WAS the last proper book you ever read one you were forced to by teachers when you were 16? These GSCE texts killed your love of literature for life:
A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens, 1843
First, the Muppet version is definitive. Second, the book is at least short with ghosts in, but it won’t feel short when reading because Dickens never stinted on an adjective or a comma. It’s got sub-Shakespearian puns, boring morality and Tiny Tim, ‘who did not die’. Cured by a big f**king turkey, evidently.
Lord of the Flies, William Golding, 1954
Plot-wise pretty good, like an archaic version of Fortnite. Used at GCSE because teenage boys always need more ideas of how to torture each other, but bangs on about symbolic Simon when all anyone cares about is whether Jack will beat Ralph. Back then, readers needed books to understand the dark side of human nature without society and wi-fi. Now we have Fyre Festival.
Much Ado About Nothing, William Shakespeare, 1598
Included on the curriculum like a vaccine, to expose pupils to a mild form of Shakespeare to ensure they’re immune from its effects in later life. But that doesn’t stop classes of children from hating it: hating Hero, hating Benedick even if his name does have ‘dick’ in it, and hating f**king Dogberry. Hating him, for trying to be funny, most of all.
Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck, 1937
Has caused many a stab at a Deep South accent by 15-year-olds in Surrey. Cheering to see rabbits being cared for even worse than you did it, RIP Fluffy, but Curley’s wife representing the American dream, killed by a moronic mumbling halfwit? Actually maybe this one bears re-reading.
Blood Brothers, Willy Russell, 1983
Oliver Twist with more screaming, songs and Scousers. Hinges upon offering your child to your employer as though that’s a real thing that happens. About class warfare, nature-nurture and twin trauma so it’s proper GCSE catnip – tragic ending, dramatic irony, gunshots, poor people. You got a grade C for writing ‘Mickey is sad and Eddie is posh’.
An Inspector Calls, JB Priestley, 1944
The worst. A fake inspector – which in itself sounds like a porn plot – shows up at a family’s house revealing their secrets like a 1912 Jeremy Kyle. Why not request ID before spilling all your secrets? Universally seen in a touring production where the house falls down, which works both on a symbolic level and when you’re bored shitless because Mr Taylor confiscated your phone.
