Jane Austen Roundup

Best book: Northanger Abbey. Why? Because it is a piss-take of Gothic novels. This is the book in which the humour come closest to being something modern readers might actually laugh at.

Worst book: Mansfield Park. Why? Because the heroine (amusingly called “Fanny”, and that's the best gag in the book) is so bloody wet.

Bluffer's guide to Jane Austen
(This guide is intended to help you sound like an intellectual in front of people you don't know very well in pubs and at parties. It will not help you write your essays for GCSE or A level English. Go steal those off The Spark.)

• Do wax lyrical about the quality of the prose.
• Don't say you liked the twist at the end. There is never a twist at the end. There is barely a plot at all.
• Do run down the author by saying, “Of course, Austin is more of a miniaturist than a novelist” (Sounds like nonsense, but loads of other pseuds will nod sagely at this point.)
• Don't run her down by saying, “There weren't even any murders! So I added some in biro.”
• Do go on about her razor sharp wit and ability to skewer the social conventions of her time.
• Don't say, “Is it just me, or is this just posh girls' Mills & Boon?”

Note that all of the above only applies to men. Ironically, if you are a woman you can feign knowledge of Jane Austen simply by going, “Ooo! Mr Darcy!” and giggling like a simpleton.

Persuasion by Jane Austen

Persuasion was Austen's last book and was not published until after her death. It was also the only one her books I had not read, so now I have collected them all. I'm as happy as a small boy with a completed album full of football stickers.

Seven years before the start of the novel, Anne Elliot was persuaded by her friend Lady Russel (who has taken on the role of Anne's mother after that lady died) to reject the proposal of Frederick Wentworth, even though she loves him, because he has no money or rank and therefore, Lady Russel cannot conceive of the marriage resulting in anything other than misery. In the meantime, Anne's father the stupid, snobbish Sir Walter Elliot has been busy squandering the family fortune because he refses to do without any of his status symbols. Things become so bad that the Elliot family are forced to leave their ancestral seat, Kellynch hall, and rent it out to Admiral Croft. Admiral Croft's wife turns out to be Wentworth's sister and suddenly he is back on the scene, now a captain with wealth he's plundered from Britain's enemies, declaring that he is ready to marry. At first he seems understandably embittered by Anne's original refusal and starts a romance with her friend Louisa Musgroves, claiming to be charmed by her strength of character. Then Louisa goes and blows it all by throwing herself off the cobb at Lyme Regis, for Wentworth to catch her - only he misses and she gives herself a serious head injury. Louisa may not be the sort of wimp who'd pass up a perfectly good fiance just because someone told her to, but she does now seem deficient in common sense. Anyhow, Anne goes to join her impoverished folks for the season in Bath, and before long Mr William Elliot, her cousin, is chatting her up in all the fashionable locations. You can't marry your cousin! It's just wrong! The children will have 3 heads or something... But we don't have to worry about mutant children (shame, they'd give Austen's novels a bit of extra excitement...) because in the nick of time the cousin is revealled to be a bounder and a cad and Captain Wentworth professes his love. Let the bells ring out and so forth.

In her book lady of intellect and taste who is “past her bloom” is still able to bag a husband. Sadly this wasn't the case for Jane herself and she died unmarried at only 41. Seems as if the men of her time cared more for a pretty face with a bit of money attached than for a lady with any kind of mind.

Famously, we never get any scenes in Austin in which men are talking to one another without ladies present, because Jane never got to hear how they spoke each other in these circumstances. I have also noticed that the books finish at the point where the heroine is engaged; presuamably because Austen has no exerience of what happens after that, either.

I like Mrs Croft much better than I like the heroine. I think her a much better model for modern women: she and the Admiral have a marriage of equals and she has followed him all over the world. She helps him to run his affairs and they drive their carriage together.

“Persuasion” was writen at a time of increasing social mobility and has birth versus money as one of it's themes. The book has plenty of sailors who have made their fortune (maybe fighting Napoleon, I'm not sure of the history) and are now looking to marry a class of girlie who would have been well beyond reach otherwise. The idiot Sir Walter Elliot disapproves of the navy on the ground that it is “a means of bringing persons of low birth into undue distinction”, but the posh totty is nevertheless flockng to Naval officers! Austen's view seems to in favour of social mobility and “marrying up”, but in a qualified way: Our happy ending is that Anne finally gets her dashing officer, instead of being stuck with the family's mean-spirited heir presumptive, the author makes it pretty clear that she finds Mrs Clay's scheme to marry Sir Walter absolutely beyond the pale. I can't really see what the difference is between them. Is it OK for men to be social climbers, but not women? Is OK to work your way through manly exploits against the French, but not through marriage? Or is it that as a lawyer's daughter, Mrs Clay ranked a lot lower in Austen's world than it first seems to me?

Another theme of the book seems to be setting up a contrast between family and friends. Anne's friends value her and enjoy her company while her father and sister Elizabeth just ignore her and her sister Mary needs Anne to make her feel important and distract her from her imagined illnesses. Despite this, Anne is made to feel that she has a duty to her family. In some ways, Anne's family is dysfunctional enough to give the novel quite a modern feel; One parent is absent (due to death rather than divorce) and the rest are a couple of silly spendthrifts and a hyperchondriac drama queen.

The Gone-Away World by Nick Harkaway

I think this is a first novel. It definitely reads like a first novel. The author seems to have shoveled in every idea he's ever had giving it a rather chaotic feel. And the structure is a bit odd: half of the book forms what has got to be the longest flashback in the history of literature. Then there is the fact that text just needs a bit more deletion. I mean, I'm a fan of both Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams, so I like humorous asides and explanatory footnotes as much as the next person, but “The Gone-Away World” contains several which are so long and convoluted that they get in the way of the story. Despite these criticisms, the book contains some great ingredients: truckers, Ninjas, mime artists and the end of the world. I think this book was like a cake I dropped on the floor but decided to eat anyway: a bit of a mess but still tasty.

Sometime in the near future the latest ultimate weapon is invented: the “Go Away” bomb which removes the information from matter, effectively causing enemies to disappear all together. A small, regional (Afghanistan-like) war quickly escalllates and results in much of the planet being reconfigured with “Go Away” weapons. At which point it is discovered that these perfect weapons come with their own kind of fall-out. Matter stripped of information (known as “stuff”, presumably as in “such stuff as dreams are made on”) is given new and horrific forms by people's thoughts and the survivors of the “Go Away” war have to battle centaurs, mermaids and dog-swllowing monsters. In this crazy, post-apocalyptic landscape the “Haulage and Hazmat Emergency Civil Freebooting Company of Exmoor County” eke out a living until called on to put out a huge fire with the added hazzard of “stuff”. That's about all I can tell you without spoiling the plot.

In the way of themes we have, War, friendship, the dehumanising aspects of large companies (pretty apt in the wake of the credit crunch) and, of course, Ninjas. Everyone loves Ninjas.

My favourite character has got to be Ronnie Cheung, a foul-mouthed army martial arts instructor who offers the hero the following advice:

“You are fucked. You are desirous of getting unfucked.[...] The second law of thermodynamics [...] does not smile upon unfucking.”

In the big set-piece battle with the Ninjas at the end of the book, Ronnie drops hs kecks to show them his wrinked martial arse. He's a class act.

I really hope Nick writes some more books. This one is kind of a trainwreck, but a trainwreck that's pleasantly exciting to be in, rather than deadly. Once he's found the delete key, I think his work will be an absolute joy. Write more Nick! And then get rid of most of it to leave only the best bits!

Bollocks To Alton Towers by Robin Halstead, Jason Hazeley, Alex Morris and Joel Morris

It happens to all of us: we are just walking past some books when we spot one that is so interesting we have to buy it. This happens quite frequently to the BookClubOf1. What is less frequent is seeing a book which is so exciting you have to buy two copies. I spotted “Bollocks To Alton Towers” whilst looking for a birthday present for my Dad and ended up purchasing one for each of us.

The premise of the book (that Britain is full of small, eccentric tourist attractions which can be more fun than the big, famous ones) was one that resonated with my own childhood. Whether through anti-capitalist principles, or financial embarrassment, our parents were always reluctant to shell out for admission to anything. By the time I was 16, it seemed as though everyone in the world had been to Disneyland, Florida apart from me. I had, however, been round an awful lot of iron age hill forts and one nuclear power station.

For anyone with a hint of geek, the temptation is to use this book like a list of Munroes and tick off the attractions as you visit them. So I'm delighted to report that I have already been to Mother Shipton's Cave (visited with my folks when very young), Tebay Services, Portmerion, House of Marbles and Avebury.

Tebay Services is Britain's only independent motorway service station. Imagine that a farm shop and a high class delicatessen had a child together, and that child grew up and, in a fit of teenage rebelliousness, announced it wanted to be a motorway service station. That is Tebay. It will still cost you a lot to eat there, but you will be eating the very best local produce instead of filthy offerings from Planet Ginster. Plus you can buy something like top-notch chocolate or venison sausages for whoever has been looking after your cat. It's worth driving to Scotland just so you can visit Tebay on the way. Honest!

I first visited Avebury for E's hen weekend and my abiding memory is of the horrors of the Mystical Tat Shop. Avebury has two gift shops, one is a National Trust one which sells lots of lavender flavour things for old ladies. The other is the mystical tat shop which sells fearsome amounts of hippy crap covered in Celtic knotwork. It also sells the single most disturbing item I've ever seen in a gift shop: figures of a sort of chubby earth-goddess with her feet round the back of her head and her hands pulling her flaps apart. Apparently, this character is called Sheila Na Gig and she is giving birth to the universe or some such shit. Much as people who are true vertigo suffers don't just worry about falling off high things, they also worry that they might go mad and jump, I had to leave the mystical tat shop for fear that I might go mad and buy several of the things. When I went home and told my husband about the Sheila na Gigs, he was of the opinion that the tat shop owner had missed a trick and they ought to contain bottle openers or pencil sharpeners.

More exciting than the attractions I've already seen, are the recommendations which are very close to home. Diggerland and the Pack O' Cards pub are within a couple of hours' drive, while A La Ronde is actually on my drive to and from work but I've never been because I got in sulk with the National Trust after visiting Castle Drogo (a faked-up, 1920s bauhaus “castle” significantly newer than my own home, but more expensive to visit). These are so close that I might as well go. Both my siblings now live in Fancy London Town where the streets are paved with stabbed teenagers. Maybe they will take me to visit the Crystal Palace Dinosaurs when I next go to see them. And maybe my Oxford-based school friend could take me to the Pitt Rivers museum...

Like Munroes, some of these attractions will be easier to collect than others. For example, next time I visit the Lakes, if the weather's too bad for walking I will be demanding a visit to Eden Ostrich World or the Pencil Museum. I would very much like to visit Bletchly but this involves going to Milton Keynes and I can't imagine why I'd ever go there. Alas, I think I have missed the chance to see Barometer World as I believe it recently closed.

So what have they missed? Well, I can't claim an encyclopedic knowledge of Britain's visitor attractions, never having been to any of the ones that cost more than £10, but here's my cheapskate's rundown of other things you could look at:

1. That nuclear power station I visited as child was Hinkley Point in Somerset and the tour is free. I remember that the guide's Geiger tube didn't even pick up any background radiation for the whole tour, so I assume it was broken. You might want to take your own GM tube just to be on the safe side.

2. The Cerne Abbas Giant. A picture of a naked man with an enormous erection, carved into the side of a Dorset hill. This ticks all the boxes: it costs nothing plus it's good for a snigger.

3. The National Lobster Hatchery, Padstow. I haven't actually been in this one, but my friend AR has and so great was his enthusiasm for it that I pass on his recommendation. This is everything you might ever want to know about lobsters for only £3, apparently.

4. Letterston fish and chip shop. There must be hundreds of fish and chip shops which claim to be Britain's best. They're like splinters of the true cross or Robert The Bruce's caves. This one, however, is the best one I've been to so far. Other honourable mentions go to Chez Fred in Poole, Squires in Braunton and the chuffing expensive one at Dart's Farm.

5. Tinside Lido, Plymouth. I love lidos, they're a reminder of a bygone age when people wore hats and were hardy enough to swim out of doors in the UK. The south west seems to have been the epicentre of lido-building and the Plymouth one is a nice example being recently restored and a good size. For £3.60 (only 45p more than my regular, municipal pool) you can enjoy 1930s architecture and outdoor swimming. Lovely.

6. Big Pit (Pwll Mawr, for those of you who speak Klingon). Big Pit is your chance to go down a real coal mine for free!

Where Wizards Stay Up Late: the origins of the internet by Katie Hafner and Mathew Lyon

As a programmer, I ought to have found this interesting, but unfortunately it was more like doing unpaid overtime. On several occasions I went to bed ahead of my husband, saying I wanted to read a bit of my book, only for him to arrive upstairs minutes later to find that its turgid prose had already stunned me into unconsciousness. Reading about someone else's marathon debugging session is only slightly less horrible than being in the midst of your own.

My one real moment of entertainment came from reading about the work of JCR Licklider. As well as having a funny name, he believed that by working with machines humans could achieve enhanced cognition. As someone who works with machines every day and often seems to be having cognitive difficulties, my response to his idea is a bitter, "Ha!". Most humans don't want their cognition enhanced and are content to muddle along with the same mixture of magical thinking and believing whatever is most convenient that we've been using ever since we were monkeys. We have created this amazing, worldwide network of machines and what do we use it for? Pornography, dating, looking at cute animals, watching amusing films of things in blenders and wanky, ego-stroking popularity contests. Some of the cleverest humans get as far as using it to pretend to be an elf. Quite frankly it would serve us all right if the Internet became self-aware and started exterminating us!

What is a little sad is that although many of the programmers mentioned were undoubtedly brilliant (and obsessive) and working at the bleeding edge of their fields, none of them got rich from their work. What you need to make money appears to middling intelligence, a sharp suit, glossy hair and a disarming smile. Bugger.

Despite the fact that I've not enjoyed this book, my friends seem to be queuing up to read it. I can't persuade them to like my favourite authors but they all want to read this crap. T! Humans, eh? They're just bloody perverse!

Larklight by Phillip Reeve

This was an enormously enjoyable children's book set in a kind of space-faring version of the Victorian era. This is what we SF fans would call "Steam punk". It works pretty well as the book has the positive aspects of the "Thrilling Stories For Boys" kind of books (space pirates fighting giant spiders, for example), while satirising the jingoism of the originals. There is also Victorian-era science: space is full of "Aether" rather than vacuum.

My edition has been illustrated by David Wyatt and inside the covers of the book are lots of mock-Victorian adverts which are full of little jokes for the SF fan-boy. For example, an ad for the "Crighton" model of auto-butler and the "Lensman" series of telescopes.

Art and Mytrle Mumby live in Larklight, a rambling mansion floating somewhere between the Earth and the moon. Art reads thrilling tales of adventure in the farthest reaches of the Empire while Myrtle attempts to master the accomplishments of a gentlewoman (these appear to be fainting and playing the piano-forte). The house is attacked by giant spiders and their scientist father is carried off wrapped in web, leaving Art charged with protecting his sister. Art tells Mrytle that they must get to the lifeboats as, "something most disagreeable has happened!" and they are lunched on a series of adventures which include nearly being eaten by caterpillars, rescued by pirates, being repeatedly attacked by the giant spiders and saving the British Empire - hurrah!

The BookBarn!

Last weekend I took advantage of a day in Somerset to visit the BookBarn and E came with me, despite being very pregnant now. If you have never been to the BookBarn, I almost recommend it. It is a strange experience.

Firstly, the BookBarn is rather coy about its physical location, choosing to perpetuate the myth that it’s just outside Bristol, rather owning up to being closer to Shepton Mallet. Not only that, there are no signs for the BookBarn on the main road. Either you are in on the secret of the BookBarn or the Bookbarn doesn’t want to see you.

The fuzziness regarding the whereabouts of things continues inside. The non-fiction and the fiction have been separated and the fiction is filed more-or-less by topic. At the front desk you can get a plan that purports to tell you where each subject is stored but if, for example, you go to the area where the caving books are supposed to be, you will find it full of arts and crafts. In the science section, we find military history.

The fiction is, if anything, worse. All the books by authors beginning with A have been put together, but they haven’t been alphabeticised any further than this. So for example if you’re wondering whether the BookBarn might have any books by Neil Gaiman, you’ll have to look at every book written by an author who’s surname begins with G to find out. I find it easier not to go with a list of books I want and just to wander aimlessly and see what I find. Otherwise BookBarn does by head in. And E can’t stay too long or she’ll start filing their books for them.

Despite the best efforts of the BookBarn to hide them from me, I went home with the following:

Tithe by Holly Black

Viriconium by M. John Harrison

Darkmans by Nicola Barker

Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Letham

RedRobe by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

Where Wizards Stay Up Late: The Origins of the Internet

The Raw Shark Texts - Steven Hall

A man wakes up on the floor of his home with no memory of who he is or what has happened to him. All he has left of his previous life is an angry-looking ginger tom called Ian. He finds out that his name is Eric Sanderson and that his problems began when his girlfriend Clio died in an accident three years ago. Letters and parcels arrive from “The First Eric Sanderson” which explain that his memories have been eaten by a conceptual shark called The Ludovician.

When I was a little girl, someone at school told me about the film Jaws, and this gave me nightmares about a sort of shark which could swim through floors, with its dorsal fin sticking out of the carpet. I've revisited those nightmares in this book as Eric tries to find a way to destroy The Ludovician before it eats the rest of his mind. As the Ludovician is a conceptual fish, sometimes only its fin pokes through into reality. Scary...

One of my favourite sections of the book is when the First Eric Sanderson explains to the second how he allowed the Ludovician out into the world from the bottom a pit in un-space:

Down at the bottom there was a place filled with was rows and rows of stinking neglected fish tanks with sick, dead and dying fish; a horrible abandoned aquarium.

Reading those words took me back instantly to the aquarium underneath Blackpool Tower. It probably wasn't as nightmarish in reality as it seems in my memory (I was very small when I went there) but I can't help thinking that Mr Hall might have been.

This was a strange, enjoyable and unashamedly clever book. It seems to have a target audience of people who enjoy both Jaws and Borges. I think some readers are likely to be annoyed by the typographic tricks. For example, in places the words are laid out to form the shape of a shark or a remora and part of the novel works as a flick book – I thought that was quite smart though.

Read it, read it, read it. If you don't I will come round your house with my copy and stand over you until you do.

You can watch the Ludovician sneaking up on The Second Eric Sanderson through his telly on the video below. Have a cushion ready to hide behind...

Regressing into Childhood...

Those people who know me in real life will be aware that I have had problems with nasty neighbours. These have culminated in my deciding to move house to be rid of them. This may strike people as quite an extreme solution but believe me, compared to weeping continually or murdering someone it becomes the only sensible option. Anyway, while I grapple with what wording to use to successfully sell my beloved home to someone else without actually lying, the last thing I want is to have to wrestle with difficult literature. No, what I want for the moment is to sit hunched in a corner and try to comfort myself by rocking backwards and forwards and reading nothing but children’s books.

A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchet

This is the sequel to “The Wee Free Men” and is the second book about Tiffany Aching (an 11 year old witch from the chalk downs who once saw off the Queen of the fairies by hitting her with a skillet) and the Nac Mac Feegle (a clan of violent, drunken, woad-covered pictsies). Depending on who you believe the Nac Mac Feegle either left Fairyland of their own accord, rebelling against its Queen, or were thrown out for being “pished”.

In this novel, Tiffany leaves home to study witchcraft in the mountains. Whilst there her habit of casually stepping out of her body (which she taught herself to do because she didn’t have a mirror) has disastrous consequences when her empty body is taken over by an evil entity known as a hiver. The Nac Mac Feegle are soon on their way to rescue their favourite “hag”, but they are at their best with problems that can solved by nutting somebody…

One of the things I liked about the book was that since the majority of being a Discworld witch doesn’t involve magic, you can effectively Be Your Own Granny Weatherwax. Now that sounds like the crapest spin-off self-help since the Tao of Poo. Don’t look to me to create it; I’m already being my own lifecoach, feeling the fear and doing it anyway AND fighting the seven signs of aging. You’ll have to shift for yourself!

Across The Nightingale Floor

In some ways I have always wanted to be Japanese and enjoy practicing swordsmanship in the falling cherry blossom with killer cheekbones and epicanthic folds. I could really rock that ethnicity... So I expected to really enjoy “Across the Nightingale Floor”, a children's fantasy novel set somewhere a bit like medieval Japan.

A young man, Tomaso, sees his village destroyed and his mother and step-father murdered by the local warlord. He is then adopted by a rival aristocratic family (who rename him Takeo) and gradually finds out that his birth father was part of a tribe of magic ninjas. Takeo then has to practice his ninja-skills for an attempt on the life of the man who killed his family. Things don't quite go according to plan and although Takeo escapes with his life and the bad guy is dead by the end, so is Takeo's patron is killed, leaving him in the hands of “The Tribe” of magic ninjas.

I just didn't like this book as much as I expected to. Maybe it's because I have been dealing with some very stressful events recently, or maybe it's because I only seemed to have time to read it in 5 minute snatches. Also, am I the only person here who thinks that ninjas are exciting enough without having magic powers? There are two sequels to this novel, but I'm afraid I won't be bothering to read them. What with there being so many amazing books in the world there just isn't time to read the ones I think will only rate 50%.

King of Shadows by Susan Cooper

Nathan Field is part of a company of child actors putting on a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in the reconstructed Globe theatre. One night he goes to bed with flu... and wakes up in 1599, about to perform the Dream with Shakespeare himself!

One of the things I like about this book it that Nat's crush on Shakespearereminds me of the way men lez up in Shakespeare plays. I have to confess that I find it very exciting when two good-looking actors put their arms round one another's shoulders and call each other “noble cuz”. Another reason to love this book is because it has my sister's favourite ending: He woke up and it was all a dream... or WAS it?

Top Books

People often say to me* “Hey, Bookclubof1, I’m sick of misery memoirs and patronising chicklit. I’ve had it with hacks like Dan Brown/James Patterson/Stephen King/Barbara Cartland. I wanna read something that’ll blow my tiny mind! What do you recommend?” And I go round my bookshelves and take down the following...

Slaugherhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut

Catch 22 by Joseph Keller

Crash by J. G. Ballard

Vurt by Jeff Noon

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

The Tooth Fairy by Graham Joyce

Ghostworld by Daniel Clowes

Slaughtermatic by Steve Aylett

Whereupon, my friends eye my choices with surprise and fear before scuttling back to the bestseller lists.

Sigh.

*Actually they don’t, but I can dream...

Abuse of language #1: Toilet

The word “toilet” is problematic to class-sensitive Brits at the best of times and anyone who wants to get on in this country would be well advised to avoid it altogether. What really makes me twitch, though is to hear it misused in the phrase, “to do a toilet”. This phrase just shrieks of Jeremy Kyle. If your child says it, you should break them of the habit by allowing them to soil themselves unless they can produce a grammatically correct request. If anyone over 10 uses it, you’re allowed to punch them.

Toilet can be used to mean having a wash and brush up, but it still isn’t a verb! And I hate to see it used as a mealy-mouthed euphemism for bodily functions. For example, I recently encountered a horrific article on the internet about the difficulties of getting pet cats to “toilet” in an acceptable location. As anyone with a dictionary knows, cats can make their toilet pretty much anywhere; it’s where they shit that’s the problem.

In summary

Wrong:

“Mummy, I need to do a toilet!”

“How to train your cat Where to Toilet”

Correct:

“Mummy, I need to wee/poo!”

“How to Train Your Cat to Shit in a Litter Tray”

Agent Zigzag by Ben Macintyre

Not to be confused with the far superior “Agent Z and the Penguin From Mars”, Agent Zigzag is the true story of Eddie Chapman. Chapman was a criminal specialising in blowing up safes before the second world war and was languishing in Jersey prison when the island fell to the Nazis. In a bid to return to the UK mainland (or maybe just to earn some money, his motives are often pretty unclear) Chapman volunteered to spy for the Germans.

He was then left in jail in France while his request filtered through German bureaucracy. After being interviewed by the German secret service he was sprung and trained for sabotage mission to blow up the DeHavilland factory that made the Mosquito. Chapman parachuted into Britain and immediately defected. He was then used to feed inaccurate information to the Germans. MI5 faked the sabotage of the DeHavilland factory to keep his cover intact and Chapman was sent back to the Nazis via neutral Portugal.

Almost as soon as he arrived, Chapman sent a couple of bombs disguised as lumps of coal back home for the secret service to investigate, by suggesting that he smuggle them aboard the British merchant ship that brought him. The Germans then spent some time interviewing Chapman, to try to ensure that he had not been "turned" by the British. Nazi interrogation seemed to comprise mostly of taking Chapman out to expensive bars and restaurants and getting him drunk. If this is accurate, then MI5 are more than welcome to take a crack at me; I like a decent Sauvignon Blanc, Pims, Kier Royale and a cocktail of my own devising made from vodka, Archers and blue flavour Panda Pop.

After a lot of booze, Chapman was sent to Norway where he trained other German spies (passing their details on the the British). As the tide of the war turned against Germany, he was parachuted back into the UK with a mission to find out about secret U boat detection technology (there was no such thing; military intelligence just knew where subs would be due to intercepting their transmissions one the Enigma code had been cracked),radar and to feed back data to help target V1/V2 missiles.

When the war ended, Chapman was dropped by secret service. He wasn't “one of us” and didn't fit in with the public school types runnng the show. And it didn't help that he'd taken up with his criminal friends again. He lived the rest of his life as a crook. There was a film loosely based on Eddie Chapman's lifestory called "Triple Cross". I haven't seen it but I don't have high hopes for it; it's got Christopher Plumber in it.

Whatever a book blurb may say, real life is never more incredible than fiction. If I were to rewrite the story, I would have Chapman tortured by the Gestapo, stuff would really get blown up, rather than just faked and I would probably have killed off one of the nicer minor characters (Major Reed, Zigzag’s first handler or Dagmar, his Norwegian girlfriend) for extra pathos. It might be mean, but it makes a better story.

The Course of Honour by Lindsey Davis

Before Lindsey Davis hit her stride with the Falco books, she had a go at historical romance in the form of this account of the love affair between Flavius Vespasianus (who would go on to become the Emperor Vepasian) and Antonia Caenis, an ex-slave from the royal palace. The book is very good in parts. For example, I particularly enjoyed the bits about Roman politics and palace intrigues and the demented, murderous antics of Caligula and Nero. Unfortunately, the bits about their actual relationship however, can strike me as a bit, “He was a victorious Roman general. She was a humble slavegirl. THEIR LOVE WOULD ROCK AN EMPIRE!” I would have preferred to find out more about the Year of Four Caesars and the civil war, which were dealt with very breifly.

If romance is not your thing (and to be honest, it isn't really mine, either) consider reading I, Claudius instead, of even The 12 Caesars by Suetonius. “The 12 Caesars” is particularly good fun; it's like finding a copy of Heat magazine which is 2000 years old.

Bad Science by Ben Goldacre

Bad Science is effectively the book of the blog by the lovely Ben Goldacre*. Throughout the book Ben deconstructs sloppy journalism and abuses of scientific language, roughly in order of how angry Ben gets about them. So we start with relatively harmless bollocks like detoxing and face cream, moving on to Homeopathy and Nutritionism. Then we look at the ethics of pharmaceutical companies and finally media heath scares and hoaxes like MMR. On the way there are some excellent explanations of the placebo effect, and of probability and statistics, which strike many people as counter-intuitive. And some amusing ranting at Ben's favourite awful poo lady**.

There is also a bonus chapter available from the internet, which deals with a particularly unpleasant man who has been trying to flog vitamin pills to Africa as a cure for AIDS. This was left out of earlier editions of the book, due to the filthy villain attempting to sue our Ben.

I particularly liked the final chapter in which he complains bitterly about the quality of science journalism. Ben points out that there must be loads of people with degrees in science subjects who have gone on to work in unrelated fields (yes! Yes! Here I am, Ben!) and yet whenever we get any science on in the media it has to be dumbed down so the lowest common denominator crapwits who couldn't differentiate e^x with respect to x can understand it. Where's my science, eh, world? Is it in the same place as all the trousers that actually come up to your waist have gone?

To the roll call of “cargo cult science” (things that like to use sciencey-sounding language but completely lack the rigour of the genuine article) I would like to add psychology and economics. In fact I think it would greatly benefit the world if economics were renamed “guesswork”.


*I think I have a bit of an intellectual crush on him. I'm not interested in the contents of his trousers, but I do love him a bit. If he ever wants a platonic groupie, he knows where I am!

**Amoungst other hilarious claims, Gillian believes that "foul-smelling stools" are a sign of ill health. This especially amused me; McKeith literally thinks her shit don't smell.

Back to the Golden Age...

What, in these difficult times, could be more cost-effective than reading second hand books?* This month I have been using second hand books to return to the “Golden Age” of science fiction, the 40s and 50s, when stories were relentlessly optimistic and everyone was looking forward to a shiny new world of spaceships, robot slaves and scantily-clad alien princesses. Unfortunately, I’ve been reading Kurt Vonnegut and Ray Bradbury, who rather bucked the trend for mindless optimism.

The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut

I bought my copy of The Sirens of Titan from a shelf of second hand books in Lillypool cafe in the Mendips for 10p. What a bargain! You don’t half get a lot of satire for your money.

Winston Niles Rumfoord is an aristocratic space adventurer who, together with his dog, Kazak, was sucked into a chrono-synclastic infundibulum in between earth and Mars. This means that he now exists as a waveform, rather than a person (appearing in human form only where the orbit of a planet intersects an antinode of his wave) and has knowledge of past and future. At first it appears that he has used this knowledge to toy with the lives of other people, including his wife and the rather reprehensible millionaire playboy Malachi Constant. Rumfoord engineers a war between Mars (whose population he builds from kidnapped Earthlings) and uses the resulting soul-searching to found The Church of God the Utterly Indifferent with the strap line “Take care of each other and the Almighty will take care of himself”.

When the action moves to Titan, we learn that the master manipulator is himself a puppet of aliens from the planet Tralfamadore: A Tralfamadorean robot called Salo has crashed there while taking a message from one side of the universe to another and his spacecraft requires a spare part. The whole evolution of life and intelligence on Earth was engineered by his home world just in order to provide him with a specially-shaped piece of metal to continue his journey. After being goaded by Rumfoord, Salo peeks at the message he’s being carrying to find that it is... a single dot.

Although funny and wittily told, this has to be one of the blackest comedies I’ve ever read: no one has any free will, millions die for a faked-up religion and the ultimate reason for human existence turns out to be completely feeble! A fine book, but if you only read one Vonnegut book in your life, make it "Slaughterhouse Five".

The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury

The Illustrated Man is a collection of short stories. Bradbury seems to me to write at the intersection of SF, fantasy and horror, but these stories are pretty much traditional science fiction. What makes Ray different from many of his contemporaries (and therefore more readable to the Bookclub of One) is that he has a realistically low opinion of human nature. This means he is unable to subscribe to a gleaming, hi-tec utopia; he knows what we'd really do with technology.

Two of my favourite stories were "The Velt" and "Zero Hour". In "The Velt" a couple use a sort of virtual reality theatre to educate and entertain their children and are subsequently murdered by the selfish, empathy-free brats they have spawned. In "Zero Hour" all the children in a small town become obsessed with a make-believe game called "invasion", which turns out not to be make-believe at all. The kids are being used as a fifth column for aliens and they've sold out humanity in return for being allowed to stay up an extra hour. I think I like these stories because I find children spooky and unfinished. You might think yours are cute, but when I look at them, I see those twins from The Shining or the little girl from F.E.A.R.

The absolute stand-out story for me, though, was The Concrete Mixer. A Martian invasion fleet arrives on Earth to a rapturous welcome. While the Martians thought they were conquerors, the Earth men see new consumers and new markets. The invaders are soon addicted to a life of booze, cars, pointless sex, indolence and useless spending. Their culture is plundered to make crappy Hollywood films which Earth sells back to them, their bodies are poisoned and their spirits are crushed. O God, I'm living in that particuar distopia right now!

*Other than going to the library. Or stealing books. Or reading over other people’s shoulders on public transport. Or downloading free ebooks and giving yourself a headache trying to read them. Or just shamelessly standing there in Waterstones, reading the whole thing in spite of the tutting (particularly effective for graphic novels, that method, as they are both pricey and quick to read). Now that I think about it, there are quite a few better sources of cheap books than the second hand market, but let’s celebrate it anyway. We’ll cover stealing another time.

Storm Front by Jim Butcher

Well, this book fits squarely into the "Enjoyable Tosh" category and could even be a contender for my "Airport novel of the year" award.

It's the first book of the "Dresden Files", the cases of Harry Dresden a sort of wizard private detective. At first I was a little disappointed as I was hoping for something like Terry Pratchet or Douglas Adams but Mr Butcher takes his fantasy very seriously. The first chapter has a reference to wizards being "subtle and quick to anger" and I would rather read the kind of book that warns you not to meddle in the affairs of wizards as they are subtle and will piss on your computer. It took a while to come to terms with a po-faced book that thought vampires were a subject I should take seriously, I gradually began to really enjoy it. "Storm Front" worked for me as a pageturner. Eventually, I was so into it I got caught in the work canteen reading this silly book about a wizard. You just have to enjoy the magical special effects and ignore the clunking noises coming from the plot. One website described it as "Harry Potter for adults" - I think that's a fair description and I leave it to the reader to decide whether it's complimentary or not!

If you find yourself in an airport, and this is the only thing you kind find in English, relax and buy it, it's mostly harmless.

A quick poke about the internet showed me that "The Dresden Files" has become a TV series on SciFi. I look forward to finding out whether it is watchable when it comes to freeview (sometime around 2020, I guess).

My favourite quote:
"My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk,"

Molesworth Books by Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle

I complained so bitterly about how long and slow-moving "The Dream of Scipio" was that E (you remember E, disapproves of Derren Brown, that one) loaned me her two Molesworth books "Whizz for Atomms" and "Back in the Jug Agane" to cheer me up.

Molesworth is a pupil in the 3rd form at St Custards boarding school (you can use the magic of the Interweb to take a virtual tour round St Custards here ) and the books are not so much stories as short vignettes of school life. In common with "Transpotting", "A Clockwork Orange" and I can haz cheezburger, the Molesworth books are spelled phonetically and written in dialect. By someone who can't spell. This means that it takes a while to get into them. And I'm still not sure what some of the 1950s slang means. The trade mark style of these books makes it tempting to have a punt at mimicry so here are my school days at St Custards Grammar School For Girls:

The scene is the form room of 10b. The gurls are engayged in activities befitting yung wimmen cosmo quizzis, makeup, finding the bits abowt (HEM-HEM) in Shirley Conran books and givving each other annerreksya, ect, ect. But soft! (posh prose) here come their form teacher. Miss Batley teech ART and kno nothing. She woud not recognise the gerund if it started nesting in the art cupboard and drinking the poster paint. (Mrs Roebuck the latin teacher kno all about the gerund and gerundives. She also make us stand by our desks and sa "Salway magistra" like we were at Mallory Towers chiz chiz chiz! ). "Hullo clouds, hullo sky," sa Miss Batley, "Hullo Personal and soshal education worksheets, hullo anti smoeking leaflets ect ect". Miss Batley's antismoeking leaflets do more for the tabacco industry than smoeking beegles. 10b adopt the 1000 yard stair of trormatised veterans when will the torment end ect ect. And still it continue! Now we must do roll pla and try to sell each other drugs but hav scientist found a drug which fry the mind like personal and sowshal edukation? They hav not.

The Dream of Scipio - Iain Pears

My God, this is one of those books that is just too bloody clever for its own good! One quote on the cover said it was “Illumined by a fizzing passion for the recondite”. What does that even mean?

My first disappointment was that the book is not about Scipio at all, nor is it even about the original “Dream of Scipio” written by Cicero. It interweaves 3 different stories of men from different periods in history. Each of them lives near Avignon at a time when it seems that civilisation itself is under threat and faces difficult moral dilemmas.

Manlius is a Roman of patrician class, living in Gaul at the time when it is falling to the Goths (insert your own joke about black nail varnish here). The empire can't protect its territories, the slaves needed to work in the fields keep running off to join the enemy and the Christian Church has started taking over a lot of the functions of the old state. Manlius's philosophy teacher Sophia persuades him to leave his estate, bribe his way to a Bishop's job and start using his expensive education in strategy and diplomacy to do what good he can, rather than sitting in his villa reading poetry as his world falls apart.

Olivier is a medieval poet whose patron is a cardinal at the court of Pope Clement. In between delivering the cardinals letters, he tracks down ancient manuscripts makes copies and tries to preserve them. He finds a piece called “The Dream of Scipio” written by Manlius. This interests him because he can scarcely understand it and those bits he can understand seem heretical, yet it was written by a bishop. He asks advice from a Jewish scholar and falls in love with his beautiful assistant – at a time when the black death comes to Avignon and the Jews are being used as scapegoats.

Julien Barneuve is a scholar who served in the trenches of the first world war. It was this experience which led him to his belief that civilisation is to be preserved at all costs. It also leads him to retreat from the world and channel his energies into academic studies. Both Manlius and Olivier are known to him. He puts years of work into attempting to unravel the meaning of Manlius's “Dream of Scipio” and he knows Olivier as a medieval poet famous for murdering his lover and having his hands and tongue removed as punishment. Julien's lover is a Jewish artist, and yet when France falls to the Germans he takes a job with the Vichy regime in order to prevent the country descending into chaos and barbarism.

One of my major complaints about the book is that it switches between stories far too frequently. I feel like I've barely found my feet in one time, when I'm whisked off to another. This makes reading hard work. The ending was very strong (though pretty depressing), but I would have edited out most of the middle of the book, were it up to me!

I enjoyed the reversals in the final act: Manlius is corrupted by power, betrays his friend and signs tracts of land over to the barbarians, allegedly to keep the peace. Olivier, whom the reader is led to despise as murderer and ignorant medieval clod, comes good. We finally see that he sacrificed his reputation as well as his life to save his girlfriend and tutor. Julien the Vichy official immolates himself, his house and his life's work and his funeral pyre serves as a beacon to warn his friend in the resistance. Julien goes a bit crazed in the end and starts to believe that while throughout his life he has striven to preserve “civilization” through academic studies and through collaborating, he was utterly wrong. He comes to think of the Holocaust as the end product of thousands of years of progress; it required administrators, industrialists, government, police and international co-operation to make it happen. It required philosophers and theologists to prepare the ground and set up justifications. Julien's last act is therefore to destroy as much knowledge and learning as he can.

The book gives us a sort of potted history of European anti-semitism, as well as telling the reader far more than he or she ever wanted to know about Neoplatonism. The central question of the book, however, is whether it is ever right to side with evil men, in order to ameliorate their actions. By the end, Iain Pears seems pretty clear that it isn't.

The argument which dupes Julien into working for the Vichy government is that someone else will do it if he doesn't, and they'd be harsher. For my money, this argument is completely fallacious and you've my permission to punch anyone who tries to use it on you. It is no more than the trick of rhetoric known as the false dichotomy. Consider: the only thing in the whole world you can really control is your own actions therefore you have a straightforward choice between agreeing to do evil and not. The consequences of not agreeing cannot be known in advance – maybe the next candidate will refuse too. My view also passes the simple ethical test passed down to me by my mum: “What if everybody behaved like that?”. If everybody behaved my way in these circumstances, evil jobs could only be done by completely amoral people, and though some exist, they are pretty rare. “The evil done by men of good will is worst of all”. If you don't believe me, go and see Watchmen when it comes out.

To my mind civilisation is not about arcane knowledge or a classical education. It's not necessarily even about the rule of law. The word literally means the habit of living in cities, and all we really need to carry on doing that is the ability to rub along with each other without violence. Politeness, consideration and cooperation are what makes us civilised not cultivated tastes for the high arts or spending our time in contemplation. The nice thing about my way of seeing this is that each and every one of us can either do our bit to keep civilisation going or hasten its demise through our own behaviour. It's up to you. Now go out there and save the world!

The Complete DR and Quinch by Alan Moore and Alan Davis

D.R. and Quinch are a pair of alien delinquents from the future whose anarchic exploits featured in 2000AD. In the course of this compilation they destroy the Earth, start a war, send DR's new girlfriend bonkers and make a blockbuster movie. A very great number of things are blown up along the way. I think my favourite part was when they are locked in a miitary stockade with a deranged war veteran and come up with an intricate escape plan involving a bar of soap carved into a gun shape and a lump of plastic explosive made to look like soap.

The book was borrowed from my friend G.P. who gave the impression of being a bit disappointed with it because it wasn't as clever as the other Alan Moore comics in his collection. I feel much more forgiving towards it. Firstly it is early work, and secondly you have to bear in mind the readership of 2000AD: boys between 10 and 14. Also, I think I just like seeing two dumb kids stick it to authority. This is definitely a book to watch out for if you have children - you don't want the little buggers reading this, they'll be beyond taming!

By the end, I could, like, totally hear DR's distinctive speech patterns in my head, man. It was, like, totally amazing.

Favourite line: "A kiss on the hand may be quite continental, but tactical thermonuclear weaponry is a guy's best friend."

The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer

Since New Year, I have mostly been reading this book, which I found in a second hand bookshop during the holidays.

I had 2 major reservations about starting it. The first was that since Germaine herself is ferociously clever, I might not understand it. My second worry was that I might become enraged at the injustices meted out to my gender, and take them out on my husband – a man who spends a LOT more time picking up after me than oppressing me. I needn't have worried about a lack of comprehension – book is very readable, full of humour and swearing. I like swearing; it is both big and clever.

The thrust of her argument is that women have been denied their sexuality: expected to say no, act coy and prefer Romance. The oppressed woman only has sex for the benefit of her man; as a reward for putting the bins out or something. This is no way to live!

Germaine is damning of “feminine wiles”, dishonest and manipulative behaviour. She exhorts us women not to live vicariously – nagging partners and children to achieve on our behalf – but to work out what we want to put our energy into doing it. ( This advice does come with a warning that this is likely to involve other people's disapproval and/or leaving a trail of destruction in your wake.) She rejects the idea of fighting against men: fighting is never a solution (it's a male perversion, apparently) and men are not the enemy. They are trapped by stereotyped gender roles just like we are. I'd say that's fair.

From my point of view it feels as if at lot has changed and the book has rather been overtaken by events – but how typical is my own experience? For example, I have been able to resist conforming to someone else's ideas of beauty pretty easily, but in hundreds of cheapo “documentaries” my fellow females are paying someone to cut into their tits, inject toxins to paralyse their faces, hoover the fat out of their ass or break and reset their noses in order to make themselves acceptable to men. Are they statistical anomalies or am I?

Then there is the world of work. I never felt that I suffered from prejudice, despite working in a male-dominated profession (I'm a software engineer). If anything being the only woman around made me stand out and has helped slightly. Rather than being paranoid that they will all be put out of work, men seem to be rather pleased by the idea that there are women out there somewhere who are amused by geek humour. At the bottom end of the market, the casualisation of labour and the invention of the McJob has meant that dead end roles can now be inflicted on men as well as women. Despite all this there is still a 17% pay gap (according to this month's BCS magazine). Companies have a legal duty not to pay men more than women, but when most companies – including my own employer – encourage a culture of secrecy around paychecks, it is impossible to tell whether they are playing by the rules.

I find myself disagreeing with Germaine over sex and marriage. She advocates not marrying and claims it is a prison. She argues that women chain themselves through marriage to unsuitable men in return for security then spend their lives acting as unpaid housekeeper. In my own marriage, my husband does not provide me with either physical of financial security (I have Kung Fu and an education for those) and I don't give him babies or housework. I hope and believe that we just live together 'cos we like one another. Marriage is also one of the areas where the book seems especially dated – Germaine claims that divorce is just too costly to allow women to break free from miserable situations. I've never tried getting divorced, but plenty of people seem to be managing it.

Just when I'd nearly convinced myself that gender equality was one of last century's debates, the following suddenly occurred to me: If there was another war that required conscription, can you imagine women being drafted? I can't. And yet, if we have the same rights as men, shouldn't we have the same duties? Why would it be unthinkable to send a child's mother off to war, but it's OK to deprive them of a father? Even though I've no desire to kill anyone or be shot at, I can't help thinking that the current state of affairs is terribly unfair on men and should therefore be changed.

And then there's still the Cult of Motherhood. Annoyingly enough, it is possible to carve out a life for yourself enjoying the same freedoms as men, but if you should give birth, it's all over and you are expected to sacrifice yourself for the good of your children. Suddenly a woman is expected to let her career languish, and to give up any hobbies she enjoys. Once you have children, any shreds of personality you might want to retain are just selfishness which must be purged from your soul. It is this attitude which has caused me to choose not to ever have children. Consider this: if raising children were really so chuffing fulfilling, why aren't men clamouring to do it?

One of my attitudes has changed as result of this book. I'm pretty much convinced by the argument that if you don't have a puritanical view of sex and see it as intrinsically evil, why would there be such a thing as having too many partners? What other consenting adults are getting up to is absolutely none of my business and I resolve to not to think of anyone as slutty. I should never joked to one friend that she was at risk of being added to the list of well-known ports.

My copy of the book comes with a mystery attached: One of the pages is missing having been ripped out. Why? In anger? But there’s plenty of swearing and polemic spread throughout the book. I like to image that somewhere, long ago a poor excuse for a husband came home one day to find that all trace of his wife had gone with no explanation other than a single page from “The Female Eunuch” stuck to the fridge door. That definitely makes the most satisfying story.

An Utterly Impartial History of Great Britain or 2000 Years of Upper Class Idiots in Charge by John O'Farrel

This book is something like an attempt to create a more up-to-date version of "1066 And all That". It is a fine example of"scattergun" humour: Most jokes are a bit rubbish, but there are a lot of them and every so often one works. Given free choice, I generally prefer to get my humourous history from the lovely Mark Steel (How clever do all the people who mocked him for still being a socialist feel now,eh?) but this book has done its share of chipping away at the vast edifice of my ignorance...

Things I didn't know before I read this:

1. That we lost the hundred years war. It should have been bit of a clue to me that we don't own France anymore. I knew all about the longbow and the Battle of Aigincourt, but I wasn't aware of the bit where the French get really good with artillery and kick our asses.
2. The last time Britain was successfully invaded by a foreign power was not 1066 but 1688 when William of Orange showed up with a massive army and a very ropey claim to the throne and was crowned king.
3. That the "Rufus Stone" in the New Forrest marks the place where William Rufus was assassinated.

Things I still can't remember:
1. Which Henry was which.
2. Which Edward was which.

The Quiet American by Graham Greene

I thoroughly enjoyed this book. It's a work of moral philosophy which reads like a spy story. It's set in Vietnam when the war was still between the French and Vietnamese Communists. Fowler, a burnt-out British journalist comes into conflict with Pyle, an ideologically-motivated CIA agent as they are both in love with the beautiful Vietnamese girl, Phoung and they both see the war around them in completely different ways. The story is told in flashback; we start with Fowler and Phoung waiting for a visit from Pyle... but he never arrives. (Stop reading here if you don't want to know what happens!)

Fowler refuses to back one side or the other in the war and sees himself as an impartial observer. He uses opium until he doesn't care whether he lives or dies. He has been living for several years with Phoung, but has now been recalled to the UK and doesn't have the backbone to tell her he'll be leaving.

Plye, despite having no direct knowledge of Vietnam, has complete confidence in his book-learned theories that what the situation calls for is a "Third Force" which would fight for democracy against the communist Vietmihn and the colonialist French. He therefore supplies explosives to the opportunistic General The.

When the General's guerrillas use these to attack civilian targets, Fowler is on hand to witness the resulting death and mutilation first hand. Pyle himself is soon at the scene too but views the deaths of innocents as a necessary sacrifice and seems more disturbed b the fact that he has blood on his shoes. This event is too much for Fowler's policy of impartiality. He tells one of his journalistic contacts in the Communist militia that he knows who supplied the explosives and between them they agree that Fowler will invite Pyle out for dinner and the Communists will intercept him and kill him.

Fowler tells himself that his reasons for having Pyle killed was political, and that he simply couldn't allow Pyle to set up further civilian massacres. However, he gets Phoung back as a direct result of Pyle's death and by the end of the book he has secured a divorce from his estranged wife allowing him to bring Phoung back to Britain.

If you have been taking the pretentious pills (or drinking wine) it is possible to see Phoung as a metaphor for Vietnam: She is fought over by two men who don't really understand her (Fowler thinks she's “wonderfully ignorant” because she doesn't know who Hitler is – how much does he know about her country's history? Pyle cannot even speak either of the languages she does!). Fowler has a pragmatic view of their relationship and sees it as a transaction: Phoung needs money, security and a ticket out of Vietnam and he wants a pretty young companion so he doesn't have to face a lonely old age. Pyle has a soft-headed, romantic, chivalrous desire to “rescue” through marriage a woman he can't even communicate with. Phoung herself has almost no character at all as we only see her through their eyes.

I thought that many passages in the book were dramatic irony about the brutality and inefficiency of the American War in Vietnam. But this turned out not to be the case – the book was written in '55 and the Americans didn't join in officially until '59. However, much of the material about the danger of letting naïve Americans who've never been abroad before out to bring democracy to the rest of the world through force of arms is particularly pertinent at the moment with the current situation in Iraq. While I don't side with the racists who believe that Arab countries don't need democracy as they have their “own culture” of gold bath taps for some and dirty drinking water for most, I do think it's something people have to work out for themselves rather than have it brought in by force from outside.

Apparently, the Americans were very offended by this book and its depiction of their national character when it first came out. I'm not sure the British fare any better, though, with Fowler representing us: an opium addicted, murdering snob!