Fifty Shades of Even More Drivel

Author: Mel Brownlee /

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.



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