I’m not entirely sure I can count this as a review. Likely it is closer to a rant inspired by a book. Be warned my reader – this isn’t a pleasant, I-can-relate-to-this rant. There will be no shopping trolley with wiggly wheels, no large people sitting next to me on the aeroplane, no hats in the theatre.
Today I could not finish reading a book. It wasn’t a bad book. Definitely likeable. Maybe I’ll finish it another day. It’s surely going to weigh on my literary conscience. Especially if I see it on my Goodreads ‘currently reading’ shelf. Let me explain myself reader – I feel like I owe you an explanation. I know you’re all sitting at your computer shaking your heads “This Amy lass,” you will say, “can’t even finish a simple 3 star book”. You’re completely right of course.
He Died With a Felafel In his Hand, is a collection of tales about share housing in Australia during the 1990’s. A time where you lived atop of a foot of garbage, men slept in tents in your living room, and at any given time expect – quote unquote – “nightclubbing bimbos who used their ankles for earrings.” I’m usually not a fan of non-fiction, and let me tell you why. It’s depressing as shit. I’m sorry, I don’t want to escape the loneliness of my couch to step into the world of a worse couch.
John Birmingham is a funny writer. He is imaginative, and doesn’t shy away from the truth – even when he should. The kinds of people that he (and others) have lived with is an excellent representation of the kinds of people that were around in the 1990’s. I read it for five minutes today and I felt sick – because I know they are all true stories. I feel very grateful in my roommate history. No violent boyfriends, no one urinating in my refrigerator… No rats. The thing is – that was only 20 years ago. They haven’t been bred out of society. They are all here living under a 20 year old disguise
The truly terrifying thing is that they are now doctors and politicians and your bosses. I think this may be the reason I truly struggled to finish this. It reminds me that our nation are descended from criminals. Some days it shows. You know what irks me beyond belief – that my peers and I – the ones that clean their teeth and wash their sheets and avoid raping people – they are called immature, irresponsible and inexperienced. BY THESE IDIOTS. AGH. As if I didn’t need more help losing faith in humanity. It’s my current job search that has made this a very real, in-your-face, annoyance for me. I guess it’s when possible employers ask me questions that I’ve answered on my resume that confuses me. I guess you didn’t read it then? When they ask if I ‘work out’, if I have a history of depression, if I am passionate about ‘admin’. I realise that my possible new bosses aren’t as bright or as appropriate as they think they are.
Humans suck. I miss my fantasy fiction.
it's only three 