My painful life

I was browsing in one of Milton Keynes bookshops this week. I know paper and card how quaint, what a Victorian affectation. I was interested in reading about contemporary political journalism and was keen to revisit those heady days of the early nineties when a page of political analysis didn't have a thread composed of dimwits hurling abuse at each other at the bottom as a matter of course.

This particular bookshop doesn't have a section devoted to journalism. Frustrating for me, but I suppose unlike their competitors with virtual miles of pristine shelving they have to make tough decisions about what exactly does get shelf space.

And so it was a mixture of surprise and contempt that I discovered two whole bookcases dedicated to... well I was so flabbergasted I had to take a picture with my somewhat poor camera phone (click it for bigness)...


Painful Lives. There is now a literary genre called Painful Lives. As a graphic designer these books offend me, it certainly won't be the first or last time that a massive bestseller's design style is aped by a load of 'me too' wanabees but it still pisses me off. White or cream background? Check. B/W or Sepia pic of mournful looking child? Check. Hideous script font? Check. Now we simply top it off with a promo line promising tales of abuse on a scale previously unimagined.

That's right the Painful Lives genre was started with tales of poverty, simple Oirish poverty, but is now stories of horrific childhood abuse.

Contemporary British culture and commentary would have you believe that there is no crime more heinous and unspeakable than abusing a child. Well I say unspeakable except for the miles of newsprint dedicated to it, the desperate hand wringing discussions; and presumably after a hard days toil a significant proportion of Britons retire to bed with a weighty volume full of the stuff. Am I the only person who finds this creepy in the extreme?