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Our books and screens are filled with tales of growing up, missing buses, getting dumped, being cheated, winning at sports and realising dreams. In fact there’s so much that sometimes I forget how I grew up, then I remember evil dinner ladies and wet play – you weren’t there man. You weren’t there.

Scene from 90210

Portrayals of youth on screen are everywhere; the young sexy cast of Friends still graces British screens on a constant loop, Scrubs (although not all young) began life portraying the lives and times of junior doctors with references to college and med school. Also, let us not forget Hollywood after Hollywood blockbuster of high school proms, art students, vampires and the kid that always misses the bus that are written regularly to a formula, showing a tough American upbringing. On top of this, TV shows such as My Super Sweet Sixteen, Jersey Shore and 90210 show wealthy teenagers, big dresses, tears and fast cars as their representation of a young America. Seeing these from a more ‘average’ background makes these shows interesting – ‘let’s put the TV on and see a rich girl get hurt’.

Within literature we see writers such as Bret Easton Ellis, Chad Kultgen and Chelsea Handler (with her memoirs) portray a youth of wrong-doings, one-night stands, broken hearts and feeling awkward in social situations. The TV shows are entertaining in their own way; personally I love nothing more than seeing a stroppy fifteen year old not get the $1200 shoes she was after, but then again I also have a soft spot for Handler’s superb delivery of her late night encounters.

Bret Easton Ellis wrote Less Than Zero in 1985. As monetary backgrounds go, Clay, the main character, his close group of friends and pretty much every character of ‘that’ 90210 postcode are very similar. Well-off, houses with pools, the latest gadgets, such as iPod touch’s for the current 90210 clan and the constant playing of MTV and cassettes for Clay and his group.

Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis

This is where the similarities end though. Less Than Zero portrays a much darker side to the wealthy American youth with drug abuse, un-aspiring actors, casual sex and a few more horrific scenarios involving dead bodies, pimps and very young girls. I would imagine that the very latter of the list would be a metaphor for the youth that gets exactly what they want, going one step too far. There is a certain curiousness about the addition of such extreme situations, as well as the inclusion, in graphic detail, of drug abuse from not only Clay and his friends – but his younger siblings too. These sorts of storylines, or more so these approaches, are nowhere to be seen on our screens. Less Than Zero itself was subject to being made more moralistic, and swaying vastly away from the original in the 1987 film adaptation, with drug abuse, sex and pimping being removed, leaving an obvious scratch in the paintwork of Ellis’ book.

90210 offers a completely different character set up; all the kids are eager to study, are embarrassed by their parents like any sweet teenager would be, have the latest dreams and goals that seem to update with fashion, and already have the perfect after-college job lined up. This is almost the perfect life, even the nerdy kids are cool – they just have comic book fetishes that intrigue the hot girl and score them big boy status before the series ends.

Friends and Scrubs work similar to 90210 in the sense they offer the almost perfect life, and a low price with seemingly easy achievable goals and promotion throughout respective companies, such as JD’s promotion to leading the residents through training and Rachel’s climb through Ralph Lauren. Neither of which would be possible in Ellis’ world – whether this be decided by society, the lack of talent and ambition of the characters, or maybe the highlight that most of them seem to have had everything put on a plate for them.

Chad Kultgen, in his novel The Lie, outlines the overall message that in college it’s dog-eat-dog, you get what you work for and sometimes working for it could mean stabbing people in the back. Both Scrubs and Friends have similar views on sex, masking sexual moments with innuendos, whereas Chelsea Handler offers a much more frank and open view about what happens when the door closes and the covers roll back – sometimes not even getting this far. It should be noted that Handler is writing for a different audience and Friends for a watershed, but would we want to watch Rachel talk in-depth about certain elements of love-making, even though we know her and Ross must have done something at least once?

A truly realistic view of growing up in America probably lies somewhere in the middle; there’s most likely an Xbox, a half-beaten car and the American dream somewhere in the future. Literary work does seem to offer more flexibility to say what the screen misses out, taking a reader on a longer, individual journey through the eyes of a sweaty, hormonal teenager and out the other side into adulthood – via a few mishaps of course.

Keith Hodges 

Do you remember that picnic we attempted? It was a Saturday in late May and we took the car thinking at some convenient spot we would be able to pull off the road, unfurl our blanket, and have leisurely salmon sandwiches and white wine in a dappled glade awash with bluebells. But it wasn’t like that. The country lanes were too narrow to park, the fields were strictly off-limits, and every village in England is trimmed with double yellow lines. Where was it we got to? Was it north Essex, or Hertfordshire? I don’t know, somewhere out in the environment for sure. After scootling around for an hour getting tense we fetched up at a pub. The kind of pub which is full of townies, and if not real townies, ex-townies, people who had moved out of town and were still having a go chasing the rural idyll. Or real townies like us who just thought it would be nice to spend a day in the country.

Most of the pub’s food had gone so we lunched on crisps and alcohol. Probably too much alcohol. I downed a couple of pints quickly, just to relax after the chasing around in circles. And with our feelings running a bit freer some home truths started to escape, like steam from a badly clad pipe. And then I came back from the loo and you said you wanted to leave me. And I said ‘Oh.’ For a while I didn’t say anything else because it suddenly became clear that what you had said was right, you should leave me. A lot of unstated resentments suddenly crystallised; a host of little antagonisms had found their form. Yes, you should leave me. So I said, eventually, as you were fixedly looking at the other customers, ‘Yes, I think you’re right, it would be better.’ And I managed a smile of sincerity.

We drove back slowly towards London. The afternoon was lovely: hot and clear. By chance I spotted a turning into some woods with a track which would take the car: exactly what we had been looking for earlier. I swung off the road, went a hundred yards over crunchy twigs and said, ‘Would you like a walk?’ It was so nice to act civilised. The wood seemed to recede in different planes of sunlit foliage with a floor interspersed with happy colourful flowers. ‘Yes,’ you said.

We strolled slowly. It wouldn’t have been right to hold hands. You stopped to stare at the bark of a tree. I asked, ‘What’ll you do?’ You didn’t reply. It was one of those moments when you were totally absorbed in something else. Moments which could be rather charming, but which had become intensely irritating. There had been times when whatever I said provoked no response in you, when even ‘Excuse me, can I say something’ had been met by nothingness, silence. ‘OK,’ I thought, ‘OK.’

‘Oh, I’ve forgot my ciggies,’ I said, and went back towards the car. I looked back. You were still staring minutely at the tree, as if it was about to divulge a great philosophical truth. I opened the boot instead of the door. The spade I had put in for winter snows was still there amongst the other debris. I came back towards you. You were still in rapt communion with what? Mother nature? I don’t think so. Your own elevated sense of self-importance, more like. It was so easy. I merely raised the spade, put a bit of effort into my shoulders, and struck your head from behind. You went down with an awful scream and I banged your head again. Twice. As hard as I could. Then I used the edge of the spade as an axe and swung again. It was very satisfying. But it did take four blows before your head was separated.

I glanced around. Summer in the country. All the lively noises of nature were there. A starling was eyeing me. There was no reproach in her beaky stare. I listened hard. Something passed on the road maybe once every two or three minutes. I went and drove the car back towards the entrance to the wood, stopping it plumb on the narrow track to discourage any other casual explorer. Then I came back and dug your grave. In it went your body. I spread leaf litter as best I could over the top.

I carried your head by the hair. Sure it dripped blood along the trail, but there wasn’t too much mess. Your good looks had gone with the life which had drained out. I looked briefly at the mouth which had given me so much pleasure. By chance I had an empty supermarket bag in the car. That would be good enough.

I drove out of the wood. There was earth under my fingernails. Eventually the lane I was following crossed the A1. I parked and sauntered back to the bridge with the bag, tying a knot in its handles. It was simply a matter of judging when to drop it. One didn’t want to be seen letting an object fall onto a busy road. The traffic, though fast, was pretty light in volume. A moment came when three articulated lorries, line astern, were about half a minute away. I let a couple of fast cars pass underneath and then dropped the bag. I didn’t stay to watch, but was confident your head would be pulverised out of all recognition.

At home I had the salmon sandwiches and the wine. Sure, I felt guilty as hell. But when I thought about it, you really were a bitch. It had got to the stage where I couldn’t bear to watch you eat. I hated your trinkets in the bathroom. And the way your lipstick came away on a glass.

The next day I checked the car and shovel for any stains. Nobody missed you. Your work as a freelance translator meant there was no regular employer who worried about your absence. People like you move on. There are no restrictions for Europeans. When your friend phoned I said we had split up, and you had gone back to your parents in Spain. But I knew the main reason you had come to England in the first place was to escape their oppressive regime. You had made a point of not writing to them.

No, no-one missed you. I miss you sometimes. That’s why I like talking to you. And it assuages my need to confess, having these little chats. You were fascinatingly foreign, to begin with, and we did make love very well. It would have been lovely to do it in the bluebells. You reminded me a bit of Francine, except that her head came off straight away.

Graham Buchan has worked in film, video and television as an editor, writer, producer and director. A regular on the London poetry scene, he has published short stories, travel writing and film appreciation.