production of one scene. Following on from that, I was highly enthusiastic at my studies of Macbeth (c.1606) and Romeo and Juliet (c.1595) in English at school, and even starred as the Duke in my GCSE drama production of Measure for Measure (c.1603-1604), so much so that I am now specialising in Shakespeare as part of my dissertation. But the main issue people have, I feel, is that the plays they are forced to study at school are in no way Shakespeare's best. They are great works, yes, but not as good as others, and the way English is taught at school is, for many people, enough to put them off for life; but there is so much entertainment to be had - go and see a production of my favourite play, King Richard II (c.1595), or the greatest of the tragedies, King Lear (c.1605 - 1606) or even the fantastic comedy that is Twelfth Night (c.1601) - even if you can't understand Shakespeare on the page very well, a good theatre company like the RSC or Globe will easily be able to make you see the comedy to be had even if you can't find it on your own: its all in the delivery, after all. And yet, Shakespeare has, in fact, written a handful of plays which are downright rejected by scholars, critics and the public alike. The King Henry VI trilogy (c.1590 - 1591), Titus Andronicus (c.1591-1592), Timon of Athens (c. 1605 - 1606) and Pericles, Prince of Tyre (c.1607) have all fallen victim to the phrase 'Shakespeare couldn't have written this tripe!' It seems shocking, I know, but there is so much arrogance surrounding the man that some scholars will not even accept he wrote them. Just because a writer is considered the greatest of all time doesn't mean he didn't write some naff stuff; we all have our off days, although how you could dislike such witty Marxist content as this is beyond me:
Fisherman 3: Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea.
Fisherman 1: Why, as men do a-land: the great ones eat up the little ones.
(Pericles, Prince of Tyre, Act II, Scene 1)
A truly touching, often funny, highly witty tale of a father and his daughter, Pericles has for years been rejected and often loathed by 'experts' and audiences,
and yet it remains one of my favourites.
So the best plan of action seems to be to get people involved in the classics earlier, but that does not mean that it is impossible to do it if you are older. And so, here is a list of the top ten 'classics' which, I feel, could provide a thoroughly entertaining, accessible starting point for anyone who wants to read less 'trashy' fiction but has been indoctrinated to be somewhat pensive about the challenge, or worried they will be a bit 'above' them.
1) Charles Dickens, Hard Times (1854) - One of his shortest and simplest works, this contains all the trademarks of Dickens' fiction: hard, edgy, social commentary and great historical realism. He een goes easy on the often mind-numbing descriptive passages here.
2) Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) - A gothic classic, we all know the story from the films, but they often over-emphasised the homoeroticism. There is much more on human nature and the dark side of desire in the original.
3) Bram Stoker, Dracula (1897) - Another gothic classic. As above, if you've only seen the film, you don't know the real story. Pulling off your nipple and letting a woman drink the blood while you're doing the nasty? Its all in there.
4) Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles (1901 - 1902) - Undoubtedly the best of the novels, it retains the detective elements while experimenting with a gothic/horror infusion which works incredibly well. The language isn't at all archaic or convoluted - the way Conan Doyle wrote, it might as well have been written last week.
5) F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1925) - The ultimate American novel. Don't see the film and let Toby Maguire's acting ruin it for you until you've given the book a chance.
6) Aldous Huxley, Brave New World (1932) - Again, written in a style which is very up-to-date and contemporary, and a story which is as relevant now (with all our repid technological advancement) as it was in the 1930s, when the Nazi Party was just coming to power in Germany.
7) P. G. Wodehouse, Thank You, Jeeves (1933 - 1934) - Classic comedy. If you're worried the classics might be a bit heavy, its always good to be able to have a laugh. Written as a critique on the 'idle rich' who dominated England in Wodehouse's day, you could almost be reading about junior members of our current government...
8) George Orwell, Animal Farm (1945) - This allegorical novella is the shortest of Orwell's fictional works, and contains all of the trademarks of his fiction: political rebellion, social parody and a heavy dusting of satire. The first true post-war novel, Orwell had a very hard time trying to get this published, due to its blatant criticism of Stalin and the Soviet Union and their relationship with Britain at the tome, but its a good thing he managed it, because it remains one of the greatest works of fiction of all time, and one of my personal favourites. At only ten chapters it could be read in a day or two - just don't make the mistake of thinking this is in any way a children's book.
9) Graham Greene, The Quiet American (1955) - A first-rate thriller, set in 1950s Indo-China. It became a great film with Michael Caine and Brendan Fraser, and is a great exploration of the darker sides of forced friendship miles from home.
10) Ian Fleming, From Russia with Love (1957) - Undoubtedly the best of the Bond novels, and simultaneously classic fiction and trashy fiction. One of John F. Kennedy's favourite books, and the one closest to its film adaptation, you may as well forget waiting for Skyfall to be released - this is classic espionage as it should be.
And so, I send you forth to rediscover the classics, and not to let yourself be intimidated because the snobs at Oxbridge have tuck their noses in the air and decided that only a fictional social elite should be able to read these texts. Nothing is too hard to read if you have a mind to do so, and nothing is trashy if its well-written enough for you to enjoy.
Although, the same cannot be said for Fifty Shades of Grey...
They say that a picture speaks louder than words...
At first glances the miserable young man, could be portrayed as 'gentleman', paying homage to my previous articles. But when looking deeper into this image (and by 'deeper', I mean 'taking into account the wonderful caption'), we see that this chivalric male does not seem to be the boyfriend, or 'mating partner for the evening' but is, in fact, SOMETHING MUCH WORSE...
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...
A 'friend'.
This term - 'friend' - brings me to the title of this article, 'The Friend Zone and Its Darker Tones'. Now, I am sure you are all aware of the term 'friend zone', but for those still left in the dark by this amalgamation of familiar words, let me enlighten you with a brief definition from the Urban Dictionary:
'Friend Zone - This is the worst position someone can be in, if they have feelings for someone. When a person develops romantic feelings for someone, but the other person only sees the relationship as just being friends. Because the two are around each other a lot, the one in love will harbor his/her feelings for the other, only to become completely consumed by this person. This leads the one in love to complain to all of his/her friends about the situation, and to become "pussy whipped" by the other.'
I think the majority of us can relate somewhat to the above definition, having that one friend who you may want something more with; but I'm sorry readers - they only want you for your services... and not the services you are thinking about, you dirty, dirty reader.
Bummer.
So, 'what can we do if we find ourselves in this zone of friendship?', I hear you ask. Well, you probably didn't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Here are a few simple steps to help remove you from this closet of emotion.
1) Spooning - You may feel that this is a somewhat forward approach to overcoming this obstacle, but let's face it, the occasional hug when saying 'hello/goodbye' to someone will not result in you going home with the said friend, therefore reinforcing this bastion of friendship. Spooning itself is a positive approach in the right direction - it leads to closeness (created in an increase of physical contact), and alludes to darker undertones. I must also add that these darker undertones are negated by the innocent nature of spooning, therefore abolishing all traces of negative connotations... so you're going to be okay.
... which is always a good thing.
2) Talking - If the subtle, 'rapey' persona isn't working for you, then I suppose talking could help. On the other hand, it could make things much, much worse... but kudos for trying!Worst case scenario: you express how you feel and he/she freaks out and, five minutes later, you've lost a good friend. So it's not all bad! Maybe expressing your true feelings may aid the predicament you are stuck in - who knows, they may be feeling the same and are waiting for you to make the first move. But nine times out of ten that is not the case. They hang around with you as you make them feel better about themselves. On a more serious note, talking results in a clearer mind, as it takes the weight off the entire situation, everything is up in the air, and there is nothing else you can do other than let fate work its magic. As mentioned earlier, kudos for trying!
3) Subtle hinting - This should probably be number one, but it is rather time-consuming and if you're looking for a quick fix, this may not be the ideal route to take. It does however prove to be a worthwhile approach if you are serious and devoted. It may also prove to be a laugh too!
One thing I must point out: You must NOT be this obvious...
I SAID 'SUBTLE', GUYS!
There are many ways in which you can make subtle moves, whether this is due to you increasing your physical contact with the person in question, or maybe even slowly planning out the rest of your life with them. All these ideas will slowly imprint and ingrain on the recipient's brain. It may sound creepy, but you could even mentally condition your best friend to love you...
Conclusion - I think the above points could prove to be helpful when taken into consideration, but I need a closing statement in order to seal the deal and bring this article to a close.
So, do you want my advice?
DON'T GO THERE.
I like to think of a friend as a comfortable item of clothing, whether that is:
- Trackie bottoms
- Shoes
- Hoodie
- T-Shirt
You like to do everything with your favourite trackie bottoms, go everywhere with your favourite trackie bottoms, show off your new trackie bottoms to everyone; but when it comes down to the crunch (if you can even call it 'the crunch'), do you really want to badoinkadoink* your favourite item of clothing?
No you do not.
For those who do not heed my warning, I will close with this final picture.
This could be you**
Alex White
* Badoinkadoink - It means exactly what you think it means - courtesy of Kat Darlington
Whilst I wouldn’t mind being a size smaller, this is not
about losing any weight. This is about the fact that I get out of breath
walking to the kitchen for my second breakfast, or mid-afternoon snack.
I refuse to go the gym because the gym is just people paying
an insane monthly fee to look at each other sit on machines and occasionally
lift something the weight of a kitten, or stride away on an elliptical trainer
on a setting so low that it’s like you’re chilling out on Mars.
I refuse to join a University sports team. If you are on a
sports team then, like my Dad who was an absolute football hero at University,
you will find it hard to understand how ridiculously intimidating sports teams
are to everyone else. I played girls football and ran until year 9, at
which point an invisible force comes along, causing everyone to become
competitive and angry and destroying all traces of fun. So, I turned my back on
sport, devoted all my time to Art, joined the Poetry Society and discovered an irrepressible
taste for cookies (all the while, killing my already slim chances with any of
the hot, sporty, popular boys - or any boys come to think of it).
So I go running. Sometimes. Rarely.
I am the Queen of Excuses with exercise. I won’t run if it’s sunny, coz I’ll
get too hot. I won’t run if it’s raining, coz I might slip over. I won’t run if
its daylight because people will see me. I won’t run at night-time because
people will attack me.
As you can see, the window of time which I deem suitable for running is
probably about fifteen minutes every two months, and then I’m probably busy
eating cake or going for a cheeky cider or five at Spoons.
So, I bought a Workout DVD. To be specific, it’s Ministry of
Sound’s ‘Pump It Up’ – apparently, it is the ‘Ultimate Dance Workout’.
These are the girls who are teaching and encouraging me on my path to fitness:
I think they might be robots.
Nevertheless, I do actually do my Workout DVD quite
regularly, and (now I’m showing off a little here), I have progressed
onto ‘Powermix 2’. However, any amicable feelings for Dominique and her girls (robots) always deteriorate
about fifteen minutes in. As I drag my gasping, sweating body towards a glass
of water and multiple inhalers, Dominique reminds me to “keep breathing”.
In dedication to fitness, I can get over how awkward these girls’ tight little
hotpanttyleggingshittylittlecroptops are , however I reach a whole new level of
awkward when Dominique tells me to “get into a nice deep squat”.
You can squat off, love.
On Wednesday my friends persuaded me to go to Zumba. If you
know me, then this is just ridiculous. I struggle to walk from A to B without
finding something to trip over (usually my own outrageously large feet), let
alone participate in a crazy mash-up of samba, tango, belly dancing, mambo and
salsa! But I went, and I was fully
loving life. It’s fun, chilled and the session I went to had a fantastic range
of ages and ability. But I can’t help thinking that what made it so fun was
that I was with my friends who fully appreciated it when I completely made-up
an entire new move. Nevertheless, a whole new (and quite justified)
excuse was born: I will not go to Zumba alone.
So that’s my attempt at keeping fit and because this article has been ultimately pointless, and a bit of self-justification that I'm not completely lazy, here are my top three tips to keep fit and look and feel yummy
J
1)It doesn’t matter what size you wear, as long as
it fits.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said this to women at work. Sizes are
just ridiculous nowadays. Not only do I wear different sizes from shop to shop,
but I wear different sizes within one shop. If you have to go up a size, it
doesn’t matter. Wearing a size that fits is better than wearing something which
is grabbing your lumps and bumps.
2)Don’t go mental with the whole fitness thing.
Coz this chick:
Looks ridiculously like this guy:
Just a thought, ignore your BMI. It’s an outdated and inappropriate way to check
your weight because the measurements cannot distinguish between lean and fatty
mass… which means if you’re super hench then it’ll think you’re overweight.
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