‘Oh but the book was far better’… and various other bits of ‘look at me’.

This goes back a few years but I have so many things that irritate me it’s taken a while for me to get round to writing about it.  Imagine a very boring meeting in Manchester, (a city I don’t like) with a group of people I don’t like (they were authors apparently but we’ll come to that later).  As you can imagine I was not in a good mood and to make matters worse I’d missed the express train back to Sheffield and was instead forced to get on the stopping service through the no Hope Valley, a place the League of Gentlemen found Ideal for filming.  It is however just urban myth that it was the location for ‘The Land That Time Forgot’ - everyone knows that was Mid Glamorgan.

Also on the train, and sat far too close to me – by this I mean they were on the same planet, just – were a group of students from the Pretend University of Sheffield, Hallam I think some call it. (Not my true opinion of SHU I just like to annoy its students in the hope of getting rough sex).  It was the year that Captain Corelli’s Mandolin was released at the cinema, this group of 19 year olds chose to discuss the film and rave about how great it was when the fat one in the corner decided it was time for an argument.  She said “But the book was far better”.   The other three were having none of this, from what they were loudly saying it seems that those three fancied Nicolas Cage, the ginger haired lad with the strange dress sense seemed particularly keen on him.  Four times the porky one insisted that if they read the book then they would definitely agree it was better, “oh but the book was enthralling” she wailed. 

Once she could be sure that everyone on the train realised she could not only read but had actually read at least one book that wasn’t about Janet and John being good friends, she decided to shut up.  Or to be more accurate fatso decided to sulk once her friends managed to prove she hadn’t read the book at all and they spent the rest of the journey on the more sensible topic of Domino’s pizza two for one offer.

So finally we get to what this blog is really about, literary types and their opinions.  Everyone knows that you should never read a book recommended to you by a pompous twat, but that won’t stop them lecturing you on a book or an author’s merit.  So what started me off on a rant about this?  It was a recent msn conversation in which a friend admitted he had wasted part of his life reading a book that was recommended to him…

Gez.... says (23:10):

just finished some Irish literature from the 19th century

Pavel Olevski says (23:10):

ah, wilde

Gez.... says (23:10):

yes, The picture of dorian Gray

which a big part of the book is about lifes pleasures

Gez.... says (23:11):

but maybe it needs to be updated for the 21st century

Pavel Olevski says (23:12):

nah, it was shite first time round mate

Gez.... says (23:14):

but then i'm not educated like my friends who recommended it so some of the time i was looking in the dictionary at certain words

And so with this my tirade against the literature snobs began.  I argued that only text books are written to be studied and all other books are intended to entertain and no one can give any rating to a book other than a personal one, and it is no more valid if it comes accompanied with a literary degree or a self perception of genius, they understand books no better than you or I.    If you enjoyed reading a book then it is a good book for you, if you didn’t enjoy it then simply leave your book mark in the third chapter and quietly take it to the charity shop.

Next time someone reviews a book to you tell them you too can read and have done so since the age of 3 and you have therefore become quite bored with the whole reading process.  Please don’t bug anyone else with your snobbery, especially some pissed-off-grumpy-bastard on a train or you might find yourself on the internet.

On the subject of literature I must have a go at authors.  Not the real ones that sell books but the ones who write poetry (sorry, I don’t mean poetry do I, that’s something else completely pointless altogether) I mean those who write for a hobby and describe it as their profession.  You see them on quiz shows, Anne Robinson will ask someone “And your job is?” “Author Anne.” “really, what have you written?”  “Nothing Anne, but I’m considering it.”

What they really mean is “I am unemployed but have written a shopping list.” For god sake, just say it!  I write pages and pages of rubbish on this site and many others, it doesn’t make me an author it makes me a moaning gobshite.  Maybe I don’t describe myself as an author because I already have a proper profession and I don’t care what people think of me.  (Don’t bother searching for my other stuff, I don’t use the same name and nothing on this site is ever re-produced on another site by me so, you just won’t know who I am elsewhere).

Do the self imagined authors buy those ‘How to Be a Successful Author’ books out of the newspapers?  Surely they’re dumb enough.  You are not an author until you have been published, and anyway to be an author doesn’t give you any kudos does it?  It’s just a book.  Chubby Brown wrote one, how fucking hard can it be.

To the best of my knowledge Chubby Brown doesn’t call himself an author… unlike those people in the afore mentioned boring meeting who spent a good hour telling me how they were authors who deserved to be published, I read your manuscripts and they were shite.  Just my opinion mind but I bet you’re still unpublished all these years later.

I bet all the pompous book people described above own cats.  They’re the type of miserable people who need a friend… well sorry but even the cat finds you annoying, the little bastard creature from hell just wants its dinner.

The cats have nothing to do with the subject of the blog what so ever, I just promised my mate Andy I’d mention cats and how pointless they are when not in a curry.