Lit
For a mercifully short period in 2007, the meeja (well, more accurately ‘the Guardian’) used the suffix ‘lit’ with abandon. Chick-Lit was, as we all know, a genre of writing that was aimed at women and would usually consist of a heroin, a bloke, some misunderstandings and a happy ending. It was, I think, a little softer and fuzzier than the shopping and fucking and more shopping novels of the 1980s. Women were more interested in reading about women like them, but in relationships. Women in relationships were too busy washing, cleaning cooking and ironing to read.
Lad-lit was a term used to describe books about blokish behaviour which was unusual in that the blokes being described did not actually exist. This is because the sort of person who wants to read about getting drunk and misbehaving is usually too drunk to focus and when they can, they read either a magazine or the instructions on a microwavable curry. Luckily, lad-lit turned very quickly into dad-lit, because all the women reading chick-lit had finally resigned themselves to not ending up with Carlos, the cruel but handsome and rich playboy from the shopping and fucking novels and instead ended up getting pissed and having some lad’s baby. The lad, now a dad, needed something to read in the delivery room and so picked up a book about a lad who turns into dad, has some comic adventures, changes a nappy and lives happily ever after with his kid and wife who, and this is the important bit, gets her figure back. Oh, but other women never stop fancying him. Possibly this is what leads us on to divorce lit.
Frankly, a lot of this was shit-lit but, with publishing costs low and people anxious to read about versions of themselves that were just a little bit more fun and with better and more hair, there was a market out there. There was also a market for misery-lit. This took two forms, the first was the memoir of an impoverished upbringing, usually in Ireland, featuring lots of people eating potatoes and being miserable. The other type was a memoir of somebody who was treated abominably as a child. The trouble with these books is that some of them should have been shelved under ‘fiction’ and all of them should have been shelved under ‘don’t read this book it will make you miserable’. Basically, if you were dating in the early 00s and you saw a book with pastel colours on the cover, all you had to be worried about was being trapped into marriage by defective contraception. If the cover had a wan faced urchin on it, you were best off legging it out of the restaurant before your date started telling you shit that would put you right off your potato based meal.
Possibly there are more types of lit out there; but that’s not all - there’s the on-line communities. Surfing the net has me pretty convinced that the internet has, along with making more porn available than any normal person could use in one lifetime, even if they stuck him in a wanking machine with a drip on his arm, provided a platform for those whose literary ambitions unfortunately exceed their talent…or grasp of spelling and grammar and basic English to publish.
Gentleman and Player is, of course, quite different and nobody could ever accuse it of being an alcohol soaked rant bi-weekly reactionist rant against petty indignities or flights of fancy about the minutia of everyday life, sadly all too often overlooked in other blogs that address matters of note, like reality tv, celebrity or just plain Star Trek. But I am wondering if it is time for a re-think about content or even maybe format. So, without being too self-referential, I am going to charge and re-charge my pipe with the very strongest Turkish tobacco mixed with my own special blend of hashish and horse shit, drop a lemon slice into a bowl of gin, slip into my very cosiest of slippers and, in this most conducive atmosphere, consider.
Lad-lit was a term used to describe books about blokish behaviour which was unusual in that the blokes being described did not actually exist. This is because the sort of person who wants to read about getting drunk and misbehaving is usually too drunk to focus and when they can, they read either a magazine or the instructions on a microwavable curry. Luckily, lad-lit turned very quickly into dad-lit, because all the women reading chick-lit had finally resigned themselves to not ending up with Carlos, the cruel but handsome and rich playboy from the shopping and fucking novels and instead ended up getting pissed and having some lad’s baby. The lad, now a dad, needed something to read in the delivery room and so picked up a book about a lad who turns into dad, has some comic adventures, changes a nappy and lives happily ever after with his kid and wife who, and this is the important bit, gets her figure back. Oh, but other women never stop fancying him. Possibly this is what leads us on to divorce lit.
Frankly, a lot of this was shit-lit but, with publishing costs low and people anxious to read about versions of themselves that were just a little bit more fun and with better and more hair, there was a market out there. There was also a market for misery-lit. This took two forms, the first was the memoir of an impoverished upbringing, usually in Ireland, featuring lots of people eating potatoes and being miserable. The other type was a memoir of somebody who was treated abominably as a child. The trouble with these books is that some of them should have been shelved under ‘fiction’ and all of them should have been shelved under ‘don’t read this book it will make you miserable’. Basically, if you were dating in the early 00s and you saw a book with pastel colours on the cover, all you had to be worried about was being trapped into marriage by defective contraception. If the cover had a wan faced urchin on it, you were best off legging it out of the restaurant before your date started telling you shit that would put you right off your potato based meal.
Possibly there are more types of lit out there; but that’s not all - there’s the on-line communities. Surfing the net has me pretty convinced that the internet has, along with making more porn available than any normal person could use in one lifetime, even if they stuck him in a wanking machine with a drip on his arm, provided a platform for those whose literary ambitions unfortunately exceed their talent…or grasp of spelling and grammar and basic English to publish.
Gentleman and Player is, of course, quite different and nobody could ever accuse it of being an alcohol soaked rant bi-weekly reactionist rant against petty indignities or flights of fancy about the minutia of everyday life, sadly all too often overlooked in other blogs that address matters of note, like reality tv, celebrity or just plain Star Trek. But I am wondering if it is time for a re-think about content or even maybe format. So, without being too self-referential, I am going to charge and re-charge my pipe with the very strongest Turkish tobacco mixed with my own special blend of hashish and horse shit, drop a lemon slice into a bowl of gin, slip into my very cosiest of slippers and, in this most conducive atmosphere, consider.
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