50 Shades of Amazeballs

It hurts when I try to write something and it's like ice coming out of my blood. This must be particularly hard to imagine because ice does not come out of blood but no matter, this is how I feel. I'm struggling to tell you about a book I read the other day. I'll try again.

It was a Friday night. I put on my pair of Marks and Spencers Aviators, a baseball cap and went down to my local Waterstones. I did not want to be recognised when I purchased the book in question. I didn't want to be caressed by judgy eyes as I paid for what has come to be known as mummy porn, or the house wives wet dream. I came up with the latter phrase myself. I know that women don't typically have wet dreams but I can say with complete confidence that the protagonist of this story has at least one wet dream. It was rather peculiar.

There was no way that I wasn't going to read the book, because it's what I do. Nothing entertains me better than rubbish. Because that's exactly what it is. It's shit, but it's awesome shit. I was helped along by a bottle of wine. It was a 2011 merlot, a decent vintage of vinegar from Echo falls, all for a whopping £5 (Do I need to tell you that the wine was gloriously bad?).

You may be wondering what it was that I purchased from Waterstones, I'll tell you. I picked up a copy of the immensely popular 50 Shades of Grey and it was exactly what the doctor ordered. Knowing exactly what it was before picking it up and reading it, I could not complain about it's quality because I knew exactly what I was signing up for before I bought it. To buy it and then proceed to rain down a ton of criticism would mean that I bought it knowing that I would not enjoy it. I am not capable of such levels of stupidity and masochism.


I sat down on the dining table with a large glass of my poison for the evening and dug in. It's poorly written, the dialogue is repetitive and the characters are equal parts bizarre and daft, but this only adds to the brilliance of the book. There were parts where I had to put the book down and blush, but after a large swig of my glass I was ready to continue. There were parts of it that had me guffawing for several minutes and there were parts that had me scratching my head in absolute wonderment. I was sad to get to the end for I still had about a quarter of a bottle left and no legitimate reason to drink anymore.

So if you've got an evening with no adventures planned why not colour in some Grey? Just don't expect it to be a classic.

Happy Days,
Afam.