I am getting seriously sick of historical romances.

Reading this book.
Historical romance.
Name is "Desperate Duchess" by Eloisa James.
Set in the late 1700's.
Recommended reading by a certain group of lovely ladies whom I will not embarrass by mentioning.
Supposed to be a fantastic read.

Bollocks.

I'm half way through and thinking of stabbing myself in the face with forks.
And other spiked implements.

It's like being whacked in the face with a copy of vogue every page.
And a book on chess.
Who the hell cares what trimming her petticoat has?
Endless detail about some frickin' ribbon some dude has in his hair.
And I know that chess is an integral part of the story but why, in the name of Zeus, does it have to be described on every frickin' page?
Then there is the droning on and on about this gown and that gown and the layout of the table...
Even down to the stitching on some dudes stockings.
Endless twittering clever banter for pages and pages and.. Please kill me now... Please...

Where's the smut?
Where's the ninja pirate robot monkeys?
Oh. 1700's. So maybe not so much of the latter.
And bugger all of the former.
And so much frickin' fashion and banter that you completely lose track of the actual characters!
Roberta who? Wait. Who's this dude again? Oh who the f**k cares? Oh look. We're back to waxing lyrical about the petticoats...

If I had to describe this book I'd say it's like a single episode of Blackadder.
Stretched to 8 hours.
With no jokes.
It even has those guys from that episode about "The Scottish Play" making poses and thrusting their hips out.
But not as funny.

I. Must. Finish. This. Damn. Book.
Why?
Because I have to finish it so I can do a massive "rip" on it.
If I give up at this stage, it will only be a an "ri" which has little or no impact.

I soooo need that "p" so I can say "Damn you. Damn you all to hell!"
And ride off into the sunset.