The Digested Twenty-first Century

by John Crace

  ‘Yes, but I wouldn’t count on him sleeping with you as well. Or on him buying your system, as he now wants to do business with China.’

  ‘That’s symbolism for you, I suppose,’ Alan shrugged. He was still 54, broke and a loser. ‘Do you think it would be OK for me to stay on out here a while?’

  ‘To be honest, we’ve all had enough of you.’

  Digested read, digested: Alan of Arabia.

  The Childhood of Jesus

  by JM Coetzee (2013)

  They hurry to the border guard. ‘We arrived in Novilla yesterday,’ says the middle-aged man. ‘We need somewhere to live.’

  ‘For you and your son?’

  ‘He is not my son. He is a six-year-old boy who was shipwrecked with me. He has lost his parents and doesn’t have a name. But I have called him David.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘No. Though you can call me Simon.’

  The guard feels like she has already had more than enough of this nonsense, so she waves them through and assigns them to a residence in Building C. ‘Enjoy your stay here with your father,’ she says to David.

  ‘Why do you insist on calling him my father?’ says David. ‘Isn’t it blindingly obvious from the title that this is a third-rate allegory?’

  The following day, Simon goes to start work as a stevedore at the grain wharf. ‘Bread is the staff of life,’ says Eugenio, the foreman, as several readers throw themselves into the water to drown themselves. ‘Before we start work, we must debate important philosophical questions, such as the value of labour and the meaning of Kumbaya.’

  ‘Aren’t you straying into my territory?’ says Paulo Coelho.

  David is playing with El Rey, the carthorse, while Simon is having unsatisfactory sex with a woman named Ana. ‘I told you it wasn’t a very good idea,’ says Ana, wiping away unwanted secretions.

  ‘I am going to find the boy’s mother,’ says a disappointed Simon. He wanders over to La Residencia where he sees a single woman.

  ‘You are David’s mother,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not, but then again I might as well be,’ says the woman, who is called Ines.

  Simon is not remotely concerned that he has picked someone who is obviously mentally unwell, so when she then insists she brings up the boy on her own, Simon does not hesitate to agree. ‘He is so clearly the chosen one that we must do everything possible for him.’

  Two weeks later, Simon begins to miss David, and asks Ines for visiting rights. ‘Only if you don’t mind being supervised by my psychopathic brother,’ she says.

  ‘Hello David.’

  ‘Hello Not Dad. Have you ever considered the lilies of the valley?’

  ‘Is that the end of the sermon?’

  ‘No chance,’ says JM Coetzee, though even he must be wondering how on earth he is getting away with such rubbish.

  ‘Do you think the reason we are in a vaguely socialist country, where nothing is good and nothing is bad, is because we are meant to think we are in an imaginary Cuba?’ David asks.

  ‘Let’s see if you have a friend called Fidel and a dog called Bolivar,’ says Simon.

  ‘Hola,’ says Fidel. ‘Woof,’ says Bolivar.

  Simon decides it’s time for David to be educated. ‘Let’s read Don Quixote,’ he says.

  ‘Great book,’ says David. ‘Everything that happens in it must be true.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘It is to me.’

  For some reason, Simon finds this answer to be a sign of genius.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ says David.

  ‘I’m not sure five loaves and two fishes will be enough,’ says Simon.

  ‘I think you’ll find it will.’

  The school called in Simon and Ines to tell them the teachers think David is an annoying halfwit who can’t count. ‘He’s an idiot savant,’ Simon insists, before being knocked over by a dockyard crane that may or may not have been Platonic.

  ‘Forget the savant. He needs to go to a special school,’ the school says.

  ‘Whoo, scary,’ says Ines. ‘That school will fail to notice his beauty and purity.’

  ‘It’s OK Mummy-not-Mummy. I have escaped from the school through the barbed wire. Observe my stigmata.’

  ‘There is no sodding barbed wire,’ says the school.

  Still, Simon and Ines persist with the delusion that David is the Messiah and drive him away to the north of the country.

  ‘My invisibility cloak is working,’ says David. ‘You can’t see me.’

  ‘Yes we can, David, you’ve just burned your eyes on a magnesium flare.’

  ‘Truly, his eyes are undamaged,’ says a doctor. ‘He is capable of transcendental visions. Shall we end this book now?’

  ‘If you insist,’ says Coetzee.

  Digested read, digested: No hope of a resurrection.

  CHICK LIT

  The Clematis Tree

  by Ann Widdecombe (2001)

  Mark and Claire Wellings were goodish eggs, but despite being comfortably well-off, the strain of looking after their son Jeremy for seven years had taken its toll. Their marriage was an empty loveless shell.

  ‘I’ve booked a holiday,’ said Mark.

  ‘We can’t leave Jeremy,’ Claire replied defiantly.

  Mark knew his marriage was doomed.

  Their daughter Pippa picked up a severe dose of gastro-enteritis. ‘I hope Jeremy doesn’t get it,’ Mark muttered to himself. ‘It could kill him.’

  Jeremy spent the next two weeks in intensive care, hovering between life and death.

  ‘That does for the holiday,’ said Mark over supper one evening. ‘By the way, did you know your sister Sally is planning to introduce a euthanasia bill into the Commons?’ He wondered what the bill might mean for Jeremy, and whether the press would discover his link to Sally.

  Mark took himself off on a week’s holiday to Estoril. Lying on the beach, he was awoken by some ice-cream dropping on his stomach. He looked up to see a girl with a hideous disfigurement.

  ‘She seems very accepting of her condition,’ Mark said later to the girl’s mother.

  ‘I’ve taught her to be serene,’ she said. ‘I’m a widow, incidentally.’

  They had dinner. Mark resisted the temptation of an affair, but still knew his marriage was doomed.

  ‘I’m a shopaholic and I occasionally hit Jeremy,’ Claire confessed on his return.

  ‘I’d better talk to the vicar, then,’ Mark concluded.

  ‘I’m getting married to Ben,’ said Mark’s sister Ruth. ‘His first wife and two children were all killed in a car crash.’

  Work was hotting up at the firm of solicitors where Mark worked. They took on extra staff, including Ginny, a short-skirted Australian secretary. Mark resisted the temptation of an affair, but still knew his marriage was doomed.

  Mark and Claire woke to find the press camped out on their doorstep. ‘They’ve found out about Jeremy,’ said Claire. Mark invoked the second Person of the Trinity.

  As Claire’s father, Sam, lay in hospital after a severe stroke, Mark waved Pippa off on her school trip to France. ‘Have a safe journey,’ he shouted, as the coach departed.

  Reports came in of a major accident, with several fatalities, on the M20.

  ‘I’m afraid Pippa was on the coach,’ said the headmaster. Mark and Claire waited anxiously for news.

  ‘Actually, she was on the other coach after all,’ said the headmaster. ‘Pippa’s fine.’

  Sam died of a heart attack and several months later the brake failed – or did aunt Isabel release it? – and Jeremy’s wheelchair rolled into the river. Despite Mark’s efforts to revive him, he drowned.

  ‘Could I have done more,’ Mark anguished. ‘He looked so peaceful. But am I at peace?’

  ‘I want a divorce,’ he said firmly.

  ‘You can’t,’ said Claire. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Mark knew then he would stay in his doomed marriage of deepening unhappiness.

&nbs
p; Digested read, digested: The Book of Job rewritten for High Church, High Tory matrons from the shires.

  I Don’t Know How She Does It

  by Allison Pearson (2002)

  1.37am Why am I up at this time of night distressing the M&S mince pies for Emily’s carol concert when I’ve got to fly to New York first thing? Because I can’t trust Rich to do it. And why’s he called Rich when he earns less than the nanny? Come to think of it, why am I called Kate Reddy, my boss Rod Task and my email flirtee Jack Abelhammer? Oh, I see, I’ve got into one of those books where people’s names describe their characters in a terribly amusing way.

  8.52am Sorry about that, I’ve got a bit more time to chat now I’m in midair. So what do you need to know? I’m a fund manager with Ernest Morgan Foster; I’ve got two gorgeous kids, Emily and Ben, whom I feel tremendously guilty about. Ah, that reminds me. There, I’ve just ticked all the boxes for the Hamley’s catalogue. Now where was I? Ah yes, all men are useless. Things to remember: cancel the stress-busting massage.

  6.03am Just back from New York. Almost had sex with Jack. Rich tries to bully me into a reunion shag, but I pretend to fall asleep. ‘We need to talk,’ he says later. ‘Don’t you realise I’ve got a very important presentation in 50 minutes?’ I reply. Life is so much tougher for women.

  10.49am Presentation interrupted by the arrival of my dad. The loser needs some money. ‘Will £10K do?’ I snap. Why does every mega-woman have a useless father? Why can’t I have an easy life earning the same mega-bucks churning out dreary columns or chatting to Tom and Tony?

  2.42pm Momo and I won the right to manage the ethical fund. Hooray. Rich has left home. The nanny’s gone AWOL. A colleague’s wife has died, adding pathos and poignancy to my predicament.

  7.10pm My kids fail to recognise me.

  7.12am Some porno pics of Momo were found by her doing the rounds at work. Persuade hated male colleague who did this to invest in my dad’s project, thereby paying off his debts and wasting EMF’s money.

  9.15am Resign from EMF. Sell house, move to Derbyshire to return to honest working-class roots. Am back with Rich, kiss kiss. Never did shag Jack, boo hoo. The kids have never been happier. And who’s this at the door? My sister Julie saying the local doll’s house factory is about to close. Do I spot an opportunity?

  Digested read, digested: The column that got out of control.

  Liz Jones’s Diary

  by Liz Jones (2005)

  There are two reasons why I have never had much interest from men:

  1. I’ve set my sights ridiculously high. Over the years I have tried to date Prince, Justin Timberlake, James Bond and Homer Simpson;

  2. I am neurotic, bordering on the certifiable.

  Millennium Eve Eve I think Kevin is my boyfriend because we had sex and he stayed longer than 30 minutes.

  Millennium Eve I have an oily bath, waiting for him to call.

  March 19 2000 The bath is cold. He still hasn’t called. I ring my best friend Jeremy to find out what to do. ‘Don’t call him,’ he says. I dial Kevin’s number. ‘Will you marry me?’ I beg. ‘No.’

  April 20 2000 My three cats think I still might have a chance with Kevin. The phone rings. A man wants to interview me about my job in the media. His name is Nirpal. He is 26 years old and I think we are going to get married.

  April 24 2000 He calls. ‘Do you want to go out to dinner?’ he asks. ‘You’re paying.’ ‘Of course,’ I reply.

  April 28 2000 The Boyfriend looks into my eyes. ‘How old are you?’ ‘31,’ I lie. In fact, I’m 36. ‘Hmm,’ he says, ‘your plastic surgery makes you look a great deal older.’

  August 15 2000 The Boyfriend has moved in and I am being extra nice. He is allowed to sit on my £10,000 sofa without washing obsessively first and he can cuddle me in bed, providing there is a pillow between us and he doesn’t disturb the cats.

  September 5 2000 The Boyfriend has moved out on my birthday. ‘Please come back,’ I plead. ‘I’ll buy you a PlayStation, an Armani suit and let you write your novel at home while I pay for everything.’ ‘Throw in a car and I’ll think about it,’ he says. ‘Done.’

  October 10 2002 It’s our wedding day. I’ve spent £20,000 on hiring Babington House. I’ve done it. I’m married.

  July 17 2003 The Husband staggers into the room. ‘I now weigh 17 stone,’ he gasps. ‘You’ve fattened me up because you hope I’ll never be able to leave you. Women do still fancy me, you know.’ I don’t think so.

  December 23 2003 ‘You treat me like a pet,’ the Husband moans. This is not true. I treat him far worse. The cats get fresh tuna flakes and are allowed to sit near me.

  April 8 2004 The Husband says he is feeling unfulfilled and wants a baby. ‘OK,’ I say, ‘let’s buy one.’

  May 12 2004 The counsellor asks if we have considered the cultural implications of adopting an Indian child. ‘No,’ I reply thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never been to the Calcutta branch of Prada.’

  September 23 2004 ‘Not sure I want a baby any more,’ the Husband says. ‘Neither do I.’

  November 1 2004 The Husband has been doing yoga and has lost two stone. I think he’s going to leave. ‘Do you love me?’ I ask. ‘Don’t be so needy, and turn over to Sky Sports 1.’

  February 12 2005 ‘I’ve got a book deal,’ the Husband yells. ‘I’m off travelling by myself. I’ll see you around.’ For the first time in years, I really think our marriage has a chance.

  Digested read, digested: The untreatable in pursuit of the unspeakable.

  Wicked! by Jilly Cooper (2006)

  ‘You do realise that Larks is a failing school?’ Janna tossed back her luxuriant red curls as the governors of Larkminster comprehensive offered her the job of headteacher. ‘I think it’s wicked,’ she squealed. ‘And I’m delighted to give Feral, Paris, Kylie, Graffi and other chavs the chance to succeed.’

  Hengist Brett-Taylor furrowed his handsome brow. Bagley Hall had gone from strength to strength since he had been in charge, but the independent sector could always benefit from associating itself with state schools. And besides, Janna was quite a minx.

  ‘You must be careful, Janna,’ Hengist purred. ‘Ashton Douglas and the LEA are looking to close Larks. But I can persuade Randal Stancombe, a local property developer, to buy Larks a minibus so we could put on a joint performance of Romeo and Juliet.’

  Janna moistened. Hengist stood for everything she hated, but how could she resist his bedroom eyes?

  ‘Oh Gawd,’ drawled Cosmo Supah-Doopah, to his chums Tarquin and Xavier. ‘The head’s only gorn and made us do Shakespeare with the proles. How fraffly orful.’

  ‘We think it’s great,’ drooled Milly and Dulcie, the Bagley Babes, their bosoms heaving in anticipation. ‘The lower orders are well lush.’ The production was a triumph, with Paris a sensation as Romeo. ‘I must offer him a scholarship,’ Hengist thought, as his fingers gently twanged Janna’s suspender-belt. Janna’s head was in a whirl. She wanted Hengist, yet felt guilty about betraying his wife, Sally. If only she could fancy Bagley’s moody history teacher, Emlyn; but he only had eyes for Hengist’s daughter, Orianna.

  Hengist smiled to himself. The Telegraph had loved his piece, the opposition wanted him to be education minister and, best of all, the sultry Ruth Walton was going down on him.

  Janna wept tears of bitter anguish. How could Hengist betray her and how could Ashton say he was going to close Larks when her working-class pets were making such tremendous strides?

  An anonymous cheque for £120,000 arrived on Janna’s doorstep. She could afford to keep the GCSE class open after all. A second surprise soon followed.

  ‘I’ve come to teach history,’ Emlyn said in his sexy Welsh lilt.

  ‘We’ve got work to do,’ yelled Janna, ‘especially as the sports minister has taken on a bet to see if he can get a GCSE in a year at Larks.’

  What a year it was. Never had Larks and Bagley Hall seen such heavy petting and frantic coupling. And how Janna’s heart swelled wit
h pride when everyone did so well in their exams.

  Hengist looked up at Alex Bruce, his deputy. What an odious nonentity he was. ‘I believe that you cheated on behalf of Paris,’ Alex snarled. Hengist paled. ‘It’s true, and I’ve betrayed my wife, ‘ he said. ‘I should go to prison.’

  ‘Oh Janna, you’ve won the National Teaching awards, it was me who sent the £120,000 and I’ve discovered Orianna is a lesbian,’ cooed Emlyn.

  ‘We can be together.’

  ‘I recognise Ashton as a paedophile,’ shouted Paris, as the police arrested Stancombe and Bruce on corruption charges.

  Hengist left prison a wiser man. ‘Maybe we should try again,’ said Sally.

  Digested read, digested: Complete and utter bollarks.

  Notting Hell

  by Rachel Johnson (2006)

  Clare: I’ve just seen the soignée Virginie Lacoste in the communal gardens of my £3m mansion in Lonsdale Gardens, after leaving the Avery house at 5am. Quelle scandale. My dear friend Mimi will love this.

  Mimi: It’s so difficult to be a Notting Hill Mummy when your husband has only inherited his £1.5m house and we’re so much poorer than everyone else.

  Clare: I want a baby so I can be a Yummy Mummy. I’m sooo looking forward to seeing the billionaire Si Kasparian at the Dodd Nobles’ party.

  Mimi: Predictably I’ve got three children called Casimir, Mirabel and Pretentious. How Ralph and I struggle to pay the school fees. I met Si tonight. SWOON. I’ve never been unfaithful before but I think I might now.

  Clare: It was charming to see the Curtises – or should I say Freuds!! – and the Camerons, but I’m outraged that the Averys are building a garage.

  Mimi: I pretend to poke fun at all the people I name-drop but actually this book is an homage to them. Just don’t let anyone in on the secret! The Mail on Sunday phoned to ask me to profile Si. He took me out to lunch and then he, just, well, took me. How divine, but how guilty I feel. But – sob – he hasn’t even called me since.