50 Shades of Shite

It’s like something out of Doctor Who. All of our women have gone into a hypnotic half-coma, precipitated by the arrival of a strange and mysterious alien artefact. It came as if from nowhere, but within days had enslaved the fairer sex the world over, giving their eyes a zombified glaze and turning their brains to mulch. The artefact is a tome containing ancient and magical words which, when read, transport their readers’ minds to the 19th century, back to a time where being smacked around and hate-fucked by a rich psychopath was considered romantic.

I’m talking, of course, about 50 Shades of Grey, the first instalment in a trilogy of erotic fiction by English author EL James. The word ubiquitous was invented with this book’s arrival in mind. It’s become a full-blown fad, just like Nazism in the 30s.

Women are convincing themselves it’s the most romantic piece of pussy-twitching genius they’ve ever read. It was bad enough when all of the adult women I knew were creaming themselves over children’s author JK Rowling, but this time it’s gone too far. At least Harry Potter never tied Hermione to a piano and shoved a wand up her twat.

My girlfriend’s been ensnared. I’ve never seen a book devoured so quickly. Three books, actually, because she’s on the last one now. She’s reading EL James in bed, on the couch, on the toilet, in the car. She even read it during an argument, I shit you not. Up came the book, covering her face like a printed-and-bound middle finger. The worst thing is, she freely admits that she thinks the book is poorly written and shit (a bit like this website), but claims to be hopelessly addicted to it nonetheless. She might as well sook EL James’s words up with a syringe and then inject them into her arm.

‘Oh, but I need to know what happens next,’ she says. This isn’t a book: it’s the printed equivalent of a salacious conversation taking place between two nosy gossips over a tenement garden’s fence.

‘Ooooh, did you hear about our Anastasia?’

‘Ooooh, I know, shacking up with that rich guy.’

‘He ties her up, you know.’

‘Oooooh, that’s the least of it, I heard. Hits her with a paddle and shoves things up her muff, our Jeannie said.’

‘Oooooh, I’m lucky if my Frank even takes his socks off in bed, never mind shoving things up my muff!’

Apparently, this book is sexy, despite the opinion of one Amazon.co.uk reviewer, who wrote: ‘The fact that the book is pornographic wouldn’t bother me, if it weren’t for the fact that is sounds like sexual encounters as described by an 11-year old.’

All of the women I’ve spoken to who are reading this book claim that it gives them hot flushes of arousal, sometimes striking them in the most public of places. So, guys, if you see a red-faced woman squirming in her seat as she reads this book on the bus, get in there and try your luck. But don’t bother with any cheesy chat-up lines. Just look deep into her eyes, and then punch her hard in the tits. Honestly, this book makes me think that if they rewrite the Koran to feature spanking paddles and dildos, we’ll all be muslim this time next week. Where’s Germaine Greer when you need her?

Ladies, ladies, ladies. Have you seen a picture of the book’s author? Here it is, here. Take a good, long look at her. She’s the one who’s been giving you vaginal palpitations. Her. The sort of sexually malfunctioning wet-fannied fatty you’d find manning the jizz-fest on 0898 sex-chat lines. Do you really want to be rubbing yourself raw at night because of the fantasy world this menopausal momma has created? You might as well get your grannie to read you ‘The Tropic of Cancer’ as you do squat-thrusts on a love-egg.

But how can I say so much about the book when I haven’t even read it? True, I’m an ignorant bastard. But not for long. 50 Shades of Grey is sitting next to me on the couch, begging me to read it like the dirty slut it is. And I’m going to. Either I’ll have my hypothesis confirmed, or be completely shocked at how wrong I was, and possibly send EL James a bunch of flowers and a golden dildo. Whatever happens, I can use the book itself to spank my girlfriend raw.

Stay tuned for my fair, balanced and reasonable reaction to this fucking heap of illiterate shite.


In the meantime, click on the link below to read ’50 Shades of Jew’, written in tribute to EL James and in an exaggerated version of her style.

2 thoughts on “50 Shades of Shite

  1. If it were men who started this frenzied-book-reading-pandemic, we’d all be filthy bastards, just like that sick Grey dude. Crazy bitches.

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