Tag Archives: Britishisms

book reviews, mental health, narcissists, psychology

A review of My Mother, Munchausen’s and Me: A true story of betrayal and a shocking family secret by Helen Naylor…

Today, I made a concerted effort to finish reading my latest book, My Mother, Munchausen’s and Me: A true story of betrayal and a shocking family secret by Helen Naylor. This book was just published in November 2021. I decided to read it because I’m a sucker for true stories, especially when they are about people who have psychological issues. I’ve always found Munchausen’s Syndrome to be a fascinating disorder, although this was the first time I had seen a book about Munchausen’s Syndrome and not its related malady, Munchausen’s By Proxy.

Munchausen’s Syndrome, also known as “factitious disorder imposed on self”, is a psychological disorder in which a person either feigns illness or injury, or deliberately makes themselves ill. They do so to get narcissistic supply, attention, comfort, or sympathy from healthcare providers, their friends, and especially their families. People with Munchausen’s Syndrome exaggerate any real symptoms they have, often insisting that physicians do very thorough examinations, procedures, and tests. They are often hospitalized, and they have a tendency to know a lot about diseases.

If you search this blog, you’ll find that I’ve already reviewed a couple of books about Munchausen’s By Proxy (MbP). One book was written by a woman who was raised by a narcissistic mother who constantly and deliberately made her ill so that she could get narcissistic supply from medical professionals. The other is a true crime book about a social worker who adopted two babies from Korea in the 1970s and deliberately made them sick, resulting in the death of one of the babies. Again, it was so she could get attention and regard from medical professionals, praising her for her devotion and dedication to her children. MbP is an especially horrifying disorder, as it’s often imposed on people who are helpless, like children, elderly people, or the disabled.

In British author Helen Naylor’s case, she was not a victim of her mother doing horrifying things to her physically in order to get attention. Instead, it was Helen’s mother, Elinor, whom Helen describes as a narcissist, who was making up illnesses and demanding attention from her family and friends. Elinor is now deceased, but Helen writes that her mother pretended to have chronic illnesses for about thirty years. Helen’s father, who predeceased his wife by some years, actually was debilitated with a serious heart disease. When he passed away, Helen, as the only child, was left to take care of her mother, whose constant pleas for attention and emotional outbursts caused real hardships for Helen, who was also married and raising two small children.

For years, Helen endured the constant dramas and stresses surrounding her mother’s mysterious illness, called ME in the book. I looked up ME and found it defined as myalgic encephalomyelitis, perhaps better known to us Yanks as chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS). CFS made a lot of news back in the late 1980s and early 90s. Elinor Page had supposedly contracted ME at around that time. The ME made it difficult for Elinor to care for young Helen, whom she described as a “difficult child”. Helen writes of her mother not having the energy to take her places or spend time with her. Or, so it seemed, anyway.

Throughout her life, Helen’s mother required her daughter to attend to her every need. She convinced many people that she was very sick, and Helen soon found herself being scrutinized and judged by other people, who expected her to take care of her mother. Most of those people never saw Elinor’s true personality. Most of them never saw Elinor when she was full of energy and fully capable of socializing and taking care of herself. They only saw the fake persona she put on in a pathetic bid for sympathy and attention. Elinor would do things like deliberately starve herself so that she looked sicker and weaker. She would stage falls near emergency pull cords and insist that she was in dire need of medical attention. She would get the attention, and nothing notable would be found. Elinor would demand full time “carers”, but she didn’t really need them. So she would call her daughter, who was very busy with her own life and raising her own children.

After Elinor died, Helen found her mother’s diaries, which she kept quite religiously. It was after she read them that Helen realized just how psychologically sick her mother was, even though she insisted that she was debilitated by ME and later by Parkinson’s Disease. Elinor did have mild Parkinsonism, which is not the same as the full blown disease. But Elinor wanted to be regarded as very ill, and she would do all she could to convince people that she was unwell and needed hospital care. I think it’s important to point out that again, this book is set in the United Kingdom, which has the National Health Service. So, while these repeated medical episodes would cost a lot in the United States, money to pay for Elinor’s repeated medical visits and hospitalizations was much less of an issue in England.

I’ll be honest. I found this book compelling, but kind of hard to get through. There were a few parts of the book at which I started to think I didn’t like it very much. But then, toward the end of the book, when Helen writes about the extreme drama her mother put her through as she was trying to raise her children, my heart went out to her. I realized just how incredibly toxic that situation was for everyone involved. Yes, it was very hard on Helen, her husband, Peter, and their two children, Bailey and Blossom, but I think it must have been very hard on Elinor, too. At one point, Helen writes an insightful comment about what had caused Elinor to behave in this way. She was desperate for attention, and must have felt she would die without it.

Of course, it’s easy to have sympathy for the person with Munchausen’s Syndrome when you’re not the person having to deal with their constant emergencies and pleas for attention, coupled with the angry tirades, dismissive hairflips, and outright dramatic scenes that come from narcissists. Having heard from my husband’s daughter about what it was like for her to grow up with a narcissistic mother, I definitely felt for Helen Naylor.

It really is tough when your mother is not a mom. And you are forced to grow up years before your time, taking care of things that children shouldn’t have to worry about. And that demand for duty continues even after you’ve come of age, left the house, gotten married, and have small children of your own to tend. In my husband’s daughter’s case, at least there are siblings– notably, her older sister, who has been recruited to stay home and take care of their mother and youngest brother, who is legitimately disabled. Poor Helen was an only child. And her mother had enlisted a number of “flying monkeys”– friends who were there to help do her dirty work, guilting, and grifting. Helen Naylor didn’t have a “mum”– as she put it. She had a mother who parasitically fed off of her own daughter– for narcissistic supply and to serve as an emotional punching bag. Later, when she found her mother’s diaries, she realized that not only had her mom been faking everything for decades, but Helen was also severely neglected as a helpless baby. She suffered an unexplained and untreated broken arm at six months old, and her mother would leave her alone for hours while she went out drinking.

When I finished My Mother, Munchausen’s and Me this afternoon, I came away with a basically positive opinion of it. It’s reasonably well-written and offers a different look at Munchausen’s. Again, most of the books I’ve seen about Munchausen’s are written about mothers who make their children sick. This book is about a woman who deliberately made herself sick or schemed to make herself look like she’d taken a fall. She fooled a lot of people, except for those who caught her when her facade had slipped. I would imagine that when that happened, it was also traumatic and embarrassing for Helen, who had to deal with the fact that her mother did this stuff. It’s pretty clear to me that Helen is normal and just wants to be a good mom and wife.

People who have to deal with narcissists often hear about going “no contact”. I’m pretty sure that Helen’s husband eventually advocated for that. Or, at least not coming right away when Elinor called. But it’s very hard to turn your back on your own mom. I’m sure that is what kept Helen trapped for so many years. Now that her mother is dead, Helen no longer gets the dramatic phone calls from her mother or people taking care of her mother or worse, finding out that her mother has been hospitalized or moved days after the fact. She no longer has to deal with her mother’s friends, trying to horn in on overseeing her mother’s care and take her things. The traumatic memories linger, however, and I’m sure she is still haunted by them. When I stop and think about just how much this must have been for Helen to deal with, it just blows my mind.

Anyway… I think My Mother, Munchausen’s and Me is well worth reading for those who are interested in psychology, narcissists, or unusual psychological disorders. I will warn that this book is written in a distinctly British style, so some of the terminology and slang may be foreign to American readers. Personally, I found this book kind of hard to finish, but I appreciated that it offers a different perspective of people who need attention so badly that they have to make themselves or other people sick.

It’s pretty clear that Elinor is primarily very narcissistic, but she has a number of other behaviors that augment that already unbearable personality trait. She has the Munchausen’s, but there are also elements of a potential eating disorder and perhaps body dysmorphic disorder, as well as depression and anxiety. She must have been a miserable person, and I am sure she was very miserable to be around. I hope wherever she is now, she’s finally resting in peace. And I hope writing this book helps bring peace and closure to her long suffering daughter.

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And finally, my review of Hurry Up Nurse: More adventures in the life of a student nurse by Dawn Brookes

I’ve been reading British author Dawn Brookes’ books about her training as a nurse in England, back in the late 70s and early 80s. I have just finished her third and final book on the subject, Hurry Up Nurse: More adventures in the life of a student nurse. Brookes, who “fell” into nursing as an eighteen year old back in 1977, went on to have a successful career. She started out as an “enrolled nurse”, which I understand is no longer a classification used in Britain. She went on to become a registered nurse, then a midwife.

The first book in this series is about Brookes’ initial training in her home town of Leicester. The second book is about her training at the London Chest Hospital. The third book is about her more advanced training in the south of England, where she spent most of her career. It was in the south of England that Brookes became a leader, rather than a staff nurse. Brookes writes that she eventually earned master’s degrees in nursing, but none of her books cover that story, and to be honest, after the third book, I’m not sure I’m that curious anymore.

As it was in her earlier books, Dawn Brookes has a pleasant, amiable tone in her writing as she relates anecdotes about working as a nurse in the 80s. She seems like a very caring, kind, and entertaining person. However, my observations about this third installment of her series about her nurse’s training remain the same as they were in my earlier reviews. Brookes does a lot of skimming over her topics and doesn’t really get too deep into the subject matter. The end result is that I’m not left with much of a lasting impression of what she’s trying to say.

I did learn another British euphemism, though. In one tale, Brookes writes about working with new mothers and their babies and how, back in the 80s, breastfeeding wasn’t necessarily pushed as a good thing. Brookes candidly writes that she kind of liked it when the moms declined to breastfeed; that way, she could feed the babies while mom had a “kip”. I had to look up the word “kip”, as I’d not run across it before. I assumed it means “nap”, which it does. But at least I know for sure.

Just as she did in her other two books, Brookes ended the third installment very abruptly. One minute, I was reading about her being grilled by a nursing instructor who was observing her work. Another, she’s passed, and the book is finished. Actually, this time I was more prepared. When I got to the sentence where she wrote she’d passed the observation, I knew the book would be ending on the next page. Sure enough, it did, but the ending was still sudden and a bit jarring. I think this book would have been better if Brookes had taken a little more time to prepare the reader for the crash ending. I also think that Brookes should consider consolidating the books into one volume and hire an editor. She has a story to tell, but her books don’t flow very easily and I think she adds too much irrelevant information without enough “meat” that would hook a reader who really wants to know about nurse’s training in Britain in the 70s.

Reading these books wasn’t a total waste of time, though. I did learn some new things, and Brookes isn’t a bad writer at all. I just think these books deserve some polish and readers deserve writing that is better edited and more fleshed out. And this last book, while to me somewhat more enjoyable than the second book was, seemed a bit like it was cobbled together, not unlike a second or third sequel for a movie. They’re usually done strictly for money and don’t stand up to the first installment.

Anyway, if you’re interested, the link to buy is below. I’m an Amazon Associate, so if you do purchase through my site, I will get a small commission from Amazon.

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A review of Hurry Up Nurse: London Calling, by Dawn Brookes

A week ago, I reviewed a book by retired British nurse Dawn Brookes called Hurry Up Nurse: Memoirs of Nurse Training in the 1970s. When I downloaded that book, I didn’t realize that Brookes had written two sequels. Although her first book didn’t blow me away, I was entertained enough by it to purchase the two follow-ups. They weren’t very expensive and I have plenty of time for reading.

Last night, I finished Brookes’ second book in this series, Hurry Up Nurse: London Calling. As I mentioned in the first review, Dawn Brookes began a long nursing career in the late 1970s, when she was just eighteen years old. Her training occurred under a now obsolete program in which would be nurses could enroll for classes to get basic skills for the job. Britain’s nursing training program has since changed significantly, making Brookes’ story somewhat more interesting, since she was trained in a way that today’s nurses wouldn’t be.

Dawn Brookes’ second book is about her specialist’s training at London Chest Hospital, which she completed after she finished her basic training in her hometown of Leicester. Her instructors in Leicester had recommended that Brookes go on to specialize, since she had a knack for nursing. Brookes explains that she had initially gotten into nursing because she couldn’t decide what to do with her life. It was a lucky stab in the dark, because she found that she enjoyed taking care of people. Nevertheless, the job had its unpleasant realities, which she confronted head on at London Chest Hospital. For instance, one of her duties was to collect sputum samples and check them for signs of disease. It was a duty that no one relished.

Brookes writes that she lived in the “nurse’s home” at the hospital, along with lots of other young students. I got a kick out of reading about one of her colleagues, a young woman named Jen who came from Stornoway. I was just in Stornoway, a picturesque town in northern Scotland, just a few months ago. Brookes hadn’t known where Stornoway was until she befriended Jen.

The nurse’s home was basically a dorm. The students were paid a pittance, and Dawn Brookes soon discovered that her desire to have fun and eat well was eating up too much of her pay. She loved living in London, though, and found it easy to find shifts at agencies, which paid well and helped her supplement her income. Brookes also enjoyed smoking, but after working at the chest hospital, she discovered what happens when people smoke too much and eventually gave up the habit.

Included in the second volume are stories about some of Brookes’ more memorable patients, people with lung cancer, cystic fibrosis, and those who needed complicated surgeries. Brookes doesn’t go into deep detail about any of these cases; she mainly includes anecdotes that kind of scratch the surface. Some of the anecdotes are funny, and some are poignant and sad. She includes stories about some of her more memorable teachers, including one who berated her for considering taking a better paid job at a private hospital. Brookes explains that the London Chest Hospital had taken her on, even though she hadn’t really met their usual requirements. But her teachers said she had “ward sister” potential– again, kind of a mystery for most of us American readers– but I guess that means they spotted her leadership potential.

I thought this book was a decent read, though once again, I was left surprised by a very abrupt ending and an invitation to read book 3, which I started last night. Most of my comments about this book are the same as they were for the first book. There’s some terminology that may be unfamiliar to those who aren’t from Britain, although if you are inclined to look up words you don’t know, that could be educational. I wasn’t prepared for the ending to come as soon as it did. I guess that’s a hazard of reading on Kindle rather than an actual book. Nurses may find this a fun read, particularly those from Britain who may have some understanding of context. Brookes seems like a very nice person and her “voice” is pleasing. I just think she’d have done better with an editor who could help make her books flow more and end more gently. Still, if you’ve read the first book, I think the second one is also worth the effort.

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A review of Hurry Up Nurse: Memoirs of nurse training in the 1970s

Sometimes, I like to read self published books. I find that they don’t have the same slick editing that comes from a lot of books released by major publishers. Self-published books are sometimes a little bit rougher around the edges, yet more candid. That makes them more interesting. Dawn Brookes, author of Hurry Up Nurse: Memoirs of nurse training in the 1970s. I can tell by the way the book is written, but also by the publisher– Dawn Brookes Publishing. We know what that means, right?

Dawn Brookes is a very British lady who spent 39 years working as a nurse in England. She started in 1977, when she turned up at an interview for nurse’s training in Leicester. The funny thing is, I was actually living in England in 1977. My father was, at that time, the base engineer at Mildenhall Air Force Base, in Suffolk. Dawn Brookes was 18 years old, same age as my eldest sister, Betsy. That little factoid immediately helped me relate to her very colorful stories about what it was like to be trained as a nurse in England during the 70s. She also mentions visiting a couple of places I went to in 2016– Thetford and Watton– both in Norfolk and on the way to Norwich. I went there in 2016 after a Scottish cruise to see Mildenhall and the area where I spent three years of my early childhood. Anyway, enough about me and my British connections.

Dawn Brookes was a typical young lady in England, not knowing much about what she was going to do with her life. As it often happens with young people without a specific direction, Brookes found herself in a set of circumstances that led her to enter the nursing field. Her book, which has since been followed by two sequels I haven’t yet read– and hope are better than the Karate Kid sequels I sat through the other night— is about her training as a nurse in England over forty (!) year ago.

One thing that struck me about Hurry Up Nurse is that the years have really flown by. It doesn’t seem like 1977 was that long ago, but as Brookes writes about her days as a young nurse, I’m reminded of how things have changed. For instance, back in those days, nurses in England wore caps and white uniforms with belts. They even had capes and gloves! Nowadays, nurses dress for comfort and practicality. In the early days of Ms. Brookes’ career, patients were put in huge wards with about forty beds. Now, I’m guessing the wards still exist, but they’re smaller. Ditto for equipment that made nursing less taxing on the nurses’ backs and drugs that are better than what was available in the 70s. Brookes mentions drugs, equipment, and treatments that were used 40 years ago, but really doesn’t give them a thorough discussion. They more or less get mentioned in passing. The same goes for the title, “Hurry Up Nurse”, which gets mentioned several times, but not really explained in a memorable way.

Another thing that struck me about Hurry Up Nurse is how very different some British slang is compared to American slang. For example, a couple of days ago, I posted an excerpt from Ms. Brookes’ book about how she used to enjoy eating “faggots” when she was a girl. “Faggot”, of course, means something entirely different to Americans. In British English, it can refer to a pile of sticks or, as I’ve learned because of this book, a type of sausage made of offal. In America, “faggot” is a derogatory insult to male homosexuals. Dawn Brookes uses a lot of British slang and, sometimes, takes for granted that everyone reading her book is from the United Kingdom. It’s not unreasonable that she would assume that most readers are English, since this is a self-published book. And I’m not sad that I had to look up some of her less familiar terms, since I learned new things. I just want to warn American readers that they may have to do a little extra work to understand everything, even if the book is in English.

Dawn Brookes comes off as friendly and funny, and she did surprisingly well as a nurse and earned several qualifications, even though she seemed to end up in the field by happenstance. However, this book, though entertaining and kind of educational in its own way, isn’t very well organized. The book doesn’t really flow like a story and seems more like a group of anecdotes cobbled together. I mostly enjoyed the anecdotes, but I didn’t really get a sense of the people Ms. Brookes writes about. It’s not like Echo Heron’s marvelous book, Intensive Care, from 1987, which told the story of her training, as well as stories about people she’d worked with, and special patients she knew in a linear fashion. Brookes’ book is not linear and therefore comes off as somewhat less personal. On the other hand, at times I was reminded a little bit of Call the Midwife, and it’s a good thing I’ve seen that show, because Ms. Brookes also includes terminology and job titles that we Americans would mostly never get, like “ward sister”. What the hell is that? I could kind of figure it out because I’ve seen British TV, but other readers might need to do some Googling.

The book ends very abruptly, too. I was in the middle of a good story last night, turned the page, and all of a sudden, it was over. I was actually a little surprised by the sudden stop and went looking for more. Alas, that was it, and I was left a little wanting, as if Dawn Brookes had left me with a cliffhanger.

I liked the book enough that I decided to order the next two parts of her trilogy. I expect they will be more of the same… although if they’re as bad as The Karate Kid part III, I’ll be pissed. I got on a Karate Kid kick because I just watched the second season of Cobra Kai, which also wasn’t as good as the first, and needed to refresh my memory about the Karate Kid films. The second part wasn’t as good as the first, but the third part stunk to high heaven. I doubt the next two Hurry Up Nurse books will be that bad, though. I just hope that Brookes finds an editor… not a slick one, mind you, but one who can make her books flow logically and lyrically, so they’re easier and more fun to read and do less wandering. She has some good stuff here– and I did learn some things by reading– but I’m afraid I’m having trouble remembering anything specific to comment on, other than the fact that I learned a new meaning of the word “faggots”.

I’ll give it 3.5 stars out of 5, and we’ll see what I think of her other two books…

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Just finished Elton John’s sensational tell all book, Me…

Last May, Bill and I went to see Elton John in concert. It was our first and probably last chance to see him, since he’s currently on his Goodbye Yellow Brick Road farewell tour. Of course, as my rock star friend Meryl pointed out when I bought the tickets, Elton has announced his retirement from live performances before. In fact, he recently added a few more shows to the tour that will bring him back to Germany. We saw him play in Stuttgart, even though he did a show in Wiesbaden in June, because when I purchased the tickets in February 2018, we were still living in the Stuttgart area and had no plans to move. But, as we all know, life can throw curveballs, and it turned out we did have to move. Fortunately, Wiesbaden is just a few hours’ drive from Stuttgart, and going there for the show meant we could see our dentist and hit the spring fest, which happened to be going on at the same time.

2018 and 2019 have been my years for concerts. I was never much of a concertgoer before recently, mainly because I didn’t have the money to go to concerts, nor have I ever been one with a pack of friends or boyfriends with whom I could attend shows. Bill and I spent the first years of our marriage rather financially strapped, so the few shows we did see before moving back to Europe, were mostly in nosebleed seats. Don’t get me wrong– it can be perfectly feasible to enjoy a show way up in the rafters. We discovered Robert Randolph and the Family Band in 2004, when they opened for Eric Clapton in Washington, DC. We had a great time, even though Clapton looked like an ant on the stage. But I’m a short person, and I don’t like crowds or being around inconsiderate people, all of which would preclude my attending many big shows.

As for Elton John– well… he put on a pretty good show. It wasn’t the best concert I have ever been to, mainly because he used a lot of videos which I found distracting. Instead of watching him play the piano so masterfully, I was watching videos as if it were 1985. Still, I did enjoy the concert, and ended up downloading a bunch of his albums that I didn’t already own. I didn’t get Leather Jackets, which was an album he made in the 1980s while extremely strung out on cocaine and alcohol. Elton John repeatedly brings that up in his new autobiography, Me, which I just finished reading this morning. I’ve also downloaded the movie about his life, Rocket Man, which came out just after we saw him in concert. I haven’t watched it yet, because our TV room lacks proper seating and I’d rather watch that film on our big, new TV than the one in our bedroom.

All of this is sort of my meandering way of saying that Elton John has been on my mind a lot this year. I was born in 1972, when Elton was becoming a huge star. His music has always been a big part of my life. He was one of the few artists my late father could agree upon when we were riding in the car together. I have always been in awe of Elton John’s musical gifts, even if there are other singer-songwriters who enchant me more. But honestly, having seen Elton play live and read his book, I think I just find him a very entertaining person to whom I can relate. I admire him, not just because he’s a brilliant performer, but because he seems very human to me. He seems even more human to me, especially since I read his sensational, yet often poignant life story.

Elton John, originally named Reginald Dwight, was born to two parents who didn’t love each other. They were of modest means, and lived in a small town. Elton, who in those days was called Reg, did not have a strong kinship with his father, who was often away for work purposes. When Elton’s father was around, they didn’t seem to mesh. Elton describes his dad as emotionally absent and more of a “man’s man”, while Elton was sensitive, awkward, and lonely. His parents split when he was still very young and married other people. Elton got along better with his stepfather, Fred, whom he called “Derf”. He was less involved with his father, who’d had children with his next wife.

Early on, it became clear that Elton John was gifted musically. As a boy, he attended the Royal Academy of Music, where he was forced to play classical pieces. Although Elton didn’t enjoy the classical scene so much, he did write that he’s grateful for the experience of attending such a prestigious school and that the training he received played a big part in his songwriting. It was obvious that Elton was destined for a career in music and, based on his book, he’s never done anything else, even though there were times when he thought he’d never get his break. One time, his mother even suggested that he take a job at a launderette.

Elton John’s story of how he and Bernie Taupin came together is another sign that he was destined to be a musician. He’d just played and failed an audition at a record label when a receptionist decided to pass him some lyrics that had been sent by a man who had also failed the audition. That man turned out to be seventeen year old Taupin, who has written so many of Elton John’s most beloved songs. I enjoyed how Elton explained their unique partnership. Bernie would write poignant lyrics and Elton would compose music. They never worked together in the same room. I have written some lyrics myself, mainly for fun. I think if I were a songwriter, I’d probably want to work the same way. I do better when I’m working alone.

Beyond the obvious components of a life story, Elton John adds some hilarious and sometimes horrifying anecdotes about life as a world renowned entertainer. For instance, he wrote a story about how he’d auditioned a guitar player whom he’d declined to hire, not just because he didn’t mesh with him musically, but because the guitar player had confessed to enjoying fucking chickens up the ass and then decapitating them for a sexual charge. Elton adds wryly that he didn’t know if the guitar player had a very strange sense of humor or if the guy’s sex life was extremely disturbing. Either way, he couldn’t picture himself or his bandmates feeling comfortable sharing a hotel room with a guy who got his jollies in that way.

I had already read some excerpts of Elton John’s book through the Daily Mail, which has been sharing bits and pieces of the book for weeks now. A lot of the snippets from the Daily Mail were pretty salacious, but I was still surprised by a few of the stories Elton includes. What really struck me about Me, though, is how entertaining and personal the writing is. It was as if I were sitting in a room, listening to Elton tell his stories in the most hilarious way. I like the fact that he owns up to his shortcomings and is brutally candid about some things. I can be pretty candid myself, and I’m a pretty straight shooter. So is Elton. We have both found that being too straightforward can be detrimental in many ways, particularly if you’re dealing with people who are shady. But, I think in the long run, it’s best to be authentic. I feel like Elton’s book is very authentic and candid. I liked that he owned up to being an asshole at times– er, arsehole– Britishisms are another prominent feature in his book. Elton is a drug addict. Cocaine was his drug of choice. He is an alcoholic. He also suffers from an addiction to food and was bulimic for awhile. He sought treatment for all three conditions about thirty years ago. I appreciated his honesty about his experiences with addiction, especially how alcohol and drugs turned him into an asshole. I also respect that he’s tried so hard to help others overcome their addictions, including many people who didn’t want to be helped.

I was curious about what people had to say about Elton’s book. I usually start with the negative reviews on Amazon, some of which were pretty laughable. One person complained that the book had a ripped cover. Another complained about Elton’s comments about Michael Jackson, which I will admit, might have seemed kind of tacky (although frankly, I think he was being straight up about his experiences). Some people wrote that Elton included too much about songwriting and not enough about his personal life. Other people complained about the opposite; Elton was too open about his sex life and drug use, and not forthcoming enough about his musical skills. From what I gathered, Elton doesn’t have to think much about creating. It all just comes out. He even wrote that he doesn’t even think about songwriting when he’s not actually doing it. If that’s really his experience, I respect it, although it’s kind of mind boggling.

I found Elton’s comments about trying to work with Tina Turner kind of surprising. Apparently, she was a huge diva and behaved like a bitch to Elton and his band, even though she used to sing his song, “The Bitch Is Back” all the time back in the day. It turned out that their work styles were simply incompatible. Elton likes to improvise and not necessarily do everything perfectly rehearsed, while Tina likes to have the band playing exactly the same way every time. I respected that after Elton basically called Tina a bitch, he acknowledged that she might be that way due to the way she’d been treated by Ike Turner and others in the music industry who ripped her off and abused her. I can give him credit for realizing that about Tina Turner, even as he also kind of throws her under the bus.

One person wrote that Elton John had a book written about him by a ghostwriter that was mostly the same stuff. If I had read that book, I might have agreed with the reviewer that Me is superfluous. But since I hadn’t read the other book, this one was interesting, and often laugh out loud funny. I especially laughed when Elton wrote about writing music for a play in which there was a song called “Only Poofs Do Ballet”. I had never heard of the British slang term for a homosexual “Poof” until I married Bill, who uses it a lot. And there were a few stories that mad me feel a little sad… or even a bit in solidarity with Elton. I can relate to feeling ugly, misunderstood, and anxious. I can relate to having a short temper and difficult family relationships. I can even relate to some of his stories about addiction, depression, and eating disorders, as these are things have touched my life, too. I don’t know if Elton and I would get along if we were to meet, since he seems to be eccentric and temperamental, and I’m kind of like that, too. But deep down, he seems like a kind, introspective man who isn’t afraid to be a bit tacky and over the top. I’m glad he’s finally found love, gotten his life on track, and has the family he’s always dreamt of having. He’s a very lucky man, and he seems to know it. I respect him for that.

Anyway, I liked Me, and would recommend it. Some people might be offended by some of the stories, and some have accused Elton of name dropping and bragging, although I can’t imagine how someone as famous as Elton John is could be guilty of “name dropping”, when he literally keeps company with the likes of Rod Stewart, Bob Dylan, Freddie Mercury, and members of The Rolling Stones. Those folks are his peers, although I was kind of charmed when Elton described what an honor it was to sing with Ray Charles. I also enjoyed his comments about Ryan White and his family, and how much they did to help people with AIDS at a time when people were so frightened and ignorant.

So… if you are inclined to read about Elton John’s life and haven’t read the previous book, I think you should check out Me. But be prepared for some sensational stories that might blow your mind.

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