Story Time: Any Other Mouth by Anneliese Mackintosh

You're going to need a stiff drink

In short: Errrrrrrrrr...

First up, this book is not a novel. It's a collection of semi-autobiographical short-stories which the author admits are 68% true, 32% not-so-much. That's an unsettling balance when you actually read the thing because the author tackles an array of harrowing subjects from mental illness to grief to rape.

The stories are written using an impressively broad range of writing styles, voices and tenses so I can't fault her ambition and prowess. That said, I'd be lying if I said I liked this book. It started off so gripping but by the end I was pretty sick of it and really forcing myself to turn the pages. Every single chapter seemed to be depressing and bizarre. I couldn't relate to the protagonist, in fact if we were Facebook friends I'd probably block her updates from my news feed.

There's a point in the book where the lead character is stroking her stomach and cooing "baby, baby, baby, baby, baby." Aww, that's quite a sweet thing for a pregnant woman to do. Yeah, except she's not fucking pregnant; she's not even trying for a baby. She's just being melodramatic. AGAIN. Like another time where she fingers herself whilst thinking about that oft-overlooked mastermind of erotica ANNE FRANK (yes, Nazi hunted Anne Frank). Yeah, that happens.

There's only so much of this kind of crap that any one book should contain. This book shoots way past the limit and there comes a tipping point where everything goes from being intimate and thought-provoking to just sounding like some drunk chick at a party talking about how many guys she's fucked in gory detail in a desperate bid to show how cool and edgy she is. As much as I applaud the author’s efforts for tackling difficult subjects with style and imagination, I can’t honestly say that I enjoyed reading it.

Verdict: Leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

"Oh, I'm fine. It's just that life is pointless and nothing matters and I'm always tired."

Quick note: I stole the title for this blog post from Parks and Recreation. Please don't sue me, Andy Dwyer.

HELP ME! I can't stop reading depressing books. I never at any point sat down and thought, "Do you know what's missing from my life? Lots and lots of books about schizophrenia and depression and people cutting themselves. Yeah, that's what I need right now." Nope, I never decided this but for some reason, the past 4 or 5 books I've read have involved someone with a mental illness who at some point thinks about suicide or hurting themselves or hurting someone else. These books should come with warnings attached. I'm not sure what kind of warning exactly. Something like…

I'm halfway through yet another gut-twisting gloom-a-thon of a novel but then after that I'm switching to rom-coms and comedies, I swear. I know that is exactly what most addicts sound like ("Just one more... this is the last time... I promise...") but honestly, it's true because every time my boyfriend is out I’ll wind up reading for just a few minutes and then I find myself on the floor, curling in to the foetal position with the bloodshot crazy eyes of a woman who just realised life is meaningless.

I'm a bit unstable as it is, I'm usually surfing a knife edge of normalcy and at any moment I could fall off the edge and either go right in to the 24 hour fun factory complete with clowns, cakes and a giant bouncy castle made of Haribo gums where every day is Saturday (WOOOHOOO, BACON SAMMICH DAY!) OR left in to the cold, grey pit of despair and anxiety and paranoia (That guy I don’t even know just looked at me funny, HE MUST HATE ME!). Trust me; you’d be better off being stuck in a lift with that creepy kid from The Ring than with me on a bad day. I should really only be allowed to watch shows on Comedy Central and read books by Helen Fielding for this very reason. Sure, it means I sing a lot (badly) and dance around a lot (equally badly) and yes, it's like having an ADHD riddled toddler around - but it's way less depressing than seeing me mope around the house like a bad fart that just won't dissipate.

Case in point: Yesterday my boyfriend was out and I knew I needed to cheer myself up so I went to the supermarket for some comfort food. I bought three ready meals for one and a small mountain of profiteroles. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself and looking forward to getting home and basically diving face first in to those sweet, sweet profiteroles. That lasted for a full five minutes, right up until the lady at the checkout looked at my ready meals, then looked at me, then looked at my profiteroles, then looked back at me and then gave me this sort of weak and pitying smile that 100% said, 'Oh, you poor girl.' And just like that I was back to being a fart again. I should really be used to this sort of thing. One time I had the house to myself for a weekend, so I rocked up at my local Asda for multiple pizzas and as much cake as I could possibly carry and this exchange occured:

          Checkout lady: "Ooooh, getting ready for a children’s party or something?"
          Me: "Nope."

But at least that was a good day, so I was confident in my 'nope' and didn't feel like I had to justify my dietary choices to total strangers. Yesterday was a bit different, I almost wanted to blurt out, "I don't live by myself with an army of cats or anything, I’ve just had a bad day, IS THAT OKAY WITH YOU, JUDGEY McJUDGERSON?!" I didn't though. I was too busy being a fart, and farts don’t talk.

Anyway, in summary, that is why I have to stop reading depressing books for a while, which is a bit disappointing because some of the depressing books I have been reading are really good. Anyone got any recommendations for good books that WON’T turn me in to a fart?

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Also, I’d like to give a big shout out to the wonderful, the fabulous, the profane Eric at Opticynicism for checking up on me via Twitter and making sure I wasn't dead, which was really very nice of him. Check out his blog, it's way less farty than mine.

Pleb's Countryside Highlights

I recently took a trip to the Lake District for a bit of fresh air and nature frolicking and it was incredible. There’s something about being out in nature that gives you a wonderful sense of calm and contentment, which, if you've read this blog much, you’ll know is not my natural state. If like me you’re a little tightly wound, here’s my top 5 reasons for ditching the sofa and heading out in to the wild for a few days.

1. Advertising

Ahhh nature, advert free since ‘83 (actually advert free since forever, but that doesn’t rhyme). Advertising is huge pet peeve of mine and if it’s not one of yours, let me tell you why it should be. 1. It’s relentless: it screams at you from billboards as you commute to work; it lurks at the side of every website; it rudely interrupts you viewing pleasure as you watch tv – there’s no escape in the modern world! 2. Advertising consists mostly of condescending, idiotic nonsense. By way of example, the current Müllerlight Desserts advert drives me crazy. You know the one, "If I had 3 wishes, I'd wish for a bubble bath, a fireman and for this [mousse] to be 99 calories." Why would she make such insubstantial wishes?! And if she must, why would she not wish for zero calories?!? Or even negative calories like celery?!?! 99 calories is not even low, Aero chocolate mousse is only 94 calories. And don’t even get me started on Nicole Scherzinger faking a "müllerlicious" mouth-gasm, again in the name of flogging us yoghurts. Luckily, as yet, the bastards have not taken to stamping ‘EAT THIS FUCKING YOGHURT’ on the rolling hills of Cumbria, and so a brief spell in the Lake District offers much needed relief from the constant barrage of mental abuse.

2. Exercise

I work in an office, which means the most exercise I get all day is when I get out of and then back in to my car. By the time I've finished my eight hour sit-a-thon and completed the forty-five minute drive home, stretching my stiff mannequin-like frame out in to a standing position seems like a Herculean accomplishment. The idea of then going to the gym or for a run just seems insane. I've already sat in a place I don’t want to sit all day, I'm now going to a different place I don’t want to be for a run?! No thank you, fitness freaks. However, heading to the picturesque hills of the countryside for long treks, hopping across river stepping stones and clambering over styles like I'm fucking Heidi or something, now that’s something I can get on board with.

3. Wildlife

There must be something about being an office drone that makes me more prone to outbursts of unexplainable excitement but there really is something about seeing an animal in its natural habitat that makes me crazy happy. I once saw a shrew, this was my reaction: ‘A SHREW! A FUCKING SHREW! DID YOU SEE THAT SHREW! IT WAS RIGHT THERE! OHHH MAAAA GAAAWWDDD! A SHREEEEWWWWW!’ I guess I need to get out more, but as you can see, I'm working on that.

4. Clean Air

For forty hours a week I sit under an air-conditioning unit that hangs there just sucking in everyone’s germs and then spewing them back out at me. If you can relate, I can promise you that there is other air out there. Air that hasn't already repeatedly been inhaled and exhaled by all of your virus-riddled colleagues before reaching you. That air, my friend, is out in the nature. Go get some, it’s sweet and fresh and probably even has magical powers… (unless it's ‘muck spreading’ season and then it just smells like shit).

5. This…

 Sure you can see views like that on your tv, but trust me, it’s nowhere near as satisfying. 

Story Time Special Edition: A Tribute to Graham Joyce

Graham Joyce died yesterday. He had cancer, it was the bad kind, the kind people don't often win the war against. He wrote a beautiful blog post about it which you can read here. I’m immensely saddened by his passing, I loved his books, in fact, my first ever blog post on this silly little site was a review of one of his books. So when I found out the news today, I felt compelled to write something. Something that doesn't necessarily fit with the usual tone of this blog, but as it is my blog, I decided I can shift tone if I want to. My story time reviews are usually quite silly and giddy but Graham Joyce was such a truly wonderful writer, it just doesn't seem appropriate to write a tribute in my usual profane waffle. Also, please know, when I say he was wonderful, I'm not just saying it because he died yesterday and that's what you say when people die. I'm saying it because I was completely in awe of his beautiful prose and his impressive ability to create and capture a place or time in such perfect detail alongside the mystical and the fantastic. I believe really good fiction doesn't feel like fiction at all, no matter how bizarre the subject matter. That's what Graham Joyce's books were like. He threw you in to another world; he made you believe it was real.

So far, I have read three and a half Graham Joyce books. I make no claims to be his biggest fan, my Graham Joyce journey began only recently. Before Christmas 2013, I had no knowledge of him at all, but as fate often aligns to give us exactly what we didn’t realise we were missing, that Christmas my clever boyfriend took a punt on a book he thought I would like. When I tore away the festive wrapping paper to reveal 'Some Kind of Fairy Tale' (“SKFT”) I was instantly in love with the cover and intrigued by the blurb. I started the book as soon as I could find time between visiting family and eating turkey. My enthusiasm was not misplaced, the book was so enjoyable that I finished it in a few short days and felt a pang of grief when it was over. I was so excited by the book that I talked my boyfriend, my dad and many friends in to reading it too.

So why is this book so special? Graham Joyce once said, "I am less interested in ghosts than in people who see ghosts," and I presume he felt the same way about fairies. SKFT is less a fairy tale than it is a tale about the reappearance of a long lost girl, Tara, and the effect it has on her and her loved ones. Her family were shattered by her loss, her boyfriend was accused of her murder, the authorities were at a loss to explain and Tara herself had to survive an ordeal that was unlike the fairy stories we are often told as children. When she returns twenty years later, the old wounds of those closest to her are not healed but opened and Tara has to learn to adapt to a world, and a family, that has long since left her behind. It’s the unexpected but completely plausible responses and interactions of the characters that make this novel so intriguing, so unlike anything else I’ve read before.

I recently checked out Amazon to see the reviews for SKFT. It had 32 reviews when I first read it, there are 86 now, by rites there should be thousands. The book has a 4 star average with a very small number of 1 star reviews. Being nosey, I had to check out the 1 star reviews. They were exclusively complaints about foul language and sex scenes. So on that note, I'd like to add a caveat - Graham Joyce does not shy away from sex or profanity. But Jesus Christ, it's hardly ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ or ‘Trainspotting’! He writes about interesting characters in realistically fraught relationships and situations, not prudish dullards who throw uneventful tea-parties and exist in a controversy and conflict free zone. Why would any even want him to?! Although, as the old saying goes, 'you can't please everyone.'

After reading SKFT, I started buying up his other books. I read ‘The Silent Land’ next and was equally thrilled with it. It’s one of those unusual stories where you will likely work out the ending fairly early on but what keeps you reading is the mystery of how the characters will arrive at and react to that end. It focuses on a young couple on a skiing holiday who get caught in an avalanche and when they finally manage to free themselves, their resort has been evacuated. They spend their days enjoying each other’s company whilst waiting for a rescue, but things are not quite as they seem and they are plagued by mysterious events and strange figures. Like SKFT it’s incredibly well written and a joy to read but that is about all the books have in common. At this point I began to realise Graham Joyce was an imaginative force to be reckoned with and I was excited to continue reading his work.

My next Joyce book was ‘The Tooth Fairy’, which is another not-quite-fairy-tale. As with SKFT, the fairy is not exactly what you would expect and in fact, is rather grubby in appearance with a cruel and unpredictable nature. The story is focused more on the boy, Sam, and his friends growing up over the course of ten years, than it is with the supernatural element of the tooth fairy. This is considered a modern horror classic and I admit there were parts where I had to keep reading rather than put it down at bedtime because it was so creepy. I did, however, find the book less gratifying than the previous two. I feel like if I had read this one first I would have enjoyed it more because it doesn’t quite live up to the genius of the other two. It is every bit as imaginative, but ever so slightly less well constructed. That said, it is still an excellent read and it didn’t do much to deter my Graham Joyce fanaticism as I then bought ‘Smoking Poppy’ and the ‘Year of the Ladybird’* soon after. I am currently half-way through Ladybird so no doubt a review for that will be forth-coming.

I didn’t know how to start this post and I am equally baffled about how to end it. As I mentioned before, I am well aware that after three (and a half!) books I cannot claim to be his biggest fan, I cannot tell you everything you need to know about his work and I cannot give him the tribute that he really deserves. All I really wanted to do was share with people how much his work inspired me and made me fall in love with reading again, and maybe inspire a few others to seek out his work and see if he has anything of value to offer them too. And as he wrote in his last blog post, “why can’t our job here on earth be simply to inspire each other?”

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* Note: 'The Year of the Ladybird' was published as 'The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit' for y'all 'muricans and annoyingly the cover is a bit cooler than the British version.

I Bet I Can Make You Miserable

I haven't written anything for a while because, well, because "I am completely miserable, San Diego!" Don't worry, I'm not dying, I'm not even clinically depressed, I’m just miserable. I'm one of those lucky, lucky chicks who gets hit by PMS like a train and all of a sudden I can hardly do anything. Not always, but a few times a year. And when it happens I pretty much turn in to a walking talking mess of profanity and blind hatred. I hate work, I hate people, I hate inanimate objects, I really hate mirrors and I probably even hate puppies. I don't want to leave the house and if you make me you better make damn sure you hold my hand otherwise I may well jump in front of a bus.

I'm slowly coming through the other side and have decided to get the hell back to work, blog work anyway. I don't write when I'm grumpy because I'd probably just write "Oh please just fuck off world" over and over and over again and the internet deserves better than that. Not much better, but definitely a bit better.

So, what a week to miss! Russia is totally invading the Ukraine but no-one's really talking about that, I'm sure it's okay though and they'll probably totaallllyyy behave once they get their way just this one time. I mean if History has taught us anything it’s that… oh, actually… wait. Also in the news, uppity prudes everywhere took to the media to tell female celebrities that if they don’t want their naked photos stolen then they should just NOT TAKE NAKED PHOTOS. Also burglary victims could help out by just not having houses and in fact victims of all crimes should just not exist because existing is just asking for trouble and if y'all could go ahead and juuuust kill yourselves, that'd be super and the world would be a much safer place.

In news yesterday, Prince William has blown his royal load in to the royal vagina and knocked up Princess Kate again... I assume in a desperate attempt to evoke some national pride and woo Scotland in to not leaving us in that little referendum thing they have coming up. Because nothing says, “We understand you’re pissed off about being minimum wage slaves for rich tyrants,” like bringing yet another freeloading Overlord in to the world for them to curtsy to. In seriousness, if there are any Scots reading, please don't leave us. We know you're angry and we know we've let you down, but please, give us another chance. If you leave, you abandon us to a Tory Government for, well, the foreseeable future until the end of days. I know we did bad at the last election, we didn’t mean to, we thought we were voting Lib Dem, we didn’t know that meant we were voting Tory. Please, give us another chance and I promise you that will NEVER happen again!

In other news, Islamic State and...... Oh who cares, we're all doomed. DOOMED I SAY!!!

(P.s. See how much fun I am when I'm PMSing?)

Confetti, Wedding Bells and Swollen Bellends

That's a mighty fine looking bush you have there.

Ahh, weddings, a time for laughter, a time for romance, a time for acting at least ten times classier than you really are. And for most people, a time for being on time. But I am not most people. Nope, I'm more like a fucking wedding-ruining cyborg developed by mad but undoubtedly lonely love-hating scientists. As a result, my boyfriend and I rocked up at the church a full fifteen minutes later than we were supposed to. Luckily for us, the bride was also running late herself so the doors were still open. Unluckily for us, when the Priest saw a cab pulling up directly out front, he naturally assumed the Bride had finally arrived and told the organist to start playing. Consequently, I had to enter the church of a wedding that was NOT MY OWN and totter awkwardly down the aisle while the organist played, 'Here Comes The Bride' and the guests stood and turned to look, before tutting and sitting back down again. Even for me, that's pretty damn ridiculous.

After a glory-stealing start, the real bride finally arrived (although not before the groom had managed to work up a really nice cold sweat) and the service got going. I haven’t been to a church wedding for some time and I forgot about all the praying and hymn singing you have to do. This was a little uncomfortable for my boyfriend and I, given that we don’t know any hymn’s because we are dirty non-church-going sinners. I just had to hope nobody was paying attention as the cheeky bastard late-comers mouthed silently, “Words and more words and Jeeeessusss soooommmeeethiiiiing.” If God was watching I’m pretty sure we just definitively made his Naughty List. Hymn awkwardness aside, the service was beautiful. Although, I've realised I’ve got a bit of a strange fixation on the part where they say, "With my body I honour you." There's something really enjoyable about watching two people subtly make reference to stuffin' the muffin in front of their parents and grandparents. Teeheheee, I’m an adult.

All aboard the Knight Bus, pip pip, cheerio, lads

After the church service the guests all hopped aboard the incredibly British Wedding Bus (which was probably used in at least one Harry Potter movie) to the garden party reception. Man-servants in waistcoats buzzed around handing out champagne and calling me “Miss” as I made immature garden puns to concerned looking strangers. Despite the rough start, the socialising was going pretty well, right up until some tiny but inherently evil woman decided to ask why my boyfriend and I weren’t married. Just a heads up married people, that is not an okay thing to ask total strangers! ‘Are you married?’ - Fine. ‘Why aren’t you married?’ - Not so much! And it’s particularly unacceptable to refuse to drop the subject when the people you're talking to look uncomfortable. LEARN TO READ THE ROOM, ASSHOLE!

Here’s how far this woman took it:

      Her: Are you guys married?
      Us: Nope.
      Her: Why not?
      Us: Erm… that seems… inappropriate.
      Her: Have you not talked about marriage?
      Us: Er... no... well... wait-.
      Her: Don’t you think you should have?

This woman was like the fucking Terminator of wedding guest botherers and I found myself feeling genuinely defensive about my marital status. Luckily, my boyfriend is not so easily fazed and he leaned forward and said, “We've only been together 18 months, it’s a little soon for that.” But he said it in such a blunt and scathing tone that he explicitly implied, “That is the end of this conversation, or else you will receive a kick in the snatch.” Ahhh, my hero. 

The food came, was awesome and was quickly scoffed. The speeches were cool, the Groom’s was practically a drinking game as he asked us to raise a toast to; the parents of the bride (sip), the canon who performed the ceremony (sip), the photographer (sip), family (sip sip), friends (sip sip), guests who’ve travelled from afar (sip), the caterers (sip), the band (sip sip), the dj (sip) and of course his beautiful bride (gulp). By the end of that I was shit-faced and ready to throw some shapes but I had to wait until after the first dance, which was the usual sickening lovey-dovey bullshit... (I kid, it was totes classy).

Not just for keeping keys together...

The rest of the evening was a blur of wine refills, God awful dancing and chatting drunken nonsense. Although I do remember one last thing. As a Tarantino fan, I was pretty upset to have missed the chance to twist to 'You Never Can Tell' by Chuck Berry BUT at the time it was playing, I was engrossed in conversation with a Fireman who was telling me all about this one time when he got called out to a hospital with bolt cutters to remove a small, metal ring from the person of an elderly gentleman. Remove? From where? Come on folks, I think we all know. Do you really need me to say, explicitly, that this poor, wizened old man got a metal ring stuck around the base of his poor, wizened old penis and that it was so swollen that it looked more like an aubergine than a dick? Great, now you've totally ruined the whole tone of my beautiful wedding post.