A Christmas Gift Guide for the Indecisive

It feels a bit early to be posting about Christmas, but since festive stock started arriving at the shop in early August, and the DFS Christmas advert - that hallowed benchmark of the holiday season - has taken over our televisions and 4OD screens, I don’t feel like I’m jumping the gun.

It’s a common misapprehension that the process of gift-giving during the festive season is an intuitive thing. Perusing last year’s crop of irritating brain worms (sorry, adverts), one would be forgiven for thinking that one trip to a larger branch of Curry’s would get the job done. But for those of us who feel unable to stretch our meagre budgets to cover the entirety of the white-goods aisle of a large electricals store, it can be, and often is, a very trying experience.

Yeah, Santa's low on ideas, too

Gifts for well-loved friends, lovers and family members pose their own set of problems. However, buying for the newest member of a social group, an odd uncle or terrifying colleague can reduce even the savviest shopper to a gibbering wreck, grabbing wildly at the humorous cravats in Tie-rack, then wondering in baffled self-loathing what possessed you as the recipient opens your carefully packaged otter-themed tie with polite disinterest.  

Thanks, that'll go great with my otter slippers you got me last year...

Here’s what I suggest. In times of doubt, go with a book. Books are never offensive (unless you really lose it and plump for Mein Kampf). Here is my guide to book-buying for awkward people.

1: THE MISANTHROPE

"I hate everything. Apart from this hat. This hat is inheriting everything"

Actual quote: ‘Could you help me find a present for my mother, please? She hates everything and everyone. No, seriously, she’s a horrible person’

Suggested gift: We Need to Talk About Kevin

The blurb: Eva never really wanted to be a mother; certainly not the mother of the unlovable boy who murdered seven of his fellow high school students, a cafeteria worker and a teacher who tried to befriend him. Now, two years later, it is time for her to come to terms with marriage, career, family, parenthood and Kevin’s horrific rampage in a series of startlingly direct correspondences with her absent husband, Franklyn.

Why it’s perfect: Nothing good happens in this book. Seriously.  Nothing. It’s an unrelentingly bleak description of motherhood, childhood, the works. It’s everything a romcom isn’t. Reading it is like wading through a treacle of unending depression. Its glory lies in the fact that in spite of everything, you continue to pick up the book, night after night, long after lesser written works would have been discarded to moulder with the dust-bunnies under your bed. However disturbing it might be to imagine the misanthrope experiencing a satisfying tingle of shadenfreud from the sheer human misery contained, at least you’re offering them the nearest approximation of a happy Christmas they’re likely to have barring natural disasters.

2) THE NO-FACE

You got me a present, right?

Actual quote: ‘I don’t know what to do. My brother’s invited his new girlfriend round on her birthday. I’ve never met her, and all he can tell me is that she’s scared of hamsters. Apparently that’s hilarious’

Suggested gift: A hardback edition of Rebecca

The blurb: “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again…” Working as a lady’s companion, for the heroine of Rebecca, life looks very bleak until, on a trip to the South of France, she meets Maxim de Winter, a handsom widower whose sudden proposal of marriage takes her by surprise. She accepts, but whisked from glamorous Monte Carlo to the ominous and brooding Manderley, the new Mrs de Winter finds Max a changed man. And the memory of his dead wife Rebecca is forever kept alive by the forbidding Mrs Danvers.

Why it’s perfect: Everyone loves Rebecca. Almost inarguably Daphne Du Maurier’s greatest novel, it’s a ghost story with no ghost, a love story where the heroine is never named but is, by the end, undoubtedly the plot’s strongest character. It’s a timeless classic, written in a wonderfully unpretentious style that doesn’t put off readers who might find older classics harder to digest. More importantly for the no-face, it’s almost completely inoffensive without being bland. Gorgeous hardback editions are available fairly inexpensively without looking cheap. (If all else fails, the no-face should appreciate the fact that they themselves could pass it on to their own difficult-to-buy-for friend). Bonus points awarded to those who include the URL for Mitchell and Webb’s parody in the accompanying card. 

3) THE GAMER

No, no, anti-stereotyping league of Britain, thank you!

Actual quote: ‘My little brother is a nightmare. He only ever plays video-games, but if I buy him anything, he either hates it, already has it, or everyone else in the family has got it for him too’

Suggested gift: Ready Player One

The blurb: It's the year 2044, and the real world has become an ugly place. We're out of oil. We've wrecked the climate. Famine, poverty and disease are widespread. Like most of humanity, Wade Watts escapes this depressing reality by spending his waking hours jacked into the OASIS, a sprawling virtual utopia where you can be anything you want to be, where you can live and play and fall in love on any of ten thousand planets. And like most of humanity, Wade is obsessed by the ultimate lottery ticket that lies concealed within this alternate reality: OASIS founder James Halliday, who dies with no heir, has promised that control of the OASIS - and his massive fortune - will go to the person who can solve the riddles he has left scattered throughout his creation. For years, millions have struggled fruitlessly to attain this prize, knowing only that the riddles are based in the culture of the late twentieth century. And then Wade stumbles onto the key to the first puzzle. Suddenly, he finds himself pitted against thousands of competitors in a desperate race to claim the ultimate prize, a chase that soon takes on terrifying real-world dimensions - and that will leave both Wade and his world profoundly changed.

Why it’s perfect: Admittedly, if the intended recipient is someone who loves games to the exclusion of all else, getting them to even open the book will be the real challenge here. You can lead a gamer to sci-fi, but you can’t make him/her read. However, I am disregarding the massive proportion of self-styled gamers who don’t exist as a cultural stereotype and  do love to read – if your target is one of those, so much the better. Ready Player One by Ernest Cline is an absolutely perfect gift for anyone who so much as picked up a console during the late 80s/early 90s and has a working knowledge of John Hughes films. Every page is a nostalgia trip, every sentence an homage to a culture that spawned the gaming industry. The fact that this is stitched perfectly into a futuristic and dangerous world makes it more than the novelisation of one of those irritating I Heart the 80s nostalgia docs, becoming instead a tense high-tech thriller with its roots firmly lodged in the recent past.

4) THE HISTORICAL ENTHUSIAST

Sigh, I know... but I defy you to find a better picture

Actual Quote: ‘I’d like to get my Dad a fiction book. He only really reads history and it drives mum mad. He keeps talking about battles to her when she’s trying to sleep’

Suggested gift: A few here, depending on the period of history concerned. My knowledge of (and interest in) battles is limited, so I’d recommend taking your chances with a Bernard Cornwell or two for that sort of thing. Here are a few more options.

First World War: Regeneration by Pat Barker  (if you’re feeling super-generous, stretch to the rest of the series, The Eye in the Door and The Ghost Road)

Mini review: Regeneration charts the real life encounter between war poets Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen when they met whilst in treatment at Craiglockhart Mental Hospital in Scotland. Wilfred Owen was recovering from shell shock, whilst Sassoon had been committed for writing a letter condemning the prolongation of the war which was read out in Parliament. Barker’s book is incredibly well-researched but, above all, beautiful and sad.

The Thirties: Rules of Civility by Amor Towles

Mini-review: An absolute JOY to read. Meet Katy Kontent and Evie Ross and travel back to 1930s New York, where they roam around the city, being fabulous – at least, initially… What sets this book apart for me is that it never hits the shallow waters of ‘fabulous fiction’ such as Sex and the City and the like. Katy and Evie are fun but flawed and experience events that SATC wouldn’t touch with a well-manicured fingernail. But what’s incredible is period fiction where the woman comes out on top. Katy takes some stick, and doesn’t always win, but she always has a nice little comment to finish off the encounter – she always gets the last word. It’s difficult to write about this without making it seem like standard chick-lit, but believe me, it’s not. It’s just that explaining what makes it stand out would be revealing a major plot point. And we don’t believe in spoilers! Take it on trust, people, it’s a wonderful gift.

Second World War: Mr Chartwell by Rebecca Hunt

Mini Review: This isn’t actually set during the war, but it does feature one Winston Churchill. It’s perhaps an odd book to choose, seeing as it never mentions the battlefields, the holocaust or anything from the war itself.  However, it’s an exploration of Churchill’s depression, through the personification of the Black Dog that he so often spoke about. On the one hand you see how depression can begin; encroaching slowly but surely into someone’s life and personal relationships. And, on the other, the long-term effects; explored via the Churchill character, on your life and career. As depressing as this may seem, it’s a wonderful and enlightening book.

5) THE CULTURE VULTURE

Oh Google images, you never disappoint...

Actual quote: ‘So, this guy only reads prize-winning fiction – or at least nominated. He’ll probably get more Hilary Mantel than you can shake a stick at.’

Suggested gift: The Teleportation Accident

The Blurb: When you haven't had sex in a long time, it feels like the worst thing that could ever happen to anyone. If you're living in Germany in the 1930s, it probably isn't. But that's no consolation to Egon Loeser, whose carnal misfortunes will push him from the experimental theatres of Berlin to the absinthe bars of Paris to the physics laboratories of Los Angeles, trying all the while to solve two mysteries: whether it was really a deal with Satan that claimed the life of his hero, the great Renaissance stage designer Adriano Lavicini; and why a handsome, clever, charming, modest guy like him can't, just once in a while, get himself laid.

Why it’s Perfect: I am now taking bets at odds of 90/1 that the Culture Vulture will NOT have read this book. Whilst it was longlisted for this year’s Booker Prize, it failed (incomprehensibly) to make the shortlist, and is not yet available in compact paperback format which usually boosts sales of such books. In other news: It is Perfect. In every sense. The story of a man trying so hard to get laid that, despite hailing from Berlin in the 1930s, he manages to miss the rise of the Nazis is always going to be an eccentric read. It combines history, satire, farce, raunch and brilliant prose in more or less equal measures. Oh yes, and did I mention it was longlisted for the Booker? It bears repeating as, when the Culture Vulture peels back the wrapping on this diamond of a book, you can nod sagely, quote that fact and instantly gain 10 bonus points (exchangeable for five mince pies and a second helping of brussel sprouts at the going rate). But before wrapping it up and saying goodbye, give it a quick read, careful not to bend the pages – or, indeed – rip them out whilst roaring with laughter. Yes. It’s that good.

That’s enough recommending for one post, I feel. However, if you’re still at a loose end, why not pop into your local bookshop and ask a member of staff for some advice? You’d be surprised how many people are shocked SHOCKED that we actually read the books we sell. And if I can come up with recommendations for elderly women who hate the world, I’m sure they can fix your problem too. In the mean-time, let’s sit back and watch the Christmas gifting machine ramp up. There are (unlit) Marmite Xmas lights on Oxford Street which seem to show an elf vomiting into his little elf-hat. Let’s pause and think about that for a while...  Oh well, at least it’s not a fridge.

Smeg indeed...

This Information is Classified

Worlds Apart

 

 

Think of your favourite book. Is it fiction? Or non-fiction? If you were to subcategorise it, where would it go? If it’s a fiction book, would you say it was a historical romance? Crime? Sci-fi? Fantasy? If non-fiction, where would you find it? Biography? Spirituality? Sports?

 

In some cases, usually with non-fiction books, the answer is mercifully obvious. Booksellers are rarely stuck holding a Bill Bryson, wondering where on earth it should go.

Sometimes, however, it’s impossible to tell. No one can read every book under the sun. That’s where software comes in – in theory. Most bookshops will have a database of titles, along with the sections and subsections in which they should be shelved. But therein lies the problem.

 From my own experience working in a general fiction department, things can become very tricky. Whilst Tolkein, R.R. Martin and others are safely filed in sci-fi/fantasy, along with their casts of elves, dragons, goblins and wizards, a mixture of popularity and author preferences have resulted in some very odd classifications.

 

 

John LeCarre, arguably THE most famous spy novelist of this century, appears in general fiction. Deborah Harkness, author of A Discovery of Witches (containing real, bona-fide witches with magic spells) also falls under the same category.

It would be a simple task to simply go against ‘the system’ and re-shelve them under more intuitive headings. But, not only would this only confuse those using the database as a search tool, but we would still be left with some anomalies.


 

 

fig i: a goblin, yesterday

 

Case in point: Margaret Atwood. Although a large number of her novels are set in the ‘here and now Earth’, there are certain notable exceptions. Both The Handmaid’s Tale and Oryx and Crake are, to put it bluntly, not. But Atwood is famous for her rejection of the sci-fi label. Those works are, she says, ‘speculative fiction’, stories which couldn’t happen in the here and now, but are not beyond the realms of the imagination. Frankenstein, she argues, would come under the same classification because, when it was written, the reanimation of the dead was considered a scientific possibility in the near-future.


 

fig ii: science

 

Leaving aside the argument of the complete subjugation of women as a possibility in the near future, we are still left with the issue of classification. ‘Speculative fiction’, even if defined by Atwood’s own terms, bears more resemblance to the sci-fi label than to general fiction. But to reallocate her accordingly would seem disrespectful to the author’s wishes, as well as leading to the (extraordinarily paranoid) fear of incurring her wrath, should she ever chance to visit that particular store.

 

We could create a new sub-category. But then, where would we stop? It would be too easy to sub-categorise until Howard Jacobson alone would find himself in the general fiction section, having unwisely proclaimed: “I write fiction. The others write crap,” earlier this year.

 

So Margaret Atwood et al remain in general fiction. In real terms, this is nothing more than a categorising anomaly. However, I do wish people would stop asking for recommendations, listing Murakami, Rowling, Atwood or some other author of science (or speculative) fiction as a particular favourite, then crying out “Oh, but I don’t read science fiction” when offered something from another, elf-populated part of the shop.

Hold Me Closer, Pony Danza...

Let’s Pretend This Never Happened

By Jenny Lawson

 



 

 

At the time of writing, Badly Stuffed Animals (the Facebook group for fans of grinning foxes, misshapen owls and strangely flirtatious cats) has accumulated roughly 54,341 ‘likes’.  That’s over 20,000 more than the average attendance to a Premier League football match.

But, of their legions of fans – how many would get entangled in vicious Ebay bidding wars in order to purchase an exquisitely stuffed miniature pony, with the aim of naming him ‘Pony Danza’, “Pony Soprano” or possibly even “Al Capony”? How many already own a small diorama of a jazz band made up of ethically taxidermied mice in bow ties?

Enter Jenny Lawson, A.K.A The Bloggess.

Largely unknown in the U.K outside of certain Internet communities, Lawson’s ‘mostly true memoir’  Let’s Pretend This Never Happened came out in paperback in spring of this year. Although an internet celebrity in her own right, having never followed the Bloggess’s activities online is actually an advantage when reading her book. Firstly, comprised as it is of mainly autobiographical blog posts, the book format allows Lawson to tell her life story chronologically.  Secondly, her humour hits you full force. Right to the face. The recommendations on the cover are no mere rent-a-quotes: Lawson is seriously funny.

It’s all somewhat unexpected. One of the first things that you learn about the author is that she suffers from Rheumatoid Arthritis, OCD, Depression and Social Anxiety Disorder. It’s hard to think of a more socially and physically disabling cluster of diseases. But, somehow, they all become grist to Lawson’s mill. Ever winced after a party remembering some minor gaffe or social faux-pas? Read about Lawson hiding in the toilets after telling a group of strangers about a serial killer attacker that turned out to be a cat. You’ll feel better.

But it’s not all gallows humour. The author’s penchant for amusingly (and ethically) taxidermied creations, coupled with stories of her unusual childhood as the daughter of a man not unlikely to toss wild bobcats at potential suitors makes for an engrossing, lively, occasionally dark, but, it bears repetition, intensely funny read.

It seems everyone’s writing a memoir this year; and in the run up to Christmas, thousands will become duplicate Christmas presents. Take a chance on something a little more bizarre, if only to find out why, whilst the name Beyoncé isn’t exactly as synonymous with giant metal chickens as it is with global pop-stardom, it should be.

 

 

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