A new regular feature in which Toten Herzen’s number one fangirl Raven (real name [REDACTED]) mouths off about everything and anything.
I hate my life. It was supposed to be exciting. I followed Toten Herzen across Rotterdam at three in the morning and it came to this. Boredom. Terminal boredom. And then Rob Wallet comes along with this crap idea to review books and they’re all boring!
‘It’ll keep you occupied when the band are on tour.’ Well, sorry Rob, but it doesn’t keep me occupied. I could be brewing tea, that would keep me occupied, so what?
Anyways, have a look at some of these books, he says. Get some education inside you. Read something proper. And he sends me to this website, Tinder Press, and all its boring books about boring people.
The best book I ever read was called Where Savages Play by a bloke called . . . forgot his name, but it was a real page turner. I want something with a bit of action and people getting shot and stuff like that.
There’s a book here called A Year of Marvellous Ways about some old woman dying. As if my life isn’t miserable enough as it is I wanna read about a ninety-year old woman. That’s older than my gran and she ran a half marathon last year, didn’t sit around festering waiting for the morticians to come round the house.
I wouldn’t bother but Rob doesn’t read bollocks like this, but he thinks I should. He reads Dan Brown and that other bloke who wrote spy novels. John Lackray or something. So tell me why would I want to read this, If I Knew You Were Going to be Beautiful I Never Would Have Let You Go. Bloody title’s like a novel. It’s about. . . .
According to the blurb ‘night after night they wait for something to happen.’ So it’s a book about nothing happening. The mind boggles. And it’s about Vietnam so it’s about hippies. And I can’t stand hippies.
The Snow Kimono. . . . Two blokes moaning about their lives. (Sounds like when me dad and Uncle Ian get together. ‘Yeah, I keep planing that leg, but it still won’t stop rocking.’) Black Lake, posh family have to move house. That’s not a story to anyone who already lives in a shit house.
My old house, where mum and dad live in Nottingham is so small me dad has to take his coat off outside. I moved out two years ago. Couldn’t stand living there. My parents being Leninists didn’t help either. Hang on, just got a text. . . .
Rob Wallet is reading what I’m writing and he isn’t pleased. (Being a vampire he can make himself invisible, sneaky sod.) But he wants me to review one of these boring books. I’d rather stick a needle up my nostril than read about miserable men, miserable families and idle hippies. God there must be something. . . .
The Snow Child, 1920s Alaska, a tale of heartbreak and hope. One day someone’ll write a book called ‘Why I’m Pleased as Punch’ about a family who don’t have any problems other than a dodgy tap in the bathroom. Misery, misery, misery. Self-indulgent what do they call it, first world problems.
The Invention of Wings is not about someone who invented wings. That was that French bloke, Louise Bleriot or something. Now I might have found something. Season to Taste or How to Eat Your Husband about a woman who’s just battered her husband with a shovel. That’ll bugger up her cake baking business. Dark, funny and achingly human it says. What’s so human about cracking your other half with a spade! My mum never did that to me dad.
But I’m not gonna read it because that would prove Rob’s point and make him go all smug and he’s smug enough, especially when he’s near me cos he thinks he’s superior to me. He thinks I’m thick cos I’ve got blue hair.
Well, I’ve also got Agents of SHIELD Season 2 on disc so I’m not gonna read any of this boring stuff and watch a bit of highbrow televisual culture instead. And Dee’s just walked in with a face like thunder. She reads books. Wonder if I show her How to Eat Your Husband she’ll batter Rob with a shovel.
Solve a lot of my troubles.
EDIT – note from Rob Wallet. Apologies to the authors of the above titles. She’s only nineteen and hasn’t been brought up properly. Bloody Leninists.