#77 A load of baubles
02/12/21 09:15
There was a gif doing the rounds on Twitter recently that I found very inspiring. It’s Jessica Fletcher in Murder, She Wrote, saying to a companion on a cruise ship ‘I managed to finish the first draft of my new novel ahead of schedule, so my editor gave me this trip as a reward.’ Excited, I promptly messaged my own editor to suggest a similar bonus if I manage to deliver the lump of clay that is Book 3. All she could offer me was a blue-rinse boat trip to the Isle of Man, which was a bit of a letdown, to be honest. So, I’ve decided to buy a castle instead.
It’s what all the cool writers are doing, apparently. Or more specifically, what Sophie Brown is doing in Netflix’s wondrous new festive flick, A Castle for Christmas. Sophie, played by Brooke Shields, is a best-selling US author who has an unfortunate meltdown on the Drew Barrymore show, so needs to escape for a bit of R&R. Her dad used to work at Dun Dunbar Castle in Scort-land so she decides to rediscover her roots by heading there to seek out this fairy-tale fortress. CUE SCOTTISH MUSIC. OK, IRISH MUSIC, RIVERDANCE, WHATEVER.
Filled with Celtic enthusiasm, Sophie arrives at Edinburgh airport looking very American, and gets a taxi straight to said stronghold. My blood pressure started to go up, because we get a lot of drone footage of beautiful Highland backdrops, possibly with a bit of Somerset thrown in, and all I could think about was the ticking meter. How much is that kind of journey going to cost? This Sophie Brown must be very rich indeed. The cab creeps through an impossibly pretty village before arriving at her accommodation – a lovely country inn, populated by a quirky knitting group who instantly clasp this newcomer to their collective Fair Isle bosom. Everyone is very friendly, apart from the prickly Scort-esh Duke who owns Dun Dunbar and doesn’t want to sell it to Sophie even though he’s mortgaged up to the eyeballs and fiscally has his back to the buttress.
Brief tangent here because the Scort-esh Duke is played by Cary Elwes who you may remember was Wesley in The Princess Bride: ‘As you wish.’ He was dead sexy in that, mainly because he was handy with a fencing sword and had spent years building up an immunity to iocane powder. In his latest incarnation, he’s handy with a rifle and has built up an immunity to beautiful famous authors who want to get him out of a financial hole. Thus, we have the classic Mills & Boon romantic set-up – two people at loggerheads, who are secretly desperate to shag.
As such, they must come up with some unlikely format that maintains both hostility and proximity. They do a deal whereby Sophie pays a deposit to move into the castle (don’t worry about proprieties, Dun Dunbar is very roomy and Soph isn’t a virgin coz she’s a divorcee) for a trial run of 90 days, which handily takes them up to Christmas. If she backs out before that time, she forfeits her down payment. Duke Myles is convinced the charms of his chateau will pall before C-Day – he can keep her cash and she can go fuck herself. He doesn’t put it quite like that but you get the gist.
Winter is coming and it’s all systems go on ousting the Yank wordsmith. First, Myles gives Sophie the shittiest coldest room in the castle but – ha! – the knitting group is on hand to cosy it up, so screw you, Dukey. In return, she does all their hair for them – a woman of many talents, our Soph. Apart from writing… Dun Dunbar is supposed to be a bit of a creative retreat for international bestselling author Ms Brown, but she can’t seem to find her mojo, keeps typing opening sentences and deleting them. Mind you, she’s distracted by her agent, who constantly facetimes to harangue her about not writing. Shoutout to my own agent for not doing this, as it really wouldn’t be conducive to getting things done, and would also reveal that I spend all my time watching telly and browsing suffragette jewellery on Etsy.
In her now-snug room which boasts 147 wreaths, 14 Christmas trees and four billion fairy lights, Sophie types and deletes various opening sentences, struggling for inspiration. She should do what I do and tap out any old guff just to get something down, but it seems she’s one of those scribes who has to get it perfect first time. She’s certainly very perfect – absolutely everyone recognises her and absolutely everyone adores her; even the Duke’s dog Hamish gets a bonk-on whenever he sees her. Hamish, played by Barley, a lurcher cross, is a total star. He’s surely in with the chance of a Palm Dog nomination for a role that requires him to not retch up a furball when Soph and Myles finally get it on in the castle’s warmest bedroom, which is also festooned in festive greenery.
You’d think once S&M had done the deed everything would be dandy, but that’s when it all goes tits up, they have a row and she tries to flounce off back to that America-land she’s from. Naturally, the knitting group come together to make sure she can’t escape, gaffer-taping her to a chair in the log-pile store and taking it in turns to flagellate her with bagpipes. No, of course they don’t, they’re far too lovely and woolly. She’s simply barricaded in one of the sumptuous pub rooms, sulking because Duke Myles is being such a cu- rotten cad. The naughty knitters do go off to the Christmas Eve party at Dun Dunbar without her though, the selfish bastards. Those yokels will do anything for an ogle at the fancy palace.
But kind-hearted, long-limbed Sophie doesn’t hold it against them for a second. It turns out she didn’t spend all her money on that round-the-houses taxi, because she’s bought dresses for everyone, even the heartbroken mute one, paid the debts of every tenant, started trust funds for every child, and filled all the collection boxes to overflowing with her vast author-wealth. That testy old Duke realises her worth – both financial and spiritual - turning up at the pub on horseback to sweep her off to the party in a tartan dress. They live happily ever after in the castle she now owns, but he owns really because he’s aristocracy and a man. Sophie writes a new book that everyone agrees is the best book she, and indeed anyone, has ever written, and she wins the Nobel Prize for both literature and being nice.
If you detect a faint note of belligerence in my summary, just write it off (ha, write it off! Geddit?) as professional envy because Sophie’s earnings allow her to afford a Castle for Christmas whereas I couldn’t afford a shepherd’s hut for half an hour. And also, let me get something off my chest that’s really been bugging me. It’s not even a castle, it’s a fortified manor house, so there.
In conclusion, this Chrimbo-baloney is just what you need at this time of year, roasting in the toxic binfire of virus mutations, climate Armageddon and a bloated scarecrow PM. Who wants the reality of life as an author (average 10K per annum), or life in a remote Scottish village where the last bus service just got cancelled, or indeed any kind of actual reality, when instead we can look at lots and lots and lots of Christmas decorations, and flickering candles, and a big succulent clove-studded ham?
As one online reviewer said, ‘I’ve watched it three times in the last 24 hours.’ Switch off your frothing social media feed, put on your cashmere socks and gorge on this fluff-fest until your brain is dribbling out your ears. You won’t regret it.
Actually, you might, but I’ll be long gone – I’m off on my boat trip to the Isle of Man.
It’s what all the cool writers are doing, apparently. Or more specifically, what Sophie Brown is doing in Netflix’s wondrous new festive flick, A Castle for Christmas. Sophie, played by Brooke Shields, is a best-selling US author who has an unfortunate meltdown on the Drew Barrymore show, so needs to escape for a bit of R&R. Her dad used to work at Dun Dunbar Castle in Scort-land so she decides to rediscover her roots by heading there to seek out this fairy-tale fortress. CUE SCOTTISH MUSIC. OK, IRISH MUSIC, RIVERDANCE, WHATEVER.
Filled with Celtic enthusiasm, Sophie arrives at Edinburgh airport looking very American, and gets a taxi straight to said stronghold. My blood pressure started to go up, because we get a lot of drone footage of beautiful Highland backdrops, possibly with a bit of Somerset thrown in, and all I could think about was the ticking meter. How much is that kind of journey going to cost? This Sophie Brown must be very rich indeed. The cab creeps through an impossibly pretty village before arriving at her accommodation – a lovely country inn, populated by a quirky knitting group who instantly clasp this newcomer to their collective Fair Isle bosom. Everyone is very friendly, apart from the prickly Scort-esh Duke who owns Dun Dunbar and doesn’t want to sell it to Sophie even though he’s mortgaged up to the eyeballs and fiscally has his back to the buttress.
Brief tangent here because the Scort-esh Duke is played by Cary Elwes who you may remember was Wesley in The Princess Bride: ‘As you wish.’ He was dead sexy in that, mainly because he was handy with a fencing sword and had spent years building up an immunity to iocane powder. In his latest incarnation, he’s handy with a rifle and has built up an immunity to beautiful famous authors who want to get him out of a financial hole. Thus, we have the classic Mills & Boon romantic set-up – two people at loggerheads, who are secretly desperate to shag.
As such, they must come up with some unlikely format that maintains both hostility and proximity. They do a deal whereby Sophie pays a deposit to move into the castle (don’t worry about proprieties, Dun Dunbar is very roomy and Soph isn’t a virgin coz she’s a divorcee) for a trial run of 90 days, which handily takes them up to Christmas. If she backs out before that time, she forfeits her down payment. Duke Myles is convinced the charms of his chateau will pall before C-Day – he can keep her cash and she can go fuck herself. He doesn’t put it quite like that but you get the gist.
Winter is coming and it’s all systems go on ousting the Yank wordsmith. First, Myles gives Sophie the shittiest coldest room in the castle but – ha! – the knitting group is on hand to cosy it up, so screw you, Dukey. In return, she does all their hair for them – a woman of many talents, our Soph. Apart from writing… Dun Dunbar is supposed to be a bit of a creative retreat for international bestselling author Ms Brown, but she can’t seem to find her mojo, keeps typing opening sentences and deleting them. Mind you, she’s distracted by her agent, who constantly facetimes to harangue her about not writing. Shoutout to my own agent for not doing this, as it really wouldn’t be conducive to getting things done, and would also reveal that I spend all my time watching telly and browsing suffragette jewellery on Etsy.
In her now-snug room which boasts 147 wreaths, 14 Christmas trees and four billion fairy lights, Sophie types and deletes various opening sentences, struggling for inspiration. She should do what I do and tap out any old guff just to get something down, but it seems she’s one of those scribes who has to get it perfect first time. She’s certainly very perfect – absolutely everyone recognises her and absolutely everyone adores her; even the Duke’s dog Hamish gets a bonk-on whenever he sees her. Hamish, played by Barley, a lurcher cross, is a total star. He’s surely in with the chance of a Palm Dog nomination for a role that requires him to not retch up a furball when Soph and Myles finally get it on in the castle’s warmest bedroom, which is also festooned in festive greenery.
You’d think once S&M had done the deed everything would be dandy, but that’s when it all goes tits up, they have a row and she tries to flounce off back to that America-land she’s from. Naturally, the knitting group come together to make sure she can’t escape, gaffer-taping her to a chair in the log-pile store and taking it in turns to flagellate her with bagpipes. No, of course they don’t, they’re far too lovely and woolly. She’s simply barricaded in one of the sumptuous pub rooms, sulking because Duke Myles is being such a cu- rotten cad. The naughty knitters do go off to the Christmas Eve party at Dun Dunbar without her though, the selfish bastards. Those yokels will do anything for an ogle at the fancy palace.
But kind-hearted, long-limbed Sophie doesn’t hold it against them for a second. It turns out she didn’t spend all her money on that round-the-houses taxi, because she’s bought dresses for everyone, even the heartbroken mute one, paid the debts of every tenant, started trust funds for every child, and filled all the collection boxes to overflowing with her vast author-wealth. That testy old Duke realises her worth – both financial and spiritual - turning up at the pub on horseback to sweep her off to the party in a tartan dress. They live happily ever after in the castle she now owns, but he owns really because he’s aristocracy and a man. Sophie writes a new book that everyone agrees is the best book she, and indeed anyone, has ever written, and she wins the Nobel Prize for both literature and being nice.
If you detect a faint note of belligerence in my summary, just write it off (ha, write it off! Geddit?) as professional envy because Sophie’s earnings allow her to afford a Castle for Christmas whereas I couldn’t afford a shepherd’s hut for half an hour. And also, let me get something off my chest that’s really been bugging me. It’s not even a castle, it’s a fortified manor house, so there.
In conclusion, this Chrimbo-baloney is just what you need at this time of year, roasting in the toxic binfire of virus mutations, climate Armageddon and a bloated scarecrow PM. Who wants the reality of life as an author (average 10K per annum), or life in a remote Scottish village where the last bus service just got cancelled, or indeed any kind of actual reality, when instead we can look at lots and lots and lots of Christmas decorations, and flickering candles, and a big succulent clove-studded ham?
As one online reviewer said, ‘I’ve watched it three times in the last 24 hours.’ Switch off your frothing social media feed, put on your cashmere socks and gorge on this fluff-fest until your brain is dribbling out your ears. You won’t regret it.
Actually, you might, but I’ll be long gone – I’m off on my boat trip to the Isle of Man.
- A Castle for Christmas, Netflix
