Live and let eat!

What’s wrong with British tv lately? Every time I switch it on I find at least one show about fat people.

“The biggest loser”, “Obese:a year to save my life”, “45 stone virgin”, “Fat families”, “Downsize me”, “Half ton teen”, “Supersize and superskinny”, “Supersize kid”, “Fat and proud”… these are only a few examples popping into my head. I could mention many many more.

Old, young, black, white, men, women, teenagers and grannies.. No matter what time of the day it is, there’s always at least one channel showing a fat person crying their eye sockets off whilst trying to loose weight.

The premise is always the same: ridiculously huge people who suddenly realise they’ve become larger than their front door and must loose weight. Skinny bitchy doctor arrives, puts them through the same dietary regime as Gwyneth Paltrow, humiliating them publicly on prime time tv (as if the poor souls weren’t unpopular enough BEFORE going on tv!!) Fat person cries; looses hopes, bitchy doctor gives big motivational speech, fat person hugs doc and swears to change life forever and only eat raw carrots and quinoa grains… Two weeks later they go on a scale and discover they lost about half a kilo, which makes them jump up and down in sheer delight, wobble wobble.Nobody can tell the difference, they look as fat as before, but hey, their mindset has changed and that’s what matters. Hurray!

Now, let’s make it clear: I have nothing against very fat people. On the contrary. I think their constant public humiliation on tv should stop. Leave them alone! Live and let eat.

Really, what’s the fascination with obesity? Why do we need to see another humongous 17 years old so big he can’t do up his shoe laces?

I suspect most people watch these shows to feel good about themselves: let’s be honest, most of us look like Chanel’s models in comparison to the sad creatures featured in Supersize.

But perhaps there’s something even darker going on. It’s the elephant man syndrome, that sick fascination for people who don’t look totally human. And what these series do is showing them exactly like that: alien creatures, followed by night cameras like animals in the jungle, always under the most unflattering light, wearing the most horrid clothes, covered in sweat, surrounded by mountains of greasy food. Anything to provoke disgust. And to make the final redemption even more grandiose. “Edgy” tv they think… Predictable and manipulative, I feel…

Can’t British tv come up with something ELSE? Of course any alternative show involving different kinds of crying people has already been explored. You out there, living outside Britain, might be under the false impression that Uk tv only shows period dramas and gardening competitions… On the contrary, in the past few years we’ve been offered the biggest breasts, the tiniest penises, the oddest vaginas, 7 dwarves in the big brother house, black people turning white, white people turning orange, paraplegics running the marathon, pushy mothers and sloppy daughters… Today at 9pm on BBC 3 there was a show on “how sex works” in which a woman was asked to masturbate in front of the camera whilst given an MRI scan of her brain…
But still, despite everything, no matter what, after a few weeks of such adventurous subjects, all tv channels return to the fatties. They can’t stay off them longer than a month…

Perhaps obese people on a diet have gone from “edgy” to “safe ground” like “Coronation Street” or a repeat of “Friends”…
“Oh dear, Paul, we went too far with that sex program…”
“Oh well, never mind, let’s take it off air and show “Are you fatter than this five year old?” instead..”

What shall we do? Go out more for once… Get Skyplus and only watch HBO series… Or have a pizza and feel good about our waistlines.

Flash blog 4

I’m reading that the underwear company La Senza is going bust. Which prompts me to speak of an issue that’s been bothering me for years:

PYJAMAS: are the perfect ones the holy Grail?
And: isn’t it strange how each country has its own specific night wear?

In Italy, women’s pyjamas are sold in the following categories:
- “I’m a ten year old”: with teddy bears, furry cats, ducks, spotty cows and hearts. I mean, please… Go to bed wearing a spotty cow and you’ll have to be dating a perv in order to get any interest. Spotty cows and furry cats are the grave of love. And no, wearing the same nightwear as your 7 year child old isn’t cool, it’s freaky.
- Granny. Or: I’m about to go to hospital and I need a pale pink baggy flannel thing. If spotty cows are the grave of love, granny pink is Tutankhamen’s mummification.
- Porn star: The only alternative to go to bed dressed like you’re ready for convent seems to be wearing lacy, tasteless, uncomfortable, see through babydolls. But we all know it: in Italy women are still seen as either nuns or whores.

So what do pyjamas tell us about women in the UK? Here’s what I see:
- porn star: this style seems universal. Why can’t any designer come up with sexy underwear that doesn’t make you look like a hooker is beyond me. The difference is in Britain the quality is cheaper.
- backpacker/student dorm resident. Checked flannel bottoms and any random t-shirt, this is a style that screams “I’m sharing accommodation with 5 other people” or “I’m drunk most of the time so I can’t be bothered to differentiate between night wearing and day clothes.” This look is only attractive if you’re Jennifer Aniston aged 21, after which it is just scruffy. And possibly smelly too.
- it’s always summer. English high streets do offer some nice pyjamas, cute but with no spotty cows, sexy but with no porn attached… Pity they tend to be sleeveless, light cotton and with shorts as bottoms. Even in winter. WHY???? Am I the only woman on earth that requires warm nightwear?? Even when the bottoms are made of nice warm snuggy material, the top would always be a vest. What’s wrong with you?? Is the top if your body living in a different climate than the bottom? This is England, you fools, it’s never hot at night. Produce LONG SLEEVED PYJAMAS TOPS!!

As usual, thoughts and comments welcome, especially from my American and German readers.

Flash blog 3

Why aren’t houses in some London streets numbered in progressive order, even numbers on one side and odd on the other?
Thoughts and comments

Flash blog 2

David Cameron (why am I always tempted to write James Cameron? Perhaps because the British pm is so detached from reality he could as well be living on the Avatar planet) has urged British filmmakers to make more commercial, blockbuster type movies, that can make money instead of arty stuff… Of course he just abolished the film council so this is his great thinking: you know all that Full Monty, Billy Elliott, The king’s speech, and similar intelligent stuff? It sucks! Make The Hangover goes to Britain instead!
Basically he’s asking to make films he can understand, poor chap.
Perhaps somebody should produce a remake of “Dumb and dumber” with him and Nick Clegg as the main characters.

Flash blog 1

Since I’m on a long tube journey to Chiswick (nice place but the District line? Please…) I’m going to add some short flash blogs inspired by today’s Metro newspaper

An IPad was dropped from a weather balloon flying at 30.000 meters from Earth to prove its case is unbreakable… Great. First of all: who’s currently living 30.000 meters from earth and needs to be assured their iPad won’t break if they dropped it?
Second: what if the iPad had fallen on somebody’s head and break THAT? I’m sure Apple accolytes will say whats one human life compared to the reassurance your beloved tablet could live forever? was there a iPod-catcher ready to catch the fallen object from the sky with a baseball glove?
Anyway apparently Apple has urged iPad owners not to try “intentionally dangerous stunts” at home. Which says a lot about the high opinion in which the company holds its customers!

Iron Lady… can we have films on living people?

This follows my recent FB post.

I went to see The Iron Lady, and although I believe Meryl Streep to be one of the greatest actresses of all times, and I’d happily prostrate myself at her feet hoping to get some of her talent by merely being in her presence, I thought the film was a pointless exercise and a missed opportunity.

Let’s say it straight away: I’m no Thatcher’s fan. I was too young (and living in another country) to truly remember her politics in detail (I remember the Faulklands war being mentioned in the Italian news though), but I’ve read enough, heard enough and talked to enough British people ruined by her politics to make up my mind. In my opinion she was a ruthless champion of capitalistic individualism, the extreme consequences of which we’re experiencing now with the current financial crisis.

Of course, this opinion is totally objectable and I’m sure there’s many of you out there who think she was an amazing politician. Good for you. I will never hide my deep social-democratic ideals, and I’ll always despise politics aimed at defending money over people, finance over community, and greed over solidarity. I will never vote a Right wing party, ever. I hate what they stand for.

But even those who loved Thatcher have been disappointed with this movie. Why?

Because it’s the story of a woman who bear very little resemblance to the true Iron Lady.

Yes, the film IS revisionist, in my opinion, but in the worst possible way: by being sentimental. By bypassing Thatcher’s politics and showing her in her old age, frail and haunted by the “ghost” of her husband (Jim Broadbent is a lovely, lovely actor playing a lovely, lovely character… But why? Why building a whole movie on the assumption that old Maggie is having visions of her late husband??? Please…)

So poor old Maggie from time to time remembers her past (in chronological order, which is handy) and we see her transforming herself from shop girl to prime minister.  What the film focuses on is her struggle as a woman to be accepted by a political world that used to allow only men to be in power. Fine, that could have been interesting. But instead of showing her deep motivations, we keep jumping back to the present (forgive the oxymoron) and to the ghost of Dennis.  Why was MT so ruthless? How come a person from her humble background never showed any empathy for the lowest parts of society, becoming the ally of the rich upper classes? Was it ambition? Revenge? Pure ruthlessness? We’ll never know. What did she “feel” for the lowest classes? Despise? Pity? Did she ever question her choices? We aren’t showed anything to suggest an answer. We see a series of political events, we see her actions but we don’t understand what drives her, really. Yes, she claims she wants “to change the world”, “make a difference”, but since she didn’t go about it by being Mother Teresa, one wonders what drove her, what made her so impermeable to criticism and to empathy. And was she so impermeable, really? We don’t know. Yes her father was a shop keeper who taught her to work hard and never wait for charity. Fine. But work ethic and the belief in “doing it yourself” don’t necessarily breed “there’s not such thing as society”.  She could have been a liberal. But no. A Tory, so right winged she was eventually ostracised by her own party for being too extreme. How come a lower-middle class girl ended up joining a bunch of snobby men who had always despised everything she represented? Now THAT would have an interesting movie.

The Iron Lady turns Thatcher into the feminist she’s never been, at one point also mimicking “The King’s speech” by showing her having lessons to change her voice.

We’re made to feel for her, her difficulty to be taken seriously by these horrible tosh (YES, but you CHOSE to be in their company, why? Why not go to Labour, where nobody would have resented her for not being an aristocrat? Was she a social climber after all? Did she despise her background, and is this why she never showed any sympathy for the workers, the miners, the unemployed? Mystery…

MT provoked divisions and extreme reactions (adoration or hatred) like no other politician in British history, which for a country so prone to “mildness” in both meteorological conditions and public displaying of feelings is quite extraordinary.
I expected this film to explain why. To help the viewers understand the reasons of her actions and the thinking behind it. because one thing I must give to old Maggie: she was a deeply intelligent woman. She knew what she was doing.
Is the Iron Lady’s director really implying that Thatcher’s choices are to be explained by her being a woman, “forced” to act ruthlessly and coldly in order to win political credit in a “male only” environment?

Sorry but not only this is ridiculously simplistic, it’s also offensive to the audience’s intelligence, women in general and Thatcher herself!

 

The Iron Lady looks like “Evita” without the songs, or the Devil wears Prada without… the annoying young assistant (we have Carol Thatcher instead). It’s full of close ups of shoes, clothes and pearls. It’s a girly movie, all cheers for the strong lady who makes it to the top!

Honestly, I would have loved it, had it been a piece of fiction. Pity it’s supposed to be about the most controversial British leader of the past 50 years. Somebody we all remember. And those who don’t remember her have heard enough about her from their parents to have an opinion. Such superficiality, such sentimentality is unacceptable.

Iron Lady is a film about a politician without politics. It’d be like having a film about a musician without music. Not only that. By pushing the emotional key, by showing Maggie frail and lost, it manipulates us into feeling sorry for her, without being given the opportunity to form a real opinion on the person and the reasons of her actions.

I wrote on Facebook it would be like having a film about Hitler just focussing on his troublesome childhood and his suicide, and I know the comparison is strong and possibly wrong. I had no intention to imply Thatcher was like Hitler, that would be absurd. But it is true there’s seems to be a new trend for “psychoanalysis” that runs the dangerous risk of justifying even the worst people on the basis of their difficult upbringing, painful childhood or traumatic adolescence. Whilst it might be interesting for therapist and psychiatrists to learn how the human psyche works, and where certain kind of ruthless personalities come from, I don’t think it’s a good idea to be made to “understand” even the worst people. Because the line between “explaining” and “justifying” is very thin.

Thatcher was always very proud of who she was and what she stood for, and I’m pretty sure she would never want people to feel sorry her, or sympathise for her cause because she was a woman struggling in a men’s world. That is ridiculous. She didn’t care about feminism and never tried to win people’s sympathy. So now she’s very old and has Alzheimer, and so what? So did my granny. She’s going to be remembered in history for her politics, not her dementia. Her politics is what made her interesting, for bad or for good.

It’s true, though, historical films are bound to be only partially correct and will always have to choose a point of view, a direction, a way of telling the story of their protagonist. Cate Blanchett’s “Elisabeth” did something very similar to “The Iron Lady” by picturing Elisabeth the First as a feisty woman forced to become “The Virgin Queen” in order not to loose her crown. Was that a faithful account of what happened 500 years ago? Probably not. Was it a great movie? Yes. But maybe it’s because there was nobody who could stand up and say, “hey, old Betsie wasn’t like that at all, she was a horrible bitch!”

Too many people remember Thatcher. She’s still alive for goodness sake and apparently in far better mental shape than the film suggests, according to a journalist on LBC radio who saw her last week. Those who love her think The Iron Lady doesn’t do her justice. Those who hate her think the film doesn’t do justice to the people she hurt with her politics.

So perhaps, and this is the first and last time you’d ever heard me saying this, David Cameron was right (aaahhh, sorry, I’m about to have a heart attack) when it’s too soon for this film, that it should have been released after her death. I truly think it shouldn’t have been made at all, not for another 30 years. Yes, we had films like “The Queen”, that were openly about somebody live and kicking, but Elisabeth the second has never been controversial. Everyone loves her, and the ones who don’t are just indifferent.

Funnily enough, the Brits are far readier to accept a film on their reigning queen than one about their ex Prime Minister. Thatcher is still a scorching hot subject. The New Con still adore her, the Labour still despise her, and in Scotland there are people preparing street parties to celebrate her death, which is very bad taste but it does tell you something.

But I’m sure the Americans will adore The Iron Lady, and Oscars are guaranteed.

What can I say? Go on Meryl!

Miracle at terminal 5

As we all know Christmas is the time when magic happens, angels appear, baby Jesus comes, Santa Claus flies across the sky, Scrooge becomes a good man, life is a wonderful, and 44th street hosts miracles.

Unfortunately the older we grow the less likely we are to expect miracles to happen in our lives over Christmas and New Year. Which is why when I arrived at Malpensa airport on the 2nd of January and found out my British Airways flight to London was delayed exactly one hour and 45 minutes, meaning I’d be landing at Heathrow in the middle of the night with no public transport back home available, I released a string of swearing words who made the overmade-up, robotic BA check in assistant stare at me with great disapproval.

BA is a truly crap airline on short haul flights. It’s ALWAYS late. It’s probably because it still operates in an old fashioned way – no munchkin-like flight assistants ready to turn into superfast cleaners as soon as the plane lands, preparing it in 15 minutes for its next cruise like on Easyjet or Ryanair; no plane-swapping between Milan, Barcelona, Prague and Casablanca so that if one flight is late there’s always another arriving from somewhere else ready to load passengers  – it seems to accumulate delays even in the quietest times of the year. On the first working day of the new year, with bad weather conditions over London, its flights just stand no chance.  And whilst in the past the neverending waiting was sweetened by free refreshments and a high quality on-flight service, now unless the delay is officially two hours you get nothing (we boarded 1h and 55 minutes later than due and  waited half an hour on the runaway) and on board the stewards would only offer rancid orange juice and a stale packet of curry flavoured crisps…

Heathrow is also the worst airport in London when it comes to connections into town. Yes, it has the tube, pity it stops working at midnight, which is ludicrous in itself considered the amount of flights arriving after 11pm.

So here I am, at 1.30am, outside Terminal 5, desperately looking for a way to get back to North London. Using the internet on my Iphone I find out there’s a ridiculous night bus running every 20 minutes that can get me to Piccadilly (after going to Harrow, Hammersmith, Kensington and possibly the moon…) The old A1 bus that used to connect the airport to Euston station has apparently been suppressed in 2004… There’s a National Express coach to Victoria leaving every half an hour, pity it goes from Terminal 3, and I’ll have to wait for an airport shuttle to get there… Of course I can get a taxi, which will cost me twice the price of the plane…

Have I mentioned that there’s no Oyster card recharger next to the night bus bay and no cash machine dispenser either? Well, now I have.

Having decided against opening a mortgage to return home on a taxi, I stand at the bus station with my ludicrously heavy suitcase containing, among a pile of clothes and three pairs of boots, a huge slice of Parmesan and a coffee machine for six. Looking forward to my London by night tour that will take me to Piccadilly in about half a day, I look at the business types jumping on black cabs, the happy families walking to the parking lot to get their car and the lucky people who have friends, relatives or boyfriends with cars. I don’t drive and neither does my boyfriend. It’s not a cold night, and my flowery woolen hat makes me sweat. The strong wind that delayed the flight is still blowing from the ocean. Welcome back, I say to myself.

I’m counting the coins in my wallet to see whether I have the right change for the bus fare (God forbid you try to get on a bus in London without an Oyster card or the exact change), when I hear a presence next to me. I look up and see a girl, hippie looking and curly haired like me but slightly younger. She has a pale complexion and blond hair. She’s only carrying a shopping bag and a rucksack. Like me she has a flowery hat. Like me she doesn’t look like somebody who’s going to spend 120 pounds to jump on a black cab.

“Where are you trying to get to?” she asks.

I’m a Londoner, and therefore I have developed an instinctive mistrust for strangers talking to me. Especially in the middle of the night. Especially whilst I’m counting my money. However she has a very unthreatening smile and a very sweet voice, so I answer.

“North London,” I said, keeping vague.

“I’m going to Tufnell Park,” she says. “I have a cab to pick me up from the departure parking lot. I can give you a lift.”

My sudden enthusiasm is such for a second a forget my suspicions

“Oh wow, I’m going to Archway!” I say. “It’s such an incredible coincidence!”

The moment I say this though, my brain starts going. How is it possible? I mumble to myself. Of all the places this girl could be going to in London, she happens to live just next to me? Is it a scam? How does she know I’m not waiting for somebody to pick me up? Is she going to take me up to the departures parking lot, steal all my belongings and disappear? Is the taxi driver a psychopath who kills women and she his ruthless partner?

The girl’s phone rings and she starts speaking in a weird language I can’t recognise.

Great, I think. She’s telling her Bulgarian, Armenian or similar accomplice she’s found a victim…

“It’s my mum,” the girl says, smiling. “She rang the taxi for me, it’s a minicab firm, it’ll be cheaper and we can share. Forty pounds? Apparently he’s already at departures.”

I look at the girl again: her shopping bag is from one of Milan’s department stores, the rucksack is full of books and a badge on her lapel reads “peace”. If this is a con they went through lots of trouble to make it realistic. I follow her.

At departures everything is quiet and desert. Finally a car pulls up: “Amber?” the driver asks.

“Yes!” the girl says. “And do you mind driving this girl up to Archway after dropping me?”

The driver, who’s probably been in London for exactly 36 hours, looks at me puzzled.

“What’s your postcode?” he asks.

Great, I think. Now they’ll know where I live so they can burgle my flat after killing me.

I give him my postcode, he carefully writes it into his GPS system.

“Wow! It’s only 0.8 miles further!” he says beaming. “Not a problem, not a problem, let’s go.”

We set off. Amber’s phone rings again. She speaks in that strange language again.

“I told my mum we’ve set off,” she explains. “She’s Turkish.”

I nod. The girl seems to be smiling at every sentence she proffers, as if arriving in the middle of the night the other end of London after waiting forever at Malpensa was just another nice thing to do to celebrate new year.

“And what do you do in Archway?” she asks.

“I’m an actress.” As usual, as soon as I pronounced these words I regret it. “Actress”… It sounds so pompous. So pretentious. I know that now the next question will be where can I see you? Are you in a theatre company? Have you done some TV recently? I should have said I’m a translator as I often do, or a teacher. Simple. Reliable. No questions involved.

“Cool,” she says, smiling again. “I’m a drama teacher. I use theatre in workshops with disable children and refugees. I run my own company.”

Now this is beginning to feel spooky. I meet a girl who kind of looks like my blonder younger version, who’s just been to Milan, who’s wearing a hat like mine, who lives in my neighbourhood and who is also an actress, only a more “ethic” one.

Amber tells me how she’s been travelling the world running theatre workshops to help children with learning disablities and asylum seekers. She’s just spent three months in Turkey, then she went to Germany and was in Milan just for a couple of days to visit friends. She’s off again to the Middle East in a couple of weeks. There’s a strange sense of peace coming from her, as if this word wasn’t just a badge on her lapel. She doesn’t ask me my name. When I tell her I also have a theatre company, she says she likes its name: Legalaliens.

“Do you work with refugees too?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” I lie, feeling terrible. Perhaps we should, I think. Perhaps we could start doing workshops with disabled children too…

At Tufnell Park the driver stops to let Amber off.

“Hold on a sec,” she says. “I’m going in to get the cash from my mum.”

Ten seconds later she comes out with 30 pounds.

“Here,” she says, placing the notes in my hand.

“But it’s too much,” I say. “We were supposed to share!”

“No worries,” she smiles. “Goodnight.”

Amber grabs her rucksack and disappears round the corner. The driver starts the car again and after exactly one minute I’m home, safe and sound and having spent only £10, much less than for a Heathrow Express ticket.

As I walk through the door, I’m happy. Good people still exist. Curly haired girls who would take you home safely in the middle of a January night. Has somebody “sent” me Amber the angelic girl? I don’t know.  But for the first time in 12 hours, I’m smiling too.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Nothing is better than bad…

I have a survey for you:

You don’t want to spend money. Or you have no time to buy presents. So what’s best to give at Christmas: NO present or CRAP present?

Please… vote… NOW!!!!!!!!

 

Results? Let me know! Because my point of view is that if one doesn’t have ANY money, the best thing to do is to honestly tell your friends this year you can’t afford presents and that you’re just going to give them a card.

And if you don’t have money for cards, make one!

Cards are lovely. Cards are nice. Cards… are better than anything looking like it’s been find inside a Kinder egg.

Yes, true, the thought is what matters. But which kind of thoughts lie behind a pink, plasticky foldable shopping bag with poppy prints?  It doesn’t exactly scream “I saw this and thought of you”, does it?

The list of crap presents I’ve received through the years include:

- Hello Kitty handkierchief

- single napkin holder

- shower cap

- tissues holder

- Manga themed handkierchief (what’s this thing with handkierchives?? WHO uses them??)

- Plastic bracelet

- Plastic pendant

- a key ring in the shape of a mini fluffy bull

- foldable plastic shopping bag

- plastic thingy you attach to mobile for no purpose

- carillon

- huge blue candle looking like the monolite from Space Odyssey

- hair clips with fuit on it

- fridge magnet

Honestly, only three years old get enthusiastic in front of a sparkling piece plastic. Most grownups can tell a recycled gift from the distance. Nobody needs paperholders, chipped chalk angels or ugly candles. And virtually everyone can spot something bought from Poundland, Familydollar, or a Chinese supermarket.

And how are you supposed to react to such gifts?

“Oh, I always wanted a Hello Kitty handkerchief!”

“What an amazing skull shaped candle, my sitting room was really missing some gothic touch!”

“I’ve been looking for a single green napkin holder for ever, thank you so much!!!

The suspicion is, when you receive such presents, not that the giver is in financial trouble, but that they truly don’t like you that much. That they think you’re an idiot with no taste who can be fooled by a piece of junk like a savage in the jungle.

So please, if you want to save money, or have no time to go out and muy presents, just leave it for this year. Your real friend will still love you. And those who won’t, well, they were not real friends in the first place, and they DID deserve that inflatable pig you were thinking of buying them!

 

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Swedish thrillers

When was it decided that Swedes are especially good at thrillers and whose twisted idea was it?
Swedish thrillers suck. Big time! Honestly, it’s the greatest PR stunt of all times in the history of literature.

At least when the Da Vinci Code became a sensation nobody even tried to say it was a good book. Everyone knew it was appallingly bad written, verbose, full of cliches and its story wasn’t even that original. Still, it was a page turner, a typical blockbuster appealing to easy readers so we accepted its ridiculous success as we accept the winners of the X Factor.

But Swedish thrillers have been sold as a great example of genre literature. Not only that, articles have been written about how they show the dark undertow of Scandinavian society, the condition of women, and similar stuff.
This attempt at selling cheap blockbusters as great social novels was immediately evident in southern Europe, where the title of Stieg Laarson’s (the main culprit of this ludicrous trend) first book was changed from The girl with the dragon tattoo into Men who hate women. People rushed to buy it under the assumption it gave an insight into Sweden’s undertow of machism and fascism, whilst it was only a very very long unoriginal novel about a psycho who tortures and kills women in a dungeon, offering some gratuitous graphic descriptions of sodomy and in desperate need of editing (the epilogue, 150 page long, is the ridiculous and incongruous story of how the lead girl manages to get money from a bank account by wearing a wig. Yes yes..)
I mean, really? REALLY? have you not ever seen Silence of the lambs? Seven? Psycho???

The social criticism was supposed to be embodied by the above mentioned female character, a skinny self harmer boasting piercings and leather jackets. Wow, original.
She was abused.
And?
She gets tortured.
And?
Any average episode of “Criminal minds” features women more interesting than that.
When a series of mysterious “numbers” looking like phone numbers appear around chapter three I prayed with all myself, please let them not be bible verses… Of course they were.
I also prayed we would discover at the end the murderer wasnt who it appeared to be from page one. No chance of that. We have the joy of a “baddy” as horrible as a cartoon character.
The whole plot is so pedestrian it can be guessed after 80 pages. Pity the novel goes on for over 500!
I resented Laarson so thoroughly for making me waste a week of my life reading this very badly structured, poorly written, superficial, boring book, he only had to thank he was dead.

Let’s face it, the Millennium trilogy came to fame firstly because his author was dead, raising suspicions about what killed him, speculations about the Swedish neo-Nazi movement’s involvement and so on.
Pure heaven for marketing!! I even suspect Laarson never existed and the whole thing was a publicity stunt…

Problem is, it triggered a boom in Scandinavian thrillers. The BBC is currently broadcasting an unprecedented number of Norwegian, Swedish and Danish series so soporific I almost want a real psycho to appear at my window just to shake me off my torpor. Because let’s face it, despite Laarson’s attempt at proving the opposite, Sweden isn’t exactly exciting. Its nice, beautiful and it has the best political system, social services and public healthcare in Europe, but perhaps all that efficiency and education don’t breed excitement. Everyone is polite and crime rate is low. Thank god for the occasional mad nazi or even miss Marple would commit suicide.

Chuggers

This is going to be tricky.
First of all, I love charities ok? And all those associations that work to raise funds for causes our society would rather forget. They are noble institutions that whoever can spare some money should support. Done.

I also love commemorations of important historical events that contributed to the history of a country, especially if it’s a history of fighting for freedom. The 25th of April in Italy for instance. The 12th of November in the UK. The 4th of July in the USA and so on. It’s crucial for younger generations to be reminded that they owe their easy lives to the sacrifice of people who died for their country. Done.

Ok, so having said that…
I hate chari-fascism. And i’m slightly irritated by plastic poppies. I can’t accept to be made feel like I must show support for a cause at a very specific time and by wearing a badge. If you care about something you need no rubber band, red poppy or pink ribbon to prove it to the world. You don’t need to post a logo on your facebook status or wear a shirt. It’s your own personal business.

That’s why I refused to wear a poppy last week. Poppies in the Uk commemorate the British soldiers who died on the first world war and in general in all the wars of the XX century. They appear on people’s lapels at Halloween and disappear on the 12th of November after the official celebration.

Poppies, like all badges, are an easy way to settle our consciences. “Look, I’m such a great British citizen I wear this plasticky thing in honour of our dead troops.”
Sorry but I don’t fall for that. It’s too easy, to simplistic.

 

However, if this poppy wearing thing wasn’t IMPOSED on us it wouldn’t bother me too much. But it’s basically become compulsory. We all feel obliged to pay and display them like a parking permit…

Whoever appeared on tv the past two weeks wore a poppy. Everyone. No matter if it was a Brazilian footballer just arrived from Rio with no idea what that red badge is, as soon as he gets to the studio he’s immediately poppified.
The soccer team insisted they had to wear a poppy in the friendly match against Spain. Never mind they don’t know the words of the national anthem…

Whats the point? Caring for a cause should be a CHOICE. Not a duty. You can’t force me to wear a poppy because I’m Italian for instance and I don’t feel involved with the history of Britain. I respect the memory of its dead like I respect people who died for the independence of Congo. I would probably wear a badge commemorating the Italian resistance on the 25th if April, but only if I didn’t feel judged for not wearing it.

Caring isn’t a trend. If a cause is truly close to your heart you don’t need to wear a badge of honour. It will show in your life choices. If you care about people dying in wars only on the 12th of November, no poppy and no one pound coin donated to the “support our troops” charity will make you noble and patriotic.

And let me finish this post by mentioning another pet hate of mine: people wearing bright t shirts and obnoxious smiles stopping you in the street to ask for your bank details so you can start donating regularly to a charity.
I mean, really?
Charities, do you really think this is the best marketing strategy? Because I have news for you, it’s NOT. “Chuggers” (charity muggers) are hated by the 99.9% of the population.

 

First of all, they have zero common sense. You can see them spotting you from the distance, and no matter how fast you walk, how many children you’re supervising, how many bags you carry, how desperately late for work you look, or how hard you try not to meet their gaze, they would still attack you with their fake smiles and open arms, yelling, hey! How are you today?
Can you spare a moment?

No I can’t! I am terrible today, it’s raining, have five shopping bags and an umbrella, and I’m running towards the bus. What makes you think I have any time at all???
But it’s for children in need! He says, Don’t you care?
You see, now not only I think you’re a moron but I truly hate you with all my heart, because you’re trying to make me feel guilty. Like i’m a bad person. I am not a bad person but I don’t need to prove it to YOU right now.
Do you care about children in need? Do you care about terminal patients? How About lost puppies and earthquake victims?

What exactly do you want me to say? No, actually, I hate children, I despise puppies, wish all terminal patients a painful demise and i find earthquake victims boring, thank you very much. Can I now go home and order my african slave to bring me a grilled dauphin for lunch before I go out shooting polar bears?
Of course I care, but I don’t need to prove it to YOU idiots right now. What do you know about me? How dare you making me feel bad for not wanting to handle my bank details to the first nineteen year old chugger in a yellow t shirt? I do care but I need peace and quiet to decide which charity to help, when and how.
Honestly, charities, stop this nonsense. Your chuggers are everywhere!!! You can’t walk 200 meters without bumping into at least one. And if you pass the same spot three times they will harass you three times.
My default position is now, as soon as I see a chugger approach, I’d put on my most unfriendly face and shout NO! even before they open their mouth.
They get quite scared.

And if you think I’m Scrooge, so be it.