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  1. This year has been fairly decent reading wise, I managed a total of 36 books. Much less than last year but I have also been reading unpublished stuff on Wattpad and Wordpress. There is a lot of crap on there but if you are prepared to look you can find odd gems here and there. I haven't really seen any films this year as I haven't been to the cinema. But the telly has produced a number of excellent dramas. 2020 has a number of my favourite bands releasing new stuff but this year the stand out album for me was from Slipknot. REVIEW OF THE YEAR – 2019 Favourite Book: Times Convert by Deborah Harkness Favourite TV Programme: Chernobyl (close second: A Christmas Carol - the one from the makers of Peaky Blinders with Guy Pierce as Ebeneezer Scrooge and Stephen Graham as Jacob Marley) Favourite Film: Favourite Music Album/Song: Album – Slipknot: We are not your Kind/ Song – A Liar’s Funeral by Slipknot, from the album ‘We are not your Kind’
  2. THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL By Oscar Wilde I He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed. He walked amongst the trial men In a suit of shabby grey; A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay; But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by. I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, "That fellow's got to swing." Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel. I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye; The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die. Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die. He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty space. He does not sit with silent men Who watch him night and day; Who watch him when he tries to weep, And when he tries to pray; Who watch him lest himself should rob The prison of its prey. He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room, The shivering Chaplain robed in white, The Sheriff stern with gloom, And the Governor all in shiny black, With the yellow face of Doom. He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose, Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows. He does not know that sickening thirst That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Slips through the padded door, And binds one with three leather thongs, That the throat may thirst no more. He does not bend his head to hear The burial office read, Nor while the terror of his soul Tells him he is not dead, Cross his own coffin, as he moves Into the hideous shed. He does not stare upon the air Through a little roof of glass He does not pray with lips of clay For his agony to pass; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek The kiss of Caiaphas. II Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard, In the suit of shabby grey His cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay, But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every wandering cloud that trailed Its ravelled fleeces by. He did not wring his hands, as do Those witless men who dare To try to rear the changeling hope In the cave of black despair He only looked upon the sun, And drank the morning air. He did not wring his hands nor weep, Nor did he peek or pine, But he drank the air as though it held Some healthful anodyne; With open mouth he drank the sun As though it had been wine! And I and all the souls in pain, Who tramped the other ring, Forgot if we ourselves had done A great or little thing, And watched with gaze of dull amaze The man who had to swing. For strange it was to see him pass With a step so light and gay, And strange it was to see him look So wistfully at the day, And strange it was to think that he Had such a debt to pay. For oak and elm have pleasant leaves That in the spring-time shoot: But grim to see is the gallows-tree, With its alder-bitten root, And, green or dry, a man must die Before it bears its fruit! The loftiest place is that seat of grace For which all worldlings try But who would stand in hempen band Upon a scaffold high, And through a murderer's collar take His last look at the sky? It is sweet to dance to violins When Love and Life are fair To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air! So with curious eyes and sick surmise We watched him day by day, And wondered if each one of us Would end the self-same way, For none can tell to what red Hell His sightless soul may stray. At last the dead man walked no more Amongst the trial men, And I knew that he was standing up In the black dock's dreadful pen, And that never would I see his face In God's sweet world again. Like two doomed ships that pass in storm We had crossed each other's way But we made no sign, we said no word, We had no word to say; For we did not meet in the holy night, But in the shameful day. A prison wall was round us both, Two outcast men we were The world had thrust us from its heart, And God from out His care And the iron gin that waits for Sin Had caught us in its snare. III In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, And the dripping wall is high, So it was there he took the air Beneath the leaden sky, And by each side a Warder walked, For fear the man might die. Or else he sat with those who watched His anguish night and day; Who watched him when he rose to weep, And when he crouched to pray; Who watched him lest himself should rob Their scaffold of its prey. The Governor was strong upon The Regulations Act The Doctor said that death was but A scientific fact And twice a day the Chaplain called, And left a little tract. And twice a day he smoked his pipe, And drank his quart of beer His soul was resolute, and held No hiding-place for fear; He often said that he was glad The hangman's hands were near. But why he said so strange a thing No Warder dared to ask For he to whom a watcher's doom Is given as his task, Must set a lock upon his lips, And make his face a mask. Or else he might be moved, and try To comfort or console And what should Human Pity do Pent up in Murderer's Hole? What word of grace in such a place Could help a brother's soul? With slouch and swing around the ring We trod the Fools' Parade! We did not care: we knew we were The devil's own brigade And shaven head and feet of lead Make a merry masquerade. We tore the tarry rope to shreds With blunt and bleeding nails; We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, And cleaned the shining rails And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, And clattered with the pails. We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, We turned the dusty drill We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, And sweated on the mill But in the heart of every man Terror was lying still. So still it lay that every day Crawled like a weed-clogged wave And we forgot the bitter lot That waits for fool and knave, Till once, as we tramped in from work, We passed an open grave. With yawning mouth the yellow hole Gaped for a living thing; The very mud cried out for blood To the thirsty asphalt ring And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair Some prisoner had to swing. Right in we went, with soul intent On Death and Dread and Doom The hangman, with his little bag, Went shuffling through the gloom And each man trembled as he crept Into his numbered tomb. That night the empty corridors Were full of forms of fear, And up and down the iron town Stole feet we could not hear, And through the bars that hide the stars White faces seemed to peer. He lay as one who lies and dreams In a pleasant meadow-land, The watchers watched him as he slept, And could not understand How one could sleep so sweet a sleep With a hangman close at hand. But there is no sleep when men must weep Who never yet have wept So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave— That endless vigil kept, And through each brain on hands of pain Another's terror crept. Alas! it is a fearful thing To feel another's guilt! For, right within, the sword of Sin Pierced to its poisoned hilt, And as molten lead were the tears we shed For the blood we had not spilt. The Warders with their shoes of felt Crept by each padlocked door, And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, Gray figures on the floor, And wondered why men knelt to pray Who never prayed before. All through the night we knelt and prayed, Mad mourners of a corse! The troubled plumes of midnight were The plumes upon a hearse And bitter wine upon a sponge Was the savour of remorse. The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, But never came the day And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, In the corners where we lay And each evil sprite that walks by night Before us seemed to play. They glided past, they glided fast, Like travellers through a mist They mocked the moon in a rigadoon Of delicate turn and twist, And with formal pace and loathsome grace The phantoms kept their tryst. With mop and mow, we saw them go, Slim shadows hand in hand About, about, in ghostly rout They trod a saraband And damned grotesques made arabesques, Like the wind upon the sand! With the pirouettes of marionettes, They tripped on pointed tread But with flutes of fear they filled the ear, As their grisly masque they led, And loud they sang, and long they sang, For they sang to wake the dead. "Oho!" they cried, "the world is wide, But fettered limbs go lame! And once, or twice, to throw the dice Is a gentlemanly game, But he does not win who plays with Sin In the Secret House of Shame." No things of air these antics were, That frolicked with such glee To men whose lives were held in gyves, And whose feet might not go free, Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, Most terrible to see. Around, around, they waltzed and wound; Some wheeled in smirking pairs; With the mincing step of a demirep Some sidled up the stairs And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, Each helped us at our prayers. The morning wind began to moan, But still the night went on Through its giant loom the web of gloom Crept till each thread was spun: And, as we prayed, we grew afraid Of the Justice of the Sun. The moaning wind went wandering round The weeping prison-wall Till like a wheel of turning steel We felt the minutes crawl O moaning wind! what had we done To have such a seneschal? At last I saw the shadowed bars, Like a lattice wrought in lead, Move right across the whitewashed wall That faced my three-plank bed, And I knew that somewhere in the world God's dreadful dawn was red. At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, At seven all was still, But the sough and swing of a mighty wing The prison seemed to fill, For the Lord of Death with icy breath Had entered in to kill. He did not pass in purple pomp, Nor ride a moon-white steed. Three yards of cord and a sliding board Are all the gallows' need So with rope of shame the Herald came To do the secret deed. We were as men who through a fen Of filthy darkness grope We did not dare to breathe a prayer, Or to give our anguish scope Something was dead in each of us, And what was dead was Hope. For Man's grim Justice goes its way And will not swerve aside It slays the weak, it slays the strong, It has a deadly stride With iron heel it slays the strong, The monstrous parricide! We waited for the stroke of eight Each tongue was thick with thirst For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate That makes a man accursed, And Fate will use a running noose For the best man and the worst. We had no other thing to do, Save to wait for the sign to come So, like things of stone in a valley lone, Quiet we sat and dumb But each man's heart beat thick and quick, Like a madman on a drum! With sudden shock the prison-clock Smote on the shivering air, And from all the gaol rose up a wail Of impotent despair, Like the sound the frightened marshes hear From some leper in his lair. And as one sees most fearful things In the crystal of a dream, We saw the greasy hempen rope Hooked to the blackened beam, And heard the prayer the hangman's snare Strangled into a scream. And all the woe that moved him so That he gave that bitter cry, And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, None knew so well as I For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die. IV There is no chapel on the day On which they hang a man The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, Or his face is far too wan, Or there is that written in his eyes Which none should look upon. So they kept us close till nigh on noon, And then they rang the bell, And the Warders with their jingling keys Opened each listening cell, And down the iron stair we tramped, Each from his separate Hell. Out into God's sweet air we went, But not in wonted way, For this man's face was white with fear, And that man's face was grey, And I never saw sad men who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw sad men who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue We prisoners called the sky, And at every careless cloud that passed In happy freedom by. But there were those amongst us all Who walked with downcast head, And knew that, had each got his due, They should have died instead He had but killed a thing that lived, Whilst they had killed the dead. For he who sins a second time Wakes a dead soul to pain, And draws it from its spotted shroud, And makes it bleed again, And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, And makes it bleed in vain! Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb With crooked arrows starred, Silently we went round and round The slippery asphalt yard; Silently we went round and round, And no man spoke a word. Silently we went round and round, And through each hollow mind The memory of dreadful things Rushed like a dreadful wind, And Horror stalked before each man, And Terror crept behind. The warders strutted up and down, And kept their herd of brutes, Their uniforms were spick and span, And they wore their Sunday suits, But we knew the work they had been at, By the quicklime on their boots. For where a grave had opened wide, There was no grave at all Only a stretch of mud and sand By the hideous prison-wall, And a little heap of burning lime, That the man should have his pall. For he has a pall, this wretched man, Such as few men can claim Deep down below a prison-yard, Naked for greater shame, He lies, with fetters on each foot, Wrapt in a sheet of flame! And all the while the burning lime Eats flesh and bone away, It eats the brittle bone by night, And the soft flesh by day, It eats the flesh and bone by turns, But it eats the heart always. For three long years they will not sow Or root or seedling there For three long years the unblessed spot Will sterile be and bare, And look upon the wondering sky With unreproachful stare. They think a murderer's heart would taint Each simple seed they sow. It is not true! God's kindly earth Is kindlier than men know, And the red rose would but glow more red, The white rose whiter blow. Out of his mouth a red, red rose! Out of his heart a white! For who can say by what strange way, Christ brings His will to light, Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore Bloomed in the great Pope's sight? But neither milk-white rose nor red May bloom in prison air; The shard, the pebble, and the flint, Are what they give us there For flowers have been known to heal A common man's despair. So never will wine-red rose or white, Petal by petal, fall On that stretch of mud and sand that lies By the hideous prison-wall, To tell the men who tramp the yard That God's Son died for all. Yet though the hideous prison-wall Still hems him round and round, And a spirit may not walk by night That is with fetters bound, And a spirit may but weep that lies In such unholy ground, He is at peace—this wretched man— At peace, or will be soon There is no thing to make him mad, Nor does Terror walk at noon, For the lampless Earth in which he lies Has neither Sun nor Moon. They hanged him as a beast is hanged: They did not even toll A requiem that might have brought Rest to his startled soul, But hurriedly they took him out, And hid him in a hole. They stripped him of his canvas clothes, And gave him to the flies: They mocked the swollen purple throat, And the stark and staring eyes: And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud In which their convict lies. The Chaplain would not kneel to pray By his dishonoured grave Nor mark it with that blessed Cross That Christ for sinners gave, Because the man was one of those Whom Christ came down to save. Yet all is well; he has but passed To Life's appointed bourne And alien tears will fill for him Pity's long-broken urn, For his mourners will be outcast men, And outcasts always mourn. V I know not whether Laws be right, Or whether Laws be wrong All that we know who lie in gaol Is that the wall is strong And that each day is like a year, A year whose days are long. But this I know, that every Law That men have made for Man, Since first Man took his brother's life, And the sad world began, But straws the wheat and saves the chaff With a most evil fan. This too I know—and wise it were If each could know the same— That every prison that men build Is built with bricks of shame, And bound with bars lest Christ should see How men their brothers maim. With bars they blur the gracious moon, And blind the goodly sun And they do well to hide their Hell, For in it things are done That Son of God nor son of Man Ever should look upon! The vilest deeds like poison weeds Bloom well in prison-air It is only what is good in Man That wastes and withers there Pale anguish keeps the heavy gate, And the warder is despair. For they starve the little frightened child Till it weeps both night and day And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, And gibe the old and grey, And some grow mad, and all grow bad, And none a word may say. Each narrow cell in which we dwell Is a foul and dark latrine, And the fetid breath of living Death Chokes up each grated screen, And all, but Lust, is turned to dust In humanity's machine. The brackish water that we drink Creeps with a loathsome slime, And the bitter bread they weigh in scales Is full of chalk and lime, And Sleep will not lie down, but walks Wild-eyed, and cries to time. But though lean hunger and green thirst Like asp with adder fight, We have little care of prison fare, For what chills and kills outright Is that every stone one lifts by day Becomes one's heart by night. With midnight always in one's heart, And twilight in one's cell, We turn the crank, or tear the rope, Each in his separate Hell, And the silence is more awful far Than the sound of a brazen bell. And never a human voice comes near To speak a gentle word And the eye that watches through the door Is pitiless and hard And by all forgot, we rot and rot, With soul and body marred. And thus we rust Life's iron chain Degraded and alone And some men curse, and some men weep, And some men make no moan But God's eternal Laws are kind And break the heart of stone. And every human heart that breaks, In prison-cell or yard, Is as that broken box that gave Its treasure to the Lord, And filled the unclean leper's house With the scent of costliest nard. Ah! happy they whose hearts can break And peace of pardon win! How else may man make straight his plan And cleanse his soul from Sin? How else but through a broken heart May Lord Christ enter in? And he of the swollen purple throat, And the stark and staring eyes, Waits for the holy hands that took The thief to paradise; And a broken and a contrite heart The Lord will not despise. The man in red who reads the law Gave him three weeks of life, Three little weeks in which to heal His soul of his soul's strife, And cleanse from every blot of blood The hand that held the knife. And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, The hand that held the steel For only blood can wipe out blood, And only tears can heal And the crimson stain that was of Cain Became Christ's snow-white seal. VI In Reading gaol by Reading town There is a pit of shame, And in it lies a wretched man Eaten by teeth of flame, In a burning winding-sheet he lies, And his grave has got no name. And there, till Christ call forth the dead, In silence let him lie No need to waste the foolish tear, Or heave the windy sigh The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die. And all men kill the thing they love, By all let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword.
  3. I love that poem! Sadly I can't read it now without thinking of The Simpson's parody of it for their very first Halloween special You have to admit though, it is good! 🤣🤣🤣 Apologies for the derailment, here is my poem... Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et Decorum est pro patria mori
  4. I was never read to as a child as far as I can recall, (at home) - I was more encouraged to just read things for myself which I did. However, at primary school we had lessons where we were read to and I loved them. Now I love listening to audiobooks but to be fair would sooner sit down and read a book for myself.
  5. Just started reading Sweet Pea by C J Skuse it was a kindle book I picked up in one of the many offers they bombard you with. What sold me was the blurb... 'The last person who called me ‘Sweetpea’ ended up dead… I haven’t killed anyone for three years and I thought that when it happened again I’d feel bad. Like an alcoholic taking a sip of whisky. But no. Nothing. I had a blissful night’s sleep. Didn’t wake up at all. And for once, no bad dream either. This morning I feel balanced. Almost sane, for once. Rhiannon is your average girl next door, settled with her boyfriend and little dog…but she’s got a killer secret. Although her childhood was haunted by a famous crime, Rhinannon’s life is normal now that her celebrity has dwindled. By day her job as an editorial assistant is demeaning and unsatisfying. By evening she dutifully listens to her friend’s plans for marriage and babies whilst secretly making a list. A kill list. From the man on the Lidl checkout who always mishandles her apples, to the driver who cuts her off on her way to work, to the people who have got it coming, Rhiannon’s ready to get her revenge. Because the girl everyone overlooks might be able to get away with murder…' I mean what is not to like about that?!
  6. I think one which had a profound effect on me was Until the Final Hour by Traudl Junge. She was Hitlers secretary and as the title of the book suggests she was with him in the bunker until the time he killed himself. Everyone has this concept of Adolf Hitler, the deranged madman who was completely evil. Yet this books shows that someone saw him differently. It is interesting to read how she saw Hitler and how she genuinely liked him and how she talks about him as an ordinary human being. You also read how that fact doesn't sit well with her and how she feels a profound sense of guilt for 'liking' one of history's greatest monsters especially as after the war and the extent of the atrocities came to light.
  7. Has anyone seen the latest season of Lucifer now that it is on Netflix? I binge watched it the other week and I really enjoyed it, it is significantly darker than previous series' and not so much silly humour, not going to say how it ends for those who haven't seen it and want to, but I enjoyed it.
  8. Apple

    Have a Rant!

    Ok so I am going to say something else... I totally agree with you! I admit I also voted to leave. I voted to leave the EU and my husband and son voted remain, however, I didn't make that decision lightly but I researched and after much thought and carefully considering all the options, I felt with the information I had found - at that time, that Britain would be better off leaving the EU. BUT now I have totally changed my mind, I fully admit that I was wrong, don't get me wrong I am still Euro Skeptic and believe there is much room for reform and improvement in Europe but hold up my hands and admit I was wrong, and here is why, because the 'facts' which I so carefully researched to make an informed decision back in 2016, were, I now believe, fundamentally flawed and were misleading and basically wrong, and I'm not talking about the blatant more money for the NHS lie. So, I believe that I made a flawed decision based on inaccurate information and then it all came out in 2017 that some of the biggest mouthpieces of the leave campaign - Nigel Farage and Jacob Rees Mogg have off shore tax haven accounts and it all suddenly and dramatically became very clear at that point as why they were so keen to leave the EU when the EU was planning on implementing new legislation to help prevent tax avoidance. I would also like to say that I credited the British government with having more integrity and basic competence which was a huge mistake, you see I assumed that when the vote was in they would all pull together and use the two years of negotiation wisely and secure the best possible outcome for the country, but their actions have proven throughout the entire negotiation period and up to this point, they have done precisely nothing other than fight among themselves and back-stab each other in a pathetic game of one-up-man-ship. The government reacted to the 'stop Brexit' petition by saying that they couldn't/wouldn't cancel Brexit because it would destroy the trust of the people, I think everything that has happened to this point in time has already done that.
  9. Apple

    Have a Rant!

    I could rant for hours on this subject but I will limit my response to what chuntzy has said and in my opinion the far right have only brought this on themselves, not going to say any more on that or I will head off into a whole new rant! So I'll let this guy say it... (when satire is the uncomfortable truth) WARNING: There is some rather strong language in both these clips. or this one which is my personal favourite... Yeah, so basically what he said!
  10. That was actually my first thoughts, when I first heard about the book years ago, but over the years I had heard bits and pieces about it and it was all positive stuff and how refreshingly honest it was, I had read snippets here and there about it and heard about his early life story so as time went on I was not quite so prejudiced, (to be fair that is how Jeremy Spencer came across in his autobiography which is why I wasn't overly struck on it). Yes, I admit there are moments of spoilt rockstar and privileged life of excess but I think by the point this diary is written that the hedonistic aspects of the rock star lifestyle of too much too young and emulating what all their 'heroes' in the business were doing at that point in time had long since vanished and Nikki was just lost. The spoilt rock star vibe tends to come across more vividly from the contributions from Tommy Lee, don't get me wrong they are there in the accounts by Nikki but there is also the strong undercurrent of sadness and desperation in Nikki's words and yes he does do some terrible things, not to mention downright stupid things and he objectifies women and uses them, but on the flip side you also see just how lonely and desperate he really was, drugs were his escape but inevitably ended up making things worse, yes he used women and he knew his long term relationships were toxic because they revolved around drugs but what also comes through loud and clear is that he didn't trust himself to get close to anyone either, and that I think is from the way his mother treated him, always abandoning him. She makes contributions to the book and throughout there is no remorse or apology for what she did, just excuses and she just denies doing anything wrong or blames everyone else for her failings and it is clear she had plenty of issues of her own. The main book ends with him forgiving her, however that is at odds with the new extra introduction at the beginning of the book which covers the past ten years since the Heroin Diaries was first published where here he explains that his mother has now died and how he tried to mend bridges but how she managed to mess that up with her actions and how they never did reconcile, because she wouldn't own up or admit that she ever did anything wrong. He credits writing the Heroin Diaries with saving him, not writing them at the time, but going back to them and then doing something with them and getting them published, he said reading some of the entries where sometimes he was lucid, sometimes spaced out and sometimes just insane was a shock and it reminded him of his life was back then and he said something quite profound he said 'my life was so abject back then that it was almost a relief when I died' where he is referring to overdose where he was dead for a short while and I think that sums up the book you can see he is searching for something, and at the same time he is on the treadmill of the music industry and you can see the lack of morals and basic care by the people in the industry and the band's management and how they were only interested in the band making them money and how that also played a major part in his drugs problem. He also said it was best incentive to never go back there and get back into drugs again.
  11. I don't normally read celebrity autobiographies (although this cannot be classified as one of those) but I have previously made exceptions namely Ozzy's autobiography which I found endearing with its honesty and his obvious regret at some of the things he had done, not to mention also very funny and moving in places as well as completely shocking. After that I also read Death Punch'd - Surviving Five Finger Death Punch's Metal Mayhem by it's drummer Jeremy Spencer, because I am a massive fan of 5FDP's music and was genuinely interested but sadly I did not enjoy it, as Jeremy just came across as an arrogant selfish twat. Anyway, because I bought that book off of Amazon, The Heroin Diaries kept popping up as a recommended read. I consistently ignored it, but then my husband downloaded The Heroin Diaries Soundtrack which was a concept album by Nikki's new band Sixx:AM and it was apparently meant to accompany the book, something which had never been done before and it blew me away with its honest lyrics especially the song 'Life is Beautiful' and after listening to it, I decided that I would get the book to read at some point and I have been meaning to get it for a while. Fast forward to about 2 weeks ago when I finally did it, I took the plunge and bought a copy, the copy I have is not the original version of the book, but the 10th Anniversary edition which was released in 2017 and has a new bits added which tells of the enormous impact the book had since it was first released. Apparently Nikki gets people coming up to him regularly telling him that reading his book inspired them to get clean and his book is routinely given to recovering addicts by rehab facilities in the States. The book is nothing like anything I have ever read before, shocking doesn't even begin to cover it. The fact that it is actually a diary which Nikki kept and wrote in whilst he was going through what he went through is astounding in itself but when you read some of the extracts it is really heartbreaking. There are contributions from various other people who were around at the time and you get the distinct impression that some of them were willfully ignorant because the band was making them so much money. When you read it you can see immediately how he ended up as he did, he had a wretched childhood with little stability and it had an massive effect on his mental well being, couple that with the decadence and excess of the 1980's music scene and you have a recipe for disaster. It really was hard to read at times, as because it was written at that time and not later with rose tinted memories it is more than raw and it is jaw droppingly horrific, it is just one year of his addiction and you almost feel his despair as he spirals out of control, how he is surrounded by people who enable his addiction, how he gets into a vicious cycle of heroin to relax and feel good and take away all his problems which then makes him unable to function so he then takes massive quantities of cocaine to pick himself up which results in him getting so high he is hallucinating so he then takes more heroin to bring himself back down and the cycle continues. You read how he spent his night times crouched naked in his closet surrounded by drugs paraphernalia clutching a gun because he is convinced that people are breaking into his home, but it is all a hallucination. You read how he managed to stop taking the heroin so he could function on tour, going through withdrawal (but he didn't stop the cocaine) and while he was on tour he crunched up massive amounts of sleeping tablets and mixed them with the cocaine - a substance he called zombie dust to try and stop the massive high's and paranoia . You read how he overdosed and the moments leading up to that and waking up afterwards in hospital. You read how at one point he literally didn't have any veins left so he was reduced to injecting heroin into his penis, and how one time his needle broke and he was so panic stricken he kept jabbing the broken needle into himself to try and get something. You are left thinking how is he alive after all that? But it is also a story ultimately of redemption, he makes no excuses and he knows he will always be an addict. I can't say I enjoyed this book in one sense as it really isn't a book that you 'enjoy' but it was compelling reading and I am glad I read it.
  12. Just one small thing, I read a Kindle book recently and I went to the reviews (as I do after I've read it) and there was a person who was reviewing who said they had also bought the audible version to listen to as they read along with the kindle and that it appeared that chunks had been missed out of the story as there was more dialogue in the audible version than what was written in front of them, nothing which affected the story but they questioned if it was a different version but surely that would be Kindle selling abridged books as unabridged?
  13. It depends on the book, if its a cracking read which holds your attention it doesn't matter how long it is, whereas if its a pile of poo the shortest book can be a hard slog to get through. Personally speaking I like short books and I like long books some of my fav's have been the size of a breeze block and some which took me forever to get through because they were so bad were relatively short. I think this thread ties in nicely with the thread I started asking if books were getting shorter as I have noticed in recent times it doesn't take me as long to read a book as it used to, and sometimes I feel I have been a bit short changed when I read a book which seems to end before its even begun.
  14. A little late to the party on this one, (to put it mildly!) I remember this series and watched it when it first aired (I can't believe its over 10 years ago though!) When we got Netflix I was overjoyed to find it on there but then they took it off. Out of the blue (very randomly) my husband bought me the entire box set of DVDs of this series recently, so now I am reacquainting myself with this series and loving it all over again. Yes it takes some terrible liberties with historical fact and some of the details are quite outstandingly wrong, yet I can't help myself, this is my current 'guilty pleasure' and I'm enjoying every moment of it.
  15. February has now begun and I’ve just started reading The Diary by Vikki Patis, it's a book which has been on my kindle for a while and I've kept skipping over and reading something else, billed as a psychological thriller (I seem to be reading quite a lot of those recently) and the blurb tells me a girl travels back to her home town for the first time in years - since her sister died in fact and when she arrives, she finds a diary that her sister wrote and things start to happen, not saying any more than that but so far its holding my attention so we shall see how it progresses. With that in mind here is a quick round up of what I read in January, not exactly currently reading I know but I thought I'd like to share my recent reads with you all, not a bad haul to be fair, more than I anticipated reading, and with varying degrees of quality. 2019 started with The Liars Wife by Samantha Hayes, a disturbing psychological thriller which I enjoyed very much, it was a little incredulous at times but it was one of those books where you could visualise what was going on and feel as though you were there so not a bad start to the year, next up things went downhill dramatically with Damien by J Kenner, this was the latest offering as part of her long running Stark series about Damien and Nikki Stark which was originally a much better series of novels and novellas than its peers (Fifty Shades of Grey and The Crossfire series by Sylvia Day) however, it went downhill and became just as predictable and cringeworthy as anything found in those diabolical stories, but I was intrigued, as this one was written from Damien's perspective rather than from his wife Nikki's. I had enjoyed this series originally I decided to have a little look and the result – shouldn’t have bothered simple as that! Then came a trilogy 'The Mitchells and O Hara Trilogy' by Kimberley Chambers which was made up of the books The Feud, The Traitor and The Victim these were a story about family feuds, London’s underworld and organised crime, now things started well The Feud was the first book of 2019 to inspire me to pull an all-nighter it was edgy and captivating, but the quality of the story diminished in book 2 and book 3 was barely readable it was so far-fetched, so to say I was disappointed would be an understatement, started well but very disappointed by the end. After that I was anxious to find a book which I would actually not be disappointed with I turned to Time’s Convert next by Deborah Harkness, as I felt it was time for a bit of supernatural, perversely I wasn’t really expecting anything from this book as I had convinced myself that it would in no way live up to the outstanding 'All Souls Trilogy', and I had talked myself into being disappointed before I had even started, but on the other hand I knew the author was talented and even if the plot wasn’t great I knew she wouldn’t disappoint with the historical details she filled her books with, so even if I was disappointed with the story I wouldn’t be – does that make sense? It was a very different story to the trilogy but it was magnificent and I was sad when I had finished it which is always the mark of a good book. Next up was In Her Shadow by Mark Edwards, another whodunit psychological thriller, again I was expecting nothing from this as I hadn’t really thought much of 'The Retreat' which I had previously read, but it was there (and it was a Prime Reading freebie) so I thought what the hell and it was actually really very good, it was a little incredulous at times but overall it was a solidly good story with many layers and it all came together well. The Supernatural called to me again after that one and somewhat fortuitously I had just received a book I had pre-ordered at the end of last year - Summoned to the Thirteenth Grave by Darynda Jones and so I decided to get stuck in this was the final book in the fantasy supernatural series I had read and totally adored last year, and this final installment did not disappoint, it did everything it set out to do and ended the series nicely. Doll House by John Hunt was up next and that was a very dark disturbing psychological thriller, and well written as despite the fact I figured out who the torturer/rapist/killer was about half way through it still kept me riveted to the end. A bit of fluff was in order next after the heavy subject matter of 'Doll House' and Dan & Nat Got Married by Jon Rance fitted the bill it was a romantic comedy and a freebie from Prime Reading, not something I would spend money on but for a freebie it wasn’t too bad, basically the story of two people who meet on two separate stag/hen weekends in Las Vegas and whilst totally slaughtered they get married to each other - as you do! They return to the UK and decide instead of getting a divorce and forgetting it ever happened. to try and make a go of things and see if they can have a relationship and be happy together, as they are both pretty much losers in the relationship department, it's a ‘nice’ story, nothing special a bit predictable and twee but I enjoyed it and it served a purpose, plus it was free so what was not to like. Last book of the month was Love You Gone by Rona Halsall a psychological thriller and all I can say about this is thank god it was short, it only took me 5 hours in total to read and those are 5 hours I am never going to get back, the sad thing about this story was it had real potential, the idea behind the story was superb it raised a number of valid serious points about how relationships are viewed and it could have been absolutely outstanding yet the author managed to completely blow it and produced a book which was flat, superficial and crap. So there we go, January in a nutshell, now on to February, so watch this space!
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