Who's Afraid of the PDA's?

What is fear? Fear can be anything. Spiders. Heights. Dentists. Enclosed spaces. Your father singing karaoke. Yet another series of Australian Idol.

Fear shouldn’t be holding your boyfriend’s hand in public.

I make no secret of being gay. In fact, it’s such common knowledge that apparently I was the last to know. I never hide it. Sure I don’t go out in the streets wearing tights and makeup and tiaras and fairy wings (anymore) and shouting ‘look at me! I like men!’ But I’ve never felt any reason to act differently than I always have done.

But I’ve found that all my boyfriends have been afraid to hold my hand in public.

It makes me angry. Not at them. Never at them; rather, at a society that makes them feel this way. This isn’t the dark ages! Doctors no longer use leeches. Houses are lit by electricity. Women are allowed out of the kitchen (which is just as well – if Amy Winehouse was confined to a kitchen god knows what would come out of it). So why are we so behind on other things like tolerance; something that really matters?

I thought things were better. Or am I just naïve? I’ve been told that often enough (my sister said if I was a caveman I would have been eaten by now). We have far more rights than we used to. But what are rights without the freedom to express ourselves in public without fear? No piece of paper can do that, unless it’s a particularly heavy piece of paper which you can use to hit people with. I know things such as gay marriage and legal recognition of gay couples and their rights are important. But what is infinitely more important in my eyes is the freedom to act like a couple in public.

PDA’s they’re called; Public Displays of Affection. Makes me think of WMD’s. Perhaps one day they’ll discover there are no PDA’s, and people only really date in order to get cheap oil. I’m not talking about anything major. Even a straight couple would get strange looks if they suddenly fell to the ground in passionate raptures in the middle of the street. I’m talking about little romantic things; a peck on the cheek. A squeeze of the hand. Walking arm in arm through a shopping centre.

Is it all in our heads? Are things actually better but we nonetheless still fear persecution? Probably not. Only this week a friend of my partner had ‘Faggot’ shouted at him from a car as he walked down the street. It’s never been a term I’ve understood – what the hell does a bundle of sticks have to do with sexuality? Unless you’re a Freudian. There is physical danger out there – but words are words. They hold no real power (and as I say this I am betraying the whole profession of journalism and my fellow writers). But the truth is; words can only hurt you if you let them.

What can one person do against such hatred? What can anyone do? There are people out there fighting this sort of thing. But it still doesn’t seem to be enough. Who has the answers? You? Me? Wikipedia? Is education the answer? It has to be the answer to something – I’m sure they’ll discover it someday. Or is it down to the individual? If every gay couple put aside their fear and acted like any other couple in public, perhaps it will be seen as normal and slowly become an accepted behaviour.

So I urge every gay person I know (and even those I don’t know) do defy the norm, and act in public the same way you would if you were in a heterosexual relationship. Who knows? It might help. The more people understand homosexuality, the less they’ll be afraid. As Marie Curie said; “Nothing in life is to be feared, only understood”. Granted her attempt at understanding radioactive substances brought about her premature death, but why spoil a good point? The statement is relevant nonetheless.

So go forth, be free, be not afraid.

You might just be surprised.

Dedicated to the best boyfriend a man could ever have.

A Concise History of History - Part 1

Chapter One – Creation

Excerpt from ‘The Book of Creation’ by W. P. Fieldsworth – the first accurate writings on the history of creationism – hailed by critics as the best cookbook since the Bible and marginally less credible than Harry Potter.

In the beginning was the word. And the word was; “Is this thing on?”

In all the universe there was nothing. And God did look upon the nothingness, and he created the stars and the planets which blocked the view. Then God said ‘Let there be light’, and there was light so one could not see the nothing a lot clearer. And also in this time God spaketh; ‘Thou shalt not use double negatives’.

Then God created the sun and the moon and the earth. And on earth he built a beautiful garden which was the first miracle for Don Burke and Peter Cundell were not yet born. In this garden he created the first plants and trees and animals. And also he created Adam, who was the first man. But Adam was lonely, so God said; “Give up one of thy ribs and I will make for thee a mate.” And Adam said; “Oh yeah? Pull the other one.” And God did sayeth; “No really. I am thy God, I can do that you know.  Now give up thy rib, there’s a good man.” And Adam did grow angry and said; “No! It is mine.” And God did sigh, and snatched a rib from Adam while he slept.

So when Adam awoke he did espy Eve, who was the first woman. Also his chest was sore and he found he was more flexible. And thus mankind was born. Also womankind. And genetic engineering. So afterwards came the children of Adam and Eve, and their children, and their children, until humans populated the planet. And to this day all children are the children of God, and of Adam and Eve. Thus all mankind is related and we are the result of thousands of years of inbreeding (which explains reality television).

Then came the other Gods - Ra, father of the sun; Neptune with his forked trident; Zeus who was very good at rhyming and wrote many children’s stories; and countless others. And they said “Who does this God think he is, with all his creating and suchlike. We want in.” So they all went their separate ways and tried their hand at creation. The Greek Gods created knowledge. The Chinese Spirits created wisdom. The Roman Gods created entertainment (and thus brought plague and pestilence upon mankind in the form of morning television). The African Spirits created unity; the Aboriginal Spirits created affinity with the land. And the Egyptian gods created maths for which they were forever scorned, and also cats which mystified even God.

And God looked upon the creations with scorn and said; “But what is knowledge and wisdom and cats and the rest without man?”

And the others replied; “A far sight better.”

And God scratched his and said; “That’s a fair point.”

But Zeus stood up and said; “The Greek religion is the best, for we have democracy and philosophers.”

And Jupiter stood up and said; “The Latin religion is best, for we have entertainment.” And this was ignored.

Then Ra stood up and said; “The Egyptian religion is best, because we have cats. Would you like a cat? They hardly ever bite. No? Anyone?”

Finally God rose and said; “My many religions are the best, for each is the true religion, also it is fun to play each religion off against the other.”

Then there was much yelling and arguing and many small civilisations were destroyed in the battle.

And lo, Buddha did appear to them all and said; “Why do you all fight? Are you not all of the same blood? Are you not all metaphysical beings born from the same notion of human belief? Are you not, united, the creators of the most noble and beautiful planet in the galaxy? Apart from Saturn. Yet you all stand here arguing and fighting. Hang your heads in shame. And will someone please think of the children!”

And the Gods were sore ashamed, and there was much wailing and gnashing of pears. So from thence forth they did no longer argue or quarrel about petty things such as creation or who was the supreme ruler of the universe. Instead they did decide to live alongside one another in peace and harmony, and to work together to gang up on humans. Then they all pledged their allegiance to Xenu.

Amen.

Medic! Medic!

I went to see my doctor today.

I think he’s starting to get sick of me. He’s very patient though.

I have an intense fear of doctors, and anything medical. Getting sick terrifies me. I’d rather avoid it at all costs. So why do I find myself getting sick all the time? I seem to come down with any aliment that I happen to read about.

Take this morning for example. I woke up early. Well, I woke up at 8:30 which is early for me. Hell, any time I get up where lunch isn’t the first meal of the day is early. For some strange reason I feel the back of my head. Maybe it’s part of my morning check-up; I have to make sure everything is in working order before I can start my day. Are my legs still attached? Any aches and pains? Is my head in one piece? Have I turned into a chicken in the night?

In any case, I feel a lump at the base of my skull. Was that lump there before? What is this lump? Is it a lymph gland (just so you don’t start panicking, yes it was.) Is it something worse? Could it be a tumour? Could it be some sort of abnormal growth? Is it the chicken trying to grow out of my skull as it hasn’t been able to take over my body while I sleep?

Convinced I’m dying of some sort of mysterious disease, I make an appointment with my doctor.

To cut a long story short, I have a lymph gland up. It could be from the cut I got from a car accident a few weeks back. It could be that I’m getting a virus. Anyway, it’s completely normal, nothing to worry about. But the problem is I do worry about it. I worry about everything, from the common cold to a sore finger to a strange urge to scratch at the ground and cluck. There’s one simple word for my condition.

Hypochondria.

Well, except for the chicken part. That’s just old fashioned insanity.

I’m reading a book at the moment – Three Men on a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome (yes, this is relevant, just be patient). In it, three men and one dog travel up the Thames in a boat. But the story starts by the three men talking about their various imagined illnesses. The author says that he can’t read about any illness without suffering the very symptoms he reads about. He writes;

“I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch… I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into – some fearful, devastating scourge I know – and, before I had glanced halfway down the list of ‘premonitory symptoms’, it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it.”

Ladies and gentlemen, that is me. Even down to the unnecessary use of the word ‘ailment’.

What is it about knowledge that is so worrying? Most people say they’re afraid of the unknown. But the more we know about things the more afraid we become of them. Especially illnesses. I guess it’s all part of our knowledge about our mortality. We can thank Adam and Eve for that;

Genesis 3:4

“And God said ‘do not eat of the forbidden fruit’. And lo, Adam did taketh an apple. And he did eateth of the apple. And lo, he did realise that he was mortal and that one day he would die. And also he began to choke on the apple.”

Thus, on that faithful day, mankind gained knowledge of his mortality, and learnt the Heimlich manoeuvre. Since then, he has been unable to sneeze without thinking his demise is imminent. And yes, I do mean ‘he’. As radio announcer Richard Glover states, man flu is always the worst sort of flu there is. No one complains about illness and pain more than a man does. Probably because they’ve never had to experience childbirth. (I’ve never tried it myself - being a man also - but I am assured that it’s ‘quite painful’).

But then, men are either 100% well or on death’s door. If they are sick they either hide it or are sick in its most violent form. My father, for example, never gets colds. He has ‘allergies’. And he sticks by this statement, despite the fact that within days the rest of the family has also come down with ‘allergies’. In fact, the rest of the family is often laid up for weeks after catching his ‘allergies’. But when he has a cold… Glasses of ginger beer, dinner in bed, favourite movie, the works. His gratitude is expressed by a weak, fading ‘thank you’ before he slips into unconsciousness (i.e. sleep).

Maybe I’m exaggerating slightly. He doesn’t complain. I, on the other hand, do.

                                                                                   

So I guess I’ll continue this way. Every sniffle will be the wings of angels coming to take me to my rest. Every ache will be Death kicking me in the shin trying to gain my attention. I will be like Jerome K. Jerome (who, incidentally, realised he had every sickness in the book apart from housemaid’s knee, the absence of which he took as a personal insult). Maybe it’s dramatic. But everyone needs a bit of drama. Lets us know we’re still alive.

Letter to the Australian Media

Dear Australian media,

In this day and age there are many things to be concerned about. Floods. Fire. Famine. International political turmoil. Oprah. So it’s good to know you’re getting your priorities right.

Thank you for your continued coverage of the relationship between Liz Hurley and Shane Warne. It’s nice to see our journalists usefully employed; standing outside a suburban home, waiting for a glimpse of two people who may or may not be sleeping together. It’s like watching Big Brother, except the cameras are only allowed outside the house and for the most part you don’t actually see anyone except the reporter.

Not only that, but thank you for continually crossing over during bulletins to live coverage from outside Shane Warne’s house. I can just see how that would have gone:

Reporter: Yes, well, I’m still here. At the house. Umm… As you can see it has a… a sort of, corrugated metal fence. Red brick.  Nice little garden. Yes. And… wait? What’s this? Is that…? Is that…? No, sorry, it’s just the postman. He’s trying to stuff an envelope into the letter box. Is Liz Hurley trying to smuggle herself onto the premises in that envelope? Only time will tell. More on this later in the program.

Of course I confess I’m not sure what the coverage was actually like as I had for some strange reason decided I’d rather watch the Norwegian weather report on SBS and had thus already changed the channel.

Thank you for informing me that, yes, red is the new black. It’s always good - when attending fundraising events for people whose homes have been destroyed by floods and who have lost friends and family - to know exactly what colour one should be wearing. After all, one wouldn’t want to seem so callous as to wear the wrong colour, would one?

The only critique I can make is this; can’t all media outlets agree on which colour actually is ‘in’? One says it’s red, one says it’s camel… I didn’t even know camel was a colour. I thought they were those deformed horses that spit a lot. But no; apparently camel is a colour. It’s a strange sort of greyish-brown which could only be the colour of a camel if said camel had died during the reign of Tutankhamen and had returned from the grave to plague mankind. So camel is the new red which is the new black, which actually may be white, and both are actually shades incidentally, and besides when was black even fashionable except for mourning and solicitors? So please, get your stories straight.

Thank you for giving so much coverage to the Royal Wedding. Especially for informing us that Kate Middleton was spotted having lunch with Camilla Parker Bowles. I open the paper and there it is. My life feels complete now, knowing that someone in a foreign country who I have never met had lunch with someone else I have never met who happens to be her future step-mother-in-law. And this wasn’t just any lunch. There were armed bodyguards. There were amazed onlookers. Reporters, photographers… If only ‘My Dinner With Andre’ had contained so much excitement.

And another thing – thank you for constantly updating me on the whereabouts and lives of our world’s celebrities. For a start I feel a lot safer knowing that they’re not going to be anywhere near me. Nothing ruins my day more than pushing through a crowd of people screaming and swooning over someone whose only claim to fame is that they can look distractedly into the middle distance or have rich parents or appear in videos wearing a great big smile and very little else. And that’s just the thing. The less a celebrity does the more of a celebrity they are. Cate Blanchett can walk down the street and barely be recognised, but a skinny blonde with a thin nose and vacant eyes can’t sit in a café without being plagued with autographs in case she really is that one whose father owns a long chain of department stores and built a rather nice hotel in Kentucky.

Forgive me for becoming serious for a moment. I assure you it will never happen again.

It is also comforting to know that someone else’s life is worse than yours. The roof may be leaking, the bills may be pilling up and you may have just been fired, but at least you don’t have to take an annual trip to rehab. Or be constantly followed by obsessed lunatics with cameras. And that’s just the press. Or spend hours staring into a camera trying to look emotional. Or listen to Pierce Brosnan singing. At least we have mute buttons. And so it makes me feel warm and fuzzy to know that the daily trials of middle working class life are nothing to the trials and tribulations suffered by those that earn millions and can’t even find a decent cocktail at 4am without ringing the servants. So thank you for filling up so much of my life with this information.

So anyway, all I really wanted to do was thank you for all you are doing for this country. Glad to see that you have your priorities right.

Love to the kids.

Yours always,

Sam.

Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside a dog it’s too dark to read - Groucho Marx

So it has been a while between my first and second posts. But, as they say, life intervenes. Actually, I have no idea who says that except the terminally busy. I should try and set aside a certain time each day to write – hell, how am I meant to become a published author if I don’t even write anything?

Which brings me to a subject dear to my heart…. Books.

I have many books. I have many books in the same way that China has many people or NSW Labor has many enemies. I have 650 at the moment, and counting, all in my little room. Almost all my walls are lined with books. They cover my desk, they cover my bedhead and, due to an increasing lack of space, they are slowly colonising the carpet. My parents keep knocking back my suggestion of taking out my bed so I can fit more shelves in.

Because I am fastidious (substitute bored) and tidy minded (yeah, even I don’t believe that one) all my books are arranged alphabetically by author in different genres. When I’m particularly bored I rearrange them, based on what sort of mood I’m in. When I’m feeling intellectual I put my old classics – Homer, Dante, Chaucer – closest to me. A few weeks of reading Malory’s Le Mort D’Arthur or the Canterbury Tales in middle English and I’m feeling considerably less intellectual, and also slightly drowsy. When I’m feeling unchallenged and in need of some excitement I put my Crime Fiction by my bed, because there’s nothing I enjoy more than a good murder. Granted some of them (yes I’m looking at you Agatha Christie) start to become a bit predictable and many follow the old myth that if the plot starts to droop it’s time to throw another body in. And when I’m feeling slightly sado-masochistic I place my complete works of William Shakespeare on my bedhead. Not that I find reading Shakespeare in any way painful or torturous, but rather it’s the heaviest book in my collection and has the tendency to fall onto my head in the middle of the night, just when I’m being lulled into a false sense of security.

Books are my life. I live books. I breathe books. Sometimes when the mood takes me I eat books, although I find hardcovers and glossy illustrations aren’t good for my digestion. So I’ve decided to share with you some of the best and worst books I have read.

The Best

Dracula – Bram Stoker

This is my favourite book for several reasons. There’s the fact it’s written in letters and diary entries, which makes for interesting reading. There’s the fact that it is one of the original vampire stories. These are old school vampires; not the wimpy vampire of popular fiction that wilts in sunlight and can only turn itself into what is essentially a rat with wings. Not even like the modern teen vampire who is pale, slightly effeminate and irresistible to 14 year old girls – kind of like an anaemic Justin Bieber. This is the real thing; a smooth talking, unstoppable killing machine with a thirst for blood and a mysterious interest in English real estate.

But I mainly enjoy this book because in it lurks one of fiction’s first feminist heroines – Mina Harker. She carries the action, she carries the story and she is one of the few people in the book who of any real use. The male characters all seem to spend the book weeping and tell each other that they’re full of love for each other (which makes their fervent proposals of marriage to the lovely yet ditsy Lucy look as though they may be covering something). And Professor Abraham Van Helsing is frankly mental and spends the book rushing about festooning everything with garlic, laughing at inappropriate moments and acting mysteriously without ever letting on what’s going on in his mind. I mean really, if you suspect someone has been bitten by a vampire, take steps for Christ’s sake. Don’t treat the whole thing like an experiment and keep your comrades in the dark, and incidentally could said comrades lend poor dear Lucy some of your blood… suspicious? Why should that sound suspicious?

But Mina – despite slowly succumbing to Dracula’s spell, dealing with the loss of her best friend and a husband who, after his imprisonment with the Count, is one shock away from snapping his twig – remains determined to defeat the vampire’s nefarious plot. Far from being the pathetic, swooning heroine she takes control of the situation, helps track the Count and ultimately brings about his downfall. She is a strong, independent woman and quite refreshing in an age of society ladies and fainting couches.

This is a classic. In comparison to this, Twilight should be staked through the heart and buried at the cross roads.

Good Omens – Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

These two writers I consider to be Gods in their field. Pratchett never ceases to amaze me with his insight and humour which is like the Marx Brothers without the singing, Monty Python without the nudity and vaudeville without the pie throwing and ridiculous moustaches. And Neil Gaiman has an amazing imagination and a brilliant writing style that splits my feelings between utter admiration and complete resentment of the talented bugger.

Good Omens is a hilarious send up of the book, The Omen. Like most people who read parodies and spoofs I have never actually read the original. But I understand it in vague terms, just like people understand finance, politics and the continued success of ABBA.  As far as I can make out The Omen is about a baby who is actually the antichrist (which is ridiculous – the destructive and evil tendencies of children don’t surface until they’re at least two) and must be stopped before he destroys the world.

Good Omens however introduces a new dilemma – that is, due to a freak accident involving Satanist nuns, three babies and simple human error, both Heaven and Hell lose track of the antichrist. The book is filled with rich philosophical thoughts on religion, human nature and life in general, the most notable of which is the notion that any cassette tape left in a car long enough will eventually turn into a Best of Queen album. I love this book, I have read it to death and no matter how many times I read it, it never fails to make me laugh.

The Rise of the Ruddbot – Annabelle Crabbe

Politics fascinates me. I’ll admit it. At least Australian politics does. Sure, we may not have a leader who sleeps with prostitutes, or is married to a supermodel, or a miniature dictator with a ridiculous haircut. But look on the bright side – we have Tony Abbott, who is to public relations what a bazooka is to lawn bowls. We have, or at least have had, Australia’s first hung parliament since the war – an idea so intriguing it has since been adopted by one or two other countries (but I’ll admit we stole the idea from Britain). And then there’s Kevin Rudd. What a fun two years that was. The man appeared out of nowhere like an energizer bunny, and despite becoming a Minister since his leadership was toppled, has since all but disappeared into obscurity. At least as Foreign Minister he gets to spend a lot of time overseas, although apparently not as much as he did when he was Prime Minister.

So as you can see there’s a lot to be interested in. It’s like a soap opera that will never be canned, although the acting is slightly less convincing, the scripts are a lot more planned and nobody gives a fig about the ratings. And that’s just as well, because many people aren’t interested in politics. I’ll put my hand up and say that before I studied journalism I was one of those people.

Annabelle Crabbe is one of the people to whom I owe my current fascination with politics. After three years of journalism I decided to get away from the field as soon as possible and never praise a journalist if I could help it. But Crabbe is a brilliant political journalist. She has an amazing knack for humorous and satirical writing, and a startling ability to hit the nail on the head in her observations. Her book, The Rise of the Ruddbot, is a collection of her work; from the Sydney Morning Herald, from her work for the ABC and her quarterly essay on Malcolm Turnbull – a politician who I always thought bore and uncanny resemblance to a reptile that has seen the punch line a few weeks before you will, but who I have gained a new respect for in light of his refusal to back down on his political views and the fact he once stood up to Kerry Packer.

These writings cover the lead up to the ‘Kevin ‘07’ election, as well as the first two years of Kevin Rudd’s reign. But it doesn’t just deal with the former Prime Minister – it covers many of the major political events of the period, as well as some of the major players in Australian politics. My favourite moment is her description of the lead up to the leadership spill against Brendon Nelson where she states; “It’s bad enough when an opposition leader starts arguing with himself in public. But what’s worse is he appears to be losing.”

This book made me feel all warm and fuzzy about politicians and journalists. It should be given a prize just for that.

Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen

Ok so I’ll be honest. I have never managed to get all the way through this book. I have listened to an audio version of it, which in my mind counts. After all it’s the same words. It’s just that a calm, soothing female is doing all the hard work for me.

The thing about Austen is that she’s such a brilliant writer and observer of her society, but there is some quality to her prose that it just makes me kind of sleepy. Not in a ‘dear God I’m bored, for Heaven’s sake just kiss already Darcy and Lizzie!’ way. More a ‘I’m going for a nice gentle stroll through the British countryside, feeding the ducks, curtseying to the neighbours, pack a picnic lunch, maybe a nice salad or perhaps a quiche, oh my that patch of grass beneath that spreading oak looks soft and comfy I might just sit here a moment and…. zzzzzzzzzz’ way. Its soothing and gentle, like a song slowly lulling you to sleep, or, as just indicated, the fatigue that comes with having nothing to do all day except thinking about balls and trying to look accomplished.

Of all Jane Austen’s stories (none of which I have finished reading but I assure you it’s not through lack of trying, and anyway that’s why God invented movies), Pride and Prejudice is undoubtedly the best. Elizabeth Bennet falls into the same class of strong women as Mina Harker, although the image of Lizzie fending off Dracula is one that doesn’t quite gel in my mind (despite the fact several authors have already made a killing merging the two ideas together). If only all of Austen’s heroines had the same humour and backbone. Catherine Morland of Northanger Abbey is quite frankly the most painful character alive. Yes I know she’s meant to be a parody of the ignorant, empty headed Victorian English woman. But really, I spend most of the book wishing someone would just drown her in one of the Roman Baths and be done with it. And although I haven’t actually read it, I have it on good authority that Mansfield Park’s Fanny Price, far from being the strong willed, independent girl as portrayed in the movie by Francis O’Conner, is a complete wimp who only comes out on top as far as I can make out by sheer luck or rather, sympathy on the part of Austen.

But the story of Elizabeth and Darcy is one filled with subtle humour, and sharp wit. Lizzie and Kitty and Mr Collins and all the rest of them are well thought out and constructed characters, and completely distract me from Mrs Bennet who I wouldn’t mind putting in the Roman Bath alongside Catherine Morland. Not only that, but I am a hopeless romantic, and the slow development of love between the two main characters is really endearing.

And, let’s face, the miniseries has Colin Firth…which is always a plus.

The Worst

Women in Love – D. H. Lawerence

This is Living proof that a book doesn’t have to be good to be considered a classic – merely indecipherable. This book also makes me sleepy. Not in the gentle way of Austen, but rather like being slowly and painfully bludgeoned to death with a blunt heavy object – more than likely the book itself. I had to study this book at uni. Now, lots of people will say that if you study a book at school or uni it automatically ruins it for you. That’s not true. My love of Shakespeare comes from studying Hamlet in Year 12. One of the best books I have read to date is Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, which I had to read for school in Year 10. Even an unlikely literary classic, Faulkner’s ‘As I Lay Dying’ which I studied for the same course captivated and engaged me and was one of the best reading experiences I’ve ever had.

On the other hand Women in Love was undoubtedly the worst. And I didn’t even finish reading the damn thing. I got halfway through before I had to choose between finishing and my sanity. I can’t pick one thing that I hated most about the book. It could be the characters, who were all thoroughly obnoxious and unlikeable. So much so I can barely remember their names. I know one was Ursula, because it always made me think of the hag/squid hybrid from The Little Mermaid. And one was some obscure name which sounded like a rare throat disease. But their names were of little importance, as they were all basically the same character with different physical features.

Perhaps it was the ideas put forth in the book – strange, cold ideas about love and relationships which make me suspect the author never got hugs from his mother. The most I can remember about it is there being no such thing as love; the details are hazy as I’ve managed to block most of the book from my memory. All I remember is the characters almost completely lacked any sort of emotion, although the feelings between the two male characters did get a bit close at one point (naked wrestling anyone?)

Or it could be Lawrence’s writing style. As my mum aptly put it, the book reads like it was written by someone with English as a second language. He gets a word or a metaphor into his head and beats it mercilessly until it crawls bleeding and bewildered to the following page where the process is relentlessly repeated. I mean, exactly how sick can one character feel? Especially over the course of two paragraphs. There are plenty of other words in the English language that will do. Ill. Nauseous. Revolted. Disgusted. Queasy. Bilious. All these words alone sprang to mind as I read the book.

This book reminds me of a Dorothy Parker quote: “This is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.”

Nineteen Eighty-Four – George Orwell

Perhaps it’s a little unfair to put this book in the worst section. It actually is a pretty decent book, if you like that sort of thing. But there is something about dystopian stories that I can’t stand. They make me despair of life. This book certainly did. After weeks of reading about Big Brother and the Thought Police and the constant surveillance I started believing that they were all out to get me. And all those television screens set up everywhere made me think of Madison Avenue. Which is enough to frighten anyone.

There was nothing likeable about the main character either. Winston seemed content to accept his life and his virtual imprisonment. If I had been in the same situation I would have tried to start a revolution. Of course I would have been shot within minutes, but that’s beside the point. And the fact that he wouldn’t share his rare piece of chocolate with his mother and sister before their sudden deaths s(the withholding of chocolate is the worst crime imaginable) shows a self-centred, thoroughly detestable personality.

As I said, it wasn’t really that bad of a book. I don’t regard it with as much hostility as I do anything by D. H. Lawrence; rather I treat it with a kind of vague disinterest, but for the paranoid delusions it inspired in me.  Even now I can’t look at a television without wondering who’s watching from the other side, and if they’ve got enough room in there with all those wires and tubes and what not. Worse still if it’s a flat screen – it must be rather a thin person spying on me. And parts of the book did put me to sleep, such as the long treatise by the resistance’s leader whose name escapes me at the moment and who I can’t be bothered looking up, as this would require reopening the book.

Not recommended for those who already think they’re being followed.

Perhaps I’m biased… Scrap that, of course I’m biased! These are only my opinions, and ones that are coming from someone who is incoherent at the best of times. But I’ve found opinions can only stem from strong love or burning hatred. So this is just my ramblings about my love of books.

And my hate of D. H. Lawrence.