And We Were Young

Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.

~ A. E. Housman

My hometown is somewhat of an acquired taste. It might even be an embarrassment to the rest of the Cotswolds, having once been described in a national newspaper as 'the ugliest town in Britain'. To us natives, it's simply Carterton - where everyone knows everyone and aeroplanes often deafen new-comers taking off and landing at Brize Norton Airbase. I've always held a great amount of affection for this place - ugly as parts of it are, littered with ancient RAF housing and great words of wisdom like 'Tom is gay' scrawled upon every available surface. It's where my family settled after years of moving around while Dad was in the forces; where I went to school, made life-long friends, went to my first disco, had all of my dramas and successes. My memories are constantly surrounded by the warm haze of home.
People who have grown up here, are oddly proud of the place. We throw terms like: 'Well, you are from Carterton' around like a badge of honour. Despite the flaws, this town breeds family - we adopt each other and create strong networks. This is why my parents could organise a surprise 16th birthday party for me with minimal notice and also why I celebrated having passed my GCSEs with six of my friends courtesy of Nikki's mum with strawberries and champagne. People look after each other here - I've always loved that about Carterton.

Which is why I am bitterly disappointed with recent events and decisions here. The repatriation of soldiers killed in action abroad, will be directed through Brize Norton as of September when RAF Lynham closes. The town of Wooton Bassett currently witnesses the hearse procession when the lads are returned home and the people who live there have become a source of genuine national pride. Businesses, domesticity and life in general comes to a standstill on the Thursday afternoon following a death in Afghanistan. People line the streets in silence, pay their respects and bid farewell to the young servicemen lost so far away from home. They support the families, they cry in empathy, they believe it is more important than anything else they had planned that day.

And it is.

The officials of Brize Norton and Carterton town council, however, have decided not to lead the procession of soldiers through the town centre - citing the 'speed bumps' on this route as their justification. Instead, they want to bring the hearse/s out of Brize main gates and up past the BP garage, before pausing at a 'memorial garden' they plan on creating. It's curious though, that this proposed route will take them over the many more speed bumps in Brize Norton village. So what could possibly be the actual reason for this decision?

Yep. Market day. Market day falls on a Thursday and the council refuses to move it for a repatriation. There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to start. The Carterton 'market' consists of about four stalls selling the kind of tat previously only seen in 'Only Fools and Horses'. It actually used to have it's own market square - a piece of land which is still present - but as no one used to attend, the council has opted instead to pedestrianise the town centre every Thursday and plant the Dellboy stands right in the middle of everyone's way.

Francis (the husband) lost a friend a few weeks ago. He was killed in Afghanistan only months after his family had grieved for their mother, having lost her to cancer. He went to Wootton Bassett and stood with everyone as the black cars rolled by. The experience, indescribable, he only said that the atmosphere was one of respect, sadness, pride and support. Ex-servicemen in their 90's dress in their blues, medals on display and salute the young soldiers as they are brought home. The roads are closed for as long as it takes because a young man has died and has done so on behalf of our country.

I'm anticipating a certain amount of back-lash in the form of people who disagree with the war in Afghanistan or those who resent the military in general. But consider this: the lads in Afghanistan have pledged to go where our government sends them and do their job. A large number of the lads killed have done so protecting their colleagues and afghan civilians. And now consider that your right to an opinion, your right to freedom and your right to a voice, has been given to you by our armed forces. They defend your rights and your way of life. Don't be so ignorant.

So market day reigns in my beloved Carterton. And I have never been more ashamed of it.

This is the welcome we give dead soldiers. This is the support we offer their families. This is a disgrace.

Eat. Pray. DIE OF BOREDOM.

This post was originally going to be the first on a new blog dedicated to book reviews - however, a beautiful combination of laziness (opening a new page, typing in the anti-spam word, etc... just seems like far too much effort) and my lack of confidence in providing an objective review of this particular work, has me abusing my regular blog. In all honesty, I just need to be able to be a bit of a ranty twat with this one. Because I really do believe it is AWFUL, despite the endorsement by Hollywood and Julia Roberts.

For anyone not in the loop yet, I'm referring to Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

We begin by meeting Ms Gilbert on the bathroom floor, praying for insight from a god she's not sure she believes in. The problem is marital - she's not sure she wants to be with her husband anymore, and rather than join the waves of people cluttering up the divorce courts, she decided instead to bore everyone else to death with several hundred horrendous pages of soul-searching wankery. I would rather she had spent the time and effort writing 'Toilet duck, Loo Roll, Bathroom Tiles' - the - I'm positive - superior alternative to Eat, Pray,Love detailing her surroundings during that first desperate conversation with God. I'd read it twice just to erase the latter from memory.

I feel genuinely cheated by this Gilbert woman. From the synopsis, this is the kind of book that ordinarily I'd be buying multiples of and lending them to friends. Travel writing, religious exploration and indulgence - that is exactly my kind of reading. But instead I found a patronising list of philosophical ideals, an adventure without any adventure and a protagonist who simply seems to be trying to reassure herself that her decision to leave her husband was prompted by some higher power or fate itself. I couldn't give a crap why she actually left her husband - does she realise how many marriages end every day? But, come on love -at least be honest with yourself. You were bored. Your husband's irritating habits suddenly became reasons to beat him to death with the coffee table and you had simply had enough.

The idea of her story, I love. Rather than stay in a life she was unhappy with, Gilbert decided to break free and travel in search of something different. She wanted to be spiritually happy, physically happy and wholly content. None of this is unreasonable. She chooses Italy, India and Indonesia, spending a few months in each with the intention of exploring different sides of her personality in these locations. But whether surrounded by food, wine and culture in Rome, or chanting with the spiritual masses in India, she remains whiny, irritating and hard-done-by. She is the literary equivalent to someone taking Prozac in front of guests at a dinner party: rather than proactively treating her problem, you really just get the feeling she wants you to ask her why she's taking it. Any excuse to wax and wane about the injustices and hiccups of her life. Don't worry - you don't have to ask her - she's written it all down in mind-numbing detail.

I don't think I'd have reacted with so much disgust, had her writing not been so appallingly superior and condescending. She talks about her decision to break free of conformity - not get married, not have children, etc... as being the edgier, riskier choice. It's definitely a choice, but that's where it ends. You're simply choosing to keep your life your own in that instance - to be responsible for yourself and do what you want to when you want to. Yes, that's a choice - one that women surrounded by children and complacent partners might even envy you for once in a while - but it's not edgy and it's not risky. Gilbert travelled by plane, not pirate-ship. She rented apartments and ate in restaurants and presumably brushed her teeth every morning. Risky? Get over yourself, Liz. Seriously.

The chapters in which religion is explored, simply smack of someone who wants to show off knowledge. Her own spiritual journey remains largely unknown and what there is of it, sounds trite and - to be honest - made-up. She's so busy being poetic and meaningful, she's left out her own story. She is a runaway narrator - veering entirely off-track and simply trying to fill pages with as much pretentious diatribe as physically possible.

All in all, the most impressive passages in Eat, Pray, Love are about the food. Next time a synopsis like that tries to fool me, I'll be saving myself the bother and buying a Jamie Oliver book instead.