'Fallen in Love: The Secret Heart of Anne Boleyn' - What I said....

Author: Unknown /






Yesterday I had the pleasure of visiting the Tower of London on a truly memorable day of the year - the anniversary of the execution of Queen Anne Boleyn. Anyone who knows me, or has the misfortune of reading my many posts on Facebook, knows that I am a very big Tudor history and in particular, Anne Boleyn fan, so for me, the chance to go to the Tower on the day of her death, 477 years later, was sensational. And to add to that, in the New Armouries banqueting hall was a 2-person play on the lady herself.

This play is by a lesser known theatre company called The Red Rose Chain and is titled 'Fallen in Love: The Secret Heart of Anne Boleyn'. I had been looking forward to this play with much anticipation but I was also anxious. As the play only depicted Anne and her brother George, Lord Rochford, I was a little nervous about the actors. I have watched many films, TV programs and documentaries and can only recall ever watching 2 actresses that I truly thought captured Anne in all of her charisma and glory - Natalie Dormer of The Tudors and Geneviève Bujold of Anne of the Thousand Days.

Neither may have looked very much like her, in fact when I first saw Natalie Dormer and saw her intense blue eyes I immediately wondered why on earth they had cast her for the part of Anne whose infamous brown "almost black" eyes were what made her extremely appealing to men, especially the King, despite her being "not one of the most handsomest women in the world". But she soon proved herself worthy of playing such a woman and immediately set the bar very high for that role. It also goes a long way that Natalie Dormer was already very passionate about Anne Boleyn and she endeavoured to not only act her as true to character as she could but also to insist that the script writers ceased in portraying her as a calculating and ruthless vixen, but as a woman who was just a pawn in the games and advancement of men. Bujold possessed a lot more je ne sais quoi than Dormer in the sense that she was a Frenchwoman and immediately had the accent of Anne down pat. As Anne grew up in the French court, she spoke fluent French and is said to have had quite a thick French accent, blended with her English accent, which also added to her allure and sex appeal. She was witty, temperate but whilst she may have had the same air about her as Dormer's Anne, she also portrayed her as having been a very cold and hard woman in her early courtship of Henry VIII.

Dormer showed Anne to be clever and level headed but she also showed a side to Anne that is often swept under the carpet - her love for the King. It's not hard to act as though you are falling in love with Jonathan Rhys Meyers (Henry VIII in The Tudors) but we had never seen Anne like this before, and many people think of her as an ambitious, ruthless woman who had no love for the king and above all else desired the be queen. For me, it was refreshing to see Anne as a human, as a woman, and that she was in fact susceptible to the charm of a king who, for his time, was extremely good looking and quite a catch. Bujold's Anne was the very opposite, only ever showing contempt for Henry and only ever admitting that she loved him after years of frustrating courtship. Both portrayals of Anne were excellent, but Natalie Dormer's has always been my favourite as it showed Anne in many different lights in such a way that the viewer really felt like they could relate to her.

So, going into the play I had high expectations of the girl who would play Anne - but not high hopes. The scene was set around an old four-poster bed and started off with George Boleyn laying down, reciting a song to himself. After about 15 minutes I found that I was pleasantly surprised. Not only that, but I was laughing in almost every scene - both actors were enormously talented and very humorous indeed.

I had never developed much of an opinion of George Boleyn and reports of him are quite contradicting. Some say he was a closet homosexual (The Tudors heavily implies this), others say he was a great womaniser but all reports point to him being as ambitious as his father and uncles, the Duke of Norfolk, but not quite as callous. He did, however, have a very close and loving relationship with Anne - which later gave credence to the charges fabricated by Master Secretary, Thomas Cromwell, when he "thought up and plotted the death of the concubine" - and was often in her bedchambers and a rock for Anne during hard times, and there were many of those.

Given that I was unsure of how I felt about George, I was not sure what to expect from him in the play but I have to say that the actor they cast as him did a fantastic job. He was extremely funny, charismatic and seemed to have a lot more of a conscience and moral compass than his sister in the play - and most of the members of the Boleyn faction. His impressions of King Henry VIII are of particular note as you can only imagine the fun he must have made of the tyrannical, irrational and arrogant King during his sisters courtship and marriage to him. It was highly amusing to say the least.

As for Anne, the actress who played her was delightful but I did feel that she overacted quite a lot throughout the play, as though playing Anne did not come naturally to her. She seemed to put on a very deep, strong and masculine voice which made me wonder if she was trying her hardest to mimic Natalie Dormers Anne as she had quite the same manner of speaking. The play also showed her to be very hard-hearted, very cruel and very calculating which I did not appreciate at all. But other than that she was very good, also extremely amusing and it seemed like she had a passion for her role which is always nice - unlike Natalie Portman whose lack of wit, charisma and understanding of her character was one of the many great fails of The Other Boleyn Girl.

As much as I enjoyed the play and feel like it was £27 very well spent, I cannot help but agree with many critics when it comes to the incestuous undertone of the performance.

Anne and George died under trumped up charges of adultery and incest. Anne was accused of "inciting her own natural brother to violate her" and records of the trial state that she had "tempted her brother with her tongue in the said George's mouth and the said George's tongue in hers." They both suffered the highest price for these allegations and were put to death for treason and incest. Since this particular charge is so sensitive in Anne Boleyn's case - as recognised by her in her execution speech when she pleaded that "if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge it the best" - many, many years have been spent trying to clear her name, and Lord Rochford's.

What we know of Anne and her brother is that they were very close, as many brothers and sisters have been and are, and that there was nothing untoward about their behaviour. They had loved and supported each other their whole lives, through unhappy marriage matches, to courting the King of England, to the miscarriages of the Queens - in a family of ambitious and ruthless adults, they only had one another. Neither of them, but especially Anne, wanted to go the way of their sister, Mary and they clung to each other throughout their trials and their celebrations. They were family after all. All of this would have gone unnoticed had it not been for the hatred both Thomas Cromwell was harbouring for the queen and for the resentment Lady Rochford (Jane Parker, George's wife) had for her husband.

Anne had always been a religious woman; she had, after all, brought about the reformation that has made our country what it is today. She may have turned her back on the corrupt doctrines of papal authority, but she never turned her back on God and held a steadfast faith until the day she died. Cromwell, who Anne had once described as "my man", was a Lutheran and a secret heretic. For quite some time he was able to help and advance Anne's cause and the "great matter" of the King - his annulment to Katherine of Aragon. But after her marriage to the King, Anne had started to resent how Cromwell, who now held a great deal of power at court, was destroying all of the monasteries and abbeys, transferring their wealth and riches straight into the Privy Purse. This would have only benefited Anne and added to her own wealth, but she was a woman of faith and did not believe that this was the correct way to use the money of the churches.

She wanted the riches to be distributed to the poor and to charities and because of their conflicting interests, she and Cromwell came to blows many times with Anne even threatening to have his head cut off. She was known to be an ill-tempered and fiery woman whose influence over the King was so great that even a man of Cromwell's power could be reduced to the scaffold had she wished it. Cromwell would have watched what had happened to Thomas More, a very close and beloved friend of the Kings who was executed for refusing the acknowledge Henry as the Supreme Head of the Church of England. Even More was not safe from Anne's overwhelming hold over the King and Cromwell knew that, even though Henry's love for his wife had waned due to her inability to provide him with a male heir, she still held a considerable amount of power over him and not even he "dared to question her".

Knowing all of this, and fearing for his own life, Thomas Cromwell got to work on bringing down his onetime ally. He was helped in his cause by the Lady Rochford who had become insanely jealous of the relationship between her husband and the queen. This was the perfect time for Cromwell to strike. Charges of adultery would be bad enough by themselves but a charge of incest would seal Anne's fate and prevent her from ever being able to regain her power over the King and destroy the Master Secretary.

Since we are all very aware of how malicious and and fallacious the charges against Anne and her brother were, I would have sincerely hoped that the Fallen in Love would err on the side of caution when depicting the two of them together. However, it did not. The sexual tension and chemistry was there from the start. The flirting was always very suspicious and quite often the pair would kiss on the lips. This was quite a common practice for siblings in the middle ages, but in this particular instance, the kisses were far too passionate, far too lingering and did not give help to Anne's cause at all. Unfortunately, as good as the play was, that left a rather bitter taste in my mouth and I couldn't help but feel like the director had let Anne down a little.

So, despite the very obvious incestuous undertones of the play, and the regular misplaced historical quote, I most heartily recommend unto you all this production and ask anyone who has a passion for Anne Boleyn, the Tudors, or just history in general to please go to see it – it is very worth it and certainly was a great way to commemorate the day of her execution and to remember such an amazing, courageous and strong woman who will never be forgotten.






M.


In The End: Anna Bolina, Part II

Author: Unknown /

A little story I have been working on about Anne Boleyn, her last days in the Tower and what I would like to imagine happened...

Enjoy,

M





I wondered now, how life was dealing with my Father. Uncle would not be the slightest phased by his, what had proved to be through speculation, troublesome niece, but Father had already lost Mary after forcing her in and out of the Kings bed, and now it seemed he could be losing another child. He always had George, but my brother showed more of a talent for winning over the ladies of court rather than the King and other men of noble birth and importance.

I had not heard word from any one of my family, for the first time in my life it seemed I had been spared their judgement and harsh words. Though now, under so much disgrace and worry, I never so much longed for the embrace of my brother and a few small, comforting words and perhaps a little humour to lighten these most dire of times.
It was around this time that a knock on the door broke my thoughts and forced me to push my pitiful letter to one side. One of my ladies stepped in accompanied by a guard, he spoke, "Another maid for your services, m'Lady."

"Your Majesty." I was quick to correct him and in no hurry to forsake my place and position.
He bowed ever so slightly, as if he were not bowing at all and took his leave of us.
I turned to the new lady that had been given unto me, "Speak, Kate, tell me all what you know, spare no details but please tell me you bare good news for your Queen."

"Ma'am, I wish for nothing more than to put your mind at ease and to bring forth good news, but I'm afraid the situation at present has much worsened."
"What is it? What have they said now?" I pleaded, surely, just surely it could get no worse than being locked in the Tower under charges of treason and adultery.
"It's George, your brother. He has been arrested." Kate looked to the floor in despair.
"Whatever for? What could George possibly have done wrong in all of this?"
"They say, you and Lord Rochford had an improper relationship, and that you touched each other, unnaturally, in such a way that you did so commit incest with each other and often had incestuous relations with one another, even, one occasion, after your Majesty's great loss of his Majesty's child so that you may conceive in secret your brothers own son."

I could not help but drop to floor, "Oh God help me, dear God deliver me from this. God, God, God, help me."

Kate ran to me and knelt down at my side. I looked up to meet her large, hazel eyes, full of sorrow for me, knowing that now there certainly was no hope.

"Your Majesty," she spoke softly, "you must stay calm, you must keep your most admirable dignity."
"What will become of George?"
"He has been found guilty, Ma'am, he is to be executed at dawn."

I began to weep, "My dear, sweet brother, even if the axe did not claim him, the very thought of actually committing the crimes he has been thus charged with would cause him to perish. My poor brother, how I have failed him. It is incredulous to me that any respectable man could believe such lies, such loosely based stories, no one could ever confirm them to be true and lay down any sort of evidence against us. How can this be happening, Kate?"

"It was the Lady Rochford."
"That snake of a girl? What could she possibly have to do with all of this apart from being the unfortunate widow of my beloved brother?"
"She was the eye-witness, she told Cromwell she saw the two of you, in bed, touching one another and - "
"That's enough, I cannot bare to hear anymore. Jane Parker ought to hope that my brother and I do not somehow get pardoned, it will be her head on a stick before she even has the chance to beg for our forgiveness."

I could not fathom it, I so wanted to fall asleep, hoping that I would wake up in the Kings arms with the rest of our lives ahead of us. Me, the Queen, unchallenged for Henry's affections and Elizabeth, surrounded by her brothers and all the love in the world.

“Your Majesty,” Kate implored after quite some time had passed in silence, “what will you do?”

I fixed my gaze on her but didn’t see her; I did not see a thing, “What can be done? I can write to the King, but I cannot see what good that will do me. I fear things are already too far gone.”

“Would you like a confessor?”

She did not ask me in a way as to say that I had to confess my sins, confess the crimes I had been charged with, but to say that it might be one small thing left that may help my cause or, failing that, put my mind and my conscience at ease.

“I think that may be my last hope, Kate. Fetch Cranmer, make haste and make clear the urgent nature of my matter.”

One hour later, still having not finished my letter to Henry, Archbishop Cranmer arrived at my cell, carrying with him nothing but a morbid expression and eyes full of sorrow.

Before I even had the chance to stand, he was at my feet.

“My Lady, my good and gracious Lady. How is it that you do?”
“Considering my situation, I am quite well. Never before have I so longed for sleep, to sleep eternally, even.”
“Oh,” he sighed heavily, “do not say such things, to see you so defeated is a thing that breaks my heart.”
“It should not! Besides, I am in no way defeated, I am just tired – the end is in sight and it comes as a relief to me. Please do not fear for me, or ache for me for I do not fear for myself.”

He nodded gingerly, “Yes my child. Now, tell me all you have to say. Spare nothing.”

“I shall not”.

I let him take a seat next to me and he started at me intently.

“I must confess that not only did I fail to commit the crimes I have been unlawfully charged with in deed but also in thought. My eyes never touched another man, nor did my hands and sir, I most ardently must tell you that I never had relations with my brother, George. My supposed sins are so disgusting and vile to me that you must know I would never even think such things, let alone do them.
The pain I feel at my brothers’ imminent execution is such that I cannot speak of. He is an innocent man and I an innocent woman. The love I bear for his Majesty is so great that no other man exists in my eyes; he is the moon and the sun, the sunrise and sunset. I cannot express enough the ways in which I love him and that I would never betray him or forsake his princely love.
But it is my understanding that I am to die because of such misgivings and in truth, I am willing to accept this as my fate.”

My Chaplin already had tears in his eyes, but he knew as well as I that now was no time for weeping.

“My lady,” he began, “is there anything else you wish to say?”
“Yes, I want you to tell the King that he knows the truth and my blood is on his hands, my death hangs over his head. I am his wife and no other and he should be in no hurry to forget this.”

He nodded, “I shall do my best to get this message to his Majesty.”

“No, you must. Whether it is before my death or not, you must tell him what I have said.”
“Ma’am, how are you so certain that you will die? You doubt the Kings good graces and mercy.”
“I do not doubt the Kings mercy, I just know Henry. He knows there is no other way to lawfully leave me and marry another, to which he would hope to father sons with, and that is what is most important to him. After years of knowing and loving the King, all I have learnt is that a Queen must keep quiet and endure, she must never question the King and above all, she must provide a male heir. I have not done any these things and so I fear mercy is not a quality Henry will bear towards me now.”
“Very well, I shall take my leave of you now, having heard your final and most honest confession and will pass on your message to his Majesty.”

He took my hand, gently pressing his cold lips against it, “God bless you, Anne.”

As he reached the door to leave, I called to him, “Do you think it will hurt?” Holding my neck, I needn’t have said what I was referring to.

“I think not, Ma’am, it will all be over very quickly.” He tried to smile but I could see in his eyes he was forcing it, after all, there was not much to smile about and he was not one for pretending.

I bowed my head and he left. I watched him walk down the hall through the bars in the door, knowing that this was the last I would see of him, thinking maybe I should have said more, or perhaps less?

That night I had a mind to finish off my letter, but exhaustion crept over me and I lay in my bed, hoping that when I woke things would be as there were, but, being no fool, I did not keep my hopes up for long.

Richard III: King & Usurper - where to now?

Author: Unknown /

 
Richard III: King & Usurper - where to now?
 
 
 



He was buried in a car park after a brutal and humiliating defeat and death at the hands of Henry Tudor, but the question on everyone’s minds now is where should King Richard III be laid to rest?


King Richard III – a title that I still believe he should never have acquired, and certainly not have kept. He was the brother of Kind Edward IV and when he passed away Richard was left as Lord Protector and ultimately, the protector of his nephew and the successor to the throne – 12 year old Edward V. We all know the story of the Princes in the Tower and we all know who we like to imagine committed/ordered the murder of the two young princes.


Who we imagine it to be is probably who it actually was, a brother who felt like he had the dynastic right to the throne and was not satisfied with letting it pass to the rightful ruler, his nephew. It was a common tale of greed, hunger for power and betrayal. Edward V and his 9 year old brother, Richard of Shrewsbury, the Duke of York, were placed in the tower awaiting coronation of Edward as king. It was this pretence that has aroused the greatest suspicion in Richard and given historians and the public alike enough cause to blame him for the untimely deaths of the two princes.

 
 

It is said neither of the princes were seen after 1483 – the same year that Richard was crowned King. Their fate remained a mystery for many years until, in 1674, the skeletal remains of two children were found under the staircase to leading to chapel in the White Tower. For those who believed that Richard had something to do with the young princes disappearance, this was quite definitive proof he had been the one to have them murdered (it was unlikely that a man of his stature would have dirtied his own hands when there were always people to do his bidding).


Richard III had a seemingly strong argument to back up his claim to the throne: he had been told on good authority that the marriage between his brother, Edward IV, and his wife Elizabeth Woodville was invalid due to Edward’s relations and supposed pre-contract with Eleanor Butler, the daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury. This pre-contract would be damming to the offspring of Edward IV’s marriage and cast doubt over the legitimacy of the two princes and in Richard III’s mind it would have brought into question his nephews claim to the throne. He did, I suppose, what any man of his time would – accept the claims to be true and declare the children to be bastards, making him the rightful king.


This was a questionable move, for it was only a clergyman that had informed Richard III of his late brothers pre-contract and therefore, even if the source had been reliable, there was no proof and nothing was ever given a clear and just judgment. Neither the courts nor papal authority denounced the young prince’s claim to the throne, nor was he ever legally declared illegitimate so for Richard III to make this move himself and usurp the throne of England was a seemingly deceitful move.


In truth, Richard III’s bad reputation probably originated from there, long before the Tudor stories of his tyrannical ways and deformity, before the Shakespearian legends and myths. Whether it can be proven or not, most people – the exception being the members of the Richard III society who defend him through rose coloured glasses – believe that Richard III was solely responsible for the death of his nephews. Perhaps he knew his claim to the throne was weak, perhaps he never really believed the princes were illegitimate and worried that one day, when Edward V came of age and had enough people to throw their weight behind his cause, he would be dismantled and his nephew would take back his birth right. Perhaps the only way for him to ever fully attain what he had desired his whole life, to keep it and to never have it question, was to get rid of the two people he had sworn to protect. I believe that Richard III knew he could never properly lay claim to the English throne, that the people would never accept him whilst the rightful heir still lived, so for a man like him in those times, there was only one thing that could be done.


Richard III failed to open an investigation to the death of his nephews, which caused even more suspicion and to the modern day eye it is quite easy for us to see who the culprit was. But back then, many a tongue would have been bitten. For Richard was the new king, and no one dared to question the king.


Richard’s reign would be short lived though. After two years on the throne he was usurped by Henry Tudor at the Battle of Bosworth Field which subsequently ended the War of the Roses and marked the beginning of the infamous Tudor dynasty. Accounts note that Richard fought bravely and admirably until his horse became stuck in swampy grounds and he was surrounded. It is at this moment of Shakespeare’s famous line, all too aware of his imminent death, Richard cries out: “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!” He battled until the very end, but Henry’s men were too much for him and he suffered a violent and brutal death, with further humiliation to come when his naked body was paraded on horseback through the streets and he was stabbed in the buttocks. 
 


An honourable, yet grizzly death but also a deserved one some might say. Richard III had many enemies and, contradicting accounts made by Richardians, was not loved by his subjects. Even his allies were hated and soon after seeing the fate of their usurper king they fled and surrendered their cause. Henry Tudor was then crowned king at the top of Crown Hill and a new monarchy was established.


Over the years, the legend of Richard III began to take form and thanks to the Tudors and Shakespeare we establish an image of the last Plantagenet King. The True Tragedy of Richard III states that he was "A man ill shaped, crooked backed, lame armed" adding that he was "valiantly minded, but tyrannous in authority." He has always been portrayed as a very ambitious and self serving man, intent on getting what he wants and willing to do so by any means. He was said to have had a hunchback, and a withered arm. In Shakespearean play The Tragedy of King Richard the Third he is described as an ugly hunchback who is "rudely stamp'd", "deformed, unfinish'd", and cannot "strut before a wanton ambling nymph."


Thomas More, Lord Chancellor and councillor to Henry VIII, described the king as "little of stature, ill-featured of limbs, crook-backed ... hard-favoured of visage." To add to this image, Polydore Vergil, an Italian priest and diplomat, said that he was "deformed of body ... one shoulder higher than the right". Statements like this would only enhance the physical reputation of the king and give way for even more myths and conspiracies as to the usurper kings appearance.


This description of the king would transpire through history, in plays and films alike, giving us all a pretty harsh image of what he would have looked like and an insight into the kind of man and ruler that he was. It is much disputed by Richardians that he had any of the aforementioned deformities but when his remains were found a severe curve in his spinal cord was immediately identified, shattering the beliefs that he was not a hunchback and in a way solidifying the claims made by his enemies about his appearance.

 
 

Richard III was the last (and only second) king of England to die on the battlefield and his place of burial has been the subject of much speculation for hundreds of years. Legend has it that he was cast into a river, but the more likely story is that he was buried in the graveyard at Greyfriars Church, Leicester. The site of the graveyard is now a car park and as we all know, Richard’s remains were found there in September of last year. But now that the king’s remains have been discovered and identified, the question is: where will he be laid to rest?


Many people believe he should be given the honours of a king of England, and appropriately should be laid to rest in Westminster Abbey as is the custom for English monarchs. But should Richard III be buried in accordance with his former status and given the proper honours that he supposedly deserves? In my opinion: no.


Richard III, as well known as he is, was never the rightful king. His brother had sons, those sons were heirs, and Richard had them eliminated so that he could take the throne for himself. For all of Richard’s sins and discrepancies I do not believe that he has the right to take his place with former great kings and queens of England by being buried at Westminster Abbey. He was a usurper, a murderer. He betrayed his nephews, the memory of his brother and ultimately, he betrayed England. He committed treason and was able to rule unpunished, until his enemies put an end to his life and reign.


So why should such a man be buried in Westminster Abbey? So many agree that he should be, and so many believe he should be given a state funeral but they are not looking at the bigger picture – that is, that Richard III would have been nothing if not for his crimes and in today’s world, he would be hated and despised for his actions.


But for now, the legend of the sometime king lives on and the dispute over his rightful burial place continues. His discovery has reignited a lost interest in history and the fascinating characters that hath been before us; it has captivated people across the world and given a lot of truth to the myths and legends surrounding Richard III. And I am sure we will only continue to learn more.


Richard III: The King in the car park – and that, I believe, is where he should remain.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
M.

In The End: Anna Bolina, Part I

Author: Unknown /

A little story I have been working on about Anne Boleyn, her last days in the Tower and what I would like to imagine happened...
Enjoy,
M.



I took a seat - if you could even call it that - on the stone cold floor, willing myself to write. It had been a plan of mine to pour out my heart to the King and now it came to it, I couldn't help but wonder if such an outpouring, such a plea for mercy would even matter to Henry.
He seemed, by the encouragement of his men and Master Cromwell, bent on my destruction. He had not asked for an explanation, nor had he sent any word of his final judgment on me, the Queen - his wife.

His most loving, humble wife, a wife who had never betrayed his trust or committed the vile acts she was therefore accused of. Yes, I had been a good wife, temperamental at times, envious and volatile as well, but always a good wife, never forsaking my lord, never purposefully setting out to displease my husband, the King.
I have provided the King with an heir, albeit a little girl, but an heir nonetheless and there was still time, we were but young in the eyes of God and through Gods good graces, sons would come.

And yet here I was, shut away in the Tower, awaiting my death, my release, awaiting anything that would end the misery of my most dreadful situation.
My thoughts turned to Elizabeth, my beautiful little princess, who would be stripped of all her titles. All the privileges of her household and the rights of her birth would all be removed, and would count for nothing.

How I had failed her. What would she think of me when she came of age? Would she believe the charges to be true? I prayed she would know better and not think ill of her Mother. In that moment, I began to regret the time I had not spent with my daughter, the months I had let pass by before I realized how much she needed me, how much she had changed and how beautiful she was becoming even at her young age. She was her father’s daughter, but by all means was she mine as well, it shone through her eyes. I feared for her because of it, though. I did not want her to end up as I, ill-tempered and emotional, it had left me vulnerable and open to attack and, I knew this to be true, in many people’s most honest of opinions, my downfall.

I gently touched my pen to the paper I had been given later that morning, having waited all day to compose my letter.



Your grace's displeasure and my imprisonment are things so strange to me, that what to write, or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant.



Much to my disadvantage, I no longer had the slightest idea of how to write the King. I had once wrote to him with love and uncharted affection, without fear of how he would take my words. But now, in my most delicate and fragile time, my most uneasy and dangerous situation, I could hardly think of what to say, for fear of displeasing Henry even further. If that were even a possibility.


Whereas you send to me (willing me to confess a truth and so obtain your favor), by such a one, whom you know to be mine ancient professed enemy, I no sooner received this message by him, than I rightly conceived your meaning, and if, as you say, confessing a truth indeed may procure my safety, I shall with all willingness and duty, perform your duty.



All I had to confess was my undying love for his Majesty and my subjection to him, of which was endless. But surely, I had hoped, he was well aware of this fact and would not profess to know, think or believe otherwise. God only knew what Cromwell had fed to his Majesty, the lies he had spoken through his vile, unyielding and merciless tongue. Was there any hope? I knew the charges that had been brought against me but knew not of how such stories had come to light, who had told them, who had thought them up? It seemed to me that the blame lay wholly with Cromwell, a master fabricator, a class manipulator. Why had he so suddenly sought my downfall? He was an intolerable man and I had, on more than one or two occasions, made known my disdain for him and the action I could take if he persisted in disrespecting his Queen. Perhaps such a small indiscretion had made him desire to seek revenge upon me, and what better way to ruin a Queen than to turn her King against her?


But let not your grace ever imagine that your poor wife will be brought to acknowledge a fault,



There was no fault to be guilty of, unless loving a man too much was now considered a fault. But I knew better than that, my love for the King was considered no great fault, not one that had been brought into question, anyway. My fault was that of well thought up lies conceived by men whose high positions made them over reach themselves. And for all their vices and discretion's, it was I who would pay the highest price and one day, unbeknownst to them, so would the King.


where not so much as a thought ever proceeded. And to speak a truth, never a prince had wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found in Anne Bulen - with which name and place I could willingly have contented myself, if God and your grace's pleasure had been so pleased.


I sighed heavily in defeat - was there any point to this? I could be sure that my letter would never even reach the eyes of the King nor would it grace his ears. Cromwell would do his utmost to keep it between just him and I, and unknowingly, I was writing a plea that would most certainly fall on deaf and merciless ears.



Neither did I at any time so far forget myself in my exaltation or received queenship, but that I always looked for such alteration as I now find; for the ground of my preferment being on no surer foundation than your grace's fancy, the least alteration was fit and sufficient (I knew) to draw that fancy to some other subject.

You have chosen me from low estate to be your queen and companion, far beyond my desert or desire; if, then, you found me worthy of such honor, good your grace, let not any light fancy or bad counsel of my enemies withdraw your princely favor from me; neither let that stain - that unworthy stain - of a disloyal heart towards your good grace ever cast so foul a blot on me, and on the infant princess your daughter.



If I had even slightly pitied myself, it was nothing to how I pitied Elizabeth. I couldn't help but think of how her own father, her own sovereign Lord would soon disown and disinherit her due to the lies and stories of men. Long ago, I could not have ever imagined a time where my word, my truth was not the final word, the final truth for Henry on any matter that rose in regards to myself. He had never doubted me, nor distrusted me, not even his closest companion, the Duke of Suffolk could cause the King to hold any air of doubt over my head. And, to my most saddened self, his Grace, Charles Brandon had a few times spoke up against me and attempted to turn the King from me and therefore unto another lady, and as of late, that had been the Lady Jane Seymour. I resented her not, how could I when her actions towards me where once mine towards Katherine of Aragon, the late Queen? It was assumed that I despised Mistress Seymour but truthfully, I envied her position and favor with the King, something I had slowly but surely lost and only despised her for bearing the love and the affection of my most beloved Lord and husband.

She was but a young girl and I saw her families hand behind every move she made. Everything she said, everything she did, every gesture towards the King was a carefully set up ploy by her kinsmen, especially her over ambitious brother, Sir Edward Seymour. I had once been the same, a puppet of men, my Father and Uncle, but it did not take long for a change in power and those whom I once knelt to where soon ruled over by me, the Queen of England.

RMS Titanic: A Recollection, Resurrected

Author: Unknown /


For this week, I want to share with you something that has been of high interest to me for many years. It has played on my mind, taken over my thoughts and impacted my heart in many, many ways. Since I was young and watched the film for the first time, I have been hooked. But this obsession was enhanced when I visited an exhibition in America - an experience that enriched me with knowledge and broke my heart.








The Titanic is heading towards its centenary anniversary this week and on Sunday 15th April the world will remember this great ship and the brave souls that lost their lives on the most famous - and most tragic - cruise liner in maritime history. 100 years ago, the worlds most luxurious ship sunk in the middle of the Atlantic on its maiden voyage to New York. For years, the story of the Titanic has gripped and captivated generations and its seems that her tale will never cease to be told.

When James Cameron epic blockbuster "Titanic" hit our screens in 1997, I was only young. I still remember my mother and sister heading off to the cinemas to watch it (my sister was completely besotted with Leonardo DiCaprio) but, as a child, I was not phased by it. It wasn't until some years later when I watched the movie for myself that my fascination with the Titanic began to evolve. At first, I cried for the dogs who drowned on board the ship, and then my tears were for the young children who lost their fathers due to the "women and children only" protocol enforced by Titanic’s crew. After a few times of watching it/growing up a bit and experiencing my first love, it was the love story between Jack and Rose that made me sob like a baby - and who can blame me? I cannot imagine a single heart that did not break as a result of getting wrapped up and lost in such a tragic love story. But, after a trip to a Titanic exhibition in America, it was the tragedy itself and the massive loss of life that broke my heart the most.

RMS Titanic was to be, along with her sister ships Olympic and Britannic, the biggest and supposedly fastest ocean liner the world had ever seen. No one had ever deemed the ship "unsinkable" as legend often states. It was, however, suggested that because of her watertight compartments, she was virtually unsinkable. The press, of course, blew this out of proportion and it was widely believed that sailing on Titanic was safer than dry land. This would render her fate an ironic and cruel twist. Her construction began in 1909 and from that time until 1911 Titanic would already claim 8 lives. The workers who slaved away on her for years in appalling conditions and on a miserable salary risked their own lives to create a ship that would rule the waves for years to come. It is sad to think now that all of that work, sweat and death would all be in vain and would only pave the way for more disaster and loss of life.








As I understand, Titanic’s grand maiden voyage was to launch in March of 1912, but troubles with Titanic’s sister ship, Olympic, delayed plans and her launch was rescheduled for April 10th 1912. Had such delays not occurred, history might well read a very different story and the Titanic would not rest at the bottom of the Atlantic, a tortured and tormented shell of her former self. A ghost ship in every way.

But nevertheless, Titanic set sail from Southampton, New York bound on April 10th 1912 and the world celebrated her glory. She was the ships of dreams, a chance for the rich to flaunt their extravagant lifestyles in the most luxurious and expensive way possible, an opportunity for the poor and underprivileged to sail on the world’s grandest liner and to make a new life for themselves overseas. I can only imagine what it must have been like to sail aboard the Titanic, to walk her decks in the fresh sea air and then in the evenings to gaze upon the endless night sky, to set foot on her grand staircase, to experience the luxury of her first class menu or to even "do a Jack" and stand at the end of her ostentatious bow. In truth, I have many times dreamt that I am walking through the Titanic, her promenade, her sumptuous rooms, through steerage and into the boiler rooms. I can smell the ocean, the sweat of men hard at work, the new bed linen and the rich food emanating from the first class restaurant. I can hear men laughing, women gossiping, china clinking and the band playing the songs that they played until the very end. All of these things made up the Titanic - but it was not to last.











On the night of April 14th 1912, Titanic had received a handful of ice warnings, plenty to forewarn them of the dangers that lay ahead of them. But this did not deter the great ship. She continued at full speed ahead. Despite these warnings, Captain Smith was quoted saying that he could not "imagine any condition which would cause a ship to founder. Modern shipbuilding has gone beyond that." Years of captaincy had done him no service. Titanic did not slow down - it is largely speculated that J. Bruce Ismay wanted to show the world Titanic’s magnificence, and even under words of warnings and icebergs from the Captain, Ismay could not be swayed. He wanted his ship to arrive before she was expected, to make the morning papers and for the world to marvel at her brilliance and her speed. This order would prove to be fatal. As much as we all think that Captain Edward Smith should have known better than the chairman and managing director of the White Star Line, it would seem that pressure to impress was far greater than pressure to avoid a mass loss of life. He gave no orders to slow down and at approximately 11.40pm on the ill-fated night of April 14th, an iceberg was spotted by a lookout by the name of Frederick Fleet and soon, after an unsuccessful attempt to steer the ship away from the massive berg, Titanic was struck and dealt a massive blow to her starboard side.

We all the know the events of that night, the stories of bravery by many men who sacrificed their own lives so that strangers could live, the cowardice of others who perhaps should have gone down with the ship, the devastation of those who were carted off safely in lifeboats and had no choice but to sit and watch the mighty Titanic flounder and the screams and cries of those unfortunate plenty who were left on her, and most of all the tragedy of the souls whose lives were cut short.

20 lifeboats were on the Titanic, 4 of which were collapsible boats. Amazingly - but sadly - enough, she had the capacity for 64 lifeboats - enough for 4,000 people. The White Star Line opted for the required amount of 16 which, as we well know, was only enough to take one-third of Titanic’s passengers - 1,178 people. As a result, 1,517 people out of the 2,224 on board lost their lives in the epic clash between a highly technological man-made wonder and a weapon of nature. As the great and now ghostly bow of the Titanic flooded and slipped under the surface, her stern rose higher and higher into the air, causing thousands of people to make a quick panic decision. Would they stay on with the ship and risk being suctioned down with her or would they jump? Ultimately, both outcomes resulted in death only. Those who did not go down with the ship froze to death in the freezing ocean and many of those who jumped died before they even hit the water. The life jackets were made of cork and when a passenger jumped from the sinking ship, their life jacket would rise up and break their necks. Even now, it is hard to see a way out. There she was, the Titanic, the greatest ship sailing the seas, and she was going down rapidly and there was no one coming to her rescue in a hurry. The situation was dire and many resigned themselves to the fact that there was no hope. Imagine all of the countless number of untold stories of bravery. We already know of the richest man on board, J.J. Astor, who was a gentlemen to the very end and died with dignity, of the remarkable Isidor and Ida Straus who could not bare to be parted in life and died together on the sinking ship, of the Marconi operators who stayed at their posts until the very last minute, desperately calling out for help. As more time goes on from the death of the Titanic, more stories of survival, courage and heroism surface and we continue to be touched by the people that lost their lives on the ship of dreams.







Drawings by Ken Marschall



At 2.20am on April 15th, the stern of the Titanic dramatically and famously detached from the bow under massive amounts of pressure. The bow sunk first, the stern stayed afloat upright for a couple of minutes before it corkscrewed 2.5 miles down to the ocean floor. Titanic, once the ship of dreams is now a ghost ship. But despite the shocking amounts of lives she claimed, there is still so much life within her wreckage. So much remains in tact, the heart and soul of the Titanic and the dreams of her passengers still survive in the darkest depths of the Atlantic. Whilst her mangled and battered stern is almost unrecognizable, her bow still holds onto her majesty and reminds us all of her grandeur. She is now more of a legend than she ever would have been and the lives of those who died with her have touched and moved generations of people. Her legacy means that even 100 years later, the Titanic still lives in the memories and hearts of all those that she has impacted since the time she was constructed until the present day. She was a beautiful disaster, a legendary tale of both brilliance, opulence and ultimate tragedy.











Titanic, will always have a story to tell.
 

The Dark Knight Rises - But Not High Enough

Author: Unknown /

THE DARK KNIGHT RISES - But Not High Enough












I know it has been a while since The Dark Knight Rises hit our screens after months of anticipation, but it has taken me quite some time to write this review. First of all, I would like to state that I am a huge Marvel and DC Comics fan - always have been and always will be - and the first two instalments of the rebooted Batman franchise were absolutely exceptional.

Batman Begins was amazing, but The Dark Knight just fulfilled all comic book fantasies. It was always going to be hard to surpass The Dark Knight and Heath Ledgers hauntingly marvellous performance, but I had high hopes for the third movie considering that Christopher Nolan had decided to end it there instead of dragging it out and had cast the captivating, albeit a bit crazy, Tom Hardy as the villain Bane.

Every time I saw a trailer for The Dark Knight Rises, I would quite literally stop breathing for a minute and a half and tightly squeeze the hand of the person who had the misfortune of sitting next to me. I was anticipating seeing a respectable Bane who was not controlled by a woman, who gave Batman a serious run for his money. I had my concerns about Anne Hathaway as Cat Woman as I had never been a big fan of her look or her acting. But after watching a brief glimpse of her performance in a Les Misérables trailer I decided it was only fair to give the woman a chance. Christian Bale was, of course, always going to be great in my eyes. He is Batman, along with Nolan he breathed a complete new life into the Batman series and I knew he would do no wrong.

By the time The Dark Knight Rises had premiered, I was experiencing a rather rough patch in my life so the importance of the third and final Batman being mind blowing was pretty imperative to my mental and emotional stability. Without sounding too melodramatic, all I had in my life was the prospect of watching a good Batman film and having a nice little perve on Bale and Hardy, so my exceptions were sky high as you can imagine.

Now, I understand we all have our own opinions and granted, my opinions are often like Marmite – you either love them or you hate them. They are very blunt, very dramatic and not at all open to reason. So I will try to be as reasonable as I can whilst I give my verdict on The Dark Knight Rises, but I can assure you that some of you will not like it. Not, one, bit.

To put it quite simply, my disappointment cannot be conveyed.

I had wished for so many things in the final Batman and none of those things came true. The one thing I came away with was shock that the only part of the film I actually enjoyed was Anne Hathaway’s portrayal of Cat Woman. How could this be? I just sat through a Christopher Nolan Batman film with some of the most brilliant actors around at the moment -Christian Bale, Tom Hardy and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. I had a good 2 hours’ worth of staring at Tom Hardy’s muscles, observing gritty fight scenes and listening to the fantastic musical score and yet I felt so deflated when I left the cinemas.

To be fair, the film didn’t start to go severely downhill for me until right near the end. The death of Bane, or rather the revelation of the fact that he was controlled by a manipulative woman the whole time. Here was me thinking that Bane was just a crazy, slightly disturbed maniac who wanted to bring chaos and anarchy to Gotham, to challenge Batman and take control of the city. A character worthy of taking over the position of villain after Heath Ledgers nightmarishly beautiful Joker captivated millions of people all over the world.

But no, it was not to be. For all of his strength, greed and hunger for power, all he really turned out to be was a whipped little boy, not a crazy mentalist who caused shit for his own enjoyment, but a suppressed shell of a man who was doing the bidding of the woman he had loved for years. Brilliant, how original. Because we hadn’t seen enough of him being Poison Ivy’s lap dog in the flop film Batman & Robin, had we?

For me, it was such a slap across the face. The one character I had anticipated the most, turned out to be the biggest disappointment of the entire trilogy. It wasn’t Tom Hardy’s fault that his character could have been played by anyone, or that for the majority of the film I had no idea what the hell he was trying to say, or that the writers had turned his character into little pussy cat who was killed off quite suddenly by Cat Woman in the least satisfying comeuppance and death of a baddy I had seen in a film, ever. And to be honest, if I was Hardy I would be doing some serious Bronson shit on the writers and producers of The Dark Knight Rises for ruining his beloved Bane.






Moving on to the next flop before have a mental breakdown over Bane, what was with the ending? I did not seriously just watch the beginning of Robin, did I?

I feel uncomfortable just thinking about the possibility of the launch of a new Batman & Robin series after Del Boy & Rodney did a far better job of being the crime fighting super duo than George Clooney and Chris O’Donnell could ever even dream of. So why was this thrown into The Dark Knight Rises? What was the need for it? Had Nolan had a midlife crisis and decided to completely destroy an already weak and sporadic storyline?

I just didn’t know what to make of it all. The minute Miranda Tate was revealed to be the instigator behind Bane’s mission to bring Gotham to ashes and the begrudged child of Ra's al Ghul, I am sure I tuned out a little, then again when John Blake found the Bat cave, and then again when Batman came “back from the dead” with his new girlfriend, – wait for it, surprise, surprise – Selina Kyle! Oh it was just all too good to be true. Not.

What the hell does Nolan think this is? A Disney film? For Christ sake man, get a hold of yourself! The one thing I loved about the new Batman series is that it was dark, haunting and never ended on a particularly good note. The very core of it was moving and deep, creepy and intriguing, daring and heartfelt. But watching The Dark Knight Rises was like watching a completely different film all together. This may be unfathomable to the majority of you, but I had hoped to see the death of Batman, now that would have been an ending. If Bane had been driven by his own madness and managed to kill Batman, it would have left us all on the edge of our seats, completely unsettled and stunned. Which is what had I expected from the Dark Knight trilogy. I did not expect a happy ending, a fairy tale romance and future bromance lurking on the horizon to round off an amazingly irking series.

But what can you do? It is what it is.

Out of 10, I would give The Dark Knight Rises 6 stars and this can only really be contributed to Tom Hardy’s physique and bulging muscles, because in the end, that was certainly all I cared about and the only thing that held my concentration throughout a boring, confusing and disappointing finale. Boo – freaking – hoo.

Yours most untruly,









M.







A little treat to make us (well, mainly me) feel better. Enjoy ;)





Fifty Shades of Even More Drivel

Author: Unknown /

Fifty Shades
of Even More Drivel



***Please note that this review contains spoilers***




Right, so it has been a few days since I shattered the dreams of every woman in the world who believes that she is too dignified to watch porn, but will happily read it if it has a “story line” of some sort, and I have since finished Fifty Shades of Grey.

What I would love to do now is tell you all how brilliant the remainder of the book was, how the writing became George R.R. Martin like, and how the lead characters impressed me with their depth and intricate personalities. I want to tell you that I have been so aroused by this exquisite onslaught of erotica that I have marched myself down to Ann Summers to invest in some whips and bondage material. But I am afraid I have been left with the bitter taste of continued disappointment in my mouth. And it tastes awful.

It took me a few days to polish Fifty Shades off, but I finally managed to by subjecting myself to reading it before I went to bed (when my mind was already switching off) and by taking late lunches to read it so as to avoid getting strange and suggestive looks by any male colleague who just so happened to pass through the kitchen and catch me reading a book with a very recognisable cover. By the end I was doing more reading and less skimming because it seemed the filthy sex scenes had picked up the pace a bit. But only a by a bit. Perhaps I just have an extraordinarily filthy mind and found the contents of this book to be closer to Disney than S&M, but I wasn’t shocked by anything that was thrown at me.

Only yesterday I was travelling to work on the train and happened to glance over at a woman reading Fifty Shades. Behind her was another woman standing with her boyfriend, and I watched as she subtly read the pages of the book and gasped in horror. She turned to her boyfriend and mouthed, “Wow”. Really? Wow? What book was she reading?As you all know, the only thing that has left me stunned and opened mouthed is the horrific writing which only seems to get worse.

Anastasia, or Miss Steele as Christian Grey bloody well insists on calling her, is single handily the most repetitive and annoying woman I have ever had the misfortune of reading. We all know the phrases she uses throughout the book, in almost every single page and if I didn't already want to shoot her stupid inner goddess dead before, I certainly do now. I also want to tell her to grow a pair. She makes out to be bravely defiant and promises to put up a good fight with Christian in an attempt to delve into his psyche and understand why he is such a tortured soul, but she gives up after a minute of persuasion. Get it together woman! This man wants to physically punish you, cause you pain and yet he can’t tell you why? Oh no, sorry, I know why: because he needs it. Yeah alright, pull the other one mate. I need Alexander Skarsgard but you don’t see me kidnapping him and hand cuffing him to my bed (I must err on the side of caution here, because I cannot deny that I have not contemplated doing this and have revelled in the sweet majesty of having such a fine specimen tied to my bed for me to do with as I see fit). She gives him everything, but that’s not nearly as frustrating as how quickly he has decided he does want “more” from his leading lady. Given the fact that he puts up such a fight in the war against letting Ana understand the ins and outs of his complicated personality, you would have thought it would have taken him at least a few books to fall for her. They have ultimately switched roles. Ana may be the submissive in the “Red Room of Pain”(God, how I hate that name) but he is the submissive where it counts – in real life. For the most part, Ana loves being dominated in the bedroom but other than that she has complete control, she is the one who has Christian firmly pressed under that thumb.

What’s more is that I cannot for the life of me understand why E.L. James tries to make Mr Grey romantic – he is a sadomasochist, for crying out loud. He wants to cause pain, he wants to be in control. He doesn’t care about love, according to him he is incapable of love (ha!) so why bother pretending he is romantic? He isn’t meant to give a damn about that side of his relationship with Ana, and clearly the most important thing to him is sex. Not love, sex. In his own words, his romantic, gushy gestures and speeches are all “moot”.

And then there are the emails. The ridiculous, nonsensical emails between Ana and Christian. They make me want to rip my own eyes out. Beyond cringe worthy and the ultimate display of how E.L. James is trying too hard to sound like a competent, intelligent and witty writer when all she really is is a bored, middle aged housewife who should probably just stick to fan fiction of the Twilight kind. The only reason her books have been such a success is because apparently they push the boundaries and are the perfect erotica for women. I beg to differ. I’msure there are plenty of women out there who would find that a lot of online porn has more of an intriguing story line than Fifty Shades. No shame in that, I’d rather subject myself to five minutes of raunchy shagging than have to endure another 500 pages of Christian Grey and his kinky perspective of life, his degrading image of women and lack of respect for the beauty of making love.

Which leads me to the question that I have been asking myself for the last few hours - Will I be reading the sequels?

Well, I highly doubt it. The ending of Fifty Shades of Grey was perhaps the biggest anti-climax of my life. It was rushed, confusing and instead of leaving me on the edge of my seat, it left me on the brink of literal insanity, wishing there was a way to regain my lost intelligence and good taste. I guess that the ending has had the desired effect – it was so abrupt and inconclusive that it has drawn women into reading the next edition, to see what happens to Ana and Christian. But to be honest, I couldn’t give a flying rats arse what happens to them. I don’t care if he turns into Edward bloody Cullen (which he clearly is, just a touch on the saucy side) and they get married and live happily ever after.

But you know what? This is just one woman’s view, one woman’s interpretation. I can surmise that the majority of Fifty Shades readers would completely disagree with me. They argue it has given them sexual liberation, a sense of freedom to go out there and go crazy. To experiment and push those bedroom boundaries, to release their inner goddess who has been knocking at the surface of suppression for years, dying to be set free.

But for this woman, nothing has changed. No new world has been opened up to me, my inner goddess is still encaged (or maybe she had already escaped?) and I have no interest in being flogged until my bottom stings and I cannot sit down for love nor money. So, as stated in my previous post – I will try my best to forget Fifty Shades. I will pass it on to my sister (don’t ask) and let her suffer. I will watch as she dies a slow, painful literacy death whilst I read a real book and try to rebuild my competence.

Thanks for nothing, Fifty Shades of Grey.


M.


Fifty Shades of Drivel

Author: Unknown /

Fifty Shades
of Drivel










***Please note that this review contains spoilers***

It has been a few months since I first heard about the sexually explicit wonder that is Fifty Shades of Grey and for that time, I have put up a very brave and noble fight to avoid succumbing to what millions of women have succumbed to – to actually spend £8 of my hard earned money and subject myself to reading a novel filled from page to page with graphic, S&M sex. This appeals to a lot of women, and I am not going to lie, it does spark my interest a little. But after learning the author, E.L. James was once a Twilight fan fiction writer, I just couldn’t bring myself to sit down and seriously read a book that I was convinced would mirror Twilight and the poor writing of Stephanie Meyer in every way.

Fifty Shades has featured quite heavily on almost every single day time chat show, especially those ones specifically aimed at women/mothers. It became a focal talking point on social networking sites, it filled the shelves in every book store, my friends had started to read it – even my own mother had read it. I was starting to crack under the severe pressure society was piling on top of me. The hype around the book has been ridiculous, this isn’t the first book with gratuitous sex and it certainly will not be the last. So why is Fifty Shades an exception? Why is it on a totally different level to all the other books of its kind?

Well, in the end I wanted answers to these questions so badly that I caved. With a gentle nudge from a friend and a spontaneous decision to run into Waterstones and shamelessly buy the book, whilst asking the checkout man not to judge me, I had started my journey into a sadomasochistic nightmare that promised erotica beyond my wildest dreams. To say I had high hopes would be an understatement. I was expecting my world to be rocked, my head to spin, and my eyes to be opened to new and thrilling adventures that would allow me to explore my inner deviant who I had never unleashed into the world.

With all of this in mind, I braced myself and got stuck in.

Now, I have never written a review before, for a book or a movie. I dare not after I raved about Prometheus being one of the best films I have ever seen in my entire life only for the majority of my friends and family to find it to be a complete flop, much to my disappointment. So, as I am sure my taste in both film and novel is quite questionable, I have refrained from putting my opinions and reviews out there. But, in this particular instance I just cannot stay silent.

I have yet to finish Fifty Shades but have already read/skimmed my way through 200 painful pages of illiterate nonsense that has left my mind considerably numb. I intend to write this review over a matter of days as I am making my way through the book and to keep you up to date with how I am finding it. But so far, as I feared deep down, I am beyond disappointed. Fifty Shades doesn’t start off too well; it is unfortunate that the protagonist - a very withdrawn, introverted Miss Anastasia Steele - meets the antagonist - a wealthy, attractive, arrogant and seemingly enigmatic Christian Grey – far too quickly for the reader to be able to form any real connection with the lead character. I don’t know about anyone else, but I could not understand her. For those very few paragraphs before she meets Mr Grey she seems shy and quiet, but the minute she gets into the presence of her leading man she becomes clumsy (much like Bella Swan, one of the many similarities with Twilight that I will highlight in this review) and then suddenly very feisty, patronising and sarcastic. I didn’t understand this, surely if anything it would be the other way round? For most of my life I have become more introverted around attractive men rather than more extroverted like Miss Steele. But this is just the start of it.

About an hour into my reading (okay I lie, it was about 20 minutes considering I was just zooming through trying to end my literal torture) I had just about had enough of the already apparent repetitive nature of the book. If I had to read “His long fingers”, or “He ran his hands through his hair” or “His grey eyes” or “Stop biting your bottom lip, it’s very distracting” or, and this one is a particular favourite “Oh…please” (anyone familiar with the book knows exactly where that little nugget is heavily featured) or anything to do with her flipping “inner goddess” one more time, I might have just considered smashing my head through a brick wall in the hope that my memory would be wiped clean and I would have no recollection of ever reading the strenuously tedious Fifty Shades of Grey. I frequently found myself huffing and puffing throughout the first 50 odd pages, slamming the book shut and throwing it to the other end of the bed, hoping that it would grow legs and piss off out of my life.

In the books defence, I was informed by a close friend whose opinions and judgements I would rely quite heavily on when it comes to books, especially of the sexy kind, that the writing in Fifty Shades is appalling to say the least and yet I still made the conscious decision to read it. I had prepared myself for an exasperatingly bad read, but somehow I am still not sure that I can handle it. As I am about 200 pages into the erotic novel I haven’t yet stumbled across a truly filthy sex scene, but I have witnessed the intense and incredibly unrealistic loss of Ana’s virginity. This threw me off. I had expected Ana to be an already well experienced woman of the world who was up for a bit of rough and tumble, not a 21 year old virgin who had never even experienced a penis, let alone kinky sex toys and floggings. That one little revelation made it very hard for me to come to terms with the storyline or accept it as realistic. Think about it ladies, the last thing you can think of doing after losing your virginity is embarking on a loveless relationship with a sadistic man who wants to beat you, whip you, dominate you, punish you and just generally inflict pain on you during sex. A man who does not “make love” but, and pardon my French, “fucks hard”. As a considerably wholesome, sexually disadvantaged and inexperienced young woman with two brain cells to rub together, would you really even have a passing thought about consenting to being a sex slave in Christian Greys “Red Room of Pain”?

Hell no, is what I would say to that. No way, not straight after losing my virginity and not ever. You could make an exception if you were in a loving relationship with a partner who worshipped the ground you walked on and if you were both interested in experimenting a little in the bedroom, but with some stranger who has made it clear he wants you for one thing and one thing only? And what’s more, Mr Grey is practically emotionally blackmailing Ana into submitting to him as he has made it very clear this would be the only way she could ever have a relationship with him, in the full knowledge of how much she likes him (already). What is with that? Anastasia Steele is meant to be an intelligent university student and yet she is going to be a willing participant in Mr Grey’s inexplicable S&M fantasies? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I find this all extremely difficult to buy into, thus making the book even harder for me to read.

It could be said that I am picking a lot of holes here, but that is because I am. So far, Fifty Shades of Grey has left me frustrated (and not in a good way), annoyed and seriously bored. One would have hoped that the sex scenes would make up for E.L. James’ complete lack of literacy and storytelling skills, but even they have exasperated me and left me feeling turned off rather than turned on. The constant nonsensical ramblings of Christian Grey during the sex scenes, which I can only imagine is meant to be his dirty talk, make me want to rip out his tongue, slap him about with it (although I am sure he would love that, the dirty bastard) and let him watch as I fed it to my dogs. And yet Ana loves it so much that she actually consents to becoming his dirty little sex slave. I don’t get it, I just don’t get it. If a man was telling me to “taste myself” during sex I am fairly sure I would have him out of my bed, house and life quicker than he could blink.

Perhaps I will start to enjoy Fifty Shades more and more with each page, with each sex scene - but I am not holding out any hope. The immature and repetitive writing only adds to the fact that the storyline is very weak, a bit of a kinky take off of Twilight and that the characters have no substance to them, there is nothing to differentiate one character from the next. There is no depth to Ana or Christian, to their story (so far) and to their lives before they even met one another. A good book is one that you cannot put down; a bad book is one that you cannot wait to put down. And then there is Fifty Shades of Grey, a book so bad that I will be taking it to my local vets to make sure it is properly put down and disposed of immediately before it can cause any more damage. No funeral, no mourning period for my loss, no wishing I could unread it all just so I could read it again. None of that nonsense. I just want to get through it in one piece, rebuild my intelligence with a real book and pretend that this never happened.

Until next time, unhappy reading.





M.


A Falling Man, Part 5

Author: Unknown /

Helen.




New Years Eve, 1998.





This man, standing in front of me, telling me his life story, rambling on about how he works out for 5 hours every day - oh, sorry, even on the weekends - and pursing his lips to try and give him the smouldering look was getting on my very last nerve. I hadn't invited him over, far from it. I had accidentally glanced in his direction and, as with all men, that was clearly the invitation he thought he needed to come and pester me for the better part of the night.

He had been going on for a while now, and me being me I continued to smile and nod and pretend I was even listening to what he was saying, let alone giving a damn. He had his arm spread across the bar and was gradually getting closer to me. I could feel his breath on my face - he stunk of Jack Daniels and it put me off him even more.

"Where you going after this?" He asked inadvertently.

God, was this my invitation?

"Home, probably." I replied bluntly.

"So you haven't got any plans?"

"Well, not as such. Plans with my bed, perhaps."

He raised his eyebrows and whispered in my ear, "What about plans with my bed?"

Oh no, he hadn't just said that. I was at war with myself, one part of me wanted to punch him in the nose whilst the other part wanted to laugh in his face. I had heard some pick up lines in my life, but that may have just usurped the number 1 spot from "Did it hurt when you fell? Because you must be an angel". That one knocked me dead.

I leaned in closer to him and, just as he had done to me, I whispered in his ear: "Does your mummy not mind you having girls over late at night?"

His eyes narrowed, I could see his brain working in over time trying to come up with a kick ass come back, "No, I'm sure she wouldn't mind joining in once she got a good look at you."

This had just gone from laughable to considerably perverse in a very short space of time. If I hadn't been fidgety and dying to leave before, I certainly was now.

"And how would we all fit in your single, batman bed?" I laughed.

"Well - " Suddenly, he was cut off by someone who it seemed he had never seen in his life and someone that I certainly did not know.

The man who had cut my mommy's boy off was ridiculously tall. He towered over the both of us and I was a little intimidated. He cupped his hand on my shoulder and said, "Sorry I'm late, baby, I got held up at work. Who is this?" He pointed his chin towards the man who had been chatting me up for what seemed like years.

At first I was a little scared, a little concerned, and a little confused. But then I realised what this man was doing. He was saving me. If I was going to make my great escape, now was the time. I decided to play along with this stranger.

"Just someone who I have befriended, darling, and he is eager for me to meet his mother."

"Oh," he laughed to himself, "how sweet."

Mommy's boy quickly shuffled his stuff together and made his apologies for having to head off so suddenly, and I felt a huge wave of relief come over me.

Although, now I felt like I had another loser on my hands. What kind of guy pretends to be a woman's boyfriend just so the man hitting on her does a runner? He must want something.

"And you are?" I asked.

"Robbie." He sat down in front of me and looked awfully cocky.

"Robbie who?"

"Do you even care?"

I was shocked by this, not because it wasn't true, but because I didn't realise I was so easy to read.

"Well, not entirely, but you did just save me from the clutches of New York's creepiest scrub."

He laughed, flashing a perfect set of white teeth, a perfect smile. My heart pounded slightly, unexpectedly and I suddenly felt quite uncomfortable as if I had to put on my game face to try and impress this man.

"You could do worse." He said, as he rose from his bar stool.

"You're leaving?" I felt a little disappointed.

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem terribly thrilled that I am trying to talk to you. So why bother?"

And all of a sudden, I was very interested in him, very thrilled that he was talking to me.

"Maybe I could get you a drink? It's the least I can do."

He smiled sweetly and took his seat again.

"So," I began, "what's your story?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you're not from around here, are you? I picked up on the English accent as soon as you opened your mouth."

"My, aren't we the observant one?" He laughed to himself again, as if he had an ongoing joke about me that only he found funny.

"Pretty hard to miss."

"Well you're not wrong. I moved over from London a few months ago. Got sponsored here."

"Oh yeah? Where are you working now?"

"The World Trade Centre." He smirked, as if he was trying not to sound impressive but was perfectly aware of how impressing it was to work in such a place.

"Nice. Very nice." I said, pretending not to be bothered.

"And you?" He asked.

"I'm psychology teacher in secondary school, not quite as fancy."

I felt a little embarrassed, even though I still did not know what he did for a living, by default it had to be better than me.

"That's really cool, you must have a lot of patience to teach secondary school kids." Was he genuine or was he just trying to be nice? I studied his face for a little bit, looking for a patronising glimmer in his eyes or a tiny sarcastic curl to his mouth. Nothing. I think he was actually being genuine.

"I have an unlimited storage of patience. But yes, it does get quite testing at times." I admitted.

There was an awkward silence for a couple of minutes, in some strange way the whole room had shifted, the atmosphere had changed and something in me felt very different. I didn't like it. Robbie was ordering another drink for the two of us and I felt bad, but I couldn't stay.

"I'm really sorry but I think I am going to take off."

He looked at me in shock as I gathered my things together and held my hand out to his. I shook it, quite aggressively, and thanked him once again for saving me.

"Really, I owe you." I said as I hurried myself to the the door.

I didn't look twice at him as I rushed out, but instead came face to glass with the door to the bar and fell straight to the floor.

The impact hadn't knocked me out, but it had knocked me for six. Robbie came rushing over to me and held my head off the ground. "Just stay still," he whispered, "wait for the room to stop spinning."

It stopped spinning soon enough, and all I could see was him. Yes, something had changed in me and I knew that I had absolutely no control over what was going to happen in my life after this moment.

I looked up at him and mumbled, "I'm Helen, by the way."

He smiled, "Nice to meet you, Helen."




Helen.




September 11th, 2001.
11.30am




I had watched along with the whole country, the whole world, as the North Tower collapsed. It went down so graciously and I thought of the hard work that had gone into making the tower, only for it to be completely destroyed within a matter of minutes. The power and the skills of mankind were so futile, I thought to myself. Nothing could save the tower, and ultimately nothing could save Robbie.

I thought back to that New Years night, the first moment I heard his voice, the first time I saw his face. He had saved me that night, and now I was powerless to save him.

After a while, I dragged myself off the sofa and waddled to the bathroom.
My heart was pounding so fast I feared it was going to burst through my chest. I felt physically sick, I felt alone. I kept telling myself that this wasn't real, it wasn't really happening. It was all just a dream, a very prolonged, agonising dream that felt like it would never end.

But then I realised that I had to stop pretending this pain was going to go away, that in a couple of seconds I might have to be strong for someone else, I might have to put another life before my own and that life needed me to be brave, to accept the facts and to move on with my life. If I didn't move on, I would never stop longing for the past and would ultimately take for granted what was right in front of me, what was my future.

I crept into the bathroom and took a deep breath as I stared down to see what the little stick read.

My heart stopped pounding, it stopped aching. It just stopped all together.







Positive.



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