50 Shades of Grey: A Dangerous Love Letter To Abusive Relationships?

Very rarely do I ever feel it's necessary to preface what I write in this blog with any kind of excuse, warning or apology. This is, after all, my little corner of the Internet, in which to say whatever I wish, completely uninhibited. However, today I would like to take a moment to say this: The things you are about to read are my opinions, based on actual, factual events. The issues I will discuss could be triggering to those of you who have experienced abuse in its many forms and for that reason, I feel a gentle warning is required. Before I go on, I would finally like to add that yes, I am very much aware that 50 Shades of Grey is a work of fiction and not something to be taken personally, if any number of criticisms of what I am about to say are to be believed. I would however, point out that fiction is not something that has no effect on those who read or watch it, which is why, whilst I passionately believe that fiction shouldn't be censored, I also feel that there is no place for the argument that all books and films are "pure escapism" and that they are somehow incapable of encouraging real life events. With all of that in mind, here we go...

Unless you've been living in a cave for the last few months, you've probably heard of EL James' "erotic" novel, 50 Shades of Grey. There are also two subsequent sequels available (yippee!) - 50 Shades Darker and 50 Shades Freed. The book has been dubbed "mommy porn" and has become a best-seller, with talk of a movie (yippee yet again!) in the pipeline.

Now, I am a writer and I am painfully aware that when one - pretty much unknown - writer elects to openly criticise a much more successful writer's work, that it can come across as sour grapes. Trust me, I know from personal experience (after all, I'm a children's writer who doesn't think the Harry Potter books live up to their hype) that people are all-too-quick to dismiss the views of a struggling writer dishing out criticism of one more famous. It's for that reason that I will be wearing two hats whilst writing this blog (and that's quite a challenge for someone who really doesn't suit headgear): That of a writer, which fits rather snugly and in which I feel incredibly comfortable. The other is that of a survivor (I will NOT say "victim") of an emotionally abusive relationship. That hat does not sit well upon my head at all, but nevertheless, I find myself in a position to wear it.

So let's start with the writer's hat, shall we?

50 Shades of Grey is not a well written book. It is strewn with so many errors, I almost felt offended on behalf of the writers of fan fiction everywhere when I read it. Because of course, that is what this book (or rather, these books - I find it hard to believe it wasn't just one long story, chopped up into three in order to make as much money as possible from the hype) began life as - a Twilight fan fiction. Now I openly admit that I have never read Twilight, nor have I seen any of the films. But a little digging around on the Internet was all it took to realise how many characters and scenes were basically plagiarised without second thought. Now okay, as a fan fiction story, of course the characters would be the same, or at least similar. But when a publisher takes the story on and puts it out there for the world to see, shouldn't something be altered to make it less bloody obvious that so much of the characterisation and background to the story is another writer's work?!

Blatant plagiarism aside, the book is technically bad too. Here's a fun little game for those of you with a copy to play: Try seeing how many times a character (usually Christian, but occasionally it'll fall to someone else) "presses their lips into a hard line." Go on, have a look. I haven't counted myself (because I worry that if I pick the book up ever again, I might lose the will to live), but I would estimate it happens at least 45-50 times. In 26 chapters. That might not sound like a lot, but when you think that boils down to a probable minimum of twice a chapter, it soon starts to grate. It's as though EL James thought to herself: "Hang on, I must prove how wonderful a writer I am by never using simple, one word phrases like "frown," when I can dress it up with several words instead!"

She also writes "erotica" that is laced with so much childish stupidity that it subtly detracts from the "erotic" bits. For example, the lead female character, Ana, refers to "down there," so as to avoid any actual wording of her sexual organs. Yes, EL James uses that hideous term "my sex" as well ("his tongue traces the length of my sex"), but far too often, Ana reverts to the childlike use of "down there," which, far from being sexy, actually made my toes curl. Whether with disgust, or simply because Ana herself is a dreadful, deeply unpleasant character (seriously, I have never read a book where I hated the lead characters more than I did in this excuse for literature) and I generally curled my toes at everything she said and did, I do not know.

The book also focuses on utterly trivial matters, such as what music Christian has on his iPod, or listing literally EVERY PART of the "contract" Ana has to consider signing before she can enjoy sexy times in Christian's "Red Room of Pain," whilst stubbornly refusing to give any characters beyond Ana and Christian a real chance to develop. We know almost nothing of Kate, Ana's roommate and supposed best friend, beyond the fact that Ana seems to hate her for being pretty. Oh and for being supportive to her. And for showing any kind of interest in her relationship with Christian. See what I mean about Ana being a bit of a shitty character?! Even her best friend is painted as some kind of pretty monster for simply doing things a best friend would usually do.

I could go on and on (don't worry, I won't) about EL James' confusing tendency to attach one character's speech to another character's actions, or the utterly infuriating presence of Ana's "Subconcious" and "Inner Goddess," both of whom I ended up hating even more than Ana herself, which I didn't actually think was humanly possible. I could tear my hair out over EL James' insistence that American heroines use words and phrases like "jeez," "double crap," and "oh my!" at every given moment of their waking lives. But my real issue with this book lies in its portrayal of Christian Grey as a romantic hero and of his relationship with Ana as some kind of passionate ideal that we women should all be searching for. Not to mention the fact that Christian's personality and his treatment of Ana (more on that later), is excused by his past, seemingly making it all okay.

Christian Grey, I make NO apology for saying, is an emotionally abusive man. When I say this to friends and colleagues who think this book (and the sequels to it) are the best thing since The Rampant Rabbit, I get reactions ranging from confused disagreement to actual anger. But let me say this loud and clear: CHRISTIAN GREY IS AN EMOTIONALLY ABUSIVE MAN.

How do I know this? How can I state this so clearly in shout-y capitals?

Because I knew a man just like him.

When I first met my ex, I had every feeling described in this book and more. He was gorgeous. He was witty. He was fiercely intelligent. In every way I could possibly imagine, I was inferior to him. Much like Ana spends most of the first book (at least the early chapters) going on (and on and on and on...) about the fact that she simply isn't good enough for Christian Grey - about the fact that she doesn't think she's pretty or clever enough for a man like him - I could barely believe that a man like my ex had taken more than a passing glance at me. He was totally and utterly out of my league. And the problem was, I am pretty sure he was intelligent enough to know that I was having those exact thoughts. Far more dangerously, I am utterly certain that he used my lack of self esteem (destroyed by years of bullying, as documented here in an earlier blog) to his advantage.

Ana has nagging doubts about Christian Grey from the moment she meets him. She describes him as "autocratic and cold, at least on the surface..." and immediately she begins to wonder what makes him the way he is. Christian, for his part, warns her off in no uncertain terms: "I don't do hearts and flowers, Ana..." He tells her he'd be "bad" for her.

And my ex? You got it in one. I had the "I'm a bad man" speech, too. I had the "warning."

Women everywhere have been reading 50 Shades... and getting their knickers in a knot over this: "Ooh, he's a bit dangerous; I should stay away, but damnit, I don't want to, cos this is so FREAKIN' HOT!!"

I'm not going to criticise EL James here (don't worry, I'll more than make up for it later), because you know what? It IS hot. When my ex told me he was "fucked up," and "a bad man," I reacted with intrigue. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know why. So I can't rubbish the idea that a female character would be turned on by a man trying to warn her of how dangerous he is, because I know from experience that it DOES get you all hot and bothered, with a side-order of immense compassion thrown in for good measure. All of that is shown in the book and all of it is correct.

But very early on in the story, I began to see how potentially dangerous this book and its depiction of what is an emotionally abusive relationship, could really be.

Ana's "relationship" with Christian Grey immediately raises some disturbing questions as to what is healthy and what is just plain wrong. Shortly after their initial meeting and the beginning of their flirtation, not to mention the start of much musing over what kind of man Christian really is, Ana goes to a club and, in a drunken haze, calls him. He can tell she has been drinking and tells her "I'm coming to get you." Ana hangs up before - and this is crucial - she can tell him where she is. Later on, Christian arrives as Ana is being ill outside the club. Oh, swoon! What a saviour! But hang on... How did he know where to find her? That's right, he traced her mobile phone and STALKED her. He then takes her home. Aw, bless, how sweet! But hang on... By the time he takes her home, Ana is extremely drunk and not far off passing out. She is not in a position to say "yes" to being taken to a virtual stranger's house several miles away, WITHOUT the knowledge of her friends, who are still inside the club. If this happened in real life, it would not be hot or sexy. It would be hugely disturbing. But hey, because Christian Grey is so good looking, stalking a woman and manipulating her into going home with him without having the decency to tell her worried friends where he's taking her is just fine.

Except of course it isn't. It is, as I have said, extremely manipulative and controlling - let's not forget, at this point in the book, although there is an attraction between them, there is no real "relationship" between Ana and Christian. He had no reason to suspect that she was in danger when she called him, yet he took it upon himself to trace her call, turn up unannounced and take her back to his house, miles away from all of her friends, whilst ignoring her request to tell them where she was going. Alarm bells should have been ringing so loudly, it would have been audible above the music in the club.

But Christian is in no way painted as being at all out of order for what he does. Indeed, Ana gushes about him "saving" her. When thinking about the fact that he has stalked her by tracing her phone, she tells herself "somehow, because it's him, I don't mind."

Again, I have to take a break here and say "you know what? I used to say that." The number of times my ex made comments about my weight (I'm a UK size 10, but he used to call me "chubby" at best, "fat" at worst), subtly controlled who I saw by telling me in no uncertain terms that so and so was "violent," or "a bad friend" and that he wouldn't accompany me to see them, thus ensuring that, because I was so under his spell, I ditched them instead of him, or the number of times he manipulated me into putting up with shit I would never have tolerated from anyone else (such as his sleeping with other women and telling me I had no right to complain), simply because it was him probably runs into hundreds, if not thousands. It's a hallmark of the abusive relationship. A woman who has been drawn under a man's spell and who has started the process of being manipulated, will excuse any number of insulting, or even dangerous behaviours. To display that in a book is fine. In fact, it's a good thing - why should we hide the fact that abuse can and does happen in relationships?! But the dangerous thing here is that this is not a book that discusses abuse and sensibly and sensitively portrays the effects it has on the victim. It is a book that holds up this man - this man Who by only chapter four, has stalked a woman and shown himself to have a dangerously controlling nature as well as a questionable temper - as a romantic hero. Someone we should all aspire to being with.

Christian's controlling nature only becomes more evident from here on in. Upon waking up in a strange bed, Ana is told "if you were mine, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday."

The stunt she pulled? Oh yes, she went out with her friends on a largely empty stomach (because she was in knots, thinking about HIM and how "dangerous" he is and therefore felt unable to eat) and got herself drunk. For those that don't know, Ana is supposed to be a college student. Show me a college student who has never gone out and gotten drunk with their mates and I would say "grab me a camera," because we'd be looking at a pretty rare example. So here, Christian Grey is not only telling her she doesn't have the right to go out and do as she pleases, even though he acknowledges that she doesn't belong to him, he's also suggesting that he would cause her physical harm if she WERE his and she went out and did something that normal students do all the time.

Let me remind you once again, that this is a man being held up as a ROMANTIC HERO.

Of course EL James makes it all okay, by suggesting that Christian is only upset because Ana put herself at risk. Aw, he's worried about her! He only said what he did because he cares!

You know what my ex used to say to me? "I act this way because I care, Emsy." It's not an excuse.

Speaking of excuses, I mentioned earlier that Christian Grey's warnings to Ana that he was messed up and she should walk away were actually pretty hot, having experienced the same thing. I stand by that. But why IS Christian Grey the controlling, manipulative, not-really-sexy bastard that he is? Because he was abused as a child.

Now, not for one second am I going to trivialise child abuse. Not for a fleeting moment would I ever dream of suggesting that a child experiencing sexual abuse, physical pain or emotional neglect is anything but utterly tragic. Is it an excuse for growing up and becoming an abuser though? Can all the bad things an abuser does be excused by his/her terrible childhood? I don't believe so.

My ex told me he was abused by his parents. Physically beaten. Emotionally neglected. My heart broke into pieces as he, over time, told me stories about his loveless upbringing. I wanted to love him in the way he had missed out on and more. I wanted to close the wounds his childhood had caused and "love him better." To this day, for all he did to me, if as a child, he really did experience half of what he told me, then I sympathise with that little boy with all my heart and soul.

But that innocent little boy grew into a manipulative, controlling, emotionally abusive man. And no matter how much sympathy I have for his childhood plight, I cannot and will not allow it to excuse the way he behaved towards me. This is a man who allowed me to believe for 5 months that we were in a relationship, before coldly telling me I was "just a friend I happen to have been fucking." This is a man who, just five days later, told me he hadn't meant those words and blamed (for the first time, but in no way the last) his bad childhood on the fact that he had said such hurtful things and pushed me away. This is a man who told me he "didn't know how to be in a "normal" relationship" and told me he "needed" me. This is a man I believed wholeheartedly. Because why would he lie?

Well obviously he lied so he could continue to use me. Not just sexually, but emotionally too. So I would continue to pick him up from work and drive him back home. So I would help him to move house not once, but three times, with very little thanks and absolutely no petrol money for my trouble. So he would always have dependable "Emsy," when there was nobody else around. Of course I was never good enough to be referred to as a "girlfriend." I was always "just a friend." But a friend he would hold, kiss and whisper "I love you" to in the darkness. A "friend" he would plead with to stay, telling me I was "abandoning" him when I left to return home. A "friend" he dangled the prospect of a proper relationship with so many times I lost count.

In her "erotic" novel, EL James describes the way that Christian messes with Ana's head, causing her to question what she does and doesn't want, before being manipulated into a BDSM relationship she is not entirely certain she is ready for. Of course those hoodwinked into thinking Christian is some form of loveable sex God will pick me up here by saying that Ana agrees to the relationship herself. I point you in the direction of the line in which Ana asks what will happen if she says no to his conditions and he replies: "Then I will find ways of making you change your mind."

Aw, how loveable and jokey. Except that no, it's not. He's essentially putting pressure on her to do exactly as he wants, which, if you remove your blinkers and read the book with clear eyes, you'll see is something he does CONSTANTLY. And pressurising someone, manipulating them into thinking you're right and they should do whatever you ask of them, is just another sign of abuse.

In my own relationship, I was told that I would only be a "fuck buddy" and that my ex would be free to sleep around with whoever he wanted, without any comeback from me. Now I may not be the toughest girl in the world, but I do know what I will and won't accept and that's just a massive no-no. I told him so. I told him I had real, very strong feelings for him and couldn't agree to being a meaningless shag, a nameless notch on his bedpost. And every time I tried to walk away? He found "ways of making me change my mind." I would get the "I was abused as a child, you're getting too close and I don't know how to deal with my feelings for you..." treatment. Or, far, far worse, he would tell me he loved me and couldn't live without me, but that I had to be "patient" with him, because of what he had been through and that my requests for a normal level of respect were "clingy and desperate" and showing I didn't understand him, when he was TRYING SO HARD. So it was ME at fault for wanting respect and normality in our relationship and it was ME who had to change and do as he asked in order to eventually gain the things I wanted.

And lo, a carrot was dangled in front of my nose. He DOES love me, he doesn't REALLY want me as just a "fuck buddy," he wants REAL relationship, he just doesn't know how to go about it! Poor baby!

In 50 Shades, Christian frequently tells Ana that nobody has ever affected him the way she has. What EL James wants us to see, is a damaged man, slowly learning to love again, perhaps fighting against it as it's such an unknown emotion, but in the end, becoming "cured" of his demons. And what is truly terrifying, is knowing that it's working. That is EXACTLY the way women all over the UK and America (and presumably the wider world) are seeing this book. Except it's really not like that. Read the words, they're there in black and white!

Christian tells Ana he is affected by her in a way that no other woman has ever affected him, that's true. But he also frequently manipulates and controls her, refusing to listen to her when she protests about expensive gifts, or certain "rules" of their relationship "contract." Even when Christian offers to follow her wishes and have a "vanilla relationship," without the BDSM aspects that Ana is uncomfortable with, his subtle manipulation and controlling tendencies don't fade. He's just telling her what she wants to hear. The pretence of trying hard to give her what he wants is there, but the undertones of pressurising, manipulating and intimidating her don't go away. You only have to read the book carefully to see between the lines. Ana is often portrayed as confused and not knowing what to do for the best. She is intimidated by Christian, she doesn't know how to react to him. Is that love? Really?!

My ex used to tell me: "No woman has ever gotten as close to me as you. Nobody has ever affected me the way you do. It scares me." That could be a line straight out of 50 Shades. I stayed because I believed him, which is exactly how Ana feels. When she thinks of leaving him, she is tortured by thoughts that she will be "abandoning" this "poor man." When I told my ex, not just once, but many times, that I couldn't do it anymore, that it was too painful to hear about other women and be expected to put up and shut up about it, he would wail "don't leave me Emsy. Please don't abandon me like everyone else has." That is NOT sexy. It's not hot. It's not "erotica." It's emotional manipulation, pure and simple. And to my shame, it worked. I stayed. And I stayed silent.

In the book, Ana never feels able to open up to her closest friends and family members about what Christian is really like. She keeps his controlling nature, the conditions he imposes on their relationship and the confusion he causes her almost exclusively to herself. Yet another sign of an abusive relationship! Even now, to this day, my parents - unless they read this blog - don't know the extent of what I went through. And of course I have only shared the tip of the iceberg here. And why do they not know? Because I felt too ashamed, too confused, too full of the belief that it was all my fault to tell them. To tell anybody. When I DID talk to people, I made dozens of excuses for his behaviour, blamed his "messed up past" (much like Ana does in the book) and the rest of the time, I went through the whole experience entirely alone. Isolated. Thus making him the only person I could talk to. And therefore handing him more power.

And let me say this as an aside - emotional abuse is something too few people are able to understand, which is why so many people continue to remain silent both during their experiences and afterwards. When I did begin to tentatively open up, I had questions such as "oh why didn't you just walk away?!" tossed at me as though they were accusations. I had one person, who was until this point, one of my closest friends and a woman in her 40's who claims to be compassionate, read a full account of what I had gone through, coupled with an apology (which I now see I really didn't have to give) for any "distant" behaviour I may have exhibited during the relationship and respond with a single line email: "That's right Emma. Make it all about YOU." And the girl who actually introduced me to my ex and who was also once one of my best friends? She has been telling people I am a liar and that I'm making all this up. And the worst thing is, I have no way of proving her wrong. Emotional abuse leaves only invisible scars. There is nothing tangible. My "wounds" are not something you can physically see, but that does not make them any less real. And with her glorification of abuse as romance, EL James has reopened several of them.

I understand that this book is more often than not being read by women who haven't been through what I experienced and perhaps I am more alert to the warning signs now. Perhaps the women reading this and loving Christian Grey are glossing over the stalker-tendencies and the emotional manipulation. But I can't. Because I do see those signs and I know where they lead.

They lead to a place where your self-worth is eroded through barbed comments. If I ate my dinner with any gusto, I would get "haha, you greedy fat bitch." And then a warm smile,because he couldn't possibly have MEANT it to upset me.

They lead to a place where everything you do is wrong. When we went to see a musical together at the theatre, I cried and reached out for his hand during an emotional moment, only to be told I had "fucking ruined the whole thing" by "being a spoilt little drama queen." He went on and on at me for so long after we had left the theatre that I actually ended up begging for forgiveness, in spite of having done nothing wrong.

They lead to a place where you can never win, because the rules constantly change. I wore a dress once and he told me I was so sexy he could barely keep his hands off me. The next time I wore it, he told me I looked like a slut and it was obvious I was only wearing it to seduce him and he found me "fucking disgusting."

They lead to a place where he controls everything. He would get me all worked up, then encourage me to satisfy his sexual needs before rolling over and going to sleep, warning me not to cuddle or touch him, because if I did, it was "clingy and horrible." I would go to sleep completely unsatisfied, but feeling as though I deserved to feel that way because I had done something horribly wrong to this poor man who had already suffered enough in his life, without having to deal with such a needy, unsympathetic bitch as me.

It was like living on a yoyo string. One minute he pulled me close, telling me loved me, that I had saved his life. The next, I'd receive a text about him sleeping with some random girl and he would expect me to listen "as a mate, because that's all you fucking are, why don't you understand, are you fucking stupid or something?!"

And why did I stay? Why did I put up with such abuse? Because I was manipulated into thinking I deserved it. That I WAS being clingy. That I was asking too much of him, that I didn't understand him and that I was treating HIM unfairly. Because he would beg me, whenever I said I had had enough, not to go, because he DID love me. Because he manipulated me into believing that if I played by his rules, if I did what he asked of me, eventually, we would be okay. We'd have the relationship I so desperately wanted from him. Because I believed - thanks to him - that it was entirely my fault that we didn't have it yet.

And how does the 50 Shades trilogy end? Ana's love "cures" Christian. He tells her he loves her and they get married and have children.

One of the biggest reasons women - and indeed men - stay in abusive relationships is because they believe that they will one day get that "happy ever after" moment. THIS is why these books are so utterly dangerous. Not only does EL James provide us with a manipulative, controlling and potentially violent man (I have no issue with BDSM, but in the first book alone, Christian mentions wanting to "beat" or "spank" Ana as punishment, rather than for sexual gratification on more than one occasion) and holds him up as some kind of romantic ideal, she also uses his own abusive past as an excuse for his abusive present. We are supposed to feel so sorry for Christian, so sad that he is "fifty shades of fucked up," that we conveniently overlook all the warning signs that prove that he is NOT a nice guy. And then to cap it all off? She suggests that with time and patience, Ana's love "fixes" him. Way to send out a positive message to women in abusive relationships, EL James. Congratulations.

Had I read this book whilst I was still with my ex, I might well have been tempted to stay for even longer than the 18+ months I did. Because whatever you say about fiction, it can and does influence real life.

Had I stayed with my ex any longer, I am not even sure I would be around now to GET so mad at EL James. I was suicidally depressed. I hated my "clingy," "slutty," "fat" self. I hated myself for not being able to "save" him. I hated myself for "abandoning" him. A couple of months before the end, I found myself outside my best friend's house in the early hours of the morning, practically lying in the street, howling hysterically because he had told me he was going on a date with another woman and would never, EVER love me. This is after telling me he loved me more than he had ever loved any woman, remember. This is after him begging me never to leave him, because I had changed his whole world. I was back on the yoyo string and not on the nice end. I was so rarely on the nice end...

Yet here is this best selling book, suggesting that if you stay with a man, even after you've tried to walk away, even when you have huge doubts about the kind of relationship he wants... Everything will be rosy in the end.

Do you want to know how my relationship ended? With him staring me in the eyes and admitting "of course I fucking used you. Of course I don't give a shit how much pain I've caused you. You deserve it, because you let me do it to you, because you're pathetic and weak."

I walked out of his house and resolved to seek help. I had counselling and now I am receiving help from a centre for abused women. It's only through that help that I am even able to admit that he abused me; I was so manipulated that for months after I finally walked away for good, I honestly believed I WAS at fault and that he had done no wrong. Everything that had happened, I had entirely brought on myself and I thoroughly deserved it for not being good enough to "fix" the situation.

And now, as I am finally beginning to recover and move forward, a book comes along. A book with a male character EXACTLY like my ex. A situation HORRIBLY similar and a girl equally as confused and unsure as I felt. And what does the writer do? She holds up this man as a romantic ideal and suggests that staying with an abusive man can magically cure him.

At the end of the first book in the trilogy, Ana leaves Christian. If you ask me, she should never have gone back. At least, had she walked away and stayed away, the writer might have correctly put across that a man who controls, manipulates, stalks, confuses and intimidates a woman is no hero. Instead, this book series is, in my eyes, at best offensive. At worst, downright dangerous in the way it glorifies abuse.

There DOES need to be a place in literature for abusive relationships to be shown. But they need to be shown for the hugely damaging, potentially life-destroying relationships that they are, not displayed as some kind of passionate example of what "real" love is. Real love involves respect, mutual equality and understanding. None of which is evident in an abusive relationship - they certainly weren't features of mine - and none of which is truly displayed in this book.

My recommendation, should anyone wish to read a book that describes an abusive relationship responsibly - ie truthfully, without glorification and with an ending appropriate to the situation - is Roddy Doyle's The Woman Who Walked Into Doors, in which the abuser is painted as anything but a romantic hero. Abuse is not romantic and Christian Grey is no hero.

I would like to dedicate this blog post to my family for supporting me through my own experience, to my best friend Lydia, without whom I am not even sure I would have survived it, to my closest friends, the aforementioned Lydia, plus Kate, Kirstie and Lizzie, for always being there for me, to my amazing support worker, for the help she has given me so far and the help I know she will continue to give for as long as I need it and to every woman or man going through an abusive relationship. Please don't let this book hurt or upset you the way it has me. Please don't believe that you can "love someone better." Walk away and be the person you were born to be. Know that there are people out there who will understand and help you.

And to those who still think Christian Grey is the epitome of all that's hot, I beg you to re-read what I have written, because to all intents and purposes, I WAS in a relationship with Christian Grey, just without the whips and with a different name. And it wasn't hot. It was abuse.

If you want to read something sexy, cast your literary net a little wider. Besides, there's better erotica on the Internet. And most of it is better written, too.

The Internet: A Haven For Bullies?

"I hope u don't see Christmas because of cancer and ur kids never enjoy Christmas ever again."


A shocking statement? I certainly think so. This is just one of the many, vile messages sent via Twitter to the comedian Alan Davies, after he misguidedly (and very insensitively) suggested that Liverpool FC were wrong for refusing to play a match on the anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster, in which 96 fans lost their lives.

With feelings understandably running high so close to the anniversary itself (15th April), Alan's remarks, however harmless he may have intended them to be, were bound to cause offence to those who lost loved ones in the tragedy and some anger was to be expected. However, the deluge of bile that Alan Davies received immediately outweighed his original comments. It's important to remember that although his words were undoubtedly insensitive, he at no point "mocked the dead," as he was subsequently accused of doing; he simply said that other teams play on the anniversaries of other disasters and asked why Liverpool didn't do the same. Rash words, spoken without thought of how they might sound to those affected by events at Hillsborough, but not an outright mockery of the dead, or an attack on the grieving. At least I don't believe that's how they were intended.

Yet, within hours of the comments being heard, Alan Davies was flooded with a cascade of horrendous tweets: "You f***ing w***er, I'm gonna piss on your mother's grave. Hope she doesn't rest in peace" and "just you TRY going to Liverpool now you c**t, you'll DIE" are just two of many, all of which shame those who sent them more than Alan Davies' words could ever shame him.

Yet this is not an isolated incident. Even more worryingly, there are cases of celebrities and non-celebrities alike, being sent abusive messages without having done anything to provoke it.

In one of the first cases of its kind, student Liam Stacey was jailed for 56 days after being found guilty of racial abuse via the social networking site, Twitter. Following the news that footballer Fabrice Muamba had collapsed on the pitch after suffering a cardiac arrest, Liam tweeted: "LOL! F*ck Muamba, he's dead!!!" When some of his Twitter followers took offence at this incredibly insensitive statement, Liam began referring to them as "wog c**ts" and telling them to go and "pick cotton." His responses became more and more racially offensive and abusive (most newspaper reports declared the worst of his tweets to be so offensive that they couldn't be published), until eventually, his Twitter followers began reporting him to police forces around the UK, leading to his eventual arrest and subsequent incarceration. Liam Stacey claimed he was drunk and deeply regretted his actions, but the judge still insisted that an example had to be made of him.

Whether or not his prison sentence was fair or, as many have claimed, he was unfairly made a scapegoat for all "trolls" who hide behind the internet in order to attack others, remains the subject of much debate. What concerns me, however, is the seemingly unstoppable rise of the internet bully, hiding behind his/her computer screen, thinking the relative anonymity given by an online pseudonym means that they can say whatever they like, whenever they like and to whoever they like.

"Cyberbullying" - where a person uses the internet to send nasty messages to someone, or to write hurtful, often false statements about their victim, encouraging others to join in, is on the increase. Incidents of people setting up fake Twitter or Facebook accounts to make fun of others are all too common and there have been cases where entire Facebook groups have been created for no purpose other than to ridicule someone - often a person of school-age who will already be suffering during the day and now feels that they're being attacked at home as well. The combination of bullying at school and at home, via social networking sites can be too much for the victim to take. In October of 2006, schoolgirl Megan Meier committed suicide just three weeks before her 14th birthday. Her parents brought an investigation into their daughter's death and it was eventually attributed to bullying via the social networking site, MySpace. The worst of the bullying came via an account belonging to "Josh Evans," supposedly a 16 year old boy. However, this was a fabricated account, which several different people contributed to, in the hope of humiliating and bullying 13 year old Megan. Most shockingly of all, the person who opened up the account was the mother of one of Megan's former friends, a woman by the name of Lori Drew, who actively sent abusive messages to the teenager under the alias of Josh Evans. The final message Megan received read: "You are a bad person and everybody hates you. Have a shitty rest of your life. The world would be a better place without you." Megan hung herself and was found 20 minutes later.

Sadly, Megan's death is not the only one attributed to cyberbullying and the bullies are no longer always resorting to fake accounts, such is their gloating conviction that they cannot and will not be punished for their actions. Nor does the habit of cyberbullying belong only to social networking sites.

Online forums can be a haven for bullies, who manipulate other members into thinking they're "funny" or "edgy," rather than have the rest of the forum openly call them out as the bully they truly are. I know this from personal experience. I used to belong to a forum and I would like to state now that I can well imagine what a difficult job it is to moderate such a place and to ensure that bullying is always stamped out. However, some remarks are bound to slip through the cracks and when "cliques" form - especially when people are manipulative and clever enough to involve a moderator in their "group" - all too often, a person can feel bullied, with nobody to report their concerns to. In any forum, there are bound to be arguments amongst people and the odd remark that causes upset or offence. I can remember, only too well, posting a photograph of myself in a new outfit I'd bought and returning later to see if anyone had commented, only to see a post written by one person on the forum I knew to be a bully, saying: "Why is everyone saying nice things to her about this photo? She might believe you and think she's actually pretty. I think you should all be honest and tell her how ugly she is. It's better she knows the truth."

Now that statement in isolation can't necessarily be deemed as bullying and although I was very hurt (and had a bit of a cry) about it, I had to accept that the person who wrote it wasn't going to be "punished" for it. For reasons more personal than bullying, I no longer use that internet forum and as I have all of the friends I made through it as Facebook or Twitter contacts, I don't miss it at all. But there are thousands - millions - of people who do still use internet forums on a daily basis and encounter hurtful remarks with an alarming frequency.

What is it that makes a bully turn to the internet? In my view it's the sheer ease and anonymity it offers. In just a few seconds, you can type a hurtful, nasty message to someone and send it without fear of any real comeback. It only takes minutes to set up a Facebook group designed to do nothing but strike fear and humiliation in the heart of your victim and it's ridiculously easy to have a fake account from which to do your dirty work. Bullies are - without fail - always cowards. Being able to abuse and threaten someone without having to face that person is almost irresistible to a bully. But what is just a few minutes out of their life to the perpetrator, is so much more than that to the victim.

I've been bullied. Online and offline. I've had accusations levelled at me via the internet which were untrue and which I was unable to defend myself against, such was the level of nastiness and determination that they were right about me. I've even been wrongly labelled the bully when I've tried to stand up for myself. Anyone who thinks that messages sent on the internet are somehow less hurtful than bullying in "real life" is wrong. When you're bullied at school or at work, you can go home at the end of the day and feel safe. When someone is sending you vile messages, or badmouthing you online, you're already at home. Your safe place has been taken. And who do you complain to? You feel incredibly alone.

Alan Davies has, since his remarks, donated £1000 to the Justice For The 96 Hillsborough campaign. He has apologised and explained that he didn't set out to cause offence. But those who sent him tweets of such a disgusting nature that they instantly obliterated any genuine point they might have conveyed, have, with one notable exception, made no such apology. Such is the cowardice of the bully - online and off.

Fabrice Muamba left hospital today, having amazed doctors with his quick recovery. Liam Stacey appealed against his sentence. He lost.

The internet is a wonderful thing. A tool that can used for so many wonderful things and a part of our lives that I suspect most of us would now be lost without. Freedom of speech is also a wonderful thing. Freedom to express ourselves and to put our opinions out there - it's one of the reasons why I'm so glad I live in the modern, Western world. But when do we cross the line from free speech, to abuse? When does banter become bullying?

Perhaps we will never fully stamp out trolling or cyberbullying. But we can be vigilant against it. We can tell ourselves to stop and think before we put our fingers to the keyboard. To consider the consequences of our actions before we hit "send" or "post." Maybe that way, we can use the internet for good, without hurting others. Perhaps we can all do our best to ensure that there'll never be another teenager committing suicide because of abuse online.

Think before you post.

"Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful..."

I'm going to start off by saying I'm a little angry with myself for writing this blog. Angry because I'm giving The Daily Fail more attention than it deserves and angry because it's a rather predictable response to something that was probably only ever intended to cause a reaction like this in the first place. But here goes anyway...

In Yesterday's Daily Mail newspaper, there was an article written by a lady named Samantha Brick. I don't really wish to link to the article, because according to whispers from The Internet People (by which I mean, "I read this on Twitter"), The Daily Mail have already made a whopping £30,000 in revenue from the surge of people rushing to their website to read Ms Brick's offending article and I sure as Hell don't wish to line their (or her) pockets any further. But do a little Googling and I'm certain you'll find the piece in question - and probably a zillion blogs and responses just like this one, too.

For those of you who live overseas, or who haven't seen the article, however, I will explain it here, in brief.

Samantha Brick, you see, is beautiful. She is so stunning, that wherever she goes, men shower her with free drinks, compliments and attention. When she's out and about, blokes rush to help her with her shopping, so overcome are they by her good looks. She has doors opened for her so often that she doesn't actually know how to work them herself. I may have made that last bit up. The trouble facing poor Sam, is that being so utterly gorgeous isn't an enjoyable experience. Why? Because women are so disgustingly jealous, that they make life rather unpleasant for her. The poor love has never been a bridesmaid at any of her female friends' weddings. All the ladies she knows are paranoid that she might steal their husbands, so don't invite her anywhere, lest their other halves are overcome with sheer desire and no longer fancy them, due to their utter plainness in comparison. Life for Samantha Brick is, she tells us, horribly difficult. Because she's JUST SO BEAUTIFUL and it's JUST NOT FAIR.

Oh, by the way, this is Samantha Brick:

Get on your knees and worship her, you ugly fools!

Now I have several problems with Brick and her article. I'm about to list them and I'd better do it quickly, because I'll be honest, staring at that picture is difficult; she's so stunning I think I'm about to turn gay...

Lets start at the very beginning, shall we? It is, after all, a very good place to start.

Samantha Brick begins her article by telling us she "frequently"has bar tenders "shoo away" her credit card when she tries to pay her bill at the end of an evening out. First of all, how often is "frequently?" She "frequently" has strangers hand her bunches of flowers in the street, or offer to buy her train tickets for her. I don't know about you, but I find this a little hard to believe. You might be asked out on a date one week, have someone happen to send a drink to your table whilst you're out and about the next and be complimented on your attractiveness the following. Does that count as "frequent?" Maybe, but what about the weeks during which Samantha Brick doesn't have a "smartly dressed gentleman" buy her train tickets for her? She neglects to mention those, of course. Or perhaps she literally never has a week go by without something happening as a result of her "lovely looks."

Secondly, Samantha doesn't say whether free drinks are given by the bar staff at ONE bar or EVERY bar. Now, I've had people knock money off for me. I've had the guy at the local Chinese takeaway throw in free prawn crackers on more than one occasion. Because I'm gorgeous? Nope, because I'm local, he recognises me from previous visits and is grateful for my ongoing custom. If it's a local bar, is there not a teensy chance that Samantha Brick is known, recognised as a "journalist" (I'm sorry, but the quotation marks are necessary) and the bar tenders are thinking: "Best keep in with this one?" After all, she seems the sort of woman who rather likes (positive) attention and that kind of person is more likely to visit somewhere where she has had that sort of reception before.

Now before you all cry out: "But she's STUNNING! THAT is why she gets free stuff and compliments everywhere she goes! Why can't you accept that and stop being so jealous?!" I must point out that a) That's precisely the reaction Samantha Brick both expects and indeed wants from her article and that b) I am in no way jealous of her.

It would be really easy for me to mock Samantha's overly large forehead, snub nose or the fact that her teeth don't seem to fit right. But in doing so, I'd be nothing more than a bully (which regular readers of this blog will know I am not and never will be) and I'd be falling squarely into the trap Samantha Brick has set for her readers as her article continues...

"Other women hate me, for no reason other than my lovely looks...Women find nothing more annoying than someone else being the most attractive girl in the room."

I'm going to say something now and if she reads this, she'll laugh and tell me I'm being stupid, but my friend Kirstie is, in my view, exceptionally pretty. When I'm with her, I know she's better looking than me. In many rooms we've been in, I've looked at her and thought: "Yep, she's the prettiest person here." And you know what? I don't hate her for it. I don't think: "What a bitch. I will never introduce her to any future boyfriends I have, lest they prefer her to me. And she will NEVER be a bridesmaid at my wedding!" In fact, I'm oddly proud of her. Because Kirstie is not only attractive on the outside, she's rather lovely on the inside too; never coming across as arrogant and never snubbing anyone for being less pretty than she is (Samantha Brick makes references in both the original article and today's online defence of it, to women who "don't make an effort" with their looks and even goes as far as to criticise women who "comfort their friends when they're having a "fat day."" Thus implying that we should instead tell them to shape up and stop looking so grim, which seems to be just as bad as what she claims women are doing to her).

I could stretch this out to my circle of friends as a whole. I envy my adorable best bud Lydia for her gorgeous hair. I admire Lizzie's slim figure. Clare has a very sweet smile and infinitely better teeth than I do. Kate is just that little bit taller than me and I envy those extra inches!

Samantha Brick implies that all women loathe her because she's "beautiful." Even her friends, who wont invite them into their houses in case their husbands are tempted to stray. She believes that the reason she has never been asked to be a bridesmaid is most likely because of her beauty.

Let me just clarify, in the extremely unlikely event that Ms Brick is reading this: Aside from Pippa Middleton and her world-famous arse, when people go to a wedding, they're there to look at the BRIDE, not the bridesmaid. Wouldn't matter if you were Angelina Jolie, or someone considered to be equally gorgeous (for the record, I don't think Angelina's that beautiful either - shock, horror, personal opinion!): The people in the church/registry office/wherever-the-Hell-the-wedding-is are there to see a couple get married. They want to see how good the bride looks. And with only very, very few exceptions, a bride always looks stunning. More so than the bridesmaids! Okay, so come the evening reception, some of the blokes are getting merry and thinking: "Cor, that bridesmaid's a bit fit," but unless said bridesmaid decides to get down and dirty with a bloke on the dance floor in front of the bride's Granny, she's still not going to take attention away from the happy couple. The bride will still remain the centre of attention. I would therefore hazard a guess that none of Samantha's friends have asked her to be their bridesmaid because they don't consider her to be a close enough friend to fulfil that role. Oh and then there's the fact that she seems to openly assume that every woman she meets has a husband who's so attracted to her that she is deemed "a threat." I'm a woman and I can safely say, the only friend I considered a "threat" to any of my exes was deemed so because she was a flirtatious, nasty, arrogant little madam who tried it on with everyone. She was also anything but particularly attractive, yet put it on a plate so readily that men were often tempted to take it "because it was there," as my last ex put it. If you're deemed a "threat" by your friends, it might not be because they think you're especially beautiful. And you might not even be deemed a threat. You might just think you're a threat, which comes from a rather arrogant, unpleasant place, which I'd imagine your friends don't particularly appreciate and would be unlikely to lead to them rushing to get your measurements for the bridesmaids outfits...

As a woman, I personally find the idea that we, as a sex, can't stand beauty in another female, rather unkind and over exaggerated at best. Yes, women can be bitchy. I'm just as guilty as anyone else of making a barbed comment here and there, or of looking at a woman and making a snap judgement. What I don't do, is hate a woman purely because she's prettier than I am and nor do I know any girls who do. Woman are notorious for whispering about the shortness of a skirt, or the orange-ness of a fake tan, but we generally applaud women who are attractive, particularly if they're nice with it. There are makeover shows on TV and beauty guides in magazines... Would we be encouraging each other to look as good as possible, if we secretly wanted everyone to be less attractive than ourselves? I will agree that there is a grain of truth in Ms Brick's comments about women having the capacity to be bitchy, but I will never agree that we universally condemn other females for having the audacity to be good looking.

Then I come to a point that may sound a little whiny, but which I still believe needs to be made.

Samantha Brick ends her article by saying she can't wait til she starts losing her "beautiful" looks and begins to age, so that she can "blend in." Presumably, she means "blend in with all you ugly folk," although she doesn't go quite that far. That way, her Hellish life will finally become normal again and she won't have to "suffer" anymore.

So let me get this straight. Your average-looking person (which is precisely what Samantha Brick is, but lets not even go down that road) and of course, ugly people, are blessed because they don't have to "put up with" the kind of things that poor Samantha deals with so very "frequently?" I can't be the only person who has been through bullying who finds that pretty abhorrent?!

I open magazines and newspapers every day and I'm confronted with images of perfection that I will never attain. I look at myself in the mirror and I have days where I could cry, because I still see the twelve year old girl the school bullies used to spit at and wish death upon, based only on my unappealing facial features. I have a pot belly, which doesn't budge with any great ease, even when I make an effort to eat healthily and get more exercise. And I'm supposed to be grateful for this?! Does Ms Brick have any idea as to just how many weddings most "ugly" people would gladly sit at the back for, rather than stand as a bridesmaid, just for the chance to have someone call them "beautiful?" Does she have the faintest clue as to how often "ugly" people come across so-called attractive women, who make it very obvious that they're looking down on them for not being visually acceptable enough?! And yet she paints herself as the poor little victim - none of the bad experiences that come her way could possibly be her fault (reminds me of my ex, to be honest), it must just be because she's so damn beautiful that people can't handle it!

Beauty, as I have said so many times before, comes from within. It's not just about having a killer figure, or the perfect hair, or legs that go on forever. It's about behaving with dignity and kindness. It's about showing warmth and respect for others. It's about carrying yourself with a little class and poise. It's about having just a shred of humility. Something which I'm afraid Samantha Bricks' article (and her online defence of it today) shows she lacks.

Confidence is a wonderful thing. We should all be able to look at ourselves and say just with just as much certainty as Ms Bricks: "I am beautiful." Human beings come in all sorts of colours and shapes and sizes. That's what makes the world so fascinating! How dull would it be if we all looked the same? Everyone is beautiful in their own way and should be encouraged to see themselves as such. But when we assume that we're prettier than everyone else around us, or we blame our beauty for all the bad things that happen to us, in the manner of a small child stamping her foot, or when we throw a blanket judgement over all the people we clearly view as not being as attractive as we are? I'm afraid that's when we become very ugly indeed.

My Not So Guilty Pleasure...

Everyone has a guilty pleasure. You might secretly know the dance to Everybody (Backstreets Back) by 90's boyband The Backstreet Boys and find yourself completely unable to resist breaking into it, should you hear the song (which you frequently do, because it's on a Best of The Backstreet Boys album, which you regularly play on long car journeys...). You may have developed a taste for sticking two extra buttery shortbread biscuits together with a copious amount of Nutella and scoffing the lot before anyone sees. Or perhaps whenever you put on a hair band, you secretly want to wear it across your forehead and pretend to be Alana from the popular early 90's children's series, The Girl From Tomorrow.

Shut up, it was cool.

You may have guessed by now that all of the above are just a few of my guilty pleasures. It turns out some of us have more than one...

But I have one pleasure in my life that I refuse to refer to in such terms. A pleasure that some would term cheesy. Some would call "twee."

I, Emma Tofi, aged 29 (and refusing to acknowledge her 30th birthday creeping towards her like a pantomime villain), am obsessed - yes, obsessed - with musicals.

And I mean this warning quite seriously...

My love of any film or show in which people randomly burst into song (and everyone around them suddenly discovers that they know all the words, harmonies and dance moves in spite of this being an "off-the-cuff" moment of spontaneity), started early on. As a little girl, I'd listen to my mum, humming tunes from classics such as The King And I or West Side Story as she cooked dinner or got on with housework. On drizzly days, when it was too cold to play outside, she'd put on The Sound of Music or Mary Poppins and we'd sit together, singing along and being filled with the kind of genuine warmth you normally only experience if you do something really lovely for another human. Or you wet yourself. So I'm told.

I was also lucky in that I had grandparents who lived on the outskirts of London - Morden, to be precise - and a trip to see a pantomime became an annual treat for me, my sister and my cousins. There was something magical about watching people on stage, singing and dancing as they told a story. The music and the movement seemed to make everything bigger and more special. I was totally and utterly hooked.

So much so, that by the time I was 11 or 12, I had made the decision that I wanted to be in musicals. I wanted to go to theatre school, I wanted to sing on a stage... I wanted to be a part of that incredible world I had glimpsed through films and theatre trips. Where a song could make everything better. Where good news could be celebrated by dancing through the streets, without people looking at you like you're mad (believe me I've tried, but in real life, a conga through ASDA just isn't going to happen).

Although I'm clearly shopping at the wrong branch...

Unfortunately however, this was also the age at which I began to be bullied at school (if you scroll down through my old blog entries, you'll find out more about that). I lost all of my confidence. Suddenly the bright, shiny world of musicals was replaced by a dark, lonely place. There was no way I could face the thought of auditioning in front of someone. I didn't think I was talented enough. I didn't think I was pretty enough.

Interestingly, although my early teen years were the years in which I realised I was going to miss my chance to join the magical world of musicals, it was also the point in my life during which I realised more than ever that the camp, cheesiness that many believe defines musical theatre, masks a much deeper, darker side. At the age of 15, I went on a school trip to London, to see a musical called Blood Brothers. Although by that age I'd already realised, thanks to the likes of Carousel, The King & I and West Side Story, that musicals could - and often do - feature death and sadness, I had no idea just how gritty they could be.

Blood Brothers tells the story of a mother of seven, pregnant with her eighth child. Her husband has recently left her and she's struggling to cope. Having visited the doctor for routine tests, she's shocked to discover she's expecting twins. Upon delivering this news to her employer, a wealthy, married woman whose home she cleans, she's stunned when an offer is made: The wealthier woman - Mrs Lyons - is desperate for a child, but has been unable to get pregnant. Her husband is away for a long period of time and she suggests that perhaps the poorer woman - Mrs Johnstone - will give one of the twins to her, so that she might raise him as her own. She offers a great deal of money and Mrs Johnstone reluctantly accepts. Mrs Lyons insists that the twins must be raised entirely separately, never discovering that they are, in fact, brothers. "You won't say anything about this Mrs Johnstone," she warns. "Because if you do, you will KILL them!"

That show changed my view of musicals enormously. Suddenly, not only were they bright, dazzling and uplifting. They were emotional. They felt real. Blood Brothers still managed to offer escapism and even featured some cheerful tunes and laughter along the way. But the story was still deeply moving. The characters felt genuine, rather than being overly chirpy, slightly two-dimensional people who just happened to burst into song now and again.

In fact, it was Blood Brothers (and later on, the fantastic Les Miserables), that made me realise that musical theatre (and film musicals), never had to be a guilty pleasure. They were simply a pleasure. Full stop. No guilt involved.

From that moment on, I embraced musicals even more fervently than before. I've now seen several big West End shows (Joseph & The Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat and The Sound of Music to name just two) and a Broadway smash, too (Phantom of The Opera). I don't care whether it's a comedy, with silly lyrics and bouncy tunes, like The Producers, something based on factual events, like Evita, or something purely frivolous like Mamma Mia! The fact is, if it's a show with songs in it, I'm at least going to show some interest. In fact, the only two musicals I can think of that I would point blank refuse to see are Cats (because Memory is the song we played at my Nan's funeral and I'd find it far too hard going) and Chess (because I actually went to see that with an ex of a sort, who turned out to be a rather manipulative individual who hurt me terribly badly - I Know Him So Well would probably send me into some sort of breakdown...).

Lets face it - if you switch on the news, you're faced with images of floods, famine, recession and war. I find it amazing that not only can you escape all of that through a bit of "razzamataz," singing and dancing that leaves you feeling cheerful, but that musicals can tackle some of the darker aspects of life, such as war & revolution (Miss Saigon and Les Miserables to name just two) and cause you think about things that can be distressing, yet still they leave you feeling ultimately uplifted.

Yeah, so er... They're dead, but ULTIMATELY it's uplifting. Honest.

I have no guilt when I sing Fabulous Baby from Sister Act, to cheer myself up when I'm having a bad day. I have no guilt at being able to name all of the Von Trapp children from The Sound of Music. I have no shame when I weep and howl at the end of Les Miserables (seriously, we're talking snot, tears, the works).

Musicals put a smile on your face, a song in your heart and a tear in your eye. And you know what? I love it!

And on that note, I shall go off and grab myself some lunch. All together now: Food, glorious fooooood...."

Just Another Manic Monday (and Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday...)

Since my last blog was a little sad (and since those wounds have been well and truly opened since I wrote it, as fate would have it, so I definitely need to take my mind off it all with something else!), I thought today I might tell you all a story about a love affair that has stood the test of time. A love I've nurtured for nearly 13yrs. A love that has brought me unbridled joy, wonderful friendships and of course, the odd moment of hand-wringing and dismay. A love that began by stealing one of my sister's CDs.

Yes, I'm talking - of course - about my love for four blokes from Wales (there'll always be 4 to me), known collectively as the Manic Street Preachers.

Technically, that love affair has lasted far longer than 13 years. One of my favourite memories of living in our old house in Sawtry, back when I was around 11, is of hearing a song on Radio 1, which was played quite frequently and singing the only line from it that I knew (and which I got wrong). I would get myself ready for school in the morning, singing: "Like becoming a laaaandsliiiide," to myself. Of course the line was "life becoming a landslide, but that didn't matter to the fuzzy-haired pre-teen singing along. All I cared about was the catchy tune.

Little did I know then, but that was my first brush with the band who would become my heroes.

The next time the Manics entered my life was in February 1995. My Nan was dying in hospital and we were all understandably devastated. I'd eaten dinner and was slumped in front of the news when they announced that a car belonging to a missing man named Richey Edwards had been found close to the Severn Bridge. Richey had been in a rock band called the Manic Street Preachers. I remember, at the tender age of 12, briefly thinking: "At least we know what's happening to Nan. That man's family might never be able to have a funeral or anything..." I didn't connect the dots and realise that the band were responsible for the song I'd loved a few years earlier. But I did keep an eye on the news for while afterwards, just in case Richey was found.

The following year, a little song by the name of Design For Life was released. Now this is where I am annoyed by my own story, because in theory, this is where my love affair really should have begun. Instead, it was something of a false start.

Design For Life was a massive hit, kept off the number one spot only by Mark Morrison's "Return Of The Mack" (I know which song is still considered a classic today and it's not the one that topped the charts...). They played it at the local Youth Club I attended every Friday. And every Saturday, when I went along to the bowling alley a short walk from my house, where I'd bowl, play pool and generally have fun with my friend Clare and my sister Michelle, I'd put £1 in the juke box and play the same three songs: "Someday" by Eternal (don't judge me), "The Universal" by Blur and "Design For Life" by the Manic Street Preachers. That song was something of a soundtrack to the year I turned 14. And yet, in spite of my love for it and the singles that followed, I never bought the album (Everything Must Go), or bothered to look into the band's back catalogue. My uncle Steve, who'd been a Manics fan since day one, said to me: "One day, you'll LOVE this sort of music. You'll be a Manics fan rather than listening to boybands." We bought him Everything Must Go for his birthday, but in spite of the enormous temptation I felt... I never bothered to sneakily listen to it before I wrapped it. I was still obsessed with Take That and would later replace them after their split with 911 (again, don't judge me...). The Manics did, however get a few of their earlier songs into my regular listening habits. As an angsty teenager, I'd become fond of Alanis Morisette and my uncle Steve sent me a taped copy of her album, Jagged Little Pill. Those were the days when I listened to a walkman in the car on the way to family shopping trips and rather than leave lots of blank tape after the end of Alanis' album, uncle Steve put on a few more songs. Manics songs. To my surprise and delight, one of these songs was Life Becoming A Landslide, the song I'd so loved a few years ago.

And yet I STILL didn't get carried away. I liked the songs. But that was as far as it went.

A further two years went by and my sister - three and a half years younger than me, but infinitely cooler - began widening her music tastes. We'd sit in her room and listen to Sheryl Crow and REM. Then she developed a fondness for another band - the Manic Street Preachers. By that time, the band had released the follow up to the Brit-award winning "Everything Must Go." The new album, "This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours" was a slightly more acoustic affair on the whole, but with anthemic tunes such as You Stole The Sun From My Heart guaranteeing that it never truly strayed into coffee-table music territory. Michelle, my sister, thought it was brilliant and I was inclined to agree. Over the next few months, Manics posters appeared on Michelle's walls and by early 1999 she owned their entire back catalogue.

And so it came to pass that one afternoon, Michelle called me into her room to play me "the weirdest, coolest thing you'll ever hear." If memory serves me right, the song she was about to introduce me to was "The Intense Humming Of Evil," from the Manics' final album before Richey's disappearance, "The Holy Bible." My reaction?

"This is SHIT."

With that, I skulked back to my room, presumably to cleanse myself with some bubblegum pop. The trouble was, at the age of 16, I was starting to feel a bit sad for listening to quite so many boybands. As an adult, I freely indulge my love of Take That, I still claim 911 had some great tunes and I have CDs in my car with names such as "unappreciated brilliance" (which, okay, I don't always play when I have other people travelling with me...). But back then, I wanted to fit in. I wanted to listen to the "cool" music some of my friends were discovering, whether I liked it or not. Just days after the "this is SHIT" incident, I was at home alone, on study leave for my GCSEs. I had the usual kind of pop music playing in the background and I had completely and utterly run out of inspiration. I decided to raid my sister's CD collection, on the off-chance that she had anything I might want to listen to. On arriving in her room, my eyes were drawn to the large poster on her wall. This one, to be precise:

I found myself transfixed. I could take my eyes off it. Specifically, I couldn't take my eyes off Richey. The lost one, the one who had mysteriously disappeared. Up until that point, all I knew of the Manics was that fact, combined with the knowledge that some of their songs were brilliant. But as I sat there, staring at the poster, I suddenly felt compelled to know more. Taking The Hole Bible out of my sister's CD rack, I returned to my room, put it into my CD player and pressed "play."

Fifty six minutes and seventeen seconds later, I was hooked. I darted back into my sister's room and grabbed every one of the band's albums, before playing them back to back, copying them onto tape as I went. Many corny things have been written about the moment you find a song, album or indeed band in general that makes perfect sense to you. Whether it's described as being "smacked in the face," or "like a lightbulb going on," it's a way of saying "THIS is ME." Sitting on my bed that day, listening to every album the Manics had recorded to date, felt like a million different things combined. In some ways, it was like being handed a hot cuppa after a long walk - a massively comforting, satisfying conclusion. In others, it was like being pulled out of a coma - a sudden jolt that left me feeling more wide-awake than I'd ever been before. But one thing I knew for absolute certain, was that I'd found MY band.

Over the next few months, I collected the Manics back catalogue for myself, replacing my copied cassettes with CDs. I hungered for any information about the band and read books such as "Sweet Venom" by Martin Clarke and "Everything" by Simon Price. These were the days before broadband and we had no internet at home when my Manics obsession first began, so I would spend my lunchtimes in the computer suite in the school library, printing off pictures to stick on my wall and reading old interviews. I learnt everything there was to know about the disappearance of Richey Edwards and the various "sightings" since. I devoured the band's "manifesto," learnt the lyrics to the songs and dreamt of the day I would finally see "my boys" live.

That day was due to finally arrive back in 2001, after a friend very sweetly bought me a ticket to join him in Manchester to see the band on their Know Your Enemy tour. I arrived at my local train station, wearing a tiara and a feather boa, as was the "done" thing at Manics gigs. I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, I was told that my train had been cancelled and there was no definite replacement. I returned home in tears and holed myself up in my room with only Manics videos for company.

Thankfully, I was luckier on the band's next tour, when they played Plymouth and I went along with my sister and two friends. That night was a culmination of years of adoration and seeing them on stage right there in front of me simply made me love them all the more.

In the 12 and a half years since that day when I sat at the end of my sister's bed and stared at that poster, the Manics have given me more wonderful memories (and a few bad ones) than I care to mention. I've seen them almost a dozen times, I've met countless friends thanks to them, I've had the enormous pleasure of meeting my hero, James Dean Bradfield (the band's fantastic frontman) and I've known the hilariousness of wandering through Cardiff dressed as a sexy sailor (long story...).

Like all love affairs, we've had our ups and downs. I can remember hearing So Why So Sad for the first time and gasping: "This really IS shit..." I don't hate it so much anymore, but... I certainly don't love it. And there have been times when they - or more accurately, certain sections of their fanbase - have annoyed me so much that I've even considered walking away.

But then I'll put the radio on and Design For Life will come on all of a sudden and I'll be transported back to that magical time when I first heard the album from which that glorious single comes and I'd realise that no other band has ever had the same effect on me. Never have I been so passionate about a band, or so defensive of the members and their music.

The Manics are the only band I'll dress like an idiot and wander through crowded city centres for. They're the only band I'd stay up til stupid o'clock just to catch a three minute performance from. The only band who cause me to look at my pitiful bank account when a tour is announced and book tickets anyway.

I may go for weeks, or even months without listening to their music, or even thinking about them. But then, when I play an album, or read an article about them, all of those feelings flood back and it feels like coming home again.

Now, the band have announced that, following a "Christmas party gig" at London's O2 Arena, they'll be disappearing for a few years. Some magazines and websites are suggesting that they won't be back. Obviously, I hope that's not true - I'm not ready to say goodbye to my boys just yet, or to end the journey my love of the band has taken me on.

But when that day comes, be it at the end of this year, or further down the line, I will at least know that whilst the gigs may end, the friendships the band have given me will remain. The music will be timeless. The memories will last forever.

James, Nicky and Sean... See you in December. I can't wait!

It's Not War (Just The End of Love)

Take That once asked, in their song of the same name: "What is Love?"

I don't claim to have the right answer. But if the last few months of my life have taught me anything, it's that love is one of the most powerful, primal emotions a human will ever feel. With it, it brings a myriad of other emotions to confuse and delight the brain. Without it, a person can feel lost, even when at home. Lonely, even when with friends.

In terms of romantic love, the emotional rollercoaster has even more dips and loops to endure. Life would be easier if love was simple. If we could say "I am in love with him" and KNOW he felt the same. If someone said "I love you" and we knew we could believe them. If we could be closer to someone than anyone else in the world and not be so utterly apart just days or weeks later, that we start to question whether they ever cared for us at all. Or if the line between friendship and romance was never blurred.

The end of love - in any form - throws up so many unanswered questions and barbed insults, it becomes a bizarre edition of The Weakest Link for broken hearts. "Has he just replaced me with her (or in some cases, them)?!" May be the unanswerable question. "Of course he has; you're ugly and fat and he never really cared about you anyway," is the barbed insult we can't help but direct at ourselves.

Because of course, when someone we love loves us, we are confident. We look in the mirror and see the beautiful/handsome/funny person that they tell us that they see. We think "yes, I am a great cook/amazing in bed/the best listener in the world," because we hear those things from someone we trust. Someone we think all of those same things about. Someone we want to love us, because we adore them.

So it only stands to reason that should that person reject us, push us away or replace us, we magnify our own feelings of rejection by taking negative comments they may have made about us and not only agreeing with them, but deliberately building on them. Or, when the person has never really made a convincing argument for your sudden and complete dismissal from their life, trying to work out what it is about you that is so fundamentally unloveable (even though the truth usually is that there's nothing unloveable about you at all). "It's because I do that thing he always nagged me to stop doing," or "what if it's because she thought I was crap in bed?!"

And of course, if you're the one doing the ditching, you suddenly view this person who changed your whole life in an entirely different light. Whether that's because you genuinely don't love them anymore, or because you've met someone else and decided not to bother with the old partner anymore, or because you're simply looking for an excuse to end things (for any number of reasons, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous). Suddenly, the person you called and talked to for hours and hours is being "too in my face and not giving me enough space." The person you had once been wanted to see as often as possible, who you hated to see walk out of the door, is suddenly "clingy" or "possessive" if he or she shows that they feel exactly the same. All those "funny" little habits that person had - the silly things you'd tease them for, just as much as you loved them for them - are suddenly annoying.

Then, when it's all over, neither the dumper nor the dump-ee emerges as a "winner." Unless someone is completely devoid of all human emotion, or is burying their head so firmly in the sand that they truly believe they can let go without having to feel any pain whatsoever (regardless of whether they pushed the person away or whether they themselves were pushed), there will be suffering on both sides. Guilt is the primary feeling. "Should I have fought harder to keep us together?" Or "Did I do something to make them not love me anymore?!" Then loss and anger, confusion... With all of these horrendous, painful emotions swirling through every break-up like a hurricane of misery, it's a wonder anyone ever enters into a relationship, such is the risk.

In the aftermath of any kind of break-up, some people jump into bed with another man or woman as quickly as they can, thinking they can somehow replace the person they lost or pushed away. Others try to find answers at the bottom of a bottle. You might take it out on yourself, be it physically or emotionally.

But what astounds me most about love, is that no matter how much it breaks our hearts and leaves us feeling sick, under-confident and angry, it rarely leads to us giving up forever.

Time apart can lead someone to look back on the person they lost and, someday, to remember their good points. What silly things you shared together, the memories you created and the chemistry that you once had. Of course in other cases, time apart causes someone to suppress every positive thought they ever had of the man or woman who was once the very centre of their world. An olive branch may be offered and ignored, causing a barely healed wound to open up again.

But either way, some day we find ourselves ready to try again. I'm not talking about shagging around with random people. I mean to try a relationship with one person. One, special person who we feel ready to open up to. To share that closeness with again. And unless we close ourselves off and refuse to learn, or refuse to take our fair share of the blame for the downfall of our last relationship, we will hopefully avoid repeating the same mistakes again.

Love has a strange way of bringing us full circle. And even a broken heart will - I hope - not prevent us from going forward and finding someone to share our lives with.

Whatever love really is - a best friend, a lover, someone we're closer to than anyone else in the world - I know I don't want to stop learning more about it. You can bury your head in the sand, you can suppress your feelings and make out as though you never cared for someone, or replace something real with something frivolous. You can weep and wail and declare yourself to be unloveable. You can tell youself you'll never love again.

But almost all of us will.

Because, as Take That sang, we all want to learn what love really is:

If love is truth, then let it break my heart.

If love is fear, lead me to the dark.

If love is a game, I'm playing all my cards.

What is love?

Images of Perfection...

Doesn't Julia Roberts look beautiful? Can you believe she's approaching her mid-40's? I didn't even look that good at 20!

And yet... Okay, we're all aware that something's not quite right with this picture. We've all heard the debate about airbrushing a dozen times before. We know it happens and we know it'll continue to happen once the furore over this latest advert (now banned) dies down. Just as we watch adverts for mascara and coo over how beautifully thick the model's lashes are, whilst quietly ignoring the teensy tiny writing in the corner: "Model is styled with lash inserts for an even lash line," we'll go back to thinking: "Wow, that skin cream looks AMAZING!"

But is it unfair for companies to ruthlessly airbrush and perfect their models and celebrities, when all we have at home is a make up box and a mirror? Worse still, could it be dangerous?

According to research carried out in April by the University College of London's Institute of Child Health, 1.5 out of every 200,000 British children under the age of 10 suffer from an eating disorder, such as anorexia. Even more recently, a report by the health & fitness charity, Central YMCA and the Centre for Appearance Research at the University of West England in Bristol, discovered that 1 in 10 children would take a diet pill to make themselves look more attractive. Why are Britain's children so obsessed with their looks? Why are they worrying about being too fat, or not pretty enough, when they should be enjoying their youth and leaving adult concerns to the adults?

The answer may lie with a rather uniform approach to beauty, taken not only by Britain, but an alarming proportion of the modern world. Beauty is, so often, skin-deep. We're force-fed images of busty blondes, who, in spite of their comedy breasts, somehow have the waist of a twelve year old to go with them. Walk down any city street on a Saturday night and you'll see group after group of clones - teenagers and girls in their early twenties. All with the same haircut, all dyed the same colour, all with the same style of make up and the same fashion sense. Why? Because that's what's considered "beautiful." And who doesn't want to look beautiful? We are so afraid of not meeting the standards of attractiveness drip-fed to us via magazines and TV shows, that many of us abandon what makes us unique in order to try to attain an impossible ideal.

And it starts affecting children before they're even out of primary school. I've witnessed girls as young as 7, saying they "don't feel pretty enough." I've heard boys of 8 say they don't want to get undressed for PE in front of anyone because "I'm not as muscly as the others, I'm just fat." It's heartbreaking and it seems so easily avoidable if we just focus on real people and encouraging our children, friends and family members to embrace what makes them them, regardless of whether they conform to any stereotypes. After all, true beauty comes from within - isn't that one of the most important lessons we can teach our youngsters? Surely, by praising physical beauty to the point where we'll invent it (Julia Roberts is indeed a pretty woman - if you excuse the pun - did she need to be improved?!), we're ignoring the many more important factors worthy of praising a person for.

Look at that photo again. Julia Roberts is a woman in her 40's. She has three children. Nowhere on that picture can you see a wrinkle. Nowhere can you make out the tired eyes that go along with getting up in the night to see to your kids, or being woken up early during the school holidays. Yes, of course, she's a movie star and she may very well have an entire entourage of helpers, but by airbrushing away any tell-tale signs of age, the producers of the now infamous advert have also hidden any signs of life.

We are presented with an image of a person who conforms to society's ideal of perfection. Blemish-free skin, not a line on her face, no grey hairs, no dark circles... No humanity?

A person once said to me: "I can't wait to have wrinkles and grey hair. It'll show I've made it to old age, in spite of all the crap life has thrown at me so far." It was one of the most refreshing things I've heard in years. And it got me thinking...

I'm not perfect. My hair is unruly, my skin is plagued with eczema and the odd spot, I have a big, Greek nose, a tummy that will be nice and flat and toned one day and wobbly the next (I like cake, what can I say?!) and dimply thighs. I have lines around my mouth and beneath my eyes. I get dark circles. I can safely say that if society's view of beauty is anything to go by, I'm quite far away from winning any pageants. But should that define me? I'm also a passable writer, a good friend who enjoys making people laugh and I make a bloody good lasagne. Surely that's all much more important than whether or not my hair is glossy enough, or my teeth are white enough? After all, my big, Greek nose is a sign that I'm part Cypriot and reminds me of my late Paps, who was incredibly proud of his heritage. My tummy goes wobbly because I'm passionate about food and adore cooking. I have lines around my mouth from all the laughing I've done at comedy gigs, all the nights I've stayed up chatting with friends (they're probably responsible for the dark circles, too!) and the tears I've cried over lost loves. In other words, all of the things our beauty-obsessed media would view as "imperfections," are actually visual, permanent reminders of the things I've done so far in my life. The memories I've made and the lessons I've learnt.

Lets think for a second about all of those Hollywood films, in which the "ugly" girl becomes beautiful in order to ensnare her man, or win her dream job. Think about the "before" image. Stereotypically, she'll have had frizzy hair, glasses and a dowdy outfit. By the end of the film, she'll have discovered contact lenses, hair products and a whole new wardrobe. But what lesson does that teach young viewers? What about the girl of 13 or 14, watching that film, whose hair is unmanageable (I was that girl - NOTHING worked to tame my hair when I was that age), whose eyesight is so poor that contact lenses won't work and who doesn't have the cash to splurge on a row of cutesy little dresses. What are we teaching her? That only by changing the way she looks will she be successful? That to gain love and be truly happy, she has to become more socially acceptable?

I know you could quite easily argue that I'm taking these things far too seriously and that there's nothing wrong with a modern spin on the Cinderella tale, in which a girl is transformed. Indeed, there's a massive market for TV shows that do just that - you only have to glance at the schedules to see Gok's Fashion Fix and the like, offering to improve people. And if that makes them feel better about themselves, then who am I - and indeed who is anyone - to judge the people who go on those shows? In fact, I've watched it myself and said aloud: "I'd love to get Gok-ed."

But when we reach the point where we're airbrushing away the slightest flaw or imperfection, I do think we've gone too far. When I read that pictures of celebrities have been airbrushed to make them appear thinner, I wonder just how far our obsession with looks will go before someone puts their foot down and says "enough is enough."

After all, with children openly admitting that they feel fat or unattractive, we can surely no longer ignore the potential damage society's obsession with beauty is doing. When they turn on the television and see super-skinny popstars, with overdone make up, or when they go into shops and see magazines with airbrushed images plastered across the front pages, what message are they receiving?

Certainly not that it's okay to be who you are. Or that others may very well admire you because you do stand out from the crowd. Or even, crucially, that beauty alone may not bring happiness, because that has to come from within.

Lets give the children of the future a new message. Lets tell them to remember they ARE beautiful. No matter what's on the outside. And lets all lead by example.