Steamy book more funny than saucy

Fifty Shades of Grey may be the biggest bestseller, but what's all the fuss about? After our exclusive interview with author E.L. James, published on Monday and Tuesday,

and

give their verdicts.

He says:

I had to see what everyone was on about – now I'm more confused than ever.

Women of my acquaintance have been talking openly about how Fifty Shades of Grey has "changed their lives".

I knew a bit about what I was letting myself in for thanks to listening to people speaking about the book as though it were a new installment of Harry Potter.

Only this isn't about wizards and wands (snigger). It's a mucky book for girls.

It's written with women readers in mind in the way that some of those magazines you see behind little plastic panels in the supermarket or

newsagent are aimed at a certain type of man.

Now I have to ask any women reading – is this what you actually want? Christian Grey, the hero of the book – if you can call him that – tries

to control every aspect of his girlfriend's life (girlfriend is the only mild word I can use, she's basically his toy), stalks her and turns up whenever he feels like it.

He wants to control what she eats, what she can do with her weekends and what she wears and that's even before the frankly bizarre things he does behind closed doors.

His behaviour in his "playroom" might be some people's cup of tea but I never thought I'd see women swooning over and dreaming about a man

who basically has a screw loose.

For some reason he is seen as a 21st century Heathcliff, only with handcuffs, a riding crop and a helicopter.

If this book was written by a man it wouldn't stretch to 528 pages and you'd be able to read it in less than 10 minutes.

The innocent protagonist Anastasia Steele would meet the dashing billionaire Grey, abandon her planned interview for the student newspaper and they'd get down to brass tacks on his desk there and then, swap numbers and she'd nip out to Greggs to buy him lunch before letting herself out.

But this isn't one of those movies where a breathy woman opens the door to a man who has "come to fix the fridge" but then does not actually fix the

fridge.

Instead, EL James gives us chapter after chapter of build up, of Anastasia agonising about whether or not she should subject herself to Grey's peculiar

peccadilloes.

Ana is a particularly annoying and whiny individual. When she comes out with lines about feeling "like Icarus flying too close to the sun" I suddenly

want something very unpleasant to happen to her.

The various descriptions during the numerous sex scenes are more funny than saucy.

At one point Ana says she feels like she's on the "spin cycle of a washing machine" but all it did for me was remind me I needed to take the towels out of the tumble drier.

It could have had potential, though.

James paints Grey as a billionaire with a tortured past – a bit like Batman only he's only gone out wearing just his utility belt rather than the rest of his outfit. And instead of batarangs and gas bombs he's got the contents of an Ann Summers' back room.

As he indulges his fantasies Grey calls to mind Patrick Bateman in American Psycho, but without the murder and the love of Whitney Houston and Phil Collins.

What's more difficult for me to accept though is why women seem to love the character so.

That so many women seem obsessed by Grey makes me very worried that I might have misunderstood half the population of the planet even more than

I thought.

I fail to see what's impressive or desirable about him.

Other than his money, his toned body, his smouldering good looks and the fact that he drops everything at a moment's notice to be with the woman in

his life . . . oh, hang on.

She says:

So Christian Grey is the new Heathcliff. Tortured, brooding and consumed by passion.

Hmm, I don't know what book you lot are reading but in my copy of Fifty Shades of Grey he is nothing more than a prettyboy pipsqueak.

Forget the Red Room of Pain, the most shocking element of FSOG is that women find this spoilt brat alluring.

When I settled down with my £3.99 copy of the smutty sensation, I was expecting a mean and moody Daniel Craig-type.

A smouldering billionaire in his late-40s with a nice sideline in Lamborghinis and leather.

When anorak Anastasia revealed this supposed master of the universe was just 27, I almost binned it straight away. Almost.

Grey. Is. A. Child.

Forget all this dark-secret and tortured-soul nonsense, that's just teenage angst.

He can't cut it as the self-proclaimed authoritative "dominant".

I think, if anything, he's too nice (although that may say more about me than him. Psychiatrist, anyone?).

He takes Anastasia on a romantic gliding trip, showers her in thoughtful gifts and is nothing short of lovey-dovey at times.

Err, where is the shocking bit in all this? Where is this dark and dangerous man everyone keeps raving about?

OK, there's a fair share a filth involved and I can see why it might get the pulses racing of a few bored housewives. But really, this is the man

the whole country's fallen for? I must be missing something.

The steamy scenes themselves are also a bit repetitive. All the talk of explosions and losing control had me skim-reading by the end of it. It was

all a bit same-old, same-old. I don't how you brave souls who have read all three coped.

But, that said, anything that brings a naughty smile to women's faces and gives them a moment of escapism is fine by me. The idea of FSOG is great, a chance for women to lose themselves in a little fantasy and spice up their love lives.

It's brought us girls together – everyone is chatting about it, everyone has an opinion and we're opening up about things we may never usually talk about.

On a recent holiday, every single British woman around the pool had a copy and we all had a good old gossip about it in the bar when the sun

went down.

The husbands and boyfriends seemed pretty pleased with themselves too. Funny that.

It's just the execution of FSOG that's not to my taste.

Anastasia is a straitlaced stick-in-the-mud, whose annoying subconscious that keeps chipping in every two seconds almost had me tearing my book apart Incredible Hulk-style.

This is the same subconscious that now has its own Twitter account, by the way. Her inner goddess can take a hike and all.

Someone also should have bought E L James a thesaurus for Christmas.

I lost count of the amount of times she used the words "equilibrium" and "reverie".

But I'm nitpicking here – quick, someone drag me from my reverie and restore my equilibrium – it's mainly Mr Grey who fails to live up the hype.

The boy (not man!) is a cheeseball. The linen shirts, all-white interior design and fancy shower oil – it was like spending time with the flashest of low-league footballers.

He swans about all day sending soppy emails dotted with winking smiley faces. That's right, the dreaded, so-cheesy-it-hurts winking smiley face.

It almost made me roll my eyes. But we all know that's not allowed, don't we ladies? ;-)

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