Modern life is brilliant.
The internet lets you do anything at the touch of a button, from cancelling your milk order to demanding that a major celebrity loses their job because you don't like hearing the word 'fuck' on television.
Women can do what they want, even if what they want is to become Prime Minister or run a football club or get their knockers out in a shoddy tabloid - no one bats an eyelid. She can even try and be president if she wants. She can't visit a pub on her own or walk down a dark street without giving off the unspoken but apparently clarion call that she urgently wants sex and any sweaty ape will do, but if she wants to run a business empire or go into space, let the bird get on with it.
Murderers tend to get caught a bit more often these days, since the police worked out how to pick up the bits they leave behind, bits that are smaller than bloodied handkerchiefs and smoking guns.
Oppression and violence against minorities is, in theory at least, less of a problem than it was a hundred years ago, because at least the folks in charge have been persuaded to publicly say it's wrong, instead of resting their feet on their little dark man servant while delivering their speeches to Parliament.
There's loads of stuff about life in the 21st century which is really rather good.
But modern life is also, in the words of Blur, rubbish. And the reasons why it's rubbish would fill a gazillion blogs on God's own PC and even then he'd have to nip down Maplins for an extra memory stick, so let's just take it all as read.
Think of your favourite reason why modern life sucks and why it would be all so much better to live in the 40s. Got it? Right, bear that in mind while you read the next few paragraphs.
While watching a documentary the other night called Time Warp Wives, I quickly realised that I was supposed to be laughing at these women. I was supposed to find them delusional idiots and snigger at their expense. For these ladies simply did their very best to operate as if it was still 1945. One of them was a bit more with it, preferring to convince herself that she was living firmly in the 50s, but you get the gist.
I was supposed to point at their beautifully groomed hair, their vibrant make-up, their elegant and dainty clothes, their adorable kitchens - I was supposed to point and giggle and probably mutter 'sad cows' under my breath.
As they bounced primly along in the passenger seats of their Riley Elfs, polka dot cake tins in their laps and Bryl-creamed husbands at their side, I was supposed to pity or condemn them. I was supposed to feel superior, because I was capable of getting by in the real world, in a world that one of them freely admitted was 'frightening'.
But I didn't feel that way at all. I envied them. And suddenly I wanted to be a Time Warp Wife too.
And it wasn't just about the life style and the fashions and the sweet little accoutrements of 40s living. I'll be honest, although I don't fancy the war much, I'd love to have been a young woman in the 40s. All those tailored jackets and pillbox hats and frightfully nice young men in uniform. All those face compacts and silk stockings and steam trains and one pound notes and perfumed love letters.
If I could step into Brief Encounter, I probably would. So when one of the girls described her life as being like an old-time movie, I sympathised entirely. When she had to leave the past behind and go into poxy Morrisons, I didn't empathise with the gormless chavs staring at her funny clothes and laughing at this attractive, poised, dignified woman. I found myself entirely in her shoes, seeing the modern world for what it is - ugly, in every single sense.
However you look at it, these women have made a cocoon for themselves. One of the girls was only 20 and she confessed her obsession with the 40s started following the divorce of her parents, when Life seemed entirely out of her control and that speaks volumes.
A few years ago I had the great pleasure of visiting a lady who lived in a wartime warp, when she agreed to be interviewed on her obsession with the past. Sitting in her colourful kitchen and eating cake made with the powdered egg that her local Tesco ordered in specially for her, she spoke of how frightening and cold she found the 21st century. Ironically, a time when people had been bombing the arse off each other somehow seemed warmer, safer and more appealing than the world she encountered outside the safety of her sandbagged front door.
And you know what? Maybe this makes me a delusional idiot, but I completely understand. And I want to be a Time Warp Wife too.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Friday, 16 July 2010
Review: Don't Look Now & Other Stories by Daphne du Maurier
Daphne Du Maurier is widely considered to be one of our most gifted female writers. In fact, scratch that because it sounds patronising, as if women need to be sectioned off in their own area. She is widely considered to be one of our finest writers full-stop, so I have always meant to read more of her work.
The only book I’ve read until now was Rebecca, a novel which constantly makes it onto all-time greatest lists whenever masterpieces are being discussed. I was a kid when I read it, plucking the dated TV tie-in paperback from my parents’ wicker bookcase, a youthful and bewildered Joanna David gazing out from the cover. In fact, a guilty glance over my shoulder to my own bookcases has just revealed that yes, I never put it back...
Rebecca is a really great book. I was probably only about 10 or 12 when I read it and if a story about old-fashioned love and adult jealousy can enchant someone who still watches Grange Hill, it’s got something going for it.
However, I was not immediately gripped by the idea that I should seek out more of her work. And I think it is because Rebecca, however thrilling and occasionally dark, still resonates a gentility which doesn’t quite match my literary tastes. The titles of Du Maurier’s other novels – Jamaica Inn, Frenchman’s Creek – just seemed to nudge towards the twee, so she wasn’t really at the top of my must-read list.
While browsing about in the bookshop the other day, I suddenly spotted a copy of Don’t Look Now and Other Stories and knew immediately that I must have it. Never having seen the film – another highly celebrated work – all the way through, I only had a vague idea of the storyline. But with my love of paranormal fiction, I knew at once that it was a must-read.
And I wasn’t wrong. Although Don’t Look Now is the big-name striker in the team, all the other players on the pitch quietly make their own mark. From the sublimely odd and unexpected turns of the title story, to the equally bizarre A Border-Line Case, Du Maurier shows an awe-inspiring grasp of character and place.
Somehow she manages to take strange, fanciful notions and place them right into the middle of ordinary life in the most believable way. I felt a little frustration with A Border-Line Case, simply because the language and action felt almost dream-like and as if Du Maurier had become a little self-indulgent. But on the whole, these five stories were intriguing and bold, in most cases seeming to introduce ideas and characters merely to let us know they existed, with no conclusion or even real comment on them at all.
Although Don’t Look Now is her most satisfying tale, as it does at least have an ending, The Way of the Cross might be the most accomplished. In just 67 pages she paints an astonishingly vivid picture of a group of disparate tourists in Jerusalem, all suffering a series of minor calamities and for what purpose? Just as we get a grip on them all, we leave them. And that is where Du Maurier’s consummate skill and assurance really makes itself known.
The final story, The Breakthrough, left me positively gripped and desperate to know more about the psychic energy experiments of an eccentric scientist. But I guess I will never know what might have been if the story was allowed to progress, the plug pulled on that particular intrigue.
This copy of Don’t Look Now is part of the Penguin Decades series, a really beautifully presented collection with covers by Zandra Rhodes, which makes it something of a keepsake and I'd recommend seeking out these attractive editions.
The only book I’ve read until now was Rebecca, a novel which constantly makes it onto all-time greatest lists whenever masterpieces are being discussed. I was a kid when I read it, plucking the dated TV tie-in paperback from my parents’ wicker bookcase, a youthful and bewildered Joanna David gazing out from the cover. In fact, a guilty glance over my shoulder to my own bookcases has just revealed that yes, I never put it back...
Rebecca is a really great book. I was probably only about 10 or 12 when I read it and if a story about old-fashioned love and adult jealousy can enchant someone who still watches Grange Hill, it’s got something going for it.
However, I was not immediately gripped by the idea that I should seek out more of her work. And I think it is because Rebecca, however thrilling and occasionally dark, still resonates a gentility which doesn’t quite match my literary tastes. The titles of Du Maurier’s other novels – Jamaica Inn, Frenchman’s Creek – just seemed to nudge towards the twee, so she wasn’t really at the top of my must-read list.
While browsing about in the bookshop the other day, I suddenly spotted a copy of Don’t Look Now and Other Stories and knew immediately that I must have it. Never having seen the film – another highly celebrated work – all the way through, I only had a vague idea of the storyline. But with my love of paranormal fiction, I knew at once that it was a must-read.
And I wasn’t wrong. Although Don’t Look Now is the big-name striker in the team, all the other players on the pitch quietly make their own mark. From the sublimely odd and unexpected turns of the title story, to the equally bizarre A Border-Line Case, Du Maurier shows an awe-inspiring grasp of character and place.
Somehow she manages to take strange, fanciful notions and place them right into the middle of ordinary life in the most believable way. I felt a little frustration with A Border-Line Case, simply because the language and action felt almost dream-like and as if Du Maurier had become a little self-indulgent. But on the whole, these five stories were intriguing and bold, in most cases seeming to introduce ideas and characters merely to let us know they existed, with no conclusion or even real comment on them at all.
Although Don’t Look Now is her most satisfying tale, as it does at least have an ending, The Way of the Cross might be the most accomplished. In just 67 pages she paints an astonishingly vivid picture of a group of disparate tourists in Jerusalem, all suffering a series of minor calamities and for what purpose? Just as we get a grip on them all, we leave them. And that is where Du Maurier’s consummate skill and assurance really makes itself known.
The final story, The Breakthrough, left me positively gripped and desperate to know more about the psychic energy experiments of an eccentric scientist. But I guess I will never know what might have been if the story was allowed to progress, the plug pulled on that particular intrigue.
This copy of Don’t Look Now is part of the Penguin Decades series, a really beautifully presented collection with covers by Zandra Rhodes, which makes it something of a keepsake and I'd recommend seeking out these attractive editions.
Monday, 12 July 2010
I Can't Read and I Can't Write, But Don't Really Ma'er...
...cos I come from the Westcountry and I can drive a tra'or.
Yup, I hail from Devon. And although I moved away from that corner of the Earth some years ago, most of my family remain down on the homestead. Therefore, I must visit on a reasonably regular basis and this weekend was one of those occasions.
Well, I say the family remains on the homestead but that's not strictly true. I wish they did. I grew up in the middle of nowhere, an absolutely stunning, secluded spot on Dartmoor which I loved with a passion throughout my childhood. When my parents' marriage faltered, I lost the place I thought would always be there for me and my life is the poorer for it.
So I never go to Dartmoor. I simply go to Torquay where my mother and sister live and by jove, it's a mixed bag. I love seeing my family, I really do. But cripes, I loathe going to Devon, simply because I hate the journey down. People cringe at the mention of the M25 but it's a teddy bears' picnic in comparison to the A303, which can be the most soul-sapping experience any motorist could ever hope to face.
I suppose putting a six-lane expressway straight through some of our country's most beautiful rural landscapes might be counter-productive, but Christ, the A303 just takes the piss. It is the only road in the country which appears to be sponsored by Saga. Every day is a Sunday on the A303 and because it insists on remaining single carriageway for long stretches, the journey from London to Torquay can just feel like one big tail-back in the summer - the motoring equivalent of trying to crawl from John O'Groats to Lands End through a four-inch drainpipe.
It is scarcely better on the way back. By the time I edge the car back into the south east, I have the glow of little red lights permanently tattooed on my retinas and am ready to physically bludgeon to death the next person who needlessly touches their brakes. If ever I go over the edge into proper insanity, it will be on a Sunday evening on the A303, so watch out grockles.
Amid a wide selection of arsehole single lane stretches, traffic-crippling police cameras and eccentric speed restrictions, Stonehenge is the stand-out bastard. I got over Stonehenge a long time ago. Sure, it's a load of big rocks that got there years back and no one really knows how or why. Okay, it's a head-scratcher. But slowing down to 10mph every time you pass and gawping as if you expect a caveman to fall out of a crevice is not going to solve the mystery. It might, however. get your brains scattered by a Haribo-crazed female who can't stand the sight of her own eyes in the rear view mirror anymore and finally succumbs to a Falling Down-style head fuck.
Fortunately, I know a canny short cut around this particularly arse-aching section, but it's a drop in the ocean really. For the rest of the way, you just have to resign yourself to switching off your brain and becoming intimately acquainted with the features of the car in front. Better grow to love the anagrams you can make from its registration number, as for the next four hours, you two are gonna be good, good friends...
Yup, I hail from Devon. And although I moved away from that corner of the Earth some years ago, most of my family remain down on the homestead. Therefore, I must visit on a reasonably regular basis and this weekend was one of those occasions.
Well, I say the family remains on the homestead but that's not strictly true. I wish they did. I grew up in the middle of nowhere, an absolutely stunning, secluded spot on Dartmoor which I loved with a passion throughout my childhood. When my parents' marriage faltered, I lost the place I thought would always be there for me and my life is the poorer for it.
So I never go to Dartmoor. I simply go to Torquay where my mother and sister live and by jove, it's a mixed bag. I love seeing my family, I really do. But cripes, I loathe going to Devon, simply because I hate the journey down. People cringe at the mention of the M25 but it's a teddy bears' picnic in comparison to the A303, which can be the most soul-sapping experience any motorist could ever hope to face.
I suppose putting a six-lane expressway straight through some of our country's most beautiful rural landscapes might be counter-productive, but Christ, the A303 just takes the piss. It is the only road in the country which appears to be sponsored by Saga. Every day is a Sunday on the A303 and because it insists on remaining single carriageway for long stretches, the journey from London to Torquay can just feel like one big tail-back in the summer - the motoring equivalent of trying to crawl from John O'Groats to Lands End through a four-inch drainpipe.
It is scarcely better on the way back. By the time I edge the car back into the south east, I have the glow of little red lights permanently tattooed on my retinas and am ready to physically bludgeon to death the next person who needlessly touches their brakes. If ever I go over the edge into proper insanity, it will be on a Sunday evening on the A303, so watch out grockles.
Amid a wide selection of arsehole single lane stretches, traffic-crippling police cameras and eccentric speed restrictions, Stonehenge is the stand-out bastard. I got over Stonehenge a long time ago. Sure, it's a load of big rocks that got there years back and no one really knows how or why. Okay, it's a head-scratcher. But slowing down to 10mph every time you pass and gawping as if you expect a caveman to fall out of a crevice is not going to solve the mystery. It might, however. get your brains scattered by a Haribo-crazed female who can't stand the sight of her own eyes in the rear view mirror anymore and finally succumbs to a Falling Down-style head fuck.
Fortunately, I know a canny short cut around this particularly arse-aching section, but it's a drop in the ocean really. For the rest of the way, you just have to resign yourself to switching off your brain and becoming intimately acquainted with the features of the car in front. Better grow to love the anagrams you can make from its registration number, as for the next four hours, you two are gonna be good, good friends...
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