The Best of Books, The Worst of Books

On naming my top ten favourite writers, I was surprised – and a little embarrassed – when it was pointed out they’re all male.

In my defence, for most of our history, women have had little encouragement or opportunity to write, so there are far fewer female-authored novels.  Or maybe as a bloke I just naturally prefer books by men?

I do have other criteria.  For a start my strict 200 page rule – brevity is the soul of wit (Shakespeare being the sole and occasional exception).   

I also keep to the present - historical novels in particular don’t float my boat (I can read a textbook - or better watch Horrible Histories, far too funny, clever and educational to leave to kids).  

And I don’t put much store by popularity (Booker disappointed me with Life of Pi and when they did choose one of my list, Ian McEwan, they picked his worst novel, Amsterdam). So I stick to authors I know and love – Julian Barnes, William Boyd, Martin Amis (not only male, but also white, middle-aged and British – suits me just fine!).

So when my lovely sister-in-law Sasha gave me Wolf Hall I may have been less than gracious: it spectacularly failed my size test (a whopping 650 pages), was set way back in Tudor times, was famous mainly for having bagged the Booker - and was by some unknown guy called Hilary Mantel. 

The early years of Henry VIII just didn’t appeal.  Eight wives all chopped, right?  Or was it divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived?  Should I care either way?  Worse still, it wasn’t even about him, but rather his little-known fixer, Thomas Cromwell.  Never ‘eard of ‘im.

Oh how wrong could I be?  This is a stonkingly good read.  The atmosphere of medieval England is deliciously evoked, the political and social intrigues captivating.  I’m still not sure why I should care, but I really did – I couldn’t get enough of it.  

Frustratingly, I struggle to put into words just why this is so well written – I even re-read pages to pinpoint how it was done; there’s no fancy long words or complicated structure, just somehow brilliantly put together and utterly gripping storytelling.

So there I was – this Hilary Mantel bloke had just shattered my reading prejudices.  And then I go and find out she’s a woman: gutted!

What next?  With eyes opened and mind widened, I went straight for another author unknown to me but celebrated by others – and who, I am led to belive, is a also woman:  none other than E L James and her ubiquitous 50 Shades of Grey.

If the contrast were in a novel, you would dismiss it as an improbable fiction.  I kept reading at first in the mistaken belief that it just had to get better; then out of perverse curiosity as to how much worse it could get; and finally I was in crud stepped in so far that returning were as tedious as to turn over.

I feel slightly cruel pointing out that this is an utterly terrible book, but you’ll thank me if it saves a week of your precious reading time.

Seriously – this is the worst book I have ever read.

E L James simply can’t write.  How was someone with such a limited vocabulary allowed to pump out over 500 pages before her editor took pity?  Take the main character, a smarmy perv called Christian Grey, for whom our silly heroine falls in lust.  His description is painful:  fingers are without variation “long”, character always “mysterious”, eyes predictably, repeatedly “gray”.  

Yes that’s right – he’s called Grey, and he has gray eyes – clever eh?  Clearly emboldened by this stroke of literary genius, she bravely travels the spectrum to offer blushes “red as the communist manifesto” (probably confusing it with Mao’s little books, bless).  When she stumbles on a potentially more interesting description like “oxblood” for furniture, she uses the same adjective three times in as many paragraphs.  Please, somebody, give this woman a bloody thesaurus!

After over 100 pages of mind-numbingly mundane build-up, we finally get some of the much-hyped bedroom action:  orgasm 1 has heroine “shattering into a thousand pieces”; orgasm 2, demonstrating her astonishing range of descriptive skills, sees her “splinter into a million pieces”.  

Unable to develop character or drive the plot through dialogue, James stoops to unbearably crass use of her main character's ‘subconscious’ and ‘inner goddess’.  Conversations are followed in italics by such profound analysis as “Whoa!”, “Holy hell!”, “Crap!” and “Jeez!” (I kid you not).  The only mercy is her kind editor removed the multiple exclamation marks.

This is basically the faintly ridiculous fantasies of a semi-literate teenager.  James would have struggled to scrape a GCSE in English even before the grades were toughened up.  Fail!

So where does this leave me?  I still insist life is too short for long books, with rare exceptions.  Popularity makes a book worth investigating, but not necessarily reading.  

If my horizons are broadened, maybe I should escape from little England to French, African, North or South American novels?  Scour book prizes and best sellers to keep up with literary fashion?

Sorry, but for now I'm still sticking with what I know - whilst 50 Shades... besmirches my recycling bin, I’m devouring the sequel to Wolf Hall, the equally thrilling and unputdownable Bring Up The Bodies by Hilary Mantel, one of my favourite authors.

How to write a love song?

An unexpected request:  “Dear Oly, “I'm looking for someone with a way with words who is also a hopeless romantic, has a sense of humour, patience, and an ear for music.  Oh, and will volunteer their services with no promise of financial remuneration…  Would you be interested in writing lyrics for a love song I wrote?”

How could I resist?  Yet where to start?  Luckily Katja had the answer:  Leicester.  Leicester?

One of the few British cities I’ve never visited, I had only Adrian Mole for cultural bearings – and his cringeworthy paean ‘Lo The Flat Hills of my Homeland’ hadn’t encouraged me, and would move few to lyricism.

Yet every year Leicester hosts the great little Summer Sundae music festival in the surprisingly pleasant grounds of De Montfort Hall.  There was a great mix of people, a chilled ‘vibe’, and a fun safari theme:  we loved wearing khaki and getting our faces painted as crocs and lions - though I was a slightly reluctant camper, and distinctly unimpressed at the morning trek to ‘hunt the working shower’.

Fortunately there were also all sorts of fringe events to cheer me up, including Laughing Hyena comedy from Slightly Fat Features and a pleasing range of worthy causes:  Oxfam on ‘food power’ (I loved the guy’s talk, only slightly undermined when I spotted him the next morning sneaking away with a bacon butty), to Educating for the Alternative’s ‘ditch cars and carnivores and cycle your own banana smoothie’ (I’m crazy about both cycling and bananas – though is there a love song in that?).

But what about the music?  (And more importantly, the words?).

The early afternoons were largely electronica – locals Dark Dark Horses all smooth guitars and laid-back beats, New York’s Friends instrumental inventiveness, and Death In Vegas creating a great atmosphere.  But there were more DJs than instruments – and few lyrics.  My favourite band was the nattily-named Molotov Jukebox, who really got us going in a Gypsy Kings kind of way - but still slender pickings for the love song hunter.

Asian Dub Foundation raised the tempo with overtly political songs, whilst latest pop idol Katy B heightened heartbeats, but the words I could make out were of bad boyfriends and worse discos – still not the inspiration I needed.

Perhaps crafting songs is for the older guys?   I had high hopes for François and the Altas Mountains, billed as “Morrissey’s younger brother”, but it applied more to lilting delivery than word-smithery.  Uncle Frank from Fun Lovin’ Criminals was lively, unreconstructed hip hop, but his promise of “Ideal Food for Love” had all the romance of Benny Hill.  And whilst Adam Ant was great nostalgia for us 80s kids, “Prince Charming” is hardly a love song (“… ridicule is nothing to be scared of”).

Sometimes inspiration strikes when least expected:  if truth be told, we were only in the main hall for Saturday’s mid-morning session to use the non-camping toilets – but were attracted to the stage by an intriguing guitar / drums / cello / violin combo, Her Name Is Calla.  

We arrived just in time for “And finally, a love song…”.  The build-up was terrific, but rather than leading to amorous words, it was the precursor to a lively and unexpected performance, the East Midland’s answer to Pussy Riot (Katja:  “that guy’s practically raping his guitar”).  Maybe Leicester love is different?

We had a great time, and I’d recommend Summer Sundae to anyone - unless you like a nice quiet weekend in the shower. 

But I’m still looking for lyrical inspiration. 

I can’t even sing about my dilemma without encroaching on an F R David classic:  words, for love songs at least, don’t come easy to me.

How to watch the Olympics

It’s just like footy I guess:  flop in front of telly with a bag of chocolate medals.  Only without Premiership broadcasting monopolies, couch athletes can surf the BBC’s dizzying array of online options. 

Whichever you choose, here’s a tip:  get my dad to bring his library copy of ‘How To Watch The Olympics’ –helpful if you think handball is a foul and Keirin must be Chelsea's latest expensive overseas flop. 

Let’s be clear:  football is the only truly world sport; the World Cup is the greatest show on earth.  But in between times the Olympics is a nice celebration of minor pastimes, and a useful distraction from another ignominious exit from the Euros.

But now we're told football is part of the Olympics – how is that meant to work?  I headed to Wembley to investigate…

So what did I learn at the spiritual home of football?  Blearly-eyed at an unsporting 8am kick-off, I first found myself in the neighbouring arena, enjoying the global sensation which is… badminton.  It certainly woke me up:  three matches play simultaneously, so it’s a bit like watching online - we focused on intricate doubles whilst flitting to singles at their climax.  As the feisty Chinese and Koreans smashed their way through I mused that it would take more than attaching feathers to the ball to slow a van Persie screamer.  But wouldn’t it be great to see some overpaid peacocks disqualified for ‘not trying hard enough’ - maybe football could learn a thing of two from its amateur cousins? 

With the real sport not scheduled until the evening, we took in some off-beat photos of local athletes in the National Portrait Gallery and a great Olympic exhibition, slightly incongruously, in the Royal Opera House (think Nessun Dorma).  Highlights were the development of designs over the hundred years of the modern games, exemplified through torches (from the sleek banana of Athens to Barcelona's sex-toy to the London cheesegrater), and medals (Paris had square medals for 1900 and later beautiful art nouveau designs for 1924, the same understated beauty of the Jules Rimet trophy).

By evening we were back at Wembley for the real thing:  football.  But I was confused by the GB men’s team:  playing in a suspiciously Scottish-looking kit, led largely by Welshmen with a supporting cast of under 23 rising stars, we huffed and puffed to overcome those footballing giants of, er, the United Arab Emirates.  The crowd was large but lacked passion – not helped by the perplexing question ‘what to sing?’  (This was less of a problem in the preceeding match where we devised numerous ways to rile the universally despised Suarez as he failed to help Uruguay overcome the spirited Senegalese). 

Undeterred, I took my niece to watch the GB women’s team two days later – this was more like it!  75,000 joyful fans (smashing the national attendance record for a women’s match), no age restrictions – and a victory over Brazil!  I hope my niece was inspired – I was.

But the Olympics are really for minor sports.  Early morning hockey in the Olympic park was, fortunately, rather like the beautiful game – similar pitch, goals, timings, and also tactics – the Dutch bamboozled Korea with their version of total football while the physical Aussies outmuscled a disappointing Pakistan team.  It will never match our national game, but could we see throw-ins taken to yourself, offside scrapped, rolling substitutions or even just a bit of respect for the officials in the Premier League once normal service is resumed this autumn?

Next was women’s basketball – faster, taller and snazzier than hockey, and more closely fought – Russia pipped Turkey in the last minute, and France came back from ten points down to beat the unlucky Czechs.  I remain suspicious of any game where you can see over 100 points scored, but I won’t object to cheerleaders and slow-motion Mexican waves at Old Trafford and the Emirates next season…

Surprisingly, my highlight was handball.  Often jokingly dismissed as an Olympic oddity in the league of synchronized swimming, oily wresting or that funny walking thing, it was actually exciting, passionate and skillful – it had the pace and intensity of basketball, along with the physicality and goalkeeping dimension of hockey.  According to my dad’s book the game has attracted the equivalent of football hooligans in parts of Eastern Europe!

Team GB scooped an impressive haul of golds, and as a nation we lead the world in talking a good game.  And so my highlight of the whole thing was probably meeting up with my mates Nick and Matt to share some overpriced branded alcohol products whilst reflecting on the swimming events they had seen and the fantastic athletics performances to come. 

A beer in the sun with your mates – I could almost forget it wasn’t footy we were discussing:  that, unquestionably, is the way to watch the Olympics!