I wonder what Jane Austen would make of her fame, if she could be brought back to feature on a special Christmas edition of ‘This Was Your Life: Beyond The Grave’. I wonder if she would have the faintest idea just how influential her body of work was to become in the centuries since her death; that she would become a poster girl for feminism, posthumously sell many millions of books and that elements of those books would, one day, even be used as the basis for almost everything that Bridget Jones did, said or thought. The literary beacon that was sparked up by Austen and the Bronte sisters (Charlotte, Anne, Emily, Chantelle, Tina, Stacey, Lacey and Diamonte), was to be used as a guide for many female giants of, you know, writing and stuff. It wouldn’t be long before we had Mary Shelley, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Louisa May Alcott, George Eliot, Mary Wollstonecraft and Virginia Woolf regularly bothering the shelves of their local WH Smiths as they pumped out all sorts of books I have never even thought to try reading – I know I probably should have made more effort but I suspect the intricacies of, for instance, the cabin where Uncle Tom lived would be completely lost on someone who still buys Viz magazine every now and again.
Female authors have never been more prolific or lauded. Some have written books that are rightly swooned over to this day, from Agatha Christie to Margaret Attwood and Alice Walker to Zadie Smith, and one of them even made millions by writing a load of crap about wizards, but the problem with almost all of this is that rather than creating a watertight fortress of feminist literary power it instead has meant (as is so often the case when it comes to pioneers and acolytes) that the women’s novel market has been flooded with the kind of bottom softening, damp smelling romantic tosh that even a struggling seven year old could bash out without too much effort: think ‘The Good Bloke’ by Catherine Cookson or ‘The Impetuous Duchess’ by Barbara Cartland – basically the sort of literature that would suit someone with the reading age of, well, a struggling seven year old. And this in turn has, regrettably, been seen as a green light for that dreadful, impossible to sink any further, bargain basement, rectal prolapse of a genre: books written by celebrities. And the reason I even thought to mention it is because earlier today I found out that Fern Britton has written nine novels, and that makes me sad inside.
The celebrity presenter and best selling author, Fern Britton, was busy talking to the celebrity chef, best selling author and professional cock, James Martin (who was hosting what is very possibly the most ego-driven programme on TV – ‘James Martin’s Saturday Morning’) and at one point Martin asked Britton how many books she had written, though it was clear he was asking less out of genuine interest and more as an exercise in attention seeking one-upmanship. Britton used this prompt to explain she had only recently released another volume of her ongoing autobiographical adventures called ‘The Older I Get………..How I Repowered My Life’ (speculative hint: it helps if you have lots of money) which is very likely not worth the paper it is printed on but will be hoovered up by anyone who still gets misty-eyed over her Pilates workout video on YouTube. Of course, we have to make peace with the distinct possibility that Fern Britton, the celebrity presenter and best selling author, wouldn’t sell a single copy of anything if she was judged purely on her artistic merits as a wordsmith. I should admit at this point that I haven’t read a word of her stuff either, but I should also admit defeat in the face of realism and say that if ever faced with the option of reading Fern Britton’s ‘A Seaside Affair’, ‘A Good Catch’ or ‘Daughters Of Cornwall’, I will always tick the box marked ‘none of the above’ (which is actually rather a good name for a celebrity potboiler).
You might think nine novels and assorted other reflective ditties might qualify as a significant body of work, but it only really qualifies as a significant amount of printing and a serious inconvenience to the backroom storage space of charity shops across the country. That said nine books is almost as pathetic as no books at all in the world of James Martin, a man who does a considerable amount of cooking for someone who spends so much of his time blowing his own trumpet. Wikipedia lists his written output at thirty. Thirty books stuffed full of hot Yorkshire air, including enigmatic titles such as ‘Butter’, ‘Potato’ and ‘Cheese’, which helps to explain the cushion he has tucked under his shirt, and a series of culinary adventures, all of which he managed to return home safely from, more’s the pity. I’ve never written a cookery book but if I did I’d have to accept that in almost all cases the middle class women of a certain age (aka the enemy of Gregg Wallace) that constitute the sort of readership James Martin’s career relies on it would be used once, in a failed attempt to replicate a recipe, and then placed on a sagging shelf somewhere near the kitchen and left there to hold up dust and be gently bleached by the sun of several dozen summers. Watching James Martin pretend not to know how many books he had written mere seconds before yawning out the exact number was painful and pitiful viewing and it made me realise that all celebrity books should really have a warning sign on the front to explain that the contents within are either unreadable or bollocks. Or both.
At this time of year the bookshelves are creaking under celebrity tomes that offer not much more reward than the chance of a nasty paper cut. There is something quite perverse in the rich and famous writing all about how they got so rich and famous and then selling it to a general public gasping for a story or two about someone unquestionably richer, but not necessarily much more talented, than themselves. I can pick not one quarrel with a book about someone who has lent the world some sort of benefit, but quite how much I can learn from the accumulated life wisdom of Collen Nolan or Oti Mabuse, Craig Revel Horwood or Matt Willis is somewhat harder to imagine and far too miniscule to calculate. I’m not even bothered about reading Al Pacino’s autobiography – I can see all I need to know on screen without having to trawl through the mind of a man daft enough to father a child at the age of 108. And that’s all really. You can think what you like about my writing, but at least you’re not paying for it and it doesn’t take up space on your neglected shelves. Hearing Fern Britton and James Martin waffle on about how many books they’ve written brings Ed Sheeran to mind (for which I am not grateful), another ‘artist’ who has clearly mastered quantity but is very much not at home to the concept of quality. Perhaps that’s what most people really want – stuff that’s of no value at all, but as much of it as they can get their hands on. Oh, hold on, suddenly that does explain rather a lot.
G B Burton. 21.12.2024
On stupidity......and other causes for concern. 