And now for something completely different,,,

Part One - The Emotional Stuff:




Knowing that something is going to happen is not the same as having it actually happen. The fact that you may have seen the train heading towards you in no way diminishes the extent of the damage that it causes on impact.
When you live with someone who has been diagnosed in the later stages of a terminal illness you tell yourselves a lot of things.
That you will be exceptions, that you will beat this awful thing together, that you will fight it with every weapon at your disposal, that sheer tenacity and will to live will win out in the end.
And you need to tell yourselves that because that it what drives you to keep fighting even when things look hopeless.
And sometimes, for a lucky few, those things turn out to be true.

But the bottom line is that if the diagnosis comes at stage four, there is no stage five.
This is never going to be a fair fight, the dice are loaded and the bad guys are likely to win in the end. Which doesn't mean that you have to make it easy for them and it doesn't mean that you give in to despair and take to your bed like a heroine in a romantic novel from the 1800's

What does mean is that you fight back by making every day count. You look the truth in the face, as unflinchingly as you can and you look to your person and you say "you are here NOW, we have NOW...let's make it count"
And that means different things to different people. You don't have to have a "bucket list" - we always hated that expression. Noone has to jump out of a perfectly good aeroplane or go swimming with large toothy fish. Unless of course they really want to do that in which case you need quash your own fears and support them. You do not have to do it with them though. Especially not if they want to combine the two and jump out of an aircraft into shark infested waters...that is just crazy and you should probably try and talk them out of that idea.
The best way to make every day count is by continuing to make plans, by saying yes instead of no, by being their co-driver instead of their handbrake.

Earlier this year Marty wanted to to go to the Argentina for the World Cup qualifying round.
It was a last minute opportunity to go with his brother and he was given 24 hours notice.
Instead of saying "have you gone mad?" I said "do you need me to help you pack?"
He had the most amazing time, yes he was tired and in pain for some of the trip but he wouldn't have given it up for anything and his brother will never forget that time that they spent together.

I guess what I am trying to say is once you know that the storm is coming, even if you batten down the hatches and secure the anchor, it is going to come anyway.  So you may as well lash yourself to the mast and face it head on, because these really are the days that you are going to remember when the storm has passed. You should make them as extraordinary and life affirming as you can.

And if you hate your job and you have the means to do it, now is the time to quit. Work will still be there when you come out the other side but wouldn't you rather spend the time banking memories?
It was best decision that I made in the last three months of Martin's life. I only wish that I had the courage and foresight to do it sooner.

If you have money put aside for a rainy day then I would ask trust me on this one, it is never going to rain any harder on you than it is right now.

Do all of the things, say all of the things, because these are the memories that will sustain you later on, when  you are feeling more alone than Tom Hanks before he found Wilson the basketball on that deserted island.

And in the aftermath...

Embrace new things and new people. Your energy will be different now, you will attract different kinds of people. You will attract more empaths. People who have been where you are will be drawn to you. It's not a "misery loves company" thing, it's more of a "recognition" thing. And it's a good thing, embrace it.

It is OK to talk about your loss, but is also OK not to.
The most important thing to remember is to be kind, Other people are also grieving for your person.
The emotional Tsunami that wiped you out also crushed a part of them.
You are all in the same leaky boat, it's just that their boat will somehow keep sailing forwards with a big hole in it and yours has just washed up on the rocks.
People will want to talk to you about the person that you have all lost, it is important for all of you that you have those conversations.
But it is hard, and you shouldn't underestimate that. And you need to be aware that at in the early stages your main job, your primary responsibility, is to take care of yourself.

I had a moment, sitting at lunch with a friend when the realization hit me that I was becoming exhausted saying the same things over and over. And at that moment I knew that I needed to get away by myself for a bit.
Because talking to other people about what you have lost helps with processing it to a point. But some things you really do have to do alone.

Do not allow yourself to become a vessel for everyone else's pain, you have your own pain and it is more than enough to deal with. No one expects you to fix them, they are on their own path and coming to terms with the loss of their friend or family member in their own way. All you can do is be kind to one another.

Which is important to remember because people will say some weird sh!t to you!

Not because they are insensitive or cruel, just because it is the way that it is. Nobody knows what to say but as humans we fear a void. And so we fill it with whatever we can. And sometimes what we fill it with is kind of odd, or inappropriate or premature (exhibit A, "you are still relatively young, you will meet someone else")
They are not trying to hurt you, or seem indelicate, they are trying to comfort you and be there for you and sometimes they will get it wrong. Give everyone a leave pass for a while, same leaky boat remember.

People will tell you how strong you are being. This does not obligate you to maintain a facade of strength. It does not mean that they will think less of you if you if you fall apart in front of them.
As someone that I love very much said to me "it is OK to lose your shit anytime you need to"
Your people will be always be your people, you just have to trust them enough to let them really see you.

If you have been on this ride for a while then chances are that 80% of your grieving may already be done by the time you get to ground zero. But that last 20%...that is  the part that you may never get over.  And that is OK.

But you cannot allow it to consume you either.
It is OK to go out and have a brilliant night with people who love you and forget about it all for a while.
You are a person not a shrine.
You still have a life to live and the person that you have lost would not have had it any other way. They would be happy to see you laughing, they would wrap their arms around you and tell you that it is alright to be happy again, that that is all that they really want for you now.
The love doesn't go away. You will still feel them around you, often when you least expect to. They are out there in the ether lighting your way forward.
They are that voice in your head when you are feeling overwhelmed saying "you've got this".
Some days you will be braver than you ever thought possible. You will have conversations on the phone with faceless strangers who are "sorry for your loss" but will still tangle you up in a webs of bureaucracy. Who will follow their well intentioned condolences with a polite request for a copy of a death certificate.
And every time that happens you will think that it will break you, but it won't. You will send them what they need, brace yourself, and make another call, and another, until the words become almost devoid of meaning and every call becomes just another task that you have to complete.

And some days you will listen to to your person's voicemail message over and over whilst you sit on the couch in their dressing gown in the middle of the afternoon and sob into a glass of their very expensive whisky. Knowing that they would have been be furious with you for adulterating it with ice and water because you have never really been  a whisky drinker...until now.

You may be having a day when you cross multiple tasks off of the seemingly endless list that you have to get through to slowly and painfully erase the person that you loved from the public record, or a day when getting out of bed and having a shower feels like a major accomplishment... and yet you do it anyway.
It is important to appreciate that either way you are still here, still breathing, still feeling, still moving forward.
And that they would be so very proud of you for that.

This could be the end of everything or the beginning of another chapter. Try not to reach back for the life that you had before. It is still there but it will never be the same as it was. Instead try to look forward with an open heart. And say all the things, do all things, do it for the person that you lost and do it for yourself.

Just probably not the skydiving into sharks thing...

That's Amore (Italia Part 2)

Postcards from Napoli:

At the train station taxi wranglers shouting and gesticulating in rapid Italian - apparently it takes five guys to tell taxis where to pull up - all giving wildly conflicting instructions to those queuing for cabs and the drivers who are trying to pick them up.
They make liberal use of the universal language of the eye roll and rude hand gesture,
"Why would you stop there? Why would you do that??? 
You are interfering with our finely tuned machine, you are breaking the flow, you are an idiot of unparalleled and hitherto unheard of proportions"

Yet somehow it all works and people and taxis are united with phenomenal speed.


In a tiny Pizzeria a young American couple are at the table next door.  The guy is covetously eyeing a bright red Vespa which is parked outside.
The restaurant is cash only (common in the smaller places, they don't want to pay those nasty card fees) and the Americans are caught short.
No problem says the waiter, I take you to cash machine.  He jumps onto the Vespa and signals the temporarily financially embarrassed one to jump on the back.
When they come back the guy is beaming from ear to ear. 
His girlfriend takes photos of him on the back of the bike, much to the amusement of the waiter. 
They will remember the encounter for a long time, for Vespa-dude it was simply the logical thing to do.
When they leave the owner discovers that they have left half a carafe of red wine on the table.  He tuts, rolls his eyes and unceremoniously deposits it on our table.
"Wow thanks" 
"But of course, why would we waste it".


There are dogs everywhere, little dogs, big dogs, colossal dogs.  How do they fit them into those tiny inner city apartments?  Do the larger dogs fold down at night like Ikea sofa beds?


The coffee in Italy is amazing but getting my order right proves challenging.

I try out various permeations.  A latte is too milky and if you order one after 10am the baristas think you are bonkers.  It's like ordering a milkshake before lunch to them.
I move on to Americanos but they make them with cold milk and they are not hot enough. I like my coffee to stop just short of removing a layer of skin from the roof of my mouth.

So I switch to Espresso but it leaves me spinning around like Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout...on speed

On day three I find my drink, an Americano with hot milk...hooray!  I learn to order it in Italian, successfully negotiating World Peace could not have made me any happier.

I fall in love with the phrase "Grazie Millie" which literally translated means "a thousand graces".  It's a catch-all phrase for expressing gratitude and the Italians say it all the time.  It doesn't matter if you return your empty wine glass to the bar or rescue their child from a burning building.  They are grateful....a thousand times.

It is like being verbally kissed by butterflies wherever you go.

On a walking tour of Naples with Barbara, a local guide with a encyclopedic knowledge of the city.

"Look up, she advises, in Naples always look up, that is where the most beauty lies"

She pauses... "but perhaps also look down, and left and right, all at the same time, because everyone else is looking up and then...you crash"

She is right, amazing frescos and most beautiful statuary are located high above the streets.  I walk along with my head in the clouds while Barbara guides me to avert collisions like an extremely chic Italian sheep dog.

Presepi, nativity scenes, are everywhere in Napoli - there is even a street dedicated to them. They are an eclectic mix of the traditional and the kitsch.  Elvis and famous soccer players rub shoulders with the holy family.  
"I had no idea that Maradona was present at the Nativity"  I tease the stall holder. 
"But of course" he responds, "Maradona is a God".  
His response is unsurprising, they worship Maradona in Naples, it could be that they are confusing him with The Madonna, but I don't think so.
I am also rapidly learning that "but of course" is the Neapolitan equivalent of " well duh!"

Another scene has Trump, Nixon and George Bush adoring the Magi.  "Oh look  I quip, it's the Three Wise Guys".

Barbara shakes her head and looks pained "ahh Trump, in Italia we have an expression for people like him"

'La madre dei cretini é sempre incinta" 

"The mother of the idiots is always pregnant"

I instantly write it down so I don't forget it


"Well at least you guys don't have to apologise for Berlusconi anymore" I say comfortingly.

She laughs "Oh we will never stop apologising for Berlusconi!"   

Somehow having the Mediterranean sun on your shoulders makes even getting lost feel like an adventure.  Naples is full of random acts of directional helpfulness.  Stop moving for a few minutes and someone will come up to you and ask if you need help finding somewhere.  And if they are not sure where it is they will flag down another person and ask them for you.  And then disagree with that person about the fastest way to get to the place that they hadn't heard of until two minutes ago.

The upshot being that you often end up more confused than you were to begin with but it doesn't matter because five minutes later someone else will ask you if you are lost and the adventure begins all over again.

Scenes from an Italian Restaurant (Italia Part 1)

The love affair begins on the plane.  Waking from a fitful nap in that fugue state that is peculiar to long haul travel, it occurs to me that we are an hour from landing in Rome.  Why has no one handed me that vital piece of paper upon which I need to declare my intentions towards Italia.
Personally I have always thought that Arrival Cards are something of an exercise in futility.  It's not as if anyone is going to decide to save immigration time by writing "Drug Mule" in the "Occupation" field.  "Why thank you for your honesty Sir, now if you wouldn't mind going back the way you came in".
Likewise people smuggling in other illegal items do not actually write down the fact that they have a hotel fruit basket, a medium sized ferret and 2000 Rothmans concealed in their faux Louis Vuitton luggage.
Anyway I digress... 

"I may have dozed through the documentation distribution part" I think and flag down a passing crew member.

"Excuse me, I appear to be missing an Arrival Card"

"It's OK, you don't need one for Italy"

Huh'???? 

The good vibes continue when I hit immigration and the officer smiles warmly as he takes my passport.

"Benvenuto in italia signora". 
Good grief - anyone would think that they actually want people to visit their country. 

One very fast train later we are in Napoli. 

There is a famous expression:  "Vedi Napoli e poi muori", which translates as "See Naples and die", the idea being that once one has seen Naples there is nothing else worth seeing, comparatively speaking.  And whoever said it had a point because it is utterly lovely.

And there is a Volcano in the back yard of the hotel.

We wander into the centre of town and find a restaurant on the plaza, in other city this would be a tourist trap with mediocre food and a 20% surcharge.  In Naples it is full of regulars and each new arrival is greeted by the owner like long lost family. 

The Italians don’t do gratuitous drinking.  If you order an adult beverage it arrives accompanied by complimentary snacks.  It is responsible hosting at finest and something we need to get better at in NZ.

When the mains arrive they are delicious, and elephantine, I manage less than half of my pasta.  The owner, who seems to be everywhere at once comes to take the plates.  His brow furrows in consternation “you have finished?”.  I feel guilty “it is molto bene”  I assure him “just…a lot”.

“Eh, not so much” he says, “where are you from?”. 

“New Zealand”

“How long in Napoli?”

“Arrived this morning”

“Ah…sei stanco!!” he announces triumphantly.

Satisfied that he has identified the source of my disappointing appetite he takes the plates away.  I imagine him consoling the chef “It’s OK, she loved it, she was just very tired”

The European Champions League Soccer final is on and there is a TV outside the restaurant.  A crowd has been steadily gathering while we eat.  There isn’t enough room for everyone so the locals crowd around the perimeter to watch the game and the owner is happy for them to be there.

They are happy and friendly and vocal, a lot of good natured jostling for position ensues. 

I ask for the bathroom, the waiter starts to explain in Italian, it’s clearly not easy to find.  Seeing my perplexed expression he laughs “I show you”.

We go inside and I follow him through the restaurant, up two flights of stairs and through two huge sets of double doors.  I catch a glimpse of a busy kitchen, staff charging in all directions.

And through the second set of doors we emerge into a scene from “Big Night”

A massive room with tables everywhere and waiters delivering huge plates of amazing looking and smelling food to Italian families.  Everyone is eating and drinking and laughing and gesticulating enthusiastically. 

Not a tourist in sight. This is where the real action happens.  And from the street you would never know it was all up there.

I am entranced, I lean against the wall and take it all in, every table has at least three generations talking and shouting over the top of each other.  Babies to great grandparents, Sunday dinner Italian style.

I catch the eye of a passing waiter and he grins at me "up here is better no?"  "Oh yes" it's wonderful".  He nods "Si, si signora, but of course".

Later the owner brings chocolates with the coffee "Dolce!!" he announces triumphantly.  

And gives me a look that I translate as "and I dare you to resist it"

So I don't, and they are little morsels of heaven.

When I go to pay the bill the owner is there again, just like American Express in those fabulous old ads from the 90's he is everywhere you want him to be.

"Everything was bene?" he enquiries "Si, molto bene, grazie mille" 

"Good, you come back again, we are always here"

And I don't doubt that they will be, and how lovely is that.

When Memes Attack

There are many well informed, witty and erudite people commenting on the last 48 hours in Trump Circus.

But it is so utterly bonkers that I cannot allow it pass without a mention.

Last night the Washington Post published an article with the following headline:

This was later amended to read:

"After Trump fired Comey, White House staff scrambled to explain why"  with the following disclaimer:

EDITOR'S NOTE: This story has been updated to more precisely describe White House press secretary Sean Spicer's location late Tuesday night in the minutes before he briefed reporters. Spicer huddled with his staff among bushes near television sets on the White House grounds, not "in the bushes," as the story originally stated

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/post-politics/wp/2017/05/10/as-trump-fired-comey-his-staff-scrambled-to-explain-why/?utm_term=.ffa01df4f386

Because in fairness to poor maligned Sean, he wasn't exactly huddled in a bush hiding from the press pack.  He was probably desperately trying to catch up on the days events right along with them.

Unfortunately for "Press Secretary Spice" the meme is faster than the eye and before the amended article came out there was plenty of time for this to happen in the interim.

Found this photo of Sean Spicer hiding between the bushes pic.twitter.com/YZOMCOvHZC

And that is merely the tip of the iceberg because let's face it, 100% accurate or not "Sean Spicer hides in bushes" has to be the holy grail of meme fodder.

Hang in there Sean, I'm sure that the next time your boss decides to anything really important he will ensure that you have been thoroughly briefed so that you never again have to front up to an impromptu press conference with no coherent backstory.

And just in case he doesn't; have a word with the Whitehouse gardeners about planting some decent screening vegetation. 

Because a Sean with the upper hand is worth two in the bush.

,

We Own The Night

Unless it owns us first...

I am a little late updating this week.  Oh don't get me wrong, I have a lot of material.  But it is all sitting in draft and waiting for the muse to strike so that it can be expanded upon.   Stupid muse appears to be taking a min-break, or is actually on strike in which case a strongly worded letter to the Muses Union may be in order.

However I am cracking on regardless because nature (and blogging) abhors a vacuum, which rather  conveniently gives me a reason to put this here.

Any excuse for Mr Larson right?


I was having a chat to my old friend Al the other night.  I say "chat" but it was 4.00am and we were drinking whisky so it was more of a sharing of deep and profound insights.  Which were very deep and extremely profound because we were sharing them the early hours of the morning accompanied by hard liquor.

Mum always used to tell my brother and I that nothing good happens after 2.00am.  But whilst I can see where she was going with that whole "aversion therapy" thing I have to say that some pretty freaking awesome things have happened to me after 2.00am.  I just wish I could actually remember more about some of them.


The funny thing is that when you sit up all night talking and drinking the drinking tends to become incidental by 2.00am.  The whole "nightcap" concept is really just so you have an excuse to keep talking, you might just as well be drinking herbal tea really.  But obviously that is not nearly as cool and Hunter S Thompson-ish as sitting up with a bottle of whisky between you telling stories and then realising that that loud chirping sound in the background means that you have, as Larry Miller would say "beaten the night".
And if you haven't seen his "Five Stages of Drinking" routine please go here immediately. 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=piPyfqAKf6o
Funny right?  I mean also horribly wrong in it's blatant disregard of health and safety by normalising the irresponsible consumption of adult beverages.

But also really funny.   And most of us have had a few of those nights.  When you and your new BFFs spill out of a bar into the dawn's early light and realise that three hours of DIY Kareoke and sorting out World Peace have exhausted your kebab reserves and they require immediate replenishment.

Of course aging is a bastard and nowadays it feels more as though the night has jumped you in a back alley, beaten you up, and left you lying behind the dustbins where a small furry animal has crawled into your mouth and expired.
I need now require an IV infusion and three days of uninterrupted sleep as opposed to a bacon sandwich and a large trim flat white to feel semi- human again.

It was worth it though.  Because Al is a far better writer than I could ever aspire to be and he has a unique and wonderful perspective on the world.

Amongst the mysteries that he was able to clear up for me, the fact that being whelmed is a thing.  I have always been puzzled by the underwhelmed, overwhelmed - to which I SO want to add "Wombling free" - scenario.

Wombles here - feel free to sing along -  I won't tell anyone

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XWQMMPFtoG4

So back to the whole whelmed thing - you can be under or over so why is no one ever just  "whelmed"?  As in  "that was a really whelming experience" or "I've been really whelmed at work this week"

Turns out that you can be, to be whelmed means to engulf entirely with or as if with water.  It's an old nautical term usually applied to a boat that is taking on some water.  If the boat is "overwhelmed" then it most likely going to sink. Which means that "underwhelmed" is more of a metaphor for "there is no water in the boat", so basically a neutral situation as opposed to one that leaves us feeling disappointed or let down. But of course we don't use "underwhelmed" like that because the original meaning has been lost in the mists of time - which is another phrase that I must remember to get to the bottom of one of these days.

And Al just knew that off the top of his head, sometimes your friends can whelm you with how clever they are, at 4.00am on a Sunday morning, with whisky.

Luckily Al only comes up here every two years or so.....Al, my liver thanks you.

And this is for you my friend
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2-LW45fQH8

50 Shades of WTF...Girl?

"The Girl Before" or "It's all done in the worst possible taste"

You are going to be hearing a lot about this book in the next few months because it has been optioned as movie to be directed by Ron Howard.

And the only thing that I need to say to Ron is
"You've not actually read this have you?" 

And it's OK, I can sympathise, it must be tough to find new material.

What with Reece Witherspoon snapping up every promising new novel with the speed of the road runner on crack. 

What is a bloke to do?  It's the quick or the dead and you Ron, despite the occasional internet rumors to the contrary are clearly not dead. 

However the thing is once this movie comes out a lot of female people might be rather keen on altering your whole "living" situation.

The plot basically goes like this.

Two women, two stories, told in concert but a few months apart.  Both are recovering from traumatic events in their lives - well actually one of them not so much, she is just a big liar.  I'm not going to tell you what she lies about because you might be stuck on a deserted island with this festering pile of bollox as your only reading  material and I would hate to spoil the extremely distasteful "twist" for you.

Although my advice would be to use it ward off the sharks or make a fire with instead of you know, reading it…

The suspects: are a handsome brooding architect with a thing for ultra-minimalism and rough sex. 

The grieving former boyfriend of the one of the women (oh yeah, one of them is dead, but that isn't a spoiler since we find that out pretty much straight away).

And a house - which gets a character billing because there are a LOT of descriptions of the house, in some places the book reads like a real estate marketing campaign. This is unsurprising as the author used to work in advertising.

It's a sleek neat-freaks wet dream of a smart-wired house in the middle of London with 200 rules for the tenants and a killer (literally)floating staircase.
Designed by handsome brooding architect in the wake of the deaths of his wife and child in "mysterious circumstances".

Basically, Architect rents the house out but only to specific types of women, who are prepared to subject themselves to a spot of psychological profiling (how very Telecom in the nineties) and agree to abide by the aforementioned 200 rules.

Most of the rules revolve around maintaining the pristine and uncluttered nature of the dwelling.  Or as anyone who has ever co-habited with me for an extended period refers to it, "living with Jo"
So not that arduous really, I mean who doesn't like a tidy house?

The kicker is that none of these women last for very long, because either they are incapable of picking up their shit like normal human beings or they die in "mysterious circumstances".

Once you have guessed who the killer is - from the extensive list of two suspects - there isn't much left to do but marvel at writer's uncanny ability to combine "Architectural Digest" with "Obsessive Compulsives Monthly" into word salad.

A new genre has been unveiled, OCD erotica combined with house porn.  Now being low level OCD myself I should be totally down with that.

Lines like  "he arranged my spices in alphabetical order"  Phwoar!  "He took me across the uncluttered kitchen bench" Woof!

For anyone to take me on my kitchen bench they would first have to wait for half an hour whist I remove three months accumulated bumpf (none of it my own I might add) and give that bench a jolly good scrub with multiple cleaning products.   

By which point I suspect that the moment of spontaneous passion would have well  passed and the poor bloke have wandered off to grab a cold one and see what is happening on ESPN.

Also the Architect folds his clothes BEFORE sex - I think I just la petite mort-ed

So I am totally down with the OCD/neat freak factor.  It's the actual freak factor that is far less appealing.


Because approximately halfway through the book, out of a clear blue sky, this line happens:

"Yes Daddy, yes!"

In a sexually violent context.  Which she then goes on to describe as "the best sex of my life"

It's cool, you can go and throw up, I'll wait right here.

Feeling better?  Actually, I very much doubt that you are because there is NOTHING that makes that sentence OK.   The only possible reaction to it being "No, oh dear God, no".

What were you thinking Tony???? 

Because yep, this was written by a man - I see you JP Delaney AKA Tony Strong hiding behind your catchy EL James type pseudonym. 

Perhaps you chose it because pseudo-erotica written by a bloke named Tony would have less allure for the female audience.   However at least you had been more upfront in your naming conventions it would make it easier for women to avoid this piece of misogynistic (and possibly even dangerous) tripe.

Ron, mate, do yourself a favour, write pervy old Tony a "dear Tony" letter and consider optioning this instead, because it is funny as…well…f*ck and the writer appears to like women - despite possibly never having had sex in his life.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Belinda-Blinked-passion-business-removing-ebook/dp/B00UO7WOAS

Get these guys http://www.mydadwroteaporno.com/ to direct and produce it for you while lie on a beach somewhere (with plenty of Factor 50 on - because…. ginger) and contemplate #betterliterarychoices whist reading this excellent article about what women REALLY want:

http://www.esquire.co.uk/culture/advice/a9641/things-men-dont-know-about-women-caitlin-moran/

Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon

The literary trend that needs to be gone......girl

Apparently inserting the word “girl” into the title of your mediocre, neither psychological nor particularly thrilling “psychological thriller”  has become the lazy writers click bait equivalent of inserting a touch of light B&D into your novel about the origins of space travel in order to cater to the 50 Shades aficionados. Something along the lines of “The Astronaut Who Flogged Me” or “50 Shades of Zero Gravity”.

Incidentally the best thing to happen as a result of "FSOG" can be found here https://twitter.com/50nerdsofgrey

Obviously it makes sense to take full advantage of the trend du jour, if you are a writer, especially a self-published writer, any hook that is likely to draw a ready made audience is not to be lightly passed over.  Titles are important.  I doubt that “50 Shades” would have done as well had the title more accurately reflected the content.   The vast majority of women would not be panting after something entitled “Creepy Sadomasochist Preys On Vulnerable College Student” and if they were to click download on that sucker then they would more than likely find themselves on one of those lists that Government agencies deny all knowledge of.

I am calling out "50 Shades" because in a similar way that that (ahem) novel, opened the door for a slew of imitators eager to cash in the shocking discovery that some women actually quite enjoy being tied up during sex with self absorbed, monosyllabic men,  the majority of these hastily churned out “girl” books are at best unoriginal and at worst downright dull.

“The brilliant new thriller with the heart stopping twist that you will not see coming”  thunder the blurbs.  Except that you can see the “twist” coming from space and the heroine is so unlikeable that you find yourself rooting for the villain.

Which is another trend in these books, the deeply flawed female protagonist, she’s an alcoholic, she's a closet sex maniac, she has a dark past,  she hates small children and kicks puppies – or even better - she is all of those things and she murdered her abusive former partner and buried him under a pile of clichés. 

Whilst I understand and applaud the move towards more relatable heroines, there are limits to a reader's tolerance for deeply unpleasant characters

And it can be done well, Holly Golightly in Breakfast At Tiffany’s, possibly one of the most over-romanticised novels in literary history, is an incredibly flawed character, and all the more lovable for it.  
The problem is that many of the “girls” in these novels are so fundamentally awful that it is difficult to muster the smallest grain of sympathy for any of them. 

Also, I’m sorry ladies but if you are over the age of 30, which all of these characters are, you are not a “girl” anymore dammit, you are a grown arse woman, and you need to start behaving like one instead of wafting about in an alcoholic, pill fuelled, fugue state, sleeping with blatantly horrible men whose faces you can't remember and wondering why everyone else in the novel is apparently trying to kill you. 

It is because you are annoying, borderline psychotic, drink ALL of the wine at parties...and your character arch is severely underdeveloped. 

Also you probably slept with your best friend's husband only you can't remember doing that, because you know, drunk.

Mystery solved.

Now would you all kindly go away so that my Kindle can start recommending some decent novels.

PS: In the interests of fairness, I loved Gone Girl and I did not see the twist coming, likewise The Girl on The Train (to a lesser extent).  Obviously there are some excellent examples of this genre – so far I have found two. If you have more please feel to share in the comments.

For my next post - a review of a novel that manages to combine the "girl" genre with "50 Shades" to plumb new levels of misogynistic "ick".