The c word book reviews

The C-Word by Lisa Lynch
Buy The C-Word by Lisa Lynch at Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com
Category: Autobiography
Reviewer: Zoe Morris
Summary: First a blog, now a book, this is a highly personal yet highly readable and highly entertaining account of life with a highly inconvenient disease.
Buy? Yes	Borrow? Yes
Pages: 304	Date: April 2010
Publisher: Arrow Books Ltd
ISBN: 978-0099547549
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In the beginning was the word, closely followed by the internet. The two combined to form the wonder that is blogging, and when that took off and people wanted a more concrete and permanent record, books quickly followed. Perhaps that’s not exactly how the quote goes, but it’s close enough. Breast cancer at twenty-eight is not just scary and unusual. For journalist Lisa, it’s downright inconvenient. But, when a stage three tumour bulges out of her boob, she decides to document her subsequent fight against the big C (or, as she affectionately calls it, The Bullshit) online for all to see. The blog was a success, it garnered some famous fans (Stephen Fry, among others) and a book offer followed. This is the result.

My previous experience of columns to books, or blogs to books, has been from the likes of Bill Bryson where the end product is often literally just a compilation of previously published articles, with no new material. The C-Word is a little different because while each chapter does start with a previously published blog entry, what follows is a new narrative written exclusively for this book, so there’s a lot of fresh stuff even for those who have been following Lisa’s story for some time.

Lisa was a happily married journalist before The Bullshit took over her life. We find out about her previous life bit by bit and by a few chapters in I’d taken a real shine to her, and was imagining we could easily be friends should we ever meet in normal circumstances. Breast Cancer, as she quickly discovers, is mainly an older woman’s disease, so in addition to the sympathy that comes automatically with her diagnosis, she also gets more than a few double-takes, even from those healthcare workers who really should know better.

The book follows Lisa as she battles the disease from initial diagnosis through to treatment and beyond. It is a highly personal account of her individual experiences but, as she says, The Bullshit affects everyone differently. Since all those ‘How to deal with Cancer’ books can be a bit generic and nonsense, she goes to the opposite extreme and writes about her story and her story only. This might make it more of a biography than a self-help guide, but it’s still a rather good read.

I was quick to build up a picture of Lisa in my mind. The funny thing is, although we know she is a journalist, she never mentions the title of where she works. In my head, I had her down as a Cosmo or Glamour girl, or perhaps even on a teen publication, but her website tells me she’s more of an Interiors kinda gal. Either way, Lisa clearly has a way with words, and the book is a very slick read that flows smoothly as the months pass by. What’s more, it’s funny, appealing, heart-warming and inspiring, but most of all it’s super interesting. Not having had first-hand experience of breast cancer, or in fact any cancer, I learnt a lot from the book. It was like a really interesting, personalised textbook, and the sort of thing you can imagine junior oncologists could learn a lot from if they had time to squeeze it in among all their more traditional tomes.

I did think it was amusing – even verging on hilarious at times – and some of Lisa’s reactions were things you just couldn’t have made up:

13 years on, and I still silently blame this episode for my right boob being my least favourite. … I’d like to apologise to my right boob for always preferring the left, when that’s the one that’s gone and got cancer. Is it too late to switch sides?

This is a slightly indulgent book, in that it’s a very personal tale from Lisa’s perspective that doesn’t really take into account the experiences of others. But, although you can imagine it will have been a hit with her friends and family, it’s still an intriguing read for those of us who have never met her. At the same time, it’s probably not the most helpful gift for someone newly diagnosed with the disease, as it is so individual and may bear no resemblance to their subsequent experiences.

The winner for me with this book was that Lisa is pretty much any girl next door. The front cover shouts, Just your average 28-year-old. Friends, family, Facebook, cancer and although I’d admonish them for sticking Facebook on the cover just to get more interest (inside, she barely mentions the site) apart from that it’s spot on. A recommended read, this really does do the unthinkable and bring out the funny side of cancer.

Many thanks go to the publishers for supplying this book.

It might not be a true tale like Lisa’s but when Adrian Mole got cancer, a similarly witty book ensued. We also gained a lot from Chernobyl Strawberries by Vesna Goldsworthy.

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You can read more book reviews or buy The C-Word by Lisa Lynch at Amazon.com.

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also starring fatuous asterisks, bendy bananas, and the b-word (bi)

How is the poor reader expected to differentiate between b******* and b*******?

Talking of The end of the f***ing world, the prissy prurience of the tabloids’ use of asterisks is brilliantly demolished by David Marsh in this article from the fine Guardian series Mind your language, prompted by the John Terry trial—citing a reader:

 I never cease to be amazed by newspapers which shyly make him say “f***ing black c***”, leaving intact the one word which aroused Mr Ferdinand’s wrath,

and calling on the unlikely couple of Charlotte Brontë and Ken Loach. See also this LRB review of a book on a 1923 trial revolving around women’s use of “foul language”, class, and the uses and abuses of literacy—with a pre-echo of Paul Kratochvil’s splendid story in a quote from 1930: “soldiers used the word ‘fucking’ so often that it was merely a warning that ‘a noun is coming’ “.

Moreover, reclaiming “the c-word (cunt)” has been a concern of feminists—as discussed in this post (from another useful site), citing authors from Germaine Greer to Laurie Penny. See also this article from Rachel Braier; the wiki article is useful too. And do admire the work of the Profane Embroidery Group. More under Words and women.

In Stewart Lee‘s latest book March of the lemmings (2019—not aka The bumper book of  Stewart Lee jokes: jolly japes for all the family) he pursues the style of How I escaped my certain fate with typically expansive Teutonic footnotes to the script of his show Content provider [or should that be C***ent provider?]. In one of these, warming to several topics, he reflects on the efficacity of his “so-called comedy” with purposeful, insistent use of “the c-word (cunt)”—which I hereby feel obliged to emulate.

First we should hear him doing the live version that prompted this tirade, since it gains so much from his masterly inflection, timbre, timing, and delivery:

And it isn’t, to be fair, you know, and I think—look, we’re gonna leave the EU, that is happening, and I think people have gotta put their differences behind them now and try and make it work. And I—I don’t know if you can make massive generalisations about people that voted to leave Europe anyway, because people voted to leave Europe for all sorts of different reasons, you know, and it wasn’t just racists that voted to leave Europe. Cunts did as well, didn’t they? Stupid fucking cunts. Racists, and cunts, and people with legitimate anxieties about ever-closer political ties to Europe.*

So here’s the footnote:

* How does this joke, which drew tears and cheers, even though I say it myself, night after night for the best part of two years, work? (1) Firstly, shock. I rarely swear on stage, and compared to most edgelord stand-ups, my swears count is probably only one level up from the sort of acts who market themselves as “clean” to get gigs at hospices run by born-again Christians. So it is a funny shock to hear me abandon my usual vocabulary and say the c-word (cunt). The c-word (cunt) is probably a way-too-heavy word to use here, and the deployment of such a disproportionately heavy weapon is part of what makes choosing to do [it] so funny. (2) The structure of the bit has a relationship with the much-touted idea that liberal Remainers should look outside their bubble and seek to understand the fears and concerns that drove 17.4 million people to vote Leave (“People voted to leave Europe for all sorts of different reasons, and it wasn’t just racists that voted to leave Europe…”), but then subverts the progression of thought by just calling them the c-word (cunts). To quote an old Lee and Herring routine, or possibly Viz’s Mr Logic, “Our expectations were subverted, from whence the humour arose”. (3) This second idea is then given what we in the trade call a “topper” by doubling back on the original premise and conceding that some Leave voters may also have “legitimate anxieties about ever-closer political ties to Europe”. There is then a second topper, in the form of a letter from a punter [“Dear Palace Theatre, Southend, please inform the “comedian”, and I use that word advisedly, Stewart Lee, who I had the misfortune of being taken along by friends to see last night, that I actually voted to leave Europe and I am neither a racist nor a cunt. Merely someone with genuine anxieties about ever-closer political ties to Europe. Yours, A. Cunt, Burnham-on-Crouch.”], which is a real letter (with the name changed) received during an early stage of the show at the 2016 Edinburgh Fringe try-outs, which just replays the joke again but in a funny voice and with more swearing, and with the town the complainer comes from changed to some local place every night—in this case, Burnham-on-Crouch.

By now the c-word (cunt) has long become a veritable mantra. The ever-expanding footnote goes on to do battle with Lee’s critics, with a plea for context:

The Tory Brexiteer and Sun columnist Tony Parson, in the February 2019 edition of GQ, the sort of style and status bible Patrick Bateman in American Psycho would read in between dismembering prostitutes in a penthouse apartment, wrote, on the subject of the c-word (cunt):

In the little corner of Essex where I grew up,”c***” was practically a punctuation mark among men and boys [see above—SJ]. It was in the foul air we breathed. But it grates now. It feels like the rancid tip of a cesspit that is the modern male attitude to women. And what I find bewildering is that it is not just thick ignorant oafs who use the c-word with such abandon. It is the woke. It is the enlightened. It is the professionally sensitive. It is the Guardian columnist, the BBC-approved comedian who can be guaranteed to dress to the left. “It wasn’t just racists that voted to leave Europe,” Stewart Lee recently quipped, “C***s did as well. Stupid fucking [sic!] c***s.” Does Lee’s use of the word sound rational or healthy? Does it provoke tears of mirth? Do you think it might persuade the 17.4m who voted to leave the European Union—the largest vote for anything in the history of this country—they were wrong? Some of my best friends are Remainers, but such spittle-flecked fury when using the word “c***s” makes Brexit sound like the very least of Lee’s problems.

Obviously, like Julia Hartley-Brewer and other Conservative Twitter types who alighted on the Brexit bit, Parson removed the qualifying section that followed it, where I acknowledge the out-of-touch nature of the so-called liberal elite in London, which in turn buys me some leeway, and also makes the subsequent attack on the so-called non-liberal non-elite more of a surprise; and Parson, presumably knowing little of my work, doesn’t appreciate that the use of the c-word (cunt) reads to my audience here in a comical way precisely because using it is so out of character. It is not the swear word in and of itself that brought the house down nightly. It has to have context.

And of course, the word isn’t delivered with “relish”, and it isn’t “spittle-flecked” either. The c-word (cunt) is delivered here with a kind of despairing calm, as if the cuntishness of the Brexit c-words (cunts) was just a sad matter of fact. When I was directing Richard Thomas’s Jerry Springer: the opera at the National Theatre in 2003 (as I am sure I have written before), we were given the benefit of the theatre’s voice coach for one session, who took the singers aside to teach them to enunciate all the libretto’s swear words and curses, to spit them out with relish. I waited for the session to subside, respectfully, and then had to unravel the work that had been done. The swear words weren’t necessarily to be sung in that spirit at all. For the most part, they represented the disenfranchised Americans working, in heightened emotional states, at the edges of the limited vocabulary that was available to them, and had to be used to convey not simply hate and venom, but also love, hope, despair and longing, the feelings expressed in Richard’s music. If I’d really wanted this particular c-word (cunt) to read with spittle-flecked relish, you’d have known about it. There’d have been spittle on the lens. I’m not averse to spitting on stage (on an imaginary Graham Norton, for example), so a lens would hold no terrors for me. To me, the c-word (cunt) here was mainly about how utter despair drove the beaten and frustrated Remainer character on stage (me) to the outer limits of his inarticulacy, painstakingly logical arguments against Brexit having broken down into mere swears.

And I didn’t “quip” the line either. One thing you will never see me doing is quipping. My work is too laborious and self-aware to ever include a comic device as light-hearted as a “quip”, and if I see one, I usually have it surgically removed from my script, or at least quarantined between ironic inverted commas (“Oh yeah, I can do jokes”). [Here’s a rare, and sadly very funny, example—SJ] And obviously, the bit was not in any way intended to “persuade the 17.4m who voted to leave the European Union—the largest vote for anything in the history of this country—they were wrong”, so it is stupid to criticise it for failing to achieve something it never set out to do. That’s like saying that Fawlty towers, for example, was written to encourage hoteliers to control their tempers; or that the very funny playground joke that ends with the line “Lemon entry, my dear Watson” was written to encourage Sherlock Holmes to keep suitable anal-sex lubricants close to hand for his congress with Watson, rather than relying on whatever out-of-date fruit preserves he could find in his larder.

Maybe I came onto Parson’s radar of late because I talked about Brexit, which he and his employer the Sun support, or because I am now one of those “cultural figures” that informed commentators like him are supposed to know about (“God! Haven’t you heard of Stewart Lee, Tony? I can’t believe it!”), who get praised in the London Review of Books, and get called the greatest living stand-ups in The Times, irrespective of their perceived market penetration or popularity. For Parson I am a “woke… enlightened… professionally sensitive… BBC-approved comedian who can be guaranteed to dress to the left”, which is hardly news, as it’s essentially what I describe myself as on stage, having done lazy Parson’s work for him.

Nonetheless, it’s odd to be called out as evidence of “the rancid tip of a cesspit that is the modern male attitude to women” in a magazine whose website has a “Hottest Woman of the Week” feature. It’s such an odd phrase, “the rancid tip of a cesspit”, that I had to go online and google pictures of cesspits to make sure I had understood what one was.

In my newspaper columns, I deliberately try to mangle my metaphors, writing in character as a man with imposter syndrome who is out of his depth in a posh newspaper and is trying to overcompensate with complex language that is beyond him. But Parson’s incoherence, as brilliantly parodied each month in Viz, is effortless. A cesspit is, literally, a pit full of cess. It can’t have a tip as it is not a conical solid. The only way a cesspit could have a tip is if it were somehow upended and its contents swiftly hardened in some kind of large-scale commercial drying unit, and the remaining cylinder or cuboid (depending on the shape of the pit that had moulded the cess within it) then sharpened at one end, perhaps using an enormous pencil sharpener rotated by shire horses on some kind of mill harness, or by Parson himself, until it formed the rancid tip Parson described. The only way a cesspit could have a natural tip would be if the body of the cesspit itself were conical, which perhaps they were “in the little corner of Essex where Parson grew up.

In fact, there is an Essex folk-song, collected by the archivist Shirley Collins inthe ’50s from the old traveller singer Gonad Bushell, that goes:

I’m a Billericay gypsy, Billericay is my home,
My house it is a caravan, my cesspit is a cone,
And if I want to see the cess become a rancid tip,
I tip the cesspit upside down, then dry and sharpen it!
And the curlew is a-calling in the morning.
[This is worthy of Stella Gibbons—e.g. Cold Comfort Farm, or her brilliant Britten pastiche—SJ]

Parson may have a point about the c-word (cunt), though I don’t really think my Brexit bit is hugely relevant to his discussion, and seems to be cranked in as part of some kind of twisted vengeance. Out of academic curiosity, I wondered what the dictionary definition of the c-word (cunt) was, and to my surprise, when I turned to it, there was just a massive picture of Tony Parson’s face. And it had all arrows pointing towards it as well.

Imagine writing the sort of space-filling shit Parson does, day after day. At least my columns are supposed to be stupid.

Back at the routine, Lee moves on ineluctably to the Brexiteers’ fatuous topos of bendy bananas (demolished e.g. here; also a theme of his columns, such as here and here, the latter included in March of the lemmings):

People did vote to leave Europe for all different sorts of—they did, don’t snigger away down there—they voted for all, you know, not everyone that voted to leave Europe wanted to see Britain immediately descend into being an unaccountable single-party state, exploiting people’s worst prejudices to maintain power indefinitely. Some people just wanted bendy bananas, didn’t they? “Oh no, I only wanted bendy bananas, and now there’s this chaotic inferno of hate.” “Oh well, never mind, at least the bananas are all bendy again, aren’t they?” Like they always fucking were.

In the second half of the show he adapts the Brexit material into an “I don’t know if you can make massive generalisations about Americans who voted for Trump…” routine:

Not all Americans who voted for Trump wanted to see America immediately descend into being an unaccountable single-party state, exploiting people’s worst prejudices to maintain power indefinitely. Some Americans just wanted to be allowed to wear their Ku Klux Klan outfits to church, didn’t they?

And still the footnotes to the script persist. Like How I escaped my certain fate, Lee’s comments are worth reading in full.

For more, see numerous posts under the Lee tag—and Ladies and gentlemen, Lenny Bruce!! A 2023 Guardian article has an update on our greater tolerance for swearing, again stressing context. For more on lying xenophobic misogynistic politicians, see under my roundup of posts on Tory iniquity, as well as the Tweety tag. Click here for two erudite literary jokes; and for what in Chinese, charmingly, is “the b-word (bi)”, see Forms of address, Interpreting pinyin, and Changing language.

   A few months ago in The 21st Century, Tricia Hurley wrote about the F Word, whichseemed to get some excellent responses. I thought I would continue the serieswith the C Word. Yes, the C Word. I can say the C Word if I want to say the CWord. In fact I don’t think the C Word gets enough use. It is about time we tookit out of Webster’s and dusted it off. What kind of word are you expecting? CornChowder? No. Collegiate? Please, Condom? AAh!! NO. NO. NO!!! The word is …CHASTITY!

Do you think I am nuts? I hope not. The word chastity is comingback in style. Would I lie to you? Never. Chastity is not old fashioned. Chastityis smart. Am I smart? Not always. Unfortunately, we all make mistakes and get insituations we should not be in, but if you know what you believe in, saying noshould never be a problem.

Sexual responsibility could be a great NewYear’s resolution. Do you really want to worry about AIDS or othersexually-transmitted diseases? Don’t laugh and think it can’t happen to you. AIDSdoes not discriminate. AIDS does not know if you are black or white, wealthy orpoor. There are over 9.5 million teenagers with sexually-transmitted diseases. Idoubt any of them thought they would ever become a statistic.

What hasbeen done to combat these problems? Sex education classes, condom programs, moresex ed classes, more condoms. Has it done any good? Arguably, no. The condom isfound to be less and less reliable as the years pass, yet the government andschool systems say that it is the only possibility at hand. Nonsense! Knowing howto use a condom is well and good, but you have only an 80 percent chance that itwill work. That percentage makes me a bit uncomfortable. I thought they told usit was safe sex!

Safe sex. Safe sex. Safe sex. Don’t believe it. There isno such thing. Safer sex: maybe. Safe sex: no way! Here is where the great wordcomes in: CHASTITY. It is the only answer. It really is. Being a virgin is notan evil thing. It should not be embarrassing. Maybe you will inspire a few peopleto be smart. There is nothing wrong about protecting yourself and yourfuture.

Do you believe me yet? If not, read this a few more times. It willsink in eventually. Some people take longer than others to absorb this importantinformation. As soon as you understand — start a Virgin Club. (Just kidding!). Iam really not crazy — really. Believe me. Believe me. Would I lie to you?

Lisa Lynch caught the public’s attention several years ago when, in an effort to deal with her breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, she began a blog as an outlet to cope with her condition.

That blog would later become best-selling book, The C Word, the events of which inspired this stunning feature-length BBC One drama.

Sheridan Smith puts in a career-defining performance as Lisa, fashioning a role that is both tragically human, effortlessly real and utterly compelling. Smith has proven her skill in recent dramas (The 7:39, Mrs Biggs, Cilla), but the fact that this is a true story lifts it beyond traditional UK TV fare.

Smith’s natural warmth helps us to establish Lisa as a bubbly, popular and vibrant individual, less than two years into her marriage to Peter (Paul Nicholls) and looking forward to her younger brother Jamie’s wedding. Portrayed as such a positive and life affirming person, this makes what happens next all the more heartbreaking.

“I’m afraid it’s not a cyst. The signs are consistent with breast cancer,” Lisa’s doctor informs her. Suddenly the happy music and the laughter of the first ten minutes of the drama fade and we embark on, what is at times, a harrowing journey for Lisa.

Smith became friendly with Lisa through Twitter and was honoured to take on the role at Lisa’s request. Her devotion to the project is obvious as she shaved off her hair and removed her eyebrows for the role to accurately portray the effects of the chemotherapy and help visualise just how much cancer takes away from you physically.

In one particularly affecting scene, a bald and broken Lisa, donned in an androgynous hoodie, cries watching her wedding tape, judging her present self harshly, against the more feminine version of herself in the video. It’s an incredibly moving sequence and Smith is aided well by screen husband Nicholls, making a believable couple, both struggling under the enormity of Lisa’s cancer.

The one-off film is an educational and sympathetic piece, highlighting not just the outer struggle in dealing with the disease, but the inner struggles of how all-consuming the condition can be in all aspects of a sufferer’s life.

“I’m so ugly Pete, I don’t recognise myself,” Lisa explains, before tragically admitting: “Some days I don’t want to wake up.”

That said, this is not a depressing piece. The C Word explains very clearly Lisa’s motivation to cope with her condition with strength, grace and good humour and does so amazingly well.

It is, as is true to life, punctuated with a lot of humour and sentiment. Particular highlights include the mocking of the NHS wig collection and a very touching scene where Lisa has to get naked for a spray tan, displaying her surgically adjusted breast.

Helping us to understand the emotional complexities of this horrible disease, Smith’s revelatory performance makes The C Word a fitting tribute to the events that inspired it, but most importantly to the life of Lisa Lynch, who passed away in 2013 at the age of 33.

Aired at 8.30pm on Sunday 3 May 2015 on BBC One.

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