A brief segue away from the travel blog to discuss the erotic breakout literary super smash hit of the year that I entertained myself with for a few days lying on the beaches of Hawaii.

I’m not afraid to admit that I’m not a regular reader of books, but I can’t help but be taken in when one breaks the mainstream and becomes a part of pop culture. I’ve read all the Harry Potter books and the whole of the Millennium Trilogy. I’m not enough of a teenage girl to have bothered with Twilight, but apparently I am enough of a middle aged woman to have now read Fifty Shades of Grey.

I don’t mean to be lazily hyperboulus (I made up this word. I have an imagination which is more than can be said for the woman that wrote this book) in my assessment, but this is surely the worst book ever sent to print, at least the worst ever to have made a multi-millionaire of its author and become the subject of a bidding war between Hollywood studios for the film rights.

There is no good place to start with criticising this book because absolutely everything about it is so utterly dire.

The author has a list of adjectives and verbs that I would estimate is around ten words long, which she chooses from over and over to try and describe her characters who subsequently have no discernible personalities and only repeatedly bite their lips, flush their cheeks, hitch their breath and violently push their tongues in to each others mouths. For over 500 pages. Really, that’s all they do. Read it. You’ll see. But don’t read it, it’s shit.

The story is supposed to take place in and around Vancouver, Portland and Seattle. However I read in a newspaper interview that E.L. James (the twit responsible for writing this abomination) has never been to any of these cities and used Google Maps to get a sense for the places. That explains why there is no sense of the places, the book is devoid of any atmosphere at all, and having read it, rather than wish to visit the Pacific Northwest, I want to visit Mrs James and call her a dickhead.

The heroine of the piece is just finishing an undergraduate degree at an American college in 2012 and yet doesn’t have an email address and has rarely used the Internet. Either her course is a bizarre anomaly in a world where computers are at the centre of just about everything that is taught or the author is out of touch with the reality and didn’t do any research before sitting down to write this rubbish. I’m fairly certain it’s the latter but will be happy to be proved wrong. Actually I wouldn’t be happy because she would have done research and still managed to produce a book of such astoundingly uninformed nonsense. Cock.

Of course the big reason Fifty Shades of Grey caused such a stir was its sexy content and titillating whips ‘n’ chains adventures. I believe that readers are supposed to be turned on and excited by the forbidden acts that take place, and live out their wildest fantasies vicariously through the lead characters’ lives. Well without wishing to ruin the end for everyone, they break up because she realises that getting beaten up by him isn’t so fun as she had thought it might have been and actually she doesn’t like it when he hits her. Sexy.

There’s more to say about how bad this book is but I now realise how much I hate myself for having read it and hate myself even more for having spent some time writing about it and I have to stop before I end it all. Sorry for the sad and angry mind diarrhoea.