Rupert and the Chavvy Disaster

Here is a picture of the much-loved, adventuring animal, Rupert the Bear.


Here is a picture of Rupert with his great chum, the pop singer Paul McCartney. Bum bum bum, baya.


And here is a picture of 86-year-old Rupert, after he was given a modern makeover by his new bosses, Entertainment Rights.


Today, The Guardian has a picture of the re=vamped Rupert wearing a red hoodie and plugged into an iPod. The caption informs us that Rupert's yellow checked scarf was abandoned for making him look "too chav". Thankfully, it now appears to have been returned. With the end result that Rupert now resmbles those salty European bear-shaped crisps, Pom Bears. Good grief.

The Rapid Disintegration Of The English Language

I know, I know, I'm laying myself open to criticism but...

Conversation in the editorial department this morning turned to one of my current hot topics for a rant - my recent discovery that A-level English Literature teachers are allowing students to submit essays for coursework containing the mis-spelling of English words such as '4', 'da', '4eva', 'l8r' and a million other text-speak 'words' that I neither know nor understand. Why doesn't the government do something useful for once and INTERFERE? Can't we get Jamie Oliver on to this? He seems to be a man who gets things done.

Later on I found myself looking up books on Amazon and realised with horror the travesty that is the 'customer reviews' section. I don't know why I've never looked here before. Or rather, perhaps I do. This is an area where – completely without editorial control – ordinary, illiterate members of the public can freely submit reviews of anything they choose. Without the use of a dictionary, apparently. And without the ability to press the shift button to put in a capital letter at the start of a sentence – assuming they manage to construct a sentence at all, that is. Would you care to see some genuine examples? (I couldn't make this up, however hard I tried, so I just searched some well-known titles):

"A Reader" says of "Great Expectations" by Mr Dickens
"if you like literature, do your self a favour and buy this book."

"porridge" says of "Emma" by Miss Austen
"I am studying this for A level English, but there is not really enough to say about it to write a decent essay."

"Minky" says of "A Short History of Nearly Everything" by Bill Bryson
"Hving just finished this book i am amazed how much information there is in this book. Hving just finished my GCSE's and about to start physics for A levels i really recommend this book for anyone interested in science and who wants to extend there knowledge."

"Martin" says of "On Beauty" by Zadie Smith
"i couldnt help but to write something in defence of ON BEAUTY which made my holiday truly enjoyable this summer. i finished the book in two days and i was thinking about the characters as if they are real for another couple of days:-) it is a warm and soulfull book and i would recommend it to anyone."

"charltonsno1fan" says of "Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince" by JK Rowling
"no no no no i cant believe it!!!!!!! the first 5 books were absolutly amazing but this book is just... its not well written it seems like it was rushed it didnt have the class and elegance of the other books i gave it 3stars ONLY COS IT WAS HARRY POTTER but i was very disapointed"

Jesus Christ!

Pen Pusher Three

Last night, Catarina and I popped in to the launch party for the third edition of the Pen Pusher magazine, at The Castle in Farringdon. It was a lovely do, in an ideal venue, frquented by interesting people. (Although VE was a little alarmed that designer Hape knew exactly who I was, despite the fact I'd furnished him only with my first name... and he also told me he knew where I lived. Eek!)

Have I mentioned Pen Pusher before? I think it's a fantastic idea. The two editors, Anna and Felicity, started this self-published, advert-free, gratis literary magazine earlier this year as an outlet for the creative endeavours of themselves and their like-minded friends... and it has rapidly grown. You only need to look down the contributors list at the front of each issue to see that even by issue three, the number has swollen. The paper quality is good, the design is simple and elegant, and the content is stimulating and interesting (aside from the slightly tedious wafflings of an imagined old coffer at the back). In the three issues to date, I've read articles about the fascinating BS Johnson, Persephone book reviews and short fiction by new writers... along with much more. Truly an inspired venture, and Catarina has declared herself a new convert. (Oh, and did I mention that yours truly may well be included in issue four? Blush, blush.)

Check out the website (see the link on the left), pick up a magazine and show your support.

Got Your Lipstick Mark Still On My Coffee Cup

Oh, joy! Could it be magic? Yesterday brought untold treasures and pleasures as deputy-art-director Danny delivered a promo of the new Take That single, "Patience", to my desk. I will never forget that moment.

But, before you say anything, I know, I know. Admitting an appreciation for Take That is hardly cool and, apart from anything else, belies my age. But I don't care. Most of the music I listen to is damn fine stuff, so I'm allowed a little foray into the pop underworld... and between Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet and Take That, there has been (and never will be) no finer boy band.

"Patience" is hardly up there with "Back For Good" - one of the best pop songs ever written (and I am the owner of a special TT-endorsed coffee cup with a lipstick mark still on it) - but, to be honest, anything that Gary and the boys care to put out will relight my fire. Although by the sheer fact that they've called it "Patience", Gary is hardly managing to shake off the pseudo-George Michael tag. Nonetheless, it's an innocent enough ditty and it won't stop me getting my hands on a copy of the new album when it comes out on November 27. And, if you need further indication of the enduring popularity, Take That's new live DVD currently ranks at No 11 in the Amazon charts - and it's not released until next Monday.

But everything changes and the boys have grown up. The most shocking news is that baby-faced Mark became a dad in August, to the unusally monikered Elwood. This I find deeply distressing as Mark was always the one I hankered after - despite him falling well below my 6ft minimum height restrictions. Gary continues to be a multi-millionaire in his gilded palace, nearly suffocating under the weight of his gold discs. While Jason and Howard carry on keeping the housewives happy. (There was another one, but I forget his name). I saw them live in London in May... and they rocked, big time - I certainly found heaven. I pray that they'll be back for good. x

I Have No Qualifications!

Shit! In a panic at my lack of English BA, I have just had a look at my undergraduate university's website (Nottingham Trent University, for those interested) and discovered that my BA has been... dropped. It no longer exists. Media & Cultural Studies BA (Hons) now means precisely nothing. Those three years I spent studying Visage videos and the role of Tetris in feminist society were futile. The extended essay I wrote about George Michael's song-writing skills was wasted. And the whole term I spent analysing the social conditions surrounding the opening episode of 'Coronation Street' was an utter waste of time. Thank God I didn't pay tuition fees.

Thicko

The MA is now in week three. I am rapidly learning that a 'taught research degree' largely translates as 'teach-yourself a research degree' after being informed last night that we only have two lectures a term, and the rest is made up of dicussion-based seminars. This is all well and good, but the lovely, mild-mannered tutor I have was struggling to get a word in between two 30-something women in my group last night who spoke at pretnetious length, using indecipherable language, about modernism - with inane grins on their faces. Not only had they clearly 1) managed to read all the set texts for this week, but they had also clearly 2) understood them enough to 3) compare and contrast and 4) (this one really takes the biscuit) form opinions of their own. Show offs.

While I sat there silently in the seminar, doodling on my pad and wondering if that was a hole in the toe of my shoe, I found myself wondering - not for the first time - if this really is the right course for me. Not only have I never studied modernism before, but I also haven't even done an English degree before... I feel a bit overwhelmed. And those two precocious madams didn't help.

But a few drinks in the student union afterwards led me to learn two useful things. Firstly, the nicer, more normal people on my course feel exactly the same as I do (even though most of them have already done an English BA). And secondly, they all think those two girls were just a lot of hot puff. (One of said girls also came to the bar - and after initially deciding I hated her for making me feel so thick, I changed my mind as I felt she might be a useful person to know. I also learnt that not only is she a sociology teacher, but this is her second MA. I mean, why? Just do a PHD and have done with it. Or maybe she's just not bright enough...)

Barbara Windsor Ruined My Life

The unthinkable has happened. Anyone who has ever met me can tell you that I am an ardent fan of British soap operas. And if push came to shove, if a gun was held at my head and I simply had to choose, my number one soap opera would quite easily be - without a shadow of a doubt - the BBC's flagship show, EastEnders.

For three years I wrote an acidic soap column for my uni's weekly paper; I've also worked at all three of England's soap opera magazines and had the pleasure of asking Gary Lucy what his favourite pudding was. And I've also made a three-panelled screen covered in autographed postcards of the stars of every British soap over a 10 year period (categorised into soap, and then into family groupings). This is an indication of how sad I am, without touching on my encyclopaedic knowledge of EastEnders past and present.

But on Monday night, at 8pm, I was about to switch on the TV and watch EastEnders when I realised... no, I didn't want to! After the horrors and trauma of seeing Scum-Of-The-Earth, Devil-Incarnate Windsor gargling like a cat on fire as she ruined Frank Sinatra's classic hit "My Way" last week... I realised I'd rather not watch EastEnders, possibly ever again, until the wicked old witch has been duly sacked from the programme and forced to apologise to every single licence payer personally for the misery and upset she has caused.

(As further proof of my love for EastEnders, let me share a tale with you from 1996 - a time in my life when I was hankering after a certain GN. It was a weekday evening, I was watching EastEnders, I even remember which episode - Mad Joe Wicks, Mad Christian Sarah and her gay brother Tony, his wannabe boyfriend SImon and Simon's cockney sparra sister Tiff had all headed off to Brighton for a jolly, when Mad Christian Sarah had her drink spiked with ecstasy and Mad Joe Wicks was suddenly made to seem not so mad after all in the face of her increased insanity. Anyway, after the programme finished I went into the kitchen where my mother informed me that one GN had rung - but she'd told him I was watching EastEnders and he'd have to ring back later... and he'd quite understood. THAT is an indication of where EastEnders USED to stand in my priorities. But that was in the days before Witch Windsor took the programme by the neck and utterly destroyed it.).

Lee Hazlewood - Some Velvet Morning

Richard Hawley’s interview with Lee Hazlewood in today's Observer Music Monthly is the saddest but most life-affirming thing I have read in a magazine for a long time. The magazine industry is an incredibly shallow one, with editorial copy existing largely to fill the gaps between the adverts. But the interview with Lee had me holding back the tears as I read it in my local café. I first discovered the music of Nancy and Lee when I was 12 and lolling on an obscure Greek island… that was 16 years ago, and I have spent all of those 16 years devotedly collecting and listening to Lee’s music, and recording it to give to other people. I have had the enormous pleasure of seeing Lee perform live twice (both times at the Royal Festival Hall), and I can easily say that both concerts rank in my top five ever.

I had not known Lee is dying of terminal cancer and I am so sad to read that. But the pull-quote OMM used (“I’ve had 77 years of fun; cancer doesn’t bother me”) is such a positive statement in the face of inevitable death. I can only hope I will feel in a position to say such a brave thing when my time comes. Lee has led an extraordinary life and anyone who needs further proof should read his 2002 book “The Pope’s Daughter” about his experiences with the Sinatras.

But whatever way you look at it, 77 is no age in 2006. I’m listening to a live version of “My Autumn’s Done Come” as I write this, and at the end he simply says, “I’m old enough now”. I’d beg to differ.

Coming Out Of Your Ears...

I don't want to show off - but Velvet Empire has been one busy bunny this weekend. Today has seen the VE team snoop about the fascinating former home of Thomas and Jane Carlyle (Cheynes Row, Chelsea) and become totally absorbed in the writers and prophets who lived there - and counted Charles Dickens as a close chum.

But then we headed over the Kings Road to the Chelsea Cinema and took in the matinee of Alan Bennett's new play-slash-film, "The History Boys". An endearing, heart-warming romp - with a splendid '80s soundtrack - about the extra term eight Yorkshire grammar school boys take as they cra, for their Oxbridge entrance exams. A second crack at nnostalgia for the day.

Tally ho.

Barbara Bloody Windsor

In the current issue of New! magazine, thespian Ross Kemp says: "Barbara Windsor is the sexiest woman on TV. She's a lovely, lovely, sexy lady. And for her age she's doing brilliantly. She's absolutely stunning."

Coming from a 42-year-old queen, should we take any notice that the bald-headed buffoon fancies a 69-year-old harlot who single-handed ruined the once-stirling reputation of EastEnders? No.

By the way - as a licence payer, I was horrified to turn on my television last night and witness Barbara bloody Windsor slaughtring "My Way" on karaoke in the Vic. I want a refund.

Anyone who knows me, will already know my thoughts on the wickedness that is the loose-knickered Barbara-Ann Deeks from Stoke Newington, N16 (who, by the way, should really ask for a refund for that drama school she apparently went to). Outrageous. However, should anyone want further information regarding this loathsome witch, I have already compiled a dosier entitled "40 Reasons To Hate Barbara Windsor", which I have ready for immediate perusual - currently kept in the top drawer of the office of one of the UK's finest soap opera magazines. (Seriously).

Spleen has been vented.

"Bussmann's Holiday"

“Bussmann’s Holiday” at the Soho Theatre

Fresh from a triumphant turn at the Edinburgh Festival, celebrity journalist Jane Bussmann has put together an action-packed, takes-no-prisoners, hilarious hour in which she details not only why Ashton Kutcher turned her to the arms of a White House director of African affairs, but how she nearly found herself killed in an attempt to become Kate Adie and save Uganda from the wicked clutches of its evil army leader – who has been systematically kidnapping in excess of 25,000 boys over 25 years to build his own army.

To make people laugh with a harrowing true tale of AIDS, orphans, kidnapping and near-death experiences is quite a feat – especially for someone who doesn’t profess to be a comedienne. But with Sally Phillips and Chris Morris behind her, and having notched up writing credits for “South Park” and ‘Brass Eye”, Jane is no stranger to the bizarre and the ridiculous realms of humour. I can’t recommend this highly enough.

The Coldest Feet

Velvet Empire is finally a student again. Having spent the past six years since my undergraduate graduation hankering for the security of the university environment and thinking, “Oh, if only I had the chance to do it all over again”, I’ve finally got the chance. It’s been a year since I first applied, but now it’s freshers’ week and it’s all kicked off. But predictably, I have a few complaints…

Birkbeck, University of London, is not a traditional university in that it is a college for mature students – ie, because everything is done in the evenings, the feeling of community of a more conventional university is absent. But you make of that what you will. However, as a result, the student union is rubbish – as I felt compelled to tell the union president last night (a little more politely – evidently he didn’t entirely hate me as he promptly asked me if I’d like to be editor of the university’s glossy magazine!).

Fresher’s Fair was a damp squib of an event. Having coughed up £10 for my NUS Extra card (as if students don’t have enough strains on their finances), I perused the clubs and societies. Having established there wasn’t even a copy of the student magazine, never mind a representative, I was left to choose between joining either the Fencing Club or the Tory Dining Society… and chose to leave in a huff instead.

But I have my two new friends Paul and Rebecca, who I met at the school disco-esque welcome drinks last week, and we went for a pizza afterwards and expressed our mutual horrors at how shabby the university is in reality and how we were all getting cold feet… but we’re all also hopeful it’ll wear off once we actually find our feet.

And last night I had my first lecture. The first hour was spent sipping warm white wine while the various lecturers introduced themselves, and the second hour was spent being told to introduce yourself to your neighbour… and then to introduce them to the rest of the room (and guess who had to go first). All well and good (apart from the public speaking), until the third hour when guest lecturer Peter Nicholls from Sussex came and spent an hour telling us about the modernist poet George Oppen.

It seemed a bizarre choice of first lecture to me – as Oppen is not on our syllabus, we have had no previous introduction to modernism and Nicholls, who sat at the front so we couldn’t even see him, talked in such an unbelievably dull monotonous drone that it was impossible to listen. I ended up spending an hour practicing my shaky shorthand skills, doodling furiously and watching the hands of the clock go backwards as I wondered if it was all a terrible mistake. (Fortunately, it turns out no one else understood a word of it either).

Sitting on the No 24 on the way home, I was forced to question if I could face ever going back. I’d spent three hours watching the PHD professors who will be my guiding lights for the next two years and on the whole I was led to believe they were a bunch of socially retarded freaks. One guy was even manically stepping backwards and forwards as he spoke to us, with an inane grin on his face and leather patches on his elbows. Is this what I want to become???

"The Devil Wears Prada"

The devil wears Prada… and Chanel… and Dolce and Gabbana… and... you get the idea. Sourpuss actress Meryl Streep is currently stealing the show in the silver screen adaptation of Lauren Weisberger’s “The Devil Wears Prada” (out on Friday).

There are several implausible notions in this tale of a size-six girl who goes to work among the size-twos for a dragon lady boss, and in the end her love life suffers. Firstly, leading lady Anne Hathaway, who plays editor’s PA Andy Sachs, is hardly plump or dowdy – yet we’re led to believe that simply because wardrobe have concealed her size six frame beneath a frumpy blue skirt, she must not only be ugly but also fat… quite clearly, she’s neither. And having waltzed through the offices of a few high-profile fashion mags myself (albeit in London, not New York), I’ve never seen any of the kind of nonsense Meryl Streep’s OTT editor Miranda Priestly is supposed to demand. But once you leave your reality expectations at the door, “The Devil Wears Prada” turns into an enjoyable enough romp to amuse one on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

The major downside of the film, as far as I was concerned, was the ridiculously predictable sub-plot involving Andy’s doomed relationship with her nice but unfashionable boyfriend, Nate. It delivered nothing and added nothing, neither did the bar scenes between Andy, Nate and their two equally ‘uncool’ friends, neither of whom we saw enough of to garner any kind of character development so what was the point? The screen time would have been far better employed by focusing more on Andy’s relationship with Miranda, or cashing in on the hilarious demands Miranda makes of her staff with that glacial tone, culminating in a chilling, “That’s all”.

Alas, Poor Lady

“Alas, Poor Lady” – Rachel Ferguson (Persephone)

The saga of Gracie Scrimgeour – the thirteenth child of the persistent Scrimgeours (who kept on and on until they had a boy, despite the danger to the mother’s health by having babies well into her 40s), who was born in the 1880s into wealth and rapidly saw a decline in her fortunes as war and a lack of a husband eroded her chances.

A revealing insight into what life was like in the not-too-distant past for women of no particular role in the late-Victorian era. The Scrimgeour girls who were not fortunate enough to marry, were literally left on the shelf – with nothing to occupy their days except needlepoint, flower-arranging and caring for their elderly relatives, while their married siblings looked down on them with embarrassment. “Alas, Poor Lady” tells the story of what happens when you are bred for nothing except marriage, but marriage then eludes you… and it is a sorry tale.

While being thoroughly descriptive and rich in detail, the lengthy “Alas, Poor Lady” never once teeters on being boring, and becomes more and more gripping as Gracie grows older. Her resilience and strength of character in the face of ever more difficult and unsettling times is astounding, and a lesson to us all – who are thoroughly cosseted by modernity. It is horrific to think that all this happened less than 100 years ago.

What is also interesting is the lessons in social manners – ladies not only dress for dinner, but are unable to leave the house until after lunch, and even then not unaccompanied. And the debate about whether male visitors could be offered sherry at 6pm is interminably hilarious… and not intentionally.

New Term

Things are getting tense in the VE camp… as Wednesday finally heralds the start of term for the blessed MA (which has been a year in the offing).

Last Thursday things got off to a slow start when I went for welcome drinks with everyone else who was also doing a humanities course of some description – be it BA, MA, PHD or otherwise. Before I went I’d feared it would be a selection of people who didn’t know each other, stood around the edges, staring nervously into their warm glasses of wine and shifting their feet from side to side in an awkward fashion. And that’s exactly what happened… in a building that bore a harsh resemblance to a school hall. So I downed my wine as quickly as possible and plucked up the courage to make conversation… eventually finding my way towards a group of people also doing English courses of some description. I’m relieved to say that by the end of the evening things weren’t quite so bad and that me and my two new best friends were the last people left in the hall… and we all swapped numbers before agreeing to meet up for freshers’ fair on Wednesday. I wonder if I’ve met my new lifelong best buddies?

And yesterday I had the day off, so took myself off to the library to register and go on an introductory tour. After making my way through several libraries until I found the right one, I realised that a 10-minute library tour consists of little more than a mousy woman in black pointing at some books and saying, “Here are the books”. But using the common sense and basic intelligence that hopefully got me on the MA course in the first place, I worked out where the books I wanted were and set to photocopying the relevant chapters of my highlighted and colour-coded reading list.

Tomorrow I have my official library tour… which this time threatens to last for an hour and a half, so I’m thinking it might be a bit more indepth. And then I meet my new friends to go to the student union, get our NUS cards and join some societies that we’ll never turn up for. And on Thursday I finally have my first lecture. Should I tell them that I ditched “Ulysses” two months ago after losing the will to live?

Birdhouse In Your Soul

Have I shared with you just what it is I do for a living? I’m a freelance journalist and sub-editor, and spend my weeks flitting from pillar to post - mostly between pillars at high-profile celebrity weeklies and posts at top-selling TV magazines. Which is all well and good. But every so often I have a random week that I have to fill at short notice… and I end up working somewhere less, erm, desirable. Which is where I find myself this week.

I’m currently cooped up at a weekly trade magazine… which is like the land that time forgot. Working in an office that’s like the seventh-and-a-half floor in ‘Being John Malkovich’ - the floor has been raised for some inexplicable reason and the ceiling is lower than on any other floor in this building - I find myself with a random, although sweet, bunch of people. There is even one lady who has worked at this magazine for longer than I’ve been alive (hint: I’m getting on for 30), and she claims to remember the days when Tony Hadley - before he was in Spandau Ballet - worked in the postroom downstairs.

But what strikes me most about this bizarre brown office is the level of tedium I’m experiencing. While the people are undisputedly friendly and nice, the silence is deafening - and the click-click-click of the dirt-ingrained keyboard I’m using is overwhelming as I fail to hide the fact I’m spending my day on Hotmail rather than subbing their pages. Yesterday, for instance, I got so bored I found myself wondering who the most famous person I’d ever met was. Unable to decide whether it was Al Pacino or David Hasselhoff, I set about Googling them both (while the Hoff may not have won any Oscars he is the most searched person on Google, so I thought it might be close). Fact fans will be interested, if not surprised, to learn that Al won out - by a staggering 4 million pages.

Friday can’t come round fast enough. My spirit may have been well and truly crushed beyond all recognition by then.

I've Been To London To See The Queen

Well, Chelsea actually. I've been to Chelsea to see 'The Queen' (Stephen Frears, 2006) and she was bloody good.

Helen Mirren must surely be up for an Oscar after her turn as HM, and Helen McCrory (who we saw on stage in 'As You Like It' last year, and she was fab in that, too) was hilarious as a totally disrespectful, unimpressed Cherie Blair.

Now, I'm not much of a Royalist. I've always seen the royal family as a further drain on the tax payer and a poor excuse for dragging the tourists to London, but 'The Queen' has made me a tad more sympathetic - although I'm sure that won't last long. Apparently Helen Mirren has even become a Royalist after putting herself in HM's round-toed shoes.

Cherie Blair and Alistair Campbell come off particularly badly (albeit hilariously), and Tony Bliar is confirmed as the smarmy git we all know him to be - and the funniest line comes at the end when HM assures Bliar that sooner or later there'll come a point when the public turn on him, too. HM is shown to have a sort of heart - she sheds a tear at one point (certainly not over Diana) and admires the beauty of a stag while listening to the gun shots of Philip, who has taken William and Harry off stag shooting to take their minds off their dead mother… a barbaric family riddled with archaic institutions.

'The Queen' was well scripted, well acted, well directed and well put together. The legal logistics of making a film like this, when most of the main characters are not only still alive but also still in power (fingers crossed Bliar is off any day, though), must be a minefield... but hats off to Stephen Frears for pulling it off.

The Wild Body

Wyndham Lewis's 1929 collection of essays, 'The Wild Body', is another one that I'm reading for the MA. Initially I found it rather dry, but further delving makes me think that George Orwell must surely have been heavily influenced by it for his classic 1933 book, 'Down and Out in Paris and London', which I read with relish a few years back... while feeling that life was getting me considerably down in London (Vauxhall, to be precise... before the rennovation that saw the likes of 'stars' such as , ahem, Lee Ryan from Blue move in).

Presumably Lewis's book is autobiographical, of his time as a soldier in the inter-war era, travelling though Europe under the psuedonym Kerr-Orr. Staying in boarding houses of various degrees of ill repute and commenting on the assorted characters he meets there, it never ceases to amaze me how - despite his travels across the continent - Kerr-Orr meets so many people he already knows. Maybe the world really is a small place?

While I understand that it is undoubtedly interesting to read accounts like this of a time that is gone for good, I am also left a little perplexed as to why this has stood the test of time so well and remains such a classic. However, I'm still two weeks shy of starting the much-hyped MA and maybe once I've got my teeth stuck into that, I shall cease making such naive comments and actually start to know a little bit about what I'm talking about. Here's hoping.

Joy!

And finally - the third part in today's trilogy - Persephone has given yours truly a brief mention in their latest fortnightly newletter. Follow the link here: http://www.persephonebooks.co.uk/letter.htm

The Brontës... Adieu

(Hurrah! I've finished it - and I've also written a review for potential publication on proper paper...)


“The Brontës Went to Woolworths” - Rachel Ferguson

Best known simply as ‘Rachel’ in the magazine ‘Punch’, former suffragette Rachel Ferguson went on to become an actress and dance teacher before writing nine novels. “The Brontës Went To Woolworths”, originally published in 1931, was her second – and possibly her best known.

A little delving has found that “The Brontës…” is something of a cult classic, which the recent reprint of Ferguson’s more heavy-going novel “Alas, Poor Lady” by Persephone Books will hopefully rejuvenate once again.

Although it’s a relatively short novel, “The Brontës…” will totally capture the reader’s imagination. AS Byatt, who first loved the book as a teenager, writes in her introduction, “I was intrigued by the title, which seemed to suggest some impossible meeting of the urgent world of the romantic imagination and the everyday world of (in my case) Pontefract High Street”. And indeed, the title alone is precisely how the book caught my eye.

The three Carne sisters – Deirdre, Katrine and Sheil – live with their widowed mother and starchy governess in a state of relative poverty, but construct for themselves a fantastical world where the dead come back to life and the inanimate becomes animate. The protagonist, Deirdre, is a journalist and becomes infatuated by Lord Justice Toddington, who she first discovers archly presiding over his London courtroom. Fascinated by his presence and what she imagines his life and wife to be like, Deirdre and her family incorporate their fictitious version of him into their real home life. And so ‘Toddy’ joins the ranks of Dion Saffyd (a pierrot doll named after a real-life cause celeb they have never actually met in person), Ironface (the French doll) and Freddie Pipson (a larger-than-life music hall producer), among countless others. But it is during a bored night away from London that the family finds themselves reluctantly welcoming the real Brontë sisters into their world… and suddenly Toddy has a much larger role to play.

Through “The Brontës…” it is possible to see where contemporary writer Kate Atkinson found inspiration for her early novels (“Human Croquet” and “Behind The Scenes At the Museum”), seamlessly blending reality with the supernatural to create a haunting story.

And as “The Brontës…” picked up pace, I found myself turning the pages ever more rapidly as I not only feared for the characters at certain points but also rooted for them and willed them to succeed. The way the family incorporates both the imagined and the real Toddy into their lives is touching, and it is easy to imagine how much they not only felt they needed him in their lives but how much they really did need him in their lives… and vice versa. But when the Carne family’s security blanket of their fictional world starts to seep into reality, the girls pull together and face up to the fact that real-life may not be quite so cosy as the world they have built up to protect themselves.

Where “The Brontës…” succeeds is with it’s beautifully written and wonderfully eccentric style, and with it’s simple story of three girls struggling to cope without a father figure and trying to make the best of what life has dealt them. As well as being a touching comment on grief and questioning the possibility of an afterlife, the book is also a good example of London life pre-WWII for many families.