Dracula has been slain, murdered, disemboweled.
And the killer is quietly spoken ‘Criminal’ presenter Phoebe Judge.
Now, before you see this as a character assassination (like the fate that befalls Bram Stoker’s eponymous literary legend in this truly appalling exposition of a masterpiece) I have to state that I am a big fan of Judge’s long-running ‘Criminal’ podcast in which she brings us oddball stories of crime that do not fit the usual stereotypes of the True Crime genre.
‘Criminal’ is epic.
Her rendering of Dracula is anything but.
In fact, it’s possibly the worst storytelling experience in history.
She’s a great presenter, unquestionably, but a reader?
Every sentence. Of this classic. Book. Is delivered. In breathy snatches. Like this. It drives you. Actually. Fucking nuts.
Overwraught. Overdramatic. Appalingly badly. Rendered. As if she is. Teaching herself to. Read. As you cringe. Into your headphones. And wish a giant bat. Would swoop down. From. The Skies. And eat her. Up.
It’s a. No. From me.