Elisa Lam 2018

At the end of 2015 and beginning of 2016, far away from home in a strange country, I'd pass sleepless hours watching Youtube videos, in particular John Lordan's channel, Lordan Arts. John's channel focusses on missing person's cases an unsolved crimes, and his series on Elisa Lam are amongst the most thorough and well-researched out there. 

The Chinese-Canadian student's strange and loney death on the roof of a grubby, run down hotel in the wrong part of Los Angeles haunted me. I would wake and think I could see Elisa standing in the dark corners of the bedroom. I was in a strange country, like she was. Most nights, I was alone in a gated apartment complex, but I didn't always feel safe there.

Elisa's case still frequently features in internet chat forums to this day, though the general consus has moved away from the haunted hotel / demonic possession / foul play angle into the more plausible and likely theory that in the grip of a break from reality, Elisa died as she tried to hide from an imagined persuer in the rooftop water tank.

As the time has passed since I wrote about Elisa, I have come to agree with this theory. I had already discussed how Elisa's mental health may have made her vulnerable while she was travelling, and initially I thought this may have been because she would have been an easy target for a predator. Now I think that Elisa did become unwell on her trip and made her way to the roof and into the tank of her own accord.

The doors to the roof weren't locked and alarmed as hotel staff claimed they were. A group of Chinese film makers proved this when they travelled to LA, checked into the hotel and easily accessed the roof via a fire escape.

 The water tank Elisa was found in did have a lid, but it wasn’t especially heavy and it obviously wasn’t locked. The hole it covered was also wide enough for someone to be able to climb through.

The ‘preternatural’ elements that made this case so strange are really not so strange under scrutiny. The one that’s talked about the most is the elevator camera footage of Elisa behaving oddly; waving her arms about, peeking into the corridor, pressing all the buttons and hiding in the corner. I think it'sobvious now that she's talking to someone created enitirely in her own head; not a murderous guest, or a ghost, or an evil spirit. 

The bookshop owner that said Elisa’s behaviour was ‘normal’ the day she came into the shop to buy gifts for her family.

Her clothes in the tank with her, covered in a fine sandy substance.

What she was doing on the fifteenth floor in the early hours of the morning.

But then there’s the other guests she was sharing a dorm with, who were so concerned by her odd behaviour, they asked for her to be moved to another room. There’s her missing medication.

And there’s this: she was a real person, with a real family and real friends. She wasn’t a ghost, or a host for a demon, or a medical experiment test subject gone wrong, or a spy. She was an unwell woman. Lone women are already vulnerable. Mentally ill, lone women (mentally ill people full stop) are even more vulnerable. She was far from home. She had no-one around her to know that her bahviour wasn’t normal and to look after her.

The time has come where it feels appropriate to delete the blogs that I originally wrote about Elisa, so that we can lay her to rest properly.

I'd still like to finish with the post that I finished my very last installment on Elisa's story though, because I think it's so very fitting. I do still think about Elisa from time to time - she reminds me so much of my travels to strange countries, and her experiences with feeling at odds with herself resonated with me. My journey with her ends here, though. Goodnight, Elisa.

Elisa,

This will seem stupid to many people, because I am writing to a dead person.

I don’t know you and we have never met or even knew of each other’s existence until your tragic fate. When I first heard of the news and saw your picture. I don’t know why, but I felt torn and drawn to you. I became obsessed in finding news articles about the case. I tried but could not let it go. I became obsessed in finding more about you.

Now, after reading your tumblrs, tweets, and this blog. I am at a loss for words because I feel like I am literally staring at a mirror of myself. Your words are the very words I’ve spoken (and typed) in my life. Your questions are ones I’ve asked myself so many times. Your fears, regrets, and even the joys and cheers. I understand the cause of your depression, as it is for me… the unfulfillment of two greatest desires: to be loved, to be understood.

You are a perfectionist, and you are looking for perfect love. 
And so much that to the world you seem odd and out of place, this letter. 
Because at the very least, you would know… someone does understand. 
But even in death, you have helped others. 
Because knowing you, now I know… someone understands me. 
My whole life, I’ve asked that question too… if only… if only someone understands me. 
Understands what I am going through. 
The irony of life that I finally found someone who does, and she is gone.
My only regret is… not finding you sooner.
*sigh*
 
God bless you. Good journey…

Re-Reading: Jemima J by Jane Green

Libby

One thing I'll say for Jemima J is at least she's not as much of an insufferable douche noodle as Libby is. That doesn't mean I like Jemima, our morbidly obese eponymous heroine. I don't think her creator, Jane Green, thinks much of her either, and that's because Jane Green seems to hate women. Fat women, confident women, women over forty, young women, bitchy women, smart women, stupid women. None of them are safe from Green's judgemental snark cannon. I started to think that Green might actually be a lonely fat, angry Red Piller who was rejected at school by girls, not because (as he misguidedly thinks) they find his physical appearance replusive and should get to know the 'real him', but because he's actually just not a very nice person.

Jemima lives with flatmates Sophie and Lisa, who are right out of The Brother's Grimm. Beautiful, stupid and bitchy I am not sure what purpose the two serve to the story other than to try and make us feel sorry for Jemima.
Jemima's eating issues and weight problems are never really explored. She's fat and she eats alot. She has troublesome relatonship with her critical and selfish mother, but then who doesn't have mummy or daddy issues? We never know why Jemima is the way she is, which misses a huge opportunity for Green to explore our issues with food and body image in a sensible way instead of ham-fistedly trying to imagine what it might be like to be fat.

 I don't think Green has ever met a fat person - Jemima is about 100Ilbs overweight, or 7 stone. Let's assume that the average healthy weight, 5"7 British female weights what - 9 / 9.5 stone? That would put Jemima at 16 stone. Jemima manages to lose 7 stone in THREE MONTHS. THREE MONTHS. With no 'loose skin' because apparently over excersising to the point of exhaustion means you don't have any loose skin when you loose that much weight that quickly.  This is such a fundamentally dangerous and unhealthy message to send to younger readers - that they can easily lose that much weight that quickly with no health consequences whatsoever it made me want to throw this stupid book at a wall. It's hinted ever so slightly that people are worried about Jemima's miraculous weight loss - her PT for example expresses concern but does little to intervene and make sure Jemima isn't headed down the opposite road of her eating disorders. Jemima also manages to achieve a six pack and muscular thighs in this time, which is so fucking laughable I almost cried.

By the time she's lost weight, she's reinvented herself as 'JJ' and has started an internet romance with hot Californian Brad, despite being in love with her handsome colleague, Ben. Sadly Ben only sees Jemima as a friend and nothing more.

JJ works on local paper the Kilburn Herald with bitchy Geraldine and handsome Ben. The three of them form a closeknit friendship in which they never hang out with each other or phone each other. After Ben leaves the Herald for the bright lights of showbiz TV, JJ flies out to LA to meet Brad, even though she's afraid he might have catfished her (though this book was written in the days before the term was invented).

Brad turns out to be as hot as his photos and for a week Brad and JJ fuck, exercise, eat salad, fuck, exercise, eat salad, fuck, exercise, eat salad, fuck, exercise, eat salad. Oh and they go to a coffee shop 'calling itself Starbucks'. Brad of course, is not all he seems and it turns out that he's actually in a relationship with his fat assistant Jenny. He was only using JJ for her looks, because a man of his stature (he owns a gym) needs a hot girlfriend. This is the plot twist. Yes, really. Man fancies fat woman shocker.

It was pretty obvious that Brad was going to have a dark secret, and I should have seen it coming a mile off when Jenny was so openly hostile to JJ, but I didn't. After I'd got to this bit in the book, I read it again to make sure I hadn't hallucinated that bit. Why would a gym owner need a hot girlfriend? Why is it weird that he has a 'fetish' for fat women? (there goes the snark cannon again) it just didn't make any sense.

Round about the time JJ has found out Brad has a fat festish, Ben is flying out to LA to interview a movie star, who of course is goregeous but is into physcobabble bullshit and thus stops being alluring to Ben. While he's in LA, he keeps seeing this beautuful blonde woman and can't stop thinking about her. He finds out that Jemima is in LA and calls her.

When they meet, he doesn't recognise his old friend - he's just sp pleased to have randomly bumped into the hot blonde he kept seeing around town. JJ's heartbroken, but agrees to meet up with Ben again and reveals that she's really his old friend.

The fact that Ben only fancies Jemima now she looks how she does was so, so disappointing. And it made me hate Ben but it made me hate Jemima more for falling for that bullshit. Green tries to salvage this in the epilogue, saying that Jemima is now 'a healthy size 12 and Mrs Ben Williams' but it's too little too late. The message that if YOU change YOU'LL get the man makes me furious, furious, furious.  Green also bangs on about the power of never giving up on your dreams and what a small, narrow world it is if by great things you mean losing weight and getting the man of your dreams who wouldn't look twice at you when you were fat.

Fuck you, Jane Green. Fuck you.

90's Redux - Mr Maybe by Jane Green

Bridesmaids, 2011

I blame 90's chick lit for many things, including but not limited to:

Smoking Marlboro Lights

• White wine drinking
• Pasta making
• Using the word ‘team’ to describe putting together what you’re wearing
• Writing GOD AWFUL fiction in which a feisty heroine with man troubles has a choice between two men, one who is so obviously right for her, and one who is so obviously wrong for her
• Thinking that women that work in London only work in PR, journalism or publishing
• ‘Teaming’ tiny camisole vests with boot-cut jeans and a ‘long, thin cardigan’
• Being annoyed that I can’t afford Jo Malone scented candles, MAC lipstick, and designer flared trousers.

But you know what I blame you for the most, 90s chick-lit? I blame you for my fucking stupid ideas about men and relationships. Never mind Disney giving me unrealistic expectations of men, I blame all those hundreds of cheap paperbacks I read for setting me up for a life time of dating and love disappointment. The hard-work relationships I had – they were just hard work. Dating a moody, emotionally closed-off man isn’t exciting or sexy. It’s exhausting, and it depletes you. I get why the men in these books are all really sexy and gorgeous looking, because it’s an aspirational, reader insert thing – a plain ole me can get a sexy man who’s perfect type thing. Except we all know that’s not really how it works. But no one wants to read about Miss Average meeting Mr Average, do they? Anyway, on with the book.

I didn’t read Mr Maybe the first time round, but within the first few pages, I felt a little rush of nostalgia and recognition. Aaah, all the things were there. The single-girl basement flats, the Marlboro Lights, white wine and M & S party snacks, and the ridiculously hot, perfect man.

Twenty-seven year old marriage-obsessed Libby Mason works in PR (of course she does, because no-one in these books can work in a call-centre, a secondary school teacher or a nurse, because, reasons I’ll label as: ‘needs research, can’t be bothered’).

Libby meets Nick, a bedsit dwelling, starving writer who lives ‘on the dole’ and spends his nights in the pub with his ‘horrible’, [Libby’s words, not mine] crusty dole scrounging friends. 

Libby and Nick spend a passionate few months together, with Libby kidding herself that she’s only into Nick because he’s handsome and is amazing in bed. She’s worried that Nick’s got no money or ambition - and what Libby really wants is a rich husband that can buy her a big house and sports cars. When Nick dumps Libby, because he’s commitment phobic and worried that Libby’s getting too attached, Libby falls apart. Then she meets rich, posh Ed, who despite his moustache and rah-rah-rah demeanour could be ‘The One’.

Libby doesn’t fancy Ed one tiny bit, in fact his kisses make her feel sick. Despite being thirty-eight, Ed is sexually inexperienced and can’t fuck Libby good like Nick used to. Green makes Ed as hideously unlikeable as she can – he’s pompous, patronising, boring, terrible in bed. Yet he’s still not as awful as Libby, who is shallow, snobby, obsessed with looks and money, immature, a scrounger, as moody as a thirteen year old girl, and lazy. Basically, Libby is a dick.

At one point in the book, Libby describes herself as ‘the most self-aware person I know’ which made me laugh out loud because I couldn’t tell if this was supposed to be a joke or not. A few chapters previously she had described how after her first sexual encounter with Ed, she had told him, in painful detail, what he was doing wrong and how annoyed she was about it. I’m not joking, her describing her bad mood about Ed’s bedroom style goes on for about six pages. Crushing the self-awareness, Libs.

Libby is totally obsessed with being single, and constantly goes on about how she’s not complete or whole because she’s on her own. She talks as though being single is the worst thing that could happen to anyone, ever. This isn’t even a character arc, either – at no point does Libby get comfortable with her own company except when being alone gets her out of spending time with Ed. While the same accusation could be levelled at Bridget Jones, I felt that at least Bridget (if only in the first two books) actually liked her life and her own company. Every second that Libby spends on her own is miserable. Why would a man want to date someone like Libby? She is literally waiting at home by the phone for a man to come to her. She has no hobbies (no shopping doesn’t count) She’s a bitch to her mum, and she’s a whiny little brat. I don’t know many men that would find this appealing.

She also says that it’s totally fine all Ed’s forty-something friends are ‘middle-aged and old enough to be her parents’ because she’s ‘mature enough to handle it,’ 

Libby makes fun of Ed’s taste in music, the way he talks, the way he looks, his body, and his personality. She’s turned off when he’s affectionate towards her and turned on when he buys her designer handbags. The whole time she’s with Ed, she’s thinking about waster Nick.

I don’t understand why Nick can’t have a job AND write his book, because it’s because what the rest of us have to do. Why couldn’t Green have just given Nick a simple job instead of him claiming benefits? It would have made him more likeable for a start. It also perpetuates two myths 1) that claiming benefits is easy and 2) that it’s OK to do it as long as you’re doing something worthwhile with your time, like writing a novel that (spoiler alert) will eventually be published. I don’t think Jane Green has ever claimed a benefit in her life, and doesn’t know anyone who has either.

So yeah, second on the Unlikeable Douche List (I’d actually place Ed the last on the list, because at least he doesn’t pretend to be anything else other than a posh-boy pushover) is Nick.

 Nick may be fantastically handsome and very good at oral, but he’s also an insufferable dick, like Libby. From his faux-leftie politics to hanging around in pubs ‘that aren’t even country-style pubs’ (I don’t even know what that means) to his wishy-washy approach to relationships, everything he says and does comes across as a big fat fake.

Nick has a mysteriously amazing body, a washboard stomach, ‘cause everyone knows those happen when you sit around in bedsits and pubs drinking beer,  saying things like ‘I’m allergic to exercise’ (this book was written in the days when caring about your body was for losers). Nick also says to Libby that she doesn’t need make-up, because she’s so naturally pretty, unlike ‘some women who are total dogs without it,’

You know what gets my lady-boner really hard? A man who criticizes and degrades women. Oh yeah baby, just like that. Give me some more of that sexy, hot, casual misogyny.

 I also didn’t know if Nick was supposed to be one of those rich kids that rejects their parents’ wealth (except when they need it to pay the rent) or if he’s genuinely… ‘poor’. Nick lets slip that he went to public school - something that impresses super shallow Libby - but it’s not clear how this was paid for. So it seems like it’s OK to date a poor person as long as they are not really poor, just pretending to be. Nick and Libby deserve each other if you ask me, and while two arseholes are together it means they are not bothering anybody else with their arseholery.

Then there’s Libby’s best friend Jules (who is in no way inspired by Bridget Jones’ best bud, Jude.) Jules is an interior designer, because of course she is, and married to barrister Jamie. I am not sure how old Jules and Jaime are supposed to be – I’m guessing the same age as Libby. If so, then when did Jamie start training to be a barrister? When he was ten? Or has he just qualified when this book starts? Because they live in a massive posh flat and seem to have no money worries, so I it seems like Jamie may have been a barrister for a while. Libby thinks that Jamie is cool because he drinks and smokes and once confessed he wanted to be in a rock band, which further reinforces my belief that Libby is actually 13, not 27.

I thought it was kind of funny that Libby and her friends keep describing Ed as ‘way too straight’ when Libby herself won’t even go into a pub that doesn’t serve cocktails or champagne. Thus, I am not entirely sure that Green knows what ‘straight’ in that sense of the word means. It’s more the kind of word that Nick’s crusty friends would use to describe Libby.

There’s a lot of pointless, long-winded, badly written dialogue in this book, where the characters say things that no-one in real life would ever say, like your younger brother asking you where your sex life is at.

 ‘High’lights

I was given chocolates by a very keen man who arrived to pick me up and handed me a box of Milk Tray. I had to give him ten out of ten for effort, but Milk Tray? They should have been Belgian chocolates at the very least.

***

‘Jesus, Libby!’ she says. He’s going to fall head over heels in love with you! I bet he’s never met anyone like you before!’

I bet he hasn’t either

***

The phone rings just as I’ve finished applying a final coat of clear nail polish. Couldn’t have gone for my beloved blues or greens – far too trendy for Ed.

***

[in a posh restaurant with Ed] …stares at them in confusion and it’s quite amazing that he really doesn’t have a clue who these people are. I mean, for God’s sake some of the people that have walked in here tonight are the biggest stars of stage and screen and Ed’s never seen any of them before in his life!

***

I’ve had enough. I’m twenty-seven years old and I deserve to be with someone. I deserve to live in a beautiful house, not a grotty little flat in Ladbroke Grove. I deserve to be with someone who brings me flowers and buys me presents. I deserve to be in a couple, someone’s other half.

****

[during a phone call between Libby and Nick after they’ve split up, we start with Nick talking]

‘Yes. I’ve concluded that I’m completely screwed up.’

‘So tell me something else I didn’t know.’

‘Thanks!’ Indignant tone.

‘Pleasure!’ Light and breezy tone.

‘So are we friends now?’ A cautious tone.

***

[After Ed buys Libby a £1500 designer dress]

Fuck it. I don’t mind spending the rest of my Saturday with him, evening included. I mean, Jesus Christ, for £1, 500 it’s the very least I can do.

‘Fucking hell!’ says Jules. ‘Donna Karan? Fucking hell!’

‘I know, I know. Unbelievable.’

‘So did you kiss him to thank him?’

***

I’d die if my mother came into the office. Seriously. I’d want the ground beneath me to open and swallow me up. She’d be an embarrassment. The suburban housewife from hell who wouldn’t know what to say to my colleagues or how to say it.’

****

Libby says to Ed:

‘Unlike you I choose my friends because of who they are , and not because of how much money they have or which bloody public school they went to,’ (no Libby, that’s how you choose your boyfriends!)

This is all your fault, Bridget

If someone had told me that a teenage girl had written this book, I wouldn’t be surprised. There’s! A! Lot! Of ! These!!!! Still, I found myself wanting to carry on reading, but in the same way you can’t help rubbernecking at car crashes. There’s too many confusing run-on sentences which require two or three readings before you can make sense of them,  and plenty of errors that should have been caught during editing.

 Here, Libby is describing her flat:

‘There’s an L shaped kitchen off the living room, a galley kitchen, open plan and opposite the large window there are french (sic) doors leading into a bedroom’

I had to read this a few times and I am still not sure if Libby has an L shaped kitchen, and open plan one, a galley one, or if she has 3 kitchens in her tiny basement flat that’s so small it has one of those Murphy beds.

I read Mr Maybe over the course of a sick day, looking for something easily enjoyable to pass a day where it was hard to sleep because I couldn’t breathe through my nose. And I did enjoy Mr Maybe, I enjoyed getting enraged about it because it took my mind of feeling shitty, and I love a chance to deface a book with comments scrawled over the pages in angry biro.

Scores on the doors: 1/5 for cold distracting properties.

Dishonourable mentions:

Primrose Hill

Constant Liam and Patsy references (they divorced in 2000, the year after this book was published)

Libby and Jules’ weird eating disorder enabling relationship

Sex scenes written a little bit in the style of a medical text book

The 90's Dream Team - Patsy Kensit and Liam Gallagher 1997 Vanity Fair cover

Showgirls - A Masterclass of Crap and What it Can Teach Us (kind of)

Disclaimer: this is a fly by the seat of my pants type post, more a collection of wonderings than a coherent argument. So like many of my other posts then. Kill your darlings, as they say. (please also excuse the weird formatting, it seems there's nothing I can do about it.)

“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good… It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions.”

Ira Glass

I’ve used this (edited) quote by radio producer Ira Glass before. I followed it by saying he’d obviously never read any of the fiction I wrote as a teenager. Now I think he might have done, but I am not sure I’ve ever closed that gap in my work over the last twenty or so years. The quality of my writing still depresses me, and the depression deepens when I read books by other writers. I recently finished the ‘Bill Hodges’ trilogy by Stephen King. It was the first time in for a while that I was excited to get to bed time and read a book. As is often pointed out by critics and fans, King may not be an exceptional writer but he is an exceptional storyteller. His skill lies in keeping you reading, page after page, even though it’s getting very late and your eyes are drooping.  Why can’t I write like this? I’d think to myself roughly every 5 pages or so.

A day writing looks like this:

Coffee.

BBC breakfast.

Read what you wrote last time.

Feel like crying, delete half of it.

Stand up and look out of the window, at the February drizzle. The neighbour opposite is taking the bins out, but he’s still in his PJs and barefoot, so he’s standing in the doorway, trying to throw stuff into the bin from there. He’s got a bad aim.

Think to self, I have been writing this book for a hundred years, and I’m not even halfway through.

Go to Costa to steal their wifi. Wonder to yourself what kind coffee your main character would drink. Probably the same kind as you, if you follow theory that all characters are merely extensions of the author’s ego.

YouTube.

YouTube.

Write 3 words.

Delete them.

YouTube.

Walk home in the rain, heart pounding from two costa cappuccinos,  notice that now the snow’s melted, there’s a lot of rubbish on the pavements and stuck in hedges.

Sit at home in the dark, having an existential crisis about how writing is really just a vanity project because you’re scared of death, especially your own, and you think one day everyone you love will die and you still won’t have finished your fucking stupid book and then you’ll die too and your whole life was for nothing. You were a blip on the ultrasound of the universe, a tiny speck in the entire expanse of time, and now you are just carbon, food for the planet, like everything else that dies – leaves, birds, bugs.  Only you won’t care about any of that because you’re dead. Dead-edy dead, dead. 

I find this both comforting and depressing in equal measure. I remember my A-Level Sociology teacher telling us how she made a student cry by repeatedly asking her how she knew her house was there when she wasn’t in it. Apply this to yourself and if like me you are of a sensitive, and over-thinking nature, you can scare yourself shitless. The thought occurred to me recently. Do I actually exist? You can extend it further. Does this room exist? Does this house exist, this street, this town? I know, I know, red pill blue pill blah blah blah. I am taking a long time getting to the point, and the point is in a moment of existential crisis, I turn to films. Shit films.

If you’re going through something, you don’t need to watch a film like Enemy (which is amazing, and thought provoking and generally marvellous in any other circumstance) or even something like Fight Club, which used to be my go-to get me out of a hole watch. Nope, you need shit. Some shit so bad it’s not even good shit, it’s just shit shit. And this is where ladies and gents, I introduce Showgirls, the 1995, soft-core erotica Paul ‘Basic Instinct’ Verhoeven masterpiece and my new old favourite shit shit film.

Showgirls begins with Nomi Malone, played by Saved by the Bell’s Elizabeth Berkley (‘No Me’ / Know Me, geddit?) hitching a ride to Vegas with an Elvis rip-off.  Nomi runs into trouble almost immediately, which is a weird thing to happen, given what we learn about her later on. Poundland Elvis nicks her suitcase, (because all thieves are after suitcases full of women’s clothing) and Nomi finds herself alone and penniless in Vegas.

Nomi is saved by Molly ‘deus ex machina’ Abrahams, even though Nomi is a total dick to her and throws the fries Molly just bought her in her face. This actually happens. Molly buys a random woman some dinner and is thanked for it by getting French fries thrown at her. There’s a weird sexual vibe between Molly and Nomi where they gaze at each other and rub faces, and I was thinking, ‘Did EL James write this shit? It seems like something she’d write. OH GOD JAMES IS GOING TO START WRITING LESBIAN PORN ISN’T SHE, SOMEONE FIND HER AND STOP HER FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.’

Nomi goes from dancing in a topless bar to being a showgirl in a top topless show (apparently there’s a difference) she pushes the lead dancer, Cristal, down the stairs, so she can steal her part, fucks Cristal’s boyfriend, kicks the shit out of a man who raped Molly, then heads ‘back East’, weirdly managing to hitch a ride with Discount Elvis again. There’s some weird subplots involving a guy that inexplicably likes Nomi (she’s a bit like Anastasia Steele, and has a lot of men lusting after her for no reason) and a rivalry between two unnamed, random dancers. We find out Nomi has a history of drug addition, theft and prostitution. Like most protagonist Hollywood hookers, Nomi isn’t toothless with terrible skin and track marks, but flawless and beautiful with a perfect body. Everyone knows that you end up looking like Julia Roberts when you sell your body to buy drugs. 

Everything Nomi does is ANGRY, especially her dancing (which is literally hands down the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life, I would highly recommend any of you that are in a blue funk to watch this: 

She eats angrily, she walks angrily, she does her makeup angrily.  She even has sex angrily. Even if you haven’t seen the whole film, you probably still would have seen the pool sex between Nomi and Kyle MacLachlan – a sex scene that makes no biological sense, a scene that’s a virgin teenager’s idea of what good sex is like. Dale Cooper’s penis seems to be located somewhere between his navel and nipples. With her thighs tucked under Coop’s armpits, Nomi thrashes around like a dying fish in the grip of a fever dream, jerking and arching her back like…like…Elizabeth Berkley hasn’t ever had sex before, either. I enjoyed this scene almost as much as the bit in Fifty Shades Freed where Christian almost paralyses Ana with the spreader bar. And I couldn’t stop thinking about that urban myth where the couple that have sex in the bath get stuck together by the magical vacuum powers of water and have to go to A & E to be separated.

Why would I find such a terrible film so comforting?

1)     It’s very, very unintentionally funny

2)     The soapy, wooden acting

3)     The go nowhere plot with random scenes that are there for no reason, like when  another dancer asks Nomi what she thinks of her breasts

4)     The bit where chimps break into the dressing room and put makeup on

5)     The private dance Nomi gives Kyle in front of Cristal. Something is happening….I’m just not sure exactly what it is, but it’s from the 50 Shades School of Sex with Your Trousers On

6)     Why does a mega Vegas dance show employ a girl who can’t dance?

7)     Why is Nomi always on her period? Is she me aged 14 trying to get out of PE lessons?

8)     Why are we privy to long conversations between minor, nameless characters?

9)     When Nomi’s not looking very angry, she’s looking very startled

10) Kyle MacLachlan isn’t Dale Cooper or Trey McDougall

11) The way Nomi uses her flick knife (third best bit of the film, after the pool sex and the nightclub dancing)

12) The bit where we find out Nomi knows martial arts and kicks the shit out of a man that’s raped Molly. While she’s karate chopping him Miss Piggy style, his bodyguards are right outside and don’t hear a thing

13) Former child actor attempts to shed goodie two shoes image by tweaking her own nipples, pretending to finger herself and air fucking damn fine cup of coffee Dale Cooper

14) Frosted lipstick

15) Hair glitter

16) Mum jeans (the first time round)

17) Molly’s clothes – she would not look out of place in a hipster coffee shop

18) I feel like this film was written by a couple of 13 year old boys.

A confession

I don’t think The Girl on the Train is a great book.  There, I said it. It hit the peak wave of ‘girl’ books where other, better authors had paved the way (for the record, I thought Gone Girl was pretty good until Amy went mental with the box cutter and wine bottle) and I thought it was good idea, but the three female voices were indistinguishable to me, and Rachel was not only unlikeable, she was also irritating and boring and it’s hard to root for a main character like that. I found myself skim reading it, and feeling bad that I didn’t want to finish it to find out what happened (because I had already guessed and it took so fucking long getting there) But most people, with the exception of two, seemed to really like it. All the people that liked it seemed offended when I said I didn’t, like they’d written it themselves.

Showgirls was panned when it was first released in 1995. I can even remember the Smash Hits magazine review of it, which is where I stole the ‘No Me / Know Me, geddit?’ bit from. It now has a cult following, like Tommy ‘oh hai Mark’ Wiseau’s what-the-fuck film The Room.

Where am I going with this? I think it’s this way: I am probably never going to write a bestseller that makes me famous like Hawkins, or a film that’s so terrible it achieves cult status. But the point is to carry on writing, through what Amy Young calls ‘February’ moments in your life, when it’s grey and soggy outside and winter feels like it’s going to last forever.

 I am not a fan of the never, ever give up following your dreams school of thought, but I can write for me, can’t I? I can write things for my ‘ideal readers’ and never have them see a word of it. There’s no nobility, or higher cause, or importance to it, or any attempt to leave a legacy. It’s just writing and it’s more often than not, it’s going to just a bit shit. Like Ira says, it’s going to take a while. You’ve just got to fight your way through.

So go forth my pretties, and be unafraid of being…a little bit shit. It might not be magnificent and world changing, but it’s probably going to be alright and that’s got to be worth trying for.

 

Fifty Shades Freed Review

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