Lashings of ginger beer
I’m sorry to be getting all angsty this past week, but what is wrong with this country at the moment?
It was only earlier this week that I was bemoaning the fact that nearly half of the British population allegedly believe that the BBC isn’t good value for money. Now I discover that the nation’s favourite author is Enid Blyton.
Now, I’ve nothing against Enid Blyton. I devoured her books when I was a child and there will always be a very firm place in my heart for the faraway tree, the wishing chair, Mr Meddle, Mr Pink Whistle, the naughtiest girl in the school, Julian, Dick and Anne, George and Timmy the dog et. al.
Enid taught me all about the mysterious ‘English’ world of ginger beer, school monitors, lacrosse, conkers, bluebell woods, secret passwords and hidden passageways, wobbling blancmanges, sugar mice, moors, mists and marshes and outsmarting smugglers - but I would never say that she was my favourite author.
Although I loved her imagination and her alternate world where fairies bake ‘pop biscuits’ and children are always right, even as a child I knew that Enid’s stories were simplistic, repetitive and churned out at a rate of knots.
Citing Enid Blyton (or indeed Roald Dahl and JK Rowling, second and third on the list respectively) as your favourite author when you’re over the age of 12 is more than just longing wistfully for some nostalgic past that never existed, it’s a refusal to engage with adult issues full stop. Surely the people who voted for her don’t still read about the adventures of the Secret Seven with a torch under the blankets? Haven’t they moved on?
On the positive side, it’s nice that people don’t have to pretend that they love Chaucer or Shakespeare; they can unashamedly state that their favourite author is the woman behind the ghastly Noddy…
Rant over. Normal service (i.e. boring anecdotes about public transport etc.) will resume next week.
Tags: dirty nostalgia, half-baked conjecture, hell in a handcart
August 20th, 2008 at 9:37 pm
My heart sank the other day when I asked a woman at work who was reading something in French what it was, it was a….. Harry Potter. I’m in minority i think having never read any Enid Blyton, I used read all the time as a kid but never story books so maybe I’m missing the gene.I didn’t read fiction except comics until my late teens.
August 21st, 2008 at 9:23 am
I don’t really have a problem with Harry Potter, they’re good addictive, escapist reading material but yes, they’re still essentially children’s books. So it’s pretty sad for adults to say that JK Rowling is their favourite writer.
I am the opposite of you. I read copious amounts of fiction when I was a kid - up to university really. Then I just stopped for some reason. I now mostly read non-fiction. Or French textbooks!
August 21st, 2008 at 12:11 pm
It’s got to be because the last time they read a book was when they were children.
Philip Roth, Iris Murdoch, John Updike, Ian McEwan, Magnus MIlls etc mean nothing to them.
They might pick up a Nicci French on holiday, but that’s kind of it.
August 21st, 2008 at 2:52 pm
I’ve always thought of her as a sort of Agatha Christie for kids (without the stabbings, stranglings and poisonings).
I’m almost exclusively non fiction now (except T C Boyle), the only thing I still read from childhood is comics and graphic novels. DC, Marvel etc..and have no shame in claiming Stan Lee is a genius
August 21st, 2008 at 9:04 pm
F-C and Mondo, Right, I’ll have to disgrace myself here entirely and admit that I’ve never read any of the writers that you’ve mentioned. And I don’t even know who Stan Lee is I’m afraid. Mmmm, maybe I’m the one who should have stuck to Enid Blyton.
August 23rd, 2008 at 4:28 pm
Came via Dylan’s blog. Must say I was rather surprised when I read that too. I devoured the Mallory Towers and St. Clare’s book when I was young, and it never dawned on me that, with the gardeners, nannies, cooks and drivers, they were living a lifestyle that about 0.5% of Brits lived. I suppose I got so lost in the books that my own reality was suspended.
August 23rd, 2008 at 9:51 pm
Moonface. A man in pyjamas with a moon for a face. I think adults can’t quite forget the power of that in their formative years, or like F-C says, they haven’t read a book for 30 years.
August 24th, 2008 at 7:00 pm
Hello again Expat Mum, sometimes I wonder whether those Mallory Towers etc. books were working for some kind of marketing agency for boarding schools. When I was 8 I desparately wanted to go to one. Obviously because all you did at boarding school was have midnight feasts, play lacrosse and eat from tuck boxes in the common room.
RE, ah yes, Moonface. The Saucepan Man, a slide down the middle of a tree, ever-changing lands appearing at the top of a tree. You could never accuse Enid Blyton of not having an imagination… But still, yes, F-C is probably right!!!