Tag Archives: Harry Potter

‘You’ll find that one in the ‘Vaginal Fantasy’ section, Sir.’

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What’s happened to book genres recently? We knew where we were with Western, Sci-fi, Fantasy, Romance, Adventure, and the like, but now the branches of the Genre Tree bear the fruit of some strange and confounding sub-genres. One that caught my eye recently was Vaginal Fantasy.

What’s that then? Any book written by Derek Acorah? It got me wondering, and I imagined a few possible explanations for the phrase. At first I thought Vaginal Fantasy might be a whole sub-genre written for women who spend their lives dreaming of possessing increasingly absurd and far-fetched vaginas.

‘And so, as the sun set behind the hills of Dakota, I squatted in the half-dark, wishing with all of my heart that my fanny could be a leopard. In the morning, my wish had come true, and Tiddles, my pet cat, had paid the ultimate price.’

Perhaps it is the vaginas themselves that are fantasising:

‘Oh what a tortured cunt am I! How I dream of art, of culture, of music! What music I could play as a pianist, were I not condemned to be rammed by one… if only the world could hear me perform I know it would show its appreciation. Oh, how I long for that clap!’

(This next bit hinges on you pronouncing the word ‘vaginal’ in your head so that it rhymes with ‘Lionel’. Potato, pota-toe.) Or is Vaginal Fantasy the latest instalment of the weird Japanese video game series, but with a mingey twist?  If so, it’s begging for a Pokemon cross-over.

But, no, unsurprisingly, it’s none of these things. A book qualifies as Vaginal Fantasy if its intended readership comprises the sort of women who want a dash of porn with their schmaltzy romance. I suppose it’s just a snazzier way of saying ‘erotic fiction’. Thrills and Boom, if you like. Or Thrills and Broom, if you’re feeling really, really adventurous: JK Rowling take note.

‘I just made up the Titticus Outticus spell for a laugh. Who knew it would actually work, Hermione?’

Incidentally, JK, if you’re reading this, sweetheart, I’ve come up with a few ideas you can use if you want to do a Vaginal Fantasy version of Harry Potter – squeeze a few millions more out of the franchise before everyone gets swept away by the next big thing in young adult publishing, which will probably be a fantasy romance about a time-travelling, sex-mad college kid who just happens to be a flesh-eating zombie. Anyway, here are my suggestions for new, sexy Harry Potter titles:

Mary Squirter and the Thrill Officer’s Bone

Hairy Botter and the Chained Bear Secretes

Old Harry Scatter and the Pensioners of Ass-Kablam!

Hell, JK, why be so subtle? Why not just go the full hog and call it:

Harry Potter Goes Absolutely Fucking Bongo Mental and Pumps Everything That Moves, Even Dumbledore, And I’m Talking About the One That Died AFTER He Died

If more Scottish writers get in on the act then we could have our own sub-sub genre, simply called ‘Fanny-tasy.’ Anyway, 50 Shades of Grey is a good example of Vaginal Fantasy, although, having endured some of its chapters, I’ve decided that if a woman wants the book to have a sexy effect on her vagina then she should probably just roll it up and fud herself daft with it.

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I stumbled across another sub-genre a few years ago as I was wandering zombie-like around 24-hour Asda. When passing through the book aisle my eyes chanced upon a ticket on a shelf that read: ‘Misery 3-Pack.’ Misery 3-Pack? Who the Hell thinks to themselves, ‘Ooh, I’ve got a wee night to myself here. Get the fire on, put my feet up, get a book out, all cosy. And do you know what I’m hankering after? A nice bit misery, that’s the ticket.’

And not just one chunk of misery: but a three pack! Human history is a long, bitter struggle for survival, throughout which we’ve made it our mission to remove as much misery as possible from our existence, largely through advances in sanitation, medicine and technology. And now, as most of us in the West are privileged to live in an era of comparative safety and luxury, we’re turning to misery as entertainment? What a peculiar little species we are.

Books in this genre are usually autobiographical, and always harrowing; tales of abuse endured and survived; stories that would make even Hitler reach for a box of hankies (although he probably did reach for a box of hankies when his lieutenants reported mass Jew deaths to him; using them to mop up something other than tears, I’d imagine). Typically, Misery Lit books contain sentences like this:

‘It was then I realised, as granny tethered me to a rat in the dungeon and prepared the greased javelin for my helpless starfish, that we probably weren’t going to Disneyland after all.’

As with sex, there’s big money in misery. I wish I could write some Misery Lit. The trouble is, before you can do that you need to have suffered quite a horrific childhood, so that you can draw from those experiences. And my childhood was quite decent. Not perfect – whose is? – but broadly speaking I had quite a comfortable, lower-middle-class upbringing, during which I never feared for my life, or wondered where the next meal was coming from. And the point is this: if my mum had taken the time to beat and shag me, I could’ve been a fucking millionaire by now. Selfish bitch.

50 Shades of Shite

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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.

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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.