Should British Comedy Thank Margaret Thatcher?

When I was a child, the alternative comedians of the eighties taught me how to hate Margaret Thatcher. She was everywhere, this pointy-faced, vile witch of a pantomime villain, and as a young kid sucking on alternative comedy like a bag of glue, it was my responsibility to boo her on sight. Did I understand the politics? No, not really. It wasn’t until later that I discovered the wide and varied shades of shit that she rained down on Britain from her indiscriminately spraying arsehole. So, learning to hate her in advance was quite lucky for an under-ten like me.

For the rest of the country, the wave of alternative comedy that hit Britain in the 1980s gave voice to the very real frustration that this woman’s reign invoked. Whether it was Ben Elton or Alexei Sayle ranting into the mic, Rik in The Young Ones blaming her for his own shortfalls or the grotesque rubber rendering of Her Ironness in Spitting Image, she was everywhere and it could be argued that rebelling against her resulted in some of the most sublime, energetic and important comedy ever performed in this country. Comedically, this launched the careers of a generation of talent that still endures. Politically, this was a way of reducing Thatcher’s perceived power and potentially rallying opposition.   

Of course, this is not the first time that comedy has been used as a weapon; Google ‘Hitler cartoons’ and you will see how ridiculing the führer was an invaluable tool in WWII (No, I am not comparing Thatcher to Hitler!). However, it does seem to me that the eighties brought satire into the mainstream because Margaret Thatcher provoked such a strong reaction in the comedic thinkers of the day. These were the alternative comedians; they were moving away from the mother-in-law jokes of the working-man’s set and the absurdity of the Oxbridge contingency. They were young, pumped and wanted to stamp their size-9 Dr Martins down on what they saw going on around them. They had microphones and it would have been irresponsible not to use them to fight back. You could argue that Margaret Thatcher was just gravy and these revolutionaries would have steered British comedy in a new direction anyway, but I find this hard to believe. She was the catalyst to revolution in the comedy world.

People are now talking about Margaret Thatcher’s legacy. I’m a working-class lefty, so my view is fairly predictable, especially as the Tories are now in power again and David Cameron seems to be only a dress and a pair of high heels away from literally following in her footsteps. Others will claim that she’s the best thing since nostril-hair clippers and the country would be drowned in custard (or something equally implausible) if she hadn’t made it to number ten. With all this talk of her political legacy, it seems trivial to bring this back to comedy, but British comedy (and music for that matter) has never had a muse quite like her, and for someone who is really struggling to find something to praise a dead woman for, this is all I can come up with.

Her comedic legacy is that satire is now a mainstream feature of our lives, whether on stage, TV or radio. We expect our leaders to be pulled up and made accountable by our comedians; we laugh at it, but we also know that something important is happening underneath. Many a truth is told in jest, and for a large section of society who would not consider themselves politically-minded, comedy is an accessible route to information and awareness. Some comedians are still just in it for the laughs and this is great, but many are devoted to giving voice to political injustice and social frustration, and as long as this continues to happen there will always be the possibility of change.

Thank you, Mrs Thatcher (sort of)

 

Time travel as a cure for depression, the Mods and Rockers on the West Pier, a vengeful Sat Nav lady, a seagull-stalked Frank Sinatra and Diazepam for sale... 
A fairytale for a prozac nation...
Fiction for a world that doesn't behave the way it should....

Diazepam for Sale, the debut novel by Hayley Sherman now available on Amazon   

 

Does Brutally Killing Children in My Novels Make Me a Murderer?

This is a question that all writers will ask themselves at some point in their careers if they’ve ever had to get their hands bloody in the name of plot development. It will be especially pertinent if, like me, you have too much time on your hands, hate January and spent the month asking yourself stupid questions that make little sense and have no connection to real life.

You see, I’m working on a psychological thriller at the moment, which is a bit of a departure for me. I committed murder in my last book, but this new project takes it to a whole new level; the death rate is high and the victims are little children. The murder in my first book was also of a child, but it was different because he deserved it*; the murders I’m writing at the moment are killing pure innocence and it’s my job to make them as realistic, stomach-churning, sickening and shocking as possible, so that by the time you’ve reached the end of the chapter you really will want to call the police and report the atrocity. So, does this make me a murderer? I confess that the inspiration for this book was partly a real-life event that I felt sad about for a while before a familiar twisted thought snuck in – ‘That would make a really cool novel.’ Normal people don’t think this way. They read the newspaper, feel sad and then make a sandwich; thoughts don’t wear them down until they're being held hostage by their biros and forced to kill. I’m a terrible, terrible person.

I literally can’t not write this book at the moment; it’s consuming my thoughts. However, in truth, my commitment to the project exists despite the murder chapters not because of them. To be completely honest, I hate writing them and I’m writing them as delicately as possible, which makes me a reluctant murderer. I don’t want to commit them; I want these little children to blossom, grow up and live positive and meaningful lives, but wicked hands in the book have other ideas. However, I’m the one steering these hands, so I can never be completed absolved. I’m extremely relaxed and groovy as a person and every drop of blood I drain from these children rubs against my conscience; I know that no one is really getting hurt, but it’s troubling that I could possibly have these disturbing things in my head. I’m a terrible, terrible person.

You may be wondering why (as someone who is also quite squeamish) I’m choosing to write this book. The answer is the effect of these killings. I may not be adept at murder, but I know all about the wide and varied ways that the brain gets messed up by life, and this is another exploration into the frailty of the human mind and how life as we know it can be completely blown apart in a moment. My main character is as screwy as you like, and the litter of dead children put in her path drives her completely over the edge. This, I feel no guilt about. All of my favourite books take the reader on journeys of the mind and this is the kind of fiction that I will always write. If you liked the journey and the unpredictable twists and revelations of Diazepam for Sale, you’re going to love this. Watch this space for more info.

*He deserved it? Really? Read the book and you’ll understand.

Diazepam for Sale is available on Amazon

New Year's Resolution? I’m moving to the 19th Century. It Looks Nice There

Firstly, Happy New Year. Secondly, what the hell am I doing in this century when the 1800s were tailor-made for me? I seem to be asking myself this over and over again at the moment and I’ve made it my resolution to move back there. You may think that this is an unrealistic NY resolution, but – let’s face it – it’s no more unrealistic than the ‘I will stop smoking/lose weight/be nicer/have a personality bypass’ brigade, who will also forget that the New Year ever happened before they’ve said goodbye to January.

I should clarify that I’m not moving back to be a scullery maid or a lady; my 19^th century is creeping towards revolution and I live in classless Kent in a bohemian country house. I am a writer with a writer partner and we throw eccentric parties for other members of the Fabian Society. We talk stories and the imminent revolution and we all have secret affairs with each other in fields of daisies. We have lots of children, some of which we have made and some we have collected. We paint and sing and dance, and put on shows for each other. We are happy.

There are two other things that I should probably explain. Firstly, I’ve been reading The Children’s Book by A.S. Byatt and have adopted the author’s snapshot of late-Victorian life as my template (I’m ignoring all the bad things that happen in the book – highly recommended, by the way). Secondly, my desire for a temporal relocation may have quite a lot to do with my desire to get a refund on the 21^st century. You see, no one in 1894 was ever told that there was an unexpected item in the bagging area; they didn’t have to waste valuable hours writing and re-writing wiggly, unrecognisable ‘captcha’ words just to communicate with each other; they didn’t have to hear ‘Gangnam Style’ on the bus and children ‘LOL’ing like seals; they didn’t have to send a text to get their children to look at them; and they didn’t have to wonder which vacuous ‘celebrity’ would be distracting everyone from the things that really matter next. There were little shops rather than great, big, soul-sucking corporations; there was trust rather than CCTV and government eavesdropping; they didn’t slather their elderly in Oil of Olay to stop them looking so embarrassing; kids ran around exercising more than their thumbs and eyeballs; and quality was always preferred to quantity.

You see, I don’t want to watch a film in the garden, do business on the train or meet a partner based on statistics; I don’t want to have to choose between 800 types of shampoo with all their varying promises to make me taller, richer and thinner. This is a world where we’re pressured to label the tat-pusher’s wares as essential and forever being persuaded that we need the all-singing, all-dancing crap that really makes us unhappy. You can’t afford to live without selling your soul; you can’t scratch your backside without red tape. In fact, the 21^st century is like sitting in a room where all the chairs are facing the wall. I want to talk and love and wear ill-fitting clothes without brushing my hair. I want to be paddling and swimming not wading and drowning.

Okay, so the 19^th century had its shortfalls too (and I know I’ve fallen into a bit of a rant), but where are we all going? Man’s historical desire to push forward and fuck the consequences will soon have us all communicating with the chips in our heads (if communication will still be seen as important in the future), fed intravenously and sucking information out of straws.

And I know that this might seem hypocritical, as I’m using technology to write this, while listening to my iPod and eating food that I’ve whipped up in 2 minutes in the microwave, but I would give it all up for a big pile of nothing. How can I, though, in a society where I get accosted for occasionally refusing to take my phone out with me (but we were trying to contact you!), where pen and paper have become ornamental oddities, where I am a freak for wanting things to be simple? So that’s it; I’m moving back to the 19^th century and you can’t stop me… And breathe!

Emma travels through time for extremely different reasons; she doesn't have a choice, but it is the only cure for her depression on offer. 

Diazepam for Sale by Hayley Sherman available now.

I Love the Smell of Dystopia in the Morning

We all know the set-up; the world has gone tits-up and our protagonist has to battle the dictators, cameras, crazies and brain-washed nay-sayers until he or she can find a way out, away or underground to the safety of other everyday normals who just want a peaceful life. This is the realm of the dystopian novel, where humans are oppressed for doing human things, and insanity and illogic prevail. We’ve all read them – 1984, Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451, The Handmaid’s Tale, to name but four. The author selects a problem currently facing society and magnifies it by a million to scare the shit out of us all, but keep us turning the pages, because there is nothing more captivating than the question, ‘What if?

It’s the question that I ask myself every day when I’m writing, but my ‘what ifs’ are usually a lot less political and are full of whimsy, bordering on a carnivalesque kind of appreciation of pushing my characters as far as I can take them (What if she sees Frank Sinatra on the bus, but he isn’t dead; he’s stuck in Brighton and stalked by seagulls? That kind of thing). Mine are the ‘what ifs’ of surreal fantasy, but the dystopian authors employ a far more admirable kind of questioning that brings an eerie realism to what is also essentially fantasy. Their ‘what ifs’ are loaded with an arsenal of terror as we are shown a society that we recognise as our own, destroyed by decisions and issues that we also recognise all too well.

I have thought about writing a dystopian novel. Mine would be set in a world where political decisions are made that change the world while the brain-washed masses are distracted by pointless ‘news’ stories about celebrities and reality TV shows. I also thought about inventing a reality TV show to keep my characters hooked and calling it ‘Big Brother’ – a kind of post-modern, ironic nod to the godfather of dystopia – but surely, it’s too farfetched!

My reason for bringing up the subject of dystopian fiction is that I’ve stumbled upon two more for my list. Yes, there are more than six dystopian novels in the world, but I’ve done some of the classics and now we’re onto the young guns – two indie books and, incidentally, two of the books that made me smile the most this year. I don’t really do book reviews here for three reasons (1. part of my real job is to critique fiction, which makes it feel like work; 2. It makes me feel like I’m back at university: thus, work; 3. I’m selfish), but here’s a quick shout-out so that you can hunt them down and enjoy.

 The first is Dyscountopia by Niccola Grovinci. As the synopsis will tell you, this book is set in a world where the planet has been roofed and taken over by a megastore. Everyone works for the megastore, streets are aisles and there is no alternative way of life. What the synopsis doesn’t tell the reader is how fast paced and original this tale really is, how the language punches you in the face and how the neat little touches almost make this world of consumerism-gone-mad believable.

The second is WindigoSoul by Robert Brumm, which is a mashed-up puppy of a book where over-population has crippled living standards and extraordinary measures are put in place to tip the balance in humanity’s favour. These measures, however, include enforced euthanasia at sixty. Great characters navigate a cracking storyline that really capitalises on this thought-provoking setup and makes for a great read.     

I think that the most terrifying aspect of the genre is not the worlds that are created by these authors, but those characters that have complete faith in their way of life: the unquestioning, ever-obedient inhabitants who believe in their world because those in power have told them to do so. I’m sure that I don’t need to labour the parallels to real life any further…   

 

Time travel as a cure for depression, the Mods and Rockers on the West Pier, a vengeful Sat Nav lady, a seagull-stalked Frank Sinatra and Diazepam for sale... 
A fairytale for a prozac nation...
Fiction for a world that doesn't behave the way it should....

Diazepam for Sale, the debut novel by Hayley Sherman now available on Amazon   

How a Short Story Nearly Saved the World

I finished my story a few days ago. It had taken ten years. I didn’t mean it to take so long, but each word was a matchstick in an elaborate, glorious model, the kind my granddad used to make – a warship or a plane – and I was never very good with my hands.

The first thing I did was read it to my wife; it was the least I could do after ten years, but I could see that her expectations were low. I felt like I was eight years old and showing her a picture I’d painted that she knew wouldn’t fit on the fridge unless she moved her shopping list, dieting mantras, bills and all the other things that were far more important.

My expectations were low, but as I began to read she began to unravel. Just like that. Her arms unfolded, her legs uncrossed, her facial muscles unwound and I swear I could hear her heartbeat marking every other verb. And when I had finished she began to rise, slowly at first. Her feet were barely there; she didn’t use those, but rise she did – out of the chair and into the space above us, swirling and spinning, gliding and swooping, the shopping list and mantras and bills a distant memory.

‘Are you okay, love?’

She didn’t answer at first. She was figure-of-eighting around the lampshade and…was that laughing? It wasn’t like any kind of laughter I’d heard before.

‘Wait there!’ I was beginning to panic. ‘I’ll get you down.’

‘Don’t worry about me. Just open the window.’

And I did and she floated out unlike any butterfly I had ever seen. She swooped and spun and just lay in the sky as if it was where she had always belonged, and then she reappeared at the window, completely unravelled. Didn’t anything matter anymore?

She gathered every part of her face with some effort and said, ‘Tell everyone.’ Then she disappeared again.

I hadn’t receiving a review as good as this in my entire writing career. And from my wife too! So I ran into the street, grabbed the first person I found and after some persuasion, read the story again. As I read he looked as if he might fall asleep, but in a good way, as if he had never been hugged before and I had wrapped my arms around him and told him everything was going to be alright. And then he drifted into the air, peacefully lounging in a bed he never knew he deserved.

And then other people were approaching me to read them the story and before I knew it, the sky was full and I was alone beneath the impossible air show, just looking. What else could I do?

‘Get in the van!’ 

It was as good an option as anything else, so I followed the instruction. Where the van had appeared from, I had no idea, but they were wearing masks and I had seen people like these in films. When these people told you to get in the van you did it and when they told you to remain silent you did that too. The next thing I knew I was being cross-examined in the Ministry of Short Stories. Who knew?

The man was nice.

‘Your story is beautiful.’

Blush.

‘We’d like to buy it, with your permission. For our…collection.’

‘You like stories?’

‘After a fashion.’ He had a mole, a big mole, the kind of mole you could take a bite out of without affecting its mass.

‘What do you want to do with it?’

‘We could use it to make the world a better place.’ Mole.

‘That sounds nice. I’d quite like to keep it though. What did you say you wanted to do with it?’

‘Add it to our collection.’

‘I guess you have lots of stories here.’ Big mole.

‘Yes and they all serve a purpose.’

‘Like in the street?’

‘After a fashion.’

‘Hmm!’

‘Hmm! Indeed. We can pay you a substantial amount of money.’

I wasn’t really fussed about money. I didn’t like that mole. I didn’t like the collection. But he was nice so I reached into my pocket and handed over the mangled sheet of A4.

He looked surprised.

‘I know it off by heart, you see.’ I offered. ‘We can make the world a better place together.’

‘Hmm!’

And then silence.

‘This presents us with a little problem.’ Mole.

‘What’s that?’

‘Well, let me take this from you.’ He took the story from me, gripping it with tweezers, and then deposited it in some kind of strange plastic bag that I had also seen in films. ‘We’ll talk again, but first I wonder if you’d be interested in reading one of the stories from our collection.’ He used the tweezers again to release another story from another bag and delicately placed it in front of me as if it might explode if he disturbed it too much.

‘Is it a nice story?’

‘After a fashion.’

I unfolded the page and opened my mouth to read the first word.

‘Wait!’

‘What?’ Mole.

‘I’ll leave you alone to enjoy it.’

I shrugged. He could suit himself. I love a good story and he left the room.

When I was alone again, I settled into my chair. It had to be a good one. Mine had taken ten years to write. This had to be good to make it to the collection, to make it to the Ministry of Short Stories.

‘Once upon a time,’ I began to read.

And that truly was the end.

 

Time travel as a cure for depression, the Mods and Rockers on the West Pier, a vengeful Sat Nav lady, a seagull-stalked Frank Sinatra and Diazepam for sale... 
A fairytale for a prozac nation...
Fiction for a world that doesn't behave the way it should....

Diazepam for Sale, the debut novel by Hayley Sherman now available on Amazon

Love short Stories? The New Online Short Story Annual 2013 is a living, breathing showcase of new writing talent. Submissions are always welcome.