A Fucked Up Life in Books
The most fucked up memoir you’ll ever read.A foul-mouthed memoir about a dysfunctional life.Each chapter recounts a key moment in the author’s life through the books she was reading at the time including:• Howard’s End, the only text she had read whilst engaging in sexual intercourse.• The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, which she had in her bag while on holiday in Tangier when a market trader offered her to buy her from her mother for 30 camels.• Angela’s Ashes, her chosen reading material during her breast reduction surgery.• Wild Swans, the book she read the day she decided to have nothing more to do with her mother.It is funny, it is shocking, it is heartbreaking, it is very rude and it is totally unforgettable.
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A FUCKED UP LIFE IN BOOKS
Anonymous
To Boy, love from Stumpy
Table of Contents
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Hans Christian Andersen Fairy Tales
A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
Introduction
I started writing a blog because I wanted to talk about books anonymously. The reason I did it anonymously was because I didn’t, and still don’t really, think that I am at all clever or insightful enough to have decent opinions on books. If I love them, I can’t really tell you why; and if I hate them I tend to just swear a lot and get frustrated. The best and most fitting anonymous name that I could think of for me was BookCunt. I fucking love books and I have a cunt. Job done.
The first book I reviewed was The Tiny Wife by Andrew Kaufman that had been given to me by a friend. After I reviewed that I didn’t really know what else to do. I didn’t have any other new books to review, and no one really knew about the blog so I wasn’t getting sent any review copies by anyone, so I posted a story about the time that a man chased me down the street because of Isaac Asimov. People liked it, they thought it was funny. And it was easy to write because it was true. It had happened just before I left to go to university as I was hanging around in town trying to find a job to make some money so that when I got to university I had some money to piss away. So, I asked my (ten or so) followers on Twitter what they wanted from the blog; did they want book reviews or did they want stories? And they all said stories, which was fine by me because I had a fucking shitload in my head just ready to tell. I carried on with reviews, as I started to get authors and publishers sending me things to read, but every Saturday I’d post a story of something that had happened to me.
I can remember every single book I’ve ever read, and I can remember where I was and what I was doing while I was reading them all. This is a collection of my stories, some that have been posted on my blog and some that have not, of some of the mental shit that has happened to me. They’re not all directly about me, sometimes I was just observing. And some of the links to books are pretty tenuous. But they’re all true and they’re all as honest as I can be with a bunch of strangers on the internet. I don’t think that my life has been as fucked up and mental as some of these stories would suggest. I don’t think that I’m the only person that this sort of stuff happens to, and I don’t think that any of it is particularly new or exciting. It’s just a bunch of stuff that has happened over the last 27 years, to someone who has spent most of their life hiding behind the pages of a book. Some of it makes me sad and makes me cry, and some of it makes me feel so fucking lucky to have been there. All of it is given to you, with love, from an anonymous book blogger.
BookCunt, August 2012
Owl at Home
The first book I ever remember reading is Owl At Home, by Arnold Lobel. I’m not sure whether I ever actually read it as a child, or whether it was read to me so much that I memorised the words, but I did used to sit and turn the pages and recite the stories from it. I don’t know where the copy came from, but it is full of library stamps, which means that my Mum or possibly my Grandma probably got it from a library sale to read to me. I’ve still got my copy of the book. It currently sits on my bookcase nestled in amongst the rest. But Owl At Home is more special than the others, because it is my oldest book and because it features in my earliest memory.
I must have been about three years old. I used to sit in the garden, reading Owl At Home out to myself. We had a pretty big garden, and I was sitting in the middle of the lawn. Mum was in the kitchen preparing dinner, Dad was at work, and my younger brother was zipping about all over the patio in his walker.
I wasn’t particularly fond of him at the time. He was always in the way, he smelt, and in that walker he could come at you out of nowhere pretty fast. When I was on the lawn he couldn’t get to me. At the end of the patio was a path. The path led down to where the big bin was – one of those metal jobbies with a lid with a handle, like they had in
