When Charlotte Kinder treats herself to a two-week vacation at Austenland, she happily leaves behind her ex-husband and his delightful new wife, her ever-grateful children, and all the rest of her real life in America. She dons a bonnet and stays at a country manor house that provides an immersive Austen experience, complete with gentleman actors who cater to the guests' Austen fantasies.
Everyone at Pembrook Park is playing a role, but increasingly, Charlotte isn't sure where roles end and reality begins. And as the parlor games turn a little bit menacing, she finds she needs more than a good corset to keep herself safe. Is the brooding Mr. Mallery as sinister as he seems? What is Miss Gardenside's mysterious ailment? Was that an actual dead body in the secret attic room? And-perhaps of the most lasting importance-could the stirrings in Charlotte's heart be a sign of real-life love?
The follow-up to reader favorite Austenland provides the same perfectly plotted pleasures, with a feisty new heroine, plenty of fresh and frightening twists, and the possibility of a romance that might just go beyond the proper bounds of Austen's world. How could it not turn out right in the end?
I don't think anyone can have written an autobiography without at some point thinking "Why would anyone want to know this shit?" I've always read them thinking "I don't want to know where Steve Tyler grew up, just tell me how many groupies he f**ked!"'
So begins Frankie's outrageous, laugh-out loud, cynical rant on life as he knows it. From growing up in Pollockshaws, Glasgow (‘it was an aching cement void, a slap in the face to Childhood, and for the family it was a step up'), to his rampant teenage sex drive (‘in those days if you glimpsed a nipple on T.V. it was like porn Christmas'), and first job working in a mental hospital ('where most evenings were spent persuading an old man in his pants not to eat a family sized block of cheese'), nothing is out of bounds.
Outspoken, outrageous and brilliantly inappropriate, Frankie Boyle, the dark heart of Mock the Week, says the unsayable as only he can. From the TV programmes he would like to see made ('Celebrities On Acid On Ice: just like Celebrity Dancing On Ice, but with an opening sequence where Graham Norton hoses the celebrities down with liquid LSD'), to his native Scotland and the Mayor of London ('voting for Boris Johnson wasn't that different to voting for a Labrador wearing a Wonder Woman costume'), nothing and no one is safe from Frankie's fearless, sharp-tongued assault.
Sharply observed and full of taboo-busting, we-really-shouldn't-be-laughing-at-this humour, My Shit Life So Far shows why Frankie Boyle really is the blackest man in show business.