PS: I’m Warning You

Occasionally work demands that you go above and beyond the call. It sets you a task that stretches you to the limit of your tolerance and mental ability.

That call came before the last issue of the Irish Echo. It became clear would have to read PS: I Love You, as the film hits the big screens here in Oz on St Stephen’s Day and all blokes need to be aware of the emerging danger.

The first paragraph of the article read:

‘As a bloke, it’s hard to feel anything but genuine fear at the release of another chick flick. And when a sure-fire behemoth like PS I Love You rolls out, as it does here on December 26, you do feel like locking yourself in a garage with power tools, beer and porn to fend off the whirling spirits, high on oestrogen, wailing at you to go to the cinema.’

The word ‘porn’ was later subbed out to read ‘mates’. We’re a family paper.

So that none of you have to suffer a similar fate, here is the “I read it so you don’t have to” (©Una) version of the book. Beware, spoilers lurk. If, after reading this book, you still feel compelled to read the book, please buy it second-hand. That way, no-one in the perfidious system gets enriched by these crimes against literature.

Chapter One
It begins. “Their plan had been very simple: to stay together for the rest of their lives.” Optimistic, Cecelia, but ask your Daddy, this isn’t always a simple plan, and you’re clearly setting us up for a fall here. We’re on page one and I can see it coming.

Holly ‘steadied herself to her feet’, obviously after her legs give way due to the ogoing grief of Gerry’s death. Can you steady yourself to your feet? Can you steady yourself ‘to’ anything? You can steady yourself against something, beside something, but ‘to’ something? C’mon Cecelia, don’t hack the language up any more than it is already. Let’s set a good tone, here.

Chapter Two
The List makes its appearance. Gerry (dead hubby) was making a tongue-in-cheek list of things for Holly (hot young widow) to do in the event of his death. The concept of the list morphs into his actual instructions from beyond the grave, forming the basis for this taste-defying bestseller. Remember that the alarm is on before you open the windows, he says. Remember that the cereal goes in the bowl BEFORE the milk, Holly. Remember to turn off the light before you go to bed. Remember to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…. Vomit.
How many couples are now doing this every time one of them gets the sniffles and senses imminent death, putting their ‘original’ little twist on it? On my list: No more chicklit for you, missy. It rots your brain and turns you into a cunt.
I’m building up a nice head of sarcasm here when, WHAM, Holly finds an empty milk carton in the fridge – something Gerry said he’d put on that famous list of his and all of a sudden: FUCK! I am actually gagging to see the list. The virus that is this book has gotten under the skin very quickly and is spreading to my brain because I am curious. Curious but furious. Furious because Cecelia used the “…” at the end of a paragraph just now, that subtle-like-a-brick Leaving-Cert device that hints at a really predictable outcome. She uses it twice in the one paragraph, actually. In fact, look, it’s there on the cover: “Holly thought love would last forever…” Aaaargh! Fuck! I want to strangle her, but know that if I do, I won’t find out what’s on the list. I want to strangle myself for wanting to know what’s on the list. This book is tearing me apart and I’m only on page 11.

But on page 12 and 13, it passes and I’m just plain angry again, because she’s back to insulting my intelligence. Perhaps this is the secret of Chick Lit – insult the readers’ intelligence so that they feel morally and intellectually superior than the author.
“Was it possible that Gerry had kept his word and had written a list for her before she died? He wouldn’t have. Would He?” My money’s on Yes, Cecelia. I’m fairly sure that the list is what will drag us, kicking and screaming, through the remaining 412 pages.
In fact, it’s pointed out on the back cover. Why do you ask me these questions, Cecelia? Is it a test? To see if I’m paying attention? Just stop it.
Calm down, Markham, it’s her first book, and as your first tome is still, erm, in the pipeline, you’re on shaky ground.
(Note to self: When writing first book, avoid ending chapters with insulting questions or “…”. PS: I Love You, Markham)

Chapter Three.
Meh.

Chapter Four.
We meet Leo, a clichéd hairdresser who is easily the most endearing character in the book, further overshadowing the main character, Holly, who’s a moaning, feeble car-crash of an individual. There’s no bullshit about Leo. Except that his no-bullshit attitude is clearly a put-on and inside he’s pink and fluffy and afraid of his own prissy little shadow. Still, it’s refreshing, but also a worry because when the hairdresser is the most interesting character, the book’s somewhat doomed.
On page 24 we have the first nod to My Daddy The Taoiseach: “Her parents house was situated directly across the road from Portmarnock beach, the blue flag bearing testament to its cleanliness,” she says. Well done Daddy for making our beaches nice and clean. Pity your cabinet’s so dirty.
Page 26 and I’m pretty sure I know one of the characters. It’s Holly’s former boss, an ‘unforgiving little slimeball in a solicitor’s office’. He’s not hard to imagine in Dublin, where one person in 400 is a solicitor.
Oh, and the list is finally here. Whoopee.

Chapter Five.
Reading the list and instruction number one. Meh. If this is the movie version, you’re listening to the letter via a voiceover. Gerard Butler plays Gerry. Mr Butler is a Scottish guy who, it appears, couldn’t do an Irish accent if an IRA-trained language coach had the cold, steel barrel of an uzi pressed to his temple. All the notes end with PS: I Love You, by the way. Every single one of the fuckers.

Chapter Six.
Hormonal girls talking about their feelings. Meh.

Chapter Seven.
The potato famine gets an obligatory mention. Just in case you didn’t realize the book was Irish and twee and Jesus, we do actually go on about potatoes a lot in Ireland, don’t we? I lambasted Tourism Ireland for their heinous potatourism campaign a while back, but maybe they have a point. Potato Potato Potato.
(Note to Self: PS: I Love Potatoes – sure-fire Irish bestseller)

Chapter Eight.
The hairdresser’s back. We like this guy. More hairdresser, I say, more hairdresser.
Hairdresser = cowbell.

At page 59 I find a post-it that I wrote to myself, saying: “It’s page 59 and NOTHING HAS HAPPENED YET.” That’s pretty poor value for money. The last book I read before this piece of pulp was Brett Easton Ellis’s Lunar Park, and by page 50 he had detailed his life to the age of, say, 40. Things were just getting warmed up, and it was already a roller-coaster. Drugs. Sex. Sexy drugs. So when you get to page 60 and you’re still hankering for some action, well…

Shite, I just used the “…” thing there. My bad, people, my bad. It’s contagious.

Similarly, every chapter-ending sentence in the book so far tries to be more than the sum of its parts, promising something mildy momentous or stirring or asking a ‘big’ question. Does it need to be that way? Not every chapter needs to end as a cliffhanger, so by dragging each one to the cliff’s edge and forcing it to look over, things take on a false tinge. Sometimes chapters just end. Bam! End. Fin. That’s it.

Chapter Nine.
What the hell is going on? The whole tone of voice has changed, like Cecelia got tired and asked her Dad to write a chapter.
There are tell-tale signs that this is someone who’s already seen the best of their 50s, trying to write like a twentysomething:
“The first floor was a trendy nightclub that played all the latest music from the charts. It was where the young beautiful people went to show off their latest fashions.”
TRENDY? CHARTS? FASHIONS? And then Bertie, sorry, Cecelia writes in a present of a Waterford Crystal vase for a 30-year-old. Do you really start getting gifts of Waterford Crystal that young? If people think that’s an appropriate present for me when I’m 30 (two years time), please have me killed.
On page 68 we have more nepotism, the first mention of Westlife. It’s slipped in there subtly so you wouldn’t even notice it. Kind of like a landmine. “It was a far cry from their favourite Westlife CD,” it says.
Kaboom.
Shit, what was that?
The book’s credibility just exploded. It trod on the Westlife.

The next page, obviously shell-shocked from the landmine, I laugh involuntarily while reading. C’mon, she got me at a weak moment. And what do you expect from someone who a) knows most of the words to Annie b) has seen Sleepless in Seattle ten times and c) owns the Air Bud box set.

Chapter Ten.
A visit from the brother she doesn’t like. And seeing as how, in the film, Holly lives in a New York apartment, it’s hard to work out where the brother’s part fits in. Richard is not in the cast list, actually, and if apartment-resident Holly (Hilary Swank) has no garden, what’s the use of having a mystery gardener? How’s that for a fucking spoiler? Yep, the mystery gardener was Richard. He loses his job/family/dignity somewhere along the line too, not a good fit with a feelgood flick, so he must have gotten chucked. Pity, because the whole ‘mystery gardener’ thing was one of the few plotlines that held your attention in the book.
Showbiz: a total bitch of an industry that is just so blasé about killing off its mystery gardeners in plot re-writes these days. Mystery gardeners are people too, assholes. They have mystery families to support, and mystery mortgages to pay.

Chapter Twelve.
Come back, entertaining hairdresser, all is forgiven. I need help, actually, because as we thunder towards the karaoke scene I find myself, Oh God, engaging with the characters. I am a loser and a schmuck. If I wasn’t doing this for a project, I suppose I would have put the book down by now and forgotten all about them, but still, I feel shameful, like I’ve been caught masturbating.
I’ve had to read this in public, too, in order to finish it in time. On the ferry to work, sneaking it out of my bag and onto my lap without having anyone see the cover. Wrapping it inside a newspaper on the bus. For shame. Woe is me.

Page 84 and we have Westlife reference number two. And three. Ah, the family business.
That male tone of voice returns on page 90, but this time it doesn’t sound like Bertie, it’s someone more juvenile. Perhaps she asked him to contribute again but he asked his press officer’s young assistant to give him a dig out with the writing.
“Man, was she spending time on the toilet today. There was no better laxative than fear, and Holly felt as if she had lost a stone in one day.”
Massive bowel movements, straight outta Drumcondra. This is what won the awards, clearly.

Chapter Fourteen.
Flashback to happier times when Gerry was less dead.

Chapter Fifteen.
The karaoke scene, which is actually mildly entertaining. If you must, pick up the book, read this chapter, then throw it in the green bin so that it can enjoy a future life as a newspaper, because this part of the book is as good as it gets. Unless you’re still reading it wondering who the mystery gardener is. It’s Richard, by the way.

Chapter Sixteen.
Emotional claptrap.

Chapters Seventeen – Nineteen.
Holly’s little brother’s documentary of her night on the piss. If this is cut from the film, and I can’t see any mention of Declan so I assume it is, the film could actually be worse than the book, which is a feat. It has a head-start with Gerard Butler’s lucky-charms accent already. Ger, half the population of Ireland were extras in Braveheart, can you not do the right thing and get the Irish brogue right? You owe us one, buddy.
Had Roddy Doyle done the screenplay, these three chapters would form the basis of the film, as they present the greatest potential for curse-words and making Irish people seem like deranged alcoholic maniacs. Where are you, Roddy, and why aren’t you making films any more? Are we past the phase of Irish self-loathing that you encapsulated so well? I guess it’s hard to write urban grit when the most common grit around is finely-cut white grit on the cistern-tops.

Chapter Twenty.
Here’s an interesting cultural touchpoint. Holly is asked to fork out 20 cent for a plastic bag. Has the bag levy gone up since I left for Australia? It certainly hadn’t when the book was written, at which point you only had to pay 11 cent, so either Cecelia’s exaggerating her Dad’s ability to foist heavy taxes on the public, or giving him a gentle nudge that he can do better.

Chapter Twenty-One.
Hormones.

Chapter Twenty-Two.
Holly hangs out with former pariah and current mystery gardener brother Richard.

Chapter Twenty-Three.
The late Gerry Kennedy becomes a total bastard by booking a holiday for his widow and her mates from beyond the grave. Gerry, you total cunt. Most of us aren’t this thoughtful when we’re alive, and here you are, all fictitious and dead and giving and LOATHSOME TO MALES. You’re making us all look bad, Gerry. Fuck off and die. Properly. PS: I fucking hate you, Gerry. Hate. That’s a strong emotion to feel about someone who’s a figment of another person’s imagination, and I’m angry at you for making me feel it.

Chapter Twenty-Four.
My post-its run out and I stop making observations/having the will to live. At this stage I just want it to end so making notes means losing time. I consider it from time to time but can’t muster the arsedness to pick up a pencil.

Chapter Twenty-Four begins on page 183, and if you’ve read this far there are a few things you should do:
1) Stop reading. You already know what’s going to happen. Holly will be fine. She’ll realize that Richard is her mystery gardener, get a job she likes (with a magazine that sounds remarkably like the Dubliner), she’ll finish reading the Dead Gerry Scrolls and her friends will breath a sigh of relief that she’s not a crazy selfish crying bitch any more. And, despite it being way too soon after Gerry’s death to be tasteful, she’ll consider getting laid. But she won’t, which is disappointing from a male perspective, because after all this talking about feelings, the least you expect is a little sex scene. Cecelia the chaste – what are you hiding?
2) Move away from all sharp objects. It’s likely that you’re thinking of killing yourself after 183 pages. If you must, try slitting your wrists by inflicting paper cuts on yourself. If you do this with the book, it will frustrate you enough that your rage will be projected onto the author – this is the desired result.
3) If you want to read on, you are beyond the point of no return and the reach of professional help. You will spend your life waiting for the next Mills & Boon catalogue to fall through your letterbox, and will base your expectations on the writings of Jilly Cooper, dooming yourself to a life of disappointment. There are 231 pages left. Do with them what you will.
3) Go buy and read something by Brett Easton Ellis. Or Chuck Palahniuk. Or Hunter S Thompson. Just to balance out the world’s opposing forces.

PS: It’s Over. I’m Done. Let me Off.