I’m sick and tired of little Emily nagging at me to let her write a post on my little blog. Who wants to read her posts? She should get her own fucking blog if she’s that desperate instead of trying to write on mine. I’ve resisted and resisted her but this morning she turned up at my house with a final draft of her FIRST novel which is unpublished as yet because she’s been busy writing the one with Heathcliff in it and she hasn’t bothered sending this first one off yet. And, bless her big white cotton bloomers, you’ll never guess what she’s been doing these last couple of days? Copying out the whole novel BY HAND – yes, bloggy people (and COF) writers used DECIPHERABLE HANDWRITING to write before typing was invented – and she did it ALL FOR ME. So the least I can do in return is compromise – I can’t let her have a whole post to herself but I asked if she wanted to do some book reviews and she (quite grudgingly, for some strange reason) said yes, she would like to do book reviews. I made it very clear that she isn’t TAKING OVER the book reviews, she’s got this post and that’s her lot so she’d better make a good job of it, no shoddy writing or spelling mistakes or bad grammar or thoughtless punctuation because you won’t find any of those things anywhere else on my little blog and I won’t stand for it on this post either. And no ink blobs either (her hands are stained to fuck).
So, I’ll hand you over to little Emily who’s sitting next to me waiting for me to turn the laptop round to face her.
(hurry up, idiot, they’re waiting)
Good afternoon. My name is Ellis Bell and I am a man. I am a man for whom a good book is an essential requirement for a content and happy day. I am a man (I am a man) with a life-long, deep-held appreciation for words. I am a literary man of literature and letters. I am a man of books.
A book review is, ideally, a delicate examination of the inner workings of the author’s craft, and of the outer manifestations of the author’s ability to execute said craft. I am a man with a delicate eye with which to see. I am a man with a delicate hand with which to underline. I am a man with a delicate tongue with which to critic and praise. I am not a fierce man. I am not a harsh man. I am a fair and subtle man. I am a generous man. I am a gentle man.
I shall commence with the first book which has been selected for review by Mme D. Headbanger…
Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
(The girl, Tess, hails from a place in the southern counties. I managed to determine her unfortunate origins by hearing her speak for a short time. Her accent is dreadfully thick, excrutiatingly so; it is such that I can not elicit one single, legible sentence from her. I refuse to waste the little space and time allocated to my reviews in the arduous task of translating her words. We shall continue to the next on the list).
The Moonstone – Wilkie Collins
(I do not wish to review this book. My brother provides a generous and ample supply of laudanum-fuelled writings for my sisters and I to peruse. Besides, the author is a wicked, immoral cad).
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
(My dear, dear friend! Please, I beg of you, do not force me to go in there. Dotty, I implore you! Miss Havisham has fleas!)
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
(The pretty face of Dorian Gray is undeniably enticing, however, I am forbidden to venture into the realms of this works by my dear father, a pious man of God, who has read of the author’s imprisonment and refuses to allow his
daughter son to associate with ne’er-do-wells and lags). The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
(What is this? What is it?)
I have had quite enough of this foolishness. The books listed for review are not of my choosing; I deeply regret that I did not stand firm and insist upon the choices I myself made. I have squandered my one and only opportunity to become a far-famed blog author, lauded and esteemed, praised and admired throughout the Empire. If only my choices had been acceptable to Mme D. Headbanger, but what possible use are ‘if onlys’, now, at the summit of my shame?
Disgrace is upon me. I must hasten home.
Yours, in spasms of mortified ignominy,
Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t feel sorry for her, you should have seen HER list – actually, I’ll show you it or it’ll be me who ends up being the bad one in this —
Confessions of a Shop-a-holic
Bridget Jones’s Diary
Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason
Mills & Boon – a Doctor & Nurse romance
A book by Barbara Cartland
That’s what she had on her list.
Fucking stupid Victorian. Why do I bother?