all in a days work: February 2013

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.

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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,

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.

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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.

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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 ;)

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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.

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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.

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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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A Falling Man, Part 4

Author: Unknown /

Helen
9:43am

The line went dead and I worried I would pass out again – I hoped I would, it was the only way I could imagine the pain easing. People were all around me sobbing and running around like lunatics escaping from an asylum. It was an awful sight, and everything seemed to move in slow motion. I looked to the towers one last time, as if I were looking at Robbie for the last time, turned my back and walked away. I kept walking for as long as my feet would allow me. I walked past our house, past our local supermarket and then back again until I was on our doorstep.

When I stepped inside the house Rowdy came bounding up to me immediately. I kneeled down to him, he looked sad – or was it just me? He followed me up to bed. I sat there for a bit with him in my lap and stared into space. How could I just be sitting here when the city was coming to a standstill, when the man I loved was sailing on a sinking ship? I felt heartless; I felt cold and longed to have Robbie with me.

I reached for the TV remote and thought for a long time about turning it on – I had promised I wouldn’t, but Robbie knew me, I was stubborn and I told myself I needed to see this. I turned it on. As I suspected the incident with the twin towers was all over the news. The camera was showing was live footage of the burning buildings as smoke poured out of its offices and people screamed for their lives and their loved ones. It was like how I imagined the end of the world; it’s what it felt like to me.

I pulled the covers over me and Rowdy lay down next to me. We both sat and watched the TV, and I wondered if he understood what was going on, if he could sense my pain. I felt so numb and so helpless – only a few minutes ago I was talking to Rob, hearing his voice for what I knew was probably the last time and all I could think of was that the house was a mess. If he were to come home, he wouldn’t want to come home to a rubbish tip. No, he would want a tidy house, clean bed sheets and a nice warm dinner on the table.

So that’s what I did, I cleaned every single room in the house from top to bottom, every single corner. I cleaned our sheets with the fabric conditioner Robbie had picked out, the one that he loved, it smelt like mango's and every time I wrapped myself up in bed I thought of him. It was too early to start dinner, but that didn’t stop me. I figured he wouldn’t be coming home at his normal time – considering, you know, what had happened.

I set up the kitchen and the food, turned the TV on by habit and the news flashed on. This time, I couldn’t try and push it out of my mind; there was nothing that would distract me and no chore that would keep me going on in denial. People were jumping out of the twin towers and the camera caught them falling the entire length of the building until they were out of sight. It was horrific, I didn’t want to watch it but I couldn’t look away.

Would Robbie jump? Or would he stay in the building until the very end? I tried not to think about it, but the more I pushed other thoughts into my head the more I dwelled on him. This couldn’t be happening, could it? How was I going to live? What was I going to do? My whole life was about to go down with that building and I was helpless to stop it. Everything I had known for years, everything that I had loved for every minute of the day was about to be gone from me and what would I be left with? An empty house with a dog and bed sheets that reminded me of what I had lost. My heart started to sink and I couldn’t fight it anymore. I sunk to the floor and cried. I didn’t plan to ever stop crying, I wanted to carry on until I had no more life left in me.

I thought about Robbie’s face and wondered if I would remember it in 50 years. I wondered if I could still hear the sound of his voice and feel his touch and embrace from time to time. I wondered if I would ever find someone else, and if, even then, I would be constantly pining after Robbie and wishing I was with him instead. He would be underneath my skin every day for the rest of my life. In fact, I couldn’t even imagine life without him. Who would tell me that they loved me? Who would cuddle me when I was feeling so down I could not even get out of bed? Who would pick me up when I fell so hard I could not get back up? Who would be there for me in hours so dark I couldn’t even see the end of the tunnel?

I could feel my heart stopping, like it had decided all by itself that life wasn’t going to be worth living anymore. What was life worth if I couldn’t tell Robbie that I loved him, if I couldn’t marry him, if we couldn’t have children? All of these thoughts and questions were swimming around in my head and I just wanted it to stop. I wanted it all to stop but no one was there to answer me, no one was there to stop it for me and cry with me.

All I could do was pick up the phone and dial a number.

“Hello?” said the groggy voice on the other end of the line.
I took a deep breath, tried to compose myself and failed into tears “Dad…”

Robbie
9:57am

When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up to be a lot of things. My ultimate dream was to be a rock star, of course, but then again almost every young boy had that ambition on the very top of his list of unreachable goals. I considered for some time during high school about becoming a doctor, but I hated blood - I hated blood more than I loved money so that went out of the window pretty quickly. I was always pretty good at tennis, and my parents reckoned that if I really put in the time and dedication, I could have made a name for myself. I'm not saying I was as good as Becker, but I was good enough. My dad used to take me down to the tennis courts every Saturday morning and we would play for hours on end, even when my feet were killing me and my brain was telling me that I wanted to go home, I would not stop until my Dad eventually caved and told me he was too tired to continue.

It wasn't until I got my first proper job that tennis started to fade out of my life. I stopped playing on the weekends, I didn't watch it on the TV because I was too busy at work, I lost track of which tournaments were where. In the end, I just grew out of it and now, hanging casually out of a broken window of north tower, I couldn't help but regret my decision to quit tennis. I wasn't phased about the whole rock star thing as I was under no illusion that would ever actually happen, but I had a real chance to play the sport that I loved. I had the chance and I wasted it. Helen was always getting on my case about taking it up again, about doing something for me, something that I loved. But I always shrugged it off with a "Yeah I will at some point". I never for once thought that the day would come where I would wish I had stopped being such a procrastinator and started doing someone pro active with my life.

I had heard though, that when your time is up you get an overwhelming sense of regret for the things you did not achieve in life, for the things that you let slip away. And that moment had just crept up on me. I felt like the only thing for it was to jump. But then I remembered something that I could still do, something that would make up for all of the things that I had let pass me by.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Helen, but her line was busy. I imagined she was frantically calling around to see if I had managed to get out of the building safely. I kept calling, but there was no answer. Eventually, I decided to call my mother.

She picked up, of course. "Robert, oh my God, are you safe?"

"Mum, you've heard then?"

"Of course, we are in England not on Jupiter. Now, tell me where you are - you need to put my mind at ease."

I couldn't say I was at home, but I couldn't tell her where I really was. No child wants to break the news to their own mother that they were in a pretty life threatening situation. No child wants to tell their mother that this would be the last time they spoke.

"Oh no." She breathed. "Oh God no."

"I don't think God has much to do with it, Mum."

"Why are you still in there? Why? You do know that building is coming down, don't you?" She sounded frantic now.

"Yes, I know. I am trapped up here, there's no way down."

"So what are you saying to me, Robert? Are you saying that this is the last time I will talk to my son?"

"Well, I am sure you will constantly have conversations with me in your head like you always do. You know, those conversations where I say things that I don't remember?"

"Do you think that's funny?" She spat angrily.

"No Mum, I think you're funny. Lighten up, what do you want me to say? When have we ever been all doom and gloom with one another?"

She remained silent.

"You want the honest truth? Fine, yes, this is probably the last time we will talk, but I am sure as hell not going to waste it on being negative and upsetting you."

"Robert," I could hear her sniffling now, it was utterly heartbreaking to hear my mother cry - she really knew how to pull on the old heartstrings, "I don't know what to say to you."

"Wow, never thought I would hear those words." I laughed.

"Are you happy?" She asked.

That took me back. Was I happy? I was probably about to die and leave the woman and family I love without me and she wanted to know if I was happy?

But then I started to think about it. Was I happy when I woke up this morning? And the day before? And the week before? Was I happy before a plane flew out of the sky and cut my life short?

"Yes," I said confidently, "yes I am so happy, Mum."

"Good, that's all I need to know."

"Can you do me a favour?" I asked, knowing that our conversation was near an end.

"Of course sweetie, what is it?"

"Can you tell Helen that I was going to ask her."

"Ask her what?" She seemed confused.

"She will know." I smiled.

"Okay, I'll tell her, don't you worry."

"Thanks Mum, I love you. And tell Dad I love him too, if he can hear you."

She laughed quietly, "I love you too. Don't forget that, okay? You're my son - you will always be a part of me."

I had to hang up, it was the only way to say goodbye. I wiped away tears from my eyes and tried to get myself together. I could feel the building rumble beneath me. A cracking sound sent shivers up and down my spine and I felt an uneasy sense of tilting. The tower was about to go down and there was no way I was going down with it.

10:04am

The South tower had collapsed.

I didn't have a lot of options, that was the one thing I was sure of. Among the things I was not sure of was whether or not Helen had turned the news off, I begged her to but I knew better than anyone how stubborn she is and at a time like this, anything constructive I said would just fall on deaf ears. I also was not sure of what was going on in my head, why I was hanging out of a window on the 100th floor looking down at the chaos erupting below me. There was a good possibility that between the time the plane hit us and now, my legs dangling from a window so high up I may as well have not been on the same planet as the people on the ground, that I had gone completely stark raving mad. And that was okay with me, I had always wanted to go that way - cheering myself on and laughing off the improbable doom that lay in wait for me. It was the best way to leave the world, it may not be the most dignified, but it was the most ignorant and that was all I could ask for.

The wind was strong and smoke was blowing around everywhere. There were papers flying out of the building, floating in the air and I realised all the work I had done every day of my life that was so important to be me meant absolutely nothing now and it never really did. All those hours wasted in front of a computer, in meetings, in paperwork were all for nothing as it all gushed out of the tower and disappeared forever.

I laughed, quite loudly, and couldn't stop laughing until I felt a tugged on my arm.

I turned around, it was Josh Isaacs, he was trying to pull me back in.

"No Josh." I pulled my arm out of his grip.

"Mate, c'mon, you don't have to do this, I'm sure there is another way." He begged me, but we both knew he was wrong.

"Another way to die?" I replied calmly.

"No, another way out, you can't just let it end like this."

"Josh, I hate to be a downer but there is no way out. And I have always wanted to fly." I looked below me, to say it was a long way down was an understatement.

"Rob, seriously, don't do this mate." He held out his hand.

"Do you think you'll see your wife again Josh?" I asked randomly.

He almost said yes, but then he stopped in his tracks and I could see the hopelessness in his eyes. "No."

"What is there to live for then?" I asked simply.

"Because it's more time to live, Rob. Whether it be a couple of minutes or a couple of hours. It's more time to enjoy this world and everything it has given us. Don't you want just a little bit more time to be alive in the same world as Helen?"

I stared at Josh, I had known him and worked with him for years and I had never even heard him talk so deeply or appear so emotional. I wanted to stay alive just for him, but it wasn't enough.

"Your Maggie is a very lucky woman." I smiled.

"Not for much longer." He said tearfully.

"Hey, I think you should spare me the inspirational speeches and save them for yourself."

Josh half smiled and held out his hand, but this time it wasn't to pull me back in.

I grabbed his hand and shook it, "It's been nice man."

He let go and walked off into the smoke. That would be the last time I ever saw him, I knew he wouldn't make it out but deep down I told myself he would, that there would be some happiness at the end of the day.

I looked at my watch - Rolex - what a complete rip off.

10:10. I unstrapped my watch and let it slip out of my hand, falling to the world below. I only brought it and kept it because of the name, at the end of the day a watch is a watch and that name never got me anywhere and certainly wasn't going to get me out of the mess I was in now.

I couldn't see the ground for the life of me, the smoke consumed everything and anything, thankfully.

This was it. Time to fly.

I pictured Helen one last time. I pictured her smile, her eyes, the way she danced around as she got ready for work. I could smell her perfume, hear the funny little noises she made as she drifted off to sleep. I could hear her telling me not to do it, to stay alive for her, to at least try. I wanted to tell her that this was the only way, that one day everything would be okay. I eased myself a little closer to the edge and looked down below me. I was scared, I could not deny it, but as I saw the smoke from the demolished South tower spread through the city, I took a deep breath, counted to three and finally let myself go.

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A Falling Man, Part 3

Author: Unknown /

Robbie.
9:03am

Fuck. The staircase was blocked off by debris – there was no way out. The screams returned and this time they were even more frightening. The screams held in them people’s fears of never seeing their families again, of leaving their children without a mother or a father, of leaving their partner widowed. And of course, the fear of death itself. But we could smell it in the air, sense it all around us.

The lifts were down, the stairs were blocked and that was it.We had exhausted all of the options and were left with nothing. I looked at the faces of the people that I had led to a dead end, they looked defeated and tired and ill. The smoke was getting thick and heavy and my eyes felt like they were burning.

“There must be another way.” A lady said, her voice sounding weak and less than convinced.

I tried to think, I tried to see another way out, but I couldn’t.

The lifts were down, the stairs were blocked. There was no way out.

Helen.
9:10am.

At that very moment, standing in the park surrounded by screaming, crying people who couldn’t believe what they were witnessing, I thought I myself was going to die. I fell to the floor and watched. It was all I could do. Both buildings were on fire now, smoke was rising up into the sky and I wondered how the long the towers could hold out.

Robbie was in there, he was actually in one of the buildings that had been hit by a plane, I just couldn’t believe it. This couldn’t be happening. My head spun and spun until it came to the point where I had to lie down.

I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed I was going to wake up in my bed and none of this had happened. Rob hadn’t left for work yet, I was still lazing in bed with no intentions of getting up and going for a jog, things were as they should be. Yes, it would all be okay when I opened my eyes. Rob would be snoring away, having a twitching fit like he always did when he had just dropped off and when he was in a deep, heavy sleep. It was so cute, I loved it. I would watched him and laugh to myself, I couldn’t understand why he would twitch. Maybe when he was in a deep sleep he was having a nightmare, but why just as he drifted off? It was so strange, but it was him.

When I woke up I would make him stay at home, chuck a sickie, take a personal day, anything. But he would be at home, there was no way I was letting him go into work today after this nightmare. It was so vivid it scared me. I was a strong believer in fate and all such things, so I didn’t care if I was being over the top, at least I would have some peace of mind.

We would go to the park together, a nice long walk. We would take Rowdy with us, he loved the park but not the other dogs, he was still only a puppy and needed to be trained. Today would be as good a day as any to start integrating him with other dogs. Even if it meant he would terrorise them and their owners, we would apologise profusely of course, but we had to get him used to it somehow.

And, when we were done at the park, we would go bowling or something. Or go out for dinner, and maybe see a movie afterwards. Anything, he just wasn’t going into work and when the planes hit the twin towers, he would be far away and safe with me.

I squeezed my eyes even tighter, begging myself to let me drift off and wake up in bed.

I opened my eyes. People were gathered around, not looking at me but looking at the burning buildings in the distance. It wasn’t a dream. It was all real. I got to my feet again and cried.

Robbie.
9:30am

I was sitting now. Sitting on the floor staring at nothing. Or maybe I was staring at everything. Everything that was happening around me, people madly looking for a way out, frantically calling their husbands, wives, kids and that’s when the first person jumped.

I saw her prepare herself, I wondered what on earth she was doing. Out of everyone there, she was the most calm, the most composed. It didn’t take her long to build up the courage. The windows had shattered and it was a clear, easy jump. She ran and leapt out, everyone screamed.

It took my breathe away, her jumping like that, I couldn’t believe she had given up hope so quickly. Everyone ran to the window to watch her fall. I didn’t and I couldn’t for the life of me think why anyone else would want to see that.

Elizabeth Dean walked past me, she had been at the window and had seen everything.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Tori Martin, she was an asthmatic.” That was all Elizabeth needed to say. Tori must have thought there was no hope, and I assumed it would have been her worst nightmare to die in all of this smoke, to be consumed like that. I sure as hell didn’t want to go this way, but I was sure we would be rescued, the entire country must have known what was going on by now. Hell, maybe the entire world knew. Surely there was something that could be done.

Elizabeth spoke up again, “I spoke to my husband, on the phone. He said the south tower has been hit by a plane too, just like us.”

I felt like crying.

“He said it must be terrorists, he said there are rescue teams coming in, firefighters, I think we will be okay y’know.” She didn’t sound too convinced, and I wasn’t too convinced either. Elizabeth always seemed like an overly positive person. I had never once heard her criticise someone or demean someone. She was always happy, always kind to others and tried to make the best out of the worst situation. And this was the worst it could get. I was surprised she was still so optimistic, but the passion just wasn’t there. I did not think that she honestly believed we were going to get out of here.

People were dead – that much was obvious – and we had already seen someone on our floor kill themselves, who knew how many more people were throwing themselves out of the windows? On the floors below the impact zone, people were probably able to escape but for those above, what were we to do? Everything was blocked, there was no way down except to jump, and surely everyone in the building was smart enough to know that if you jumped from the world trade centre you weren’t going to be escaping death.

It all seemed so hopeless, I could sense the desperation in the air and the smoke, constantly getting thicker, was going to start driving more and more people to jump to a quick death.

I fished through my pockets and found my phone. Full bars, how bloody funny. My phone never had full bars but now it did. I took it as a sign. Helen had always believed in signs and fate and karma, it had been one of her most endearing qualities, even though sometimes it pissed me off to no end.

“Hello?” It was good to hear her voice, it was like all of the fright and the worry had vanished.

“Helen, it’s me.”

“Oh my god, Robbie, where are you? Please tell me you’re not in the building, please.” She begged, it killed me.

“I’m sorry baby.”

I could hear her crying. Usually when Helen would cry I would comfort her, telling her things like: she definitely was a bitch about that or quit your job then, find a new one – a better one or the classic your dad will come around, just give it time but rarely ever did I have to comfort her because of me. It was horrible, I didn’t know what to say or how to handle her.

“It’s okay though, I’m fine.” I assured her.

“No, you’re not fine. A plane just flew into your building.” She sobbed, “Wait, did it hit above you or below you? Tell me it hit below you and the only reason you’re still in the building is because you’re being some sort of hero and are saving people.”

“Hel, I’m on the 100th floor. It hit just below me, it’s right underneath me.”

“Jesus Christ.” She breathed.

“Don’t worry okay? Listen to me, do not worry about me. I am going to get out, it will all be fine.”

“Would you stop saying it is going to be fine and your fine? You are not fine, it is not fine. You have been fucking attacked and your standing on the 100th floor of a time bomb, Rob. That building is coming down and you need to get out.”

She was freaking me out now, suddenly all of the fear and panic came back to me and I couldn’t breathe.

“Helen, I’m scared.”

“No,” she started crying again, “don’t be. I’m sorry, I’m sorry for saying that. You will be fine, I know you will.”

“The building is shaking, a lot. You’re right, I don’t know how much longer the building has left – how much longer I have left.”

“Don’t talk like that. I’m trying to stay calm here, can you just humour me?”

“Don’t watch the news.” I stated.

“Why?”

“I suspect this is all over the news, I don’t want you to see it.”

“I can see it Rob, I am at the park, I have seen everything.”

For some reason, it made me feel sick to think of Helen watching all of this, I certainly didn’t want her to be watching when the tower collapsed as it was inevitable now.

“Go home then, please. Go home and get in bed with Rowdy and whatever you do, do not watch the news. Okay?”

“Rob…”

“Promise me.” I said, I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“Rob, please – “

“God damn it Helen, just say yes that is all you have to do is say yes.” I snapped."Okay, yes, I promise.”"Wasn't so hard, was it?"

Helen laughed, but her laugh was full of despair. She sounded like how I felt.

"What now?" She asked. I would have given anything to have known the answer to that question, but how could I? We both knew what was going to happen, what was coming next but neither of us wanted to admit it.

"Go home, and I'll be there as soon as I can. " I lied. She knew I was lying, but what harm would it do? Why couldn't we pretend that the day was going to end like any other and that I would be home after work just like any other day?

"I have to go now." I said.

"Okay. I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Of course."

"I love you."

"You never say that."

"Well I'm saying it now, so you better say it back otherwise I'll be embarrassed." She laughed and cried all at once.

"I love you too, very much." I said tenderly. Would this be the last time I would tell Helen that I love her?

"I'm going to hang up now, Hel, I'll see you soon. Okay?" I continued, wanting to get this over and done with but dreading putting the phone down on her voice.

"Okay," she said softly, "bye."

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all in a days work

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In The End: Anna Bolina, Part I

RMS Titanic: A Recollection, Resurrected

The Dark Knight Rises - But Not High Enough

Fifty Shades of Even More Drivel

Fifty Shades of Drivel

A Falling Man, Part 5

A Falling Man, Part 4

A Falling Man, Part 3

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