I read this book because The Spectator’s review of its sequel (Francis Plug: Writer in Residence) claimed it was a contender for the 2019 Wodehouse Prize for comic literature, the sixty-two submissions for 2018 having been so unfunny it was decided not to award it. Such is the current state of British literary humour.
To my mind this original work is a little too thin and – by the end – not quite funny enough for such an accolade (it wasn’t shortlisted for the 2014 prize). The Kindle edition – I can’t speak for the print one – is moreover atrociously edited, at least for its first third, which is full of grammatical errors and grating Americanisms that undermine the register. In fact, one might suppose at first that the protagonist is some semiliterate wretch deluding himself he could be an author, or that this is perhaps a satire on those modern British writers who suppose they are perceived as ‘international’ if they use enough Americanisms to describe their very British storyworld.
Thus in the first quarter alone we have the spellings ‘fervor’, ‘smoldering’, ‘practicing’, ‘fulfill’, etc., ‘compromise’ for ‘comprise’, ‘leafs’ for ‘leaves’, Scotch and whisky being mentioned as different drinks, and other abominations. I don’t know if Galley Beggar Press employs an editor, but if it does they must also take sales calls and make the tea. They might even be the same person who pretends to proofread other publishers’ expensive Kindle editions and leaves them full of the kind of blunders that would force the reader of a physical volume to ask for their money back. By halfway we have, for example, ‘ticks’ (for ‘tics’) ‘bought’ (for ‘brought’) ‘elevator’ (for the lifts at Olympia), ‘airplane’, ‘switchblade’ (for a flick knife) and ‘armored truck’ (for a police van), all of which are at the very least distracting and at their worst kill the humour. No, I’ll correct that – at their worst they express the publisher’s brazen contempt for the reader.
If we put this to one side, though, it has to be said that the story’s set-up is a good one. The New Zealand writer Paul Ewen, posing as a one Francis Plug, a gardener by trade and a drunk by inclination, attends various literary events for the opportunity of getting a book signed by a Booker prizewinner and making conversation with the author. He sees himself as a budding writer and purports to be advising other budding writers on how to become the modern, sociable literary figure. As proof we are shown the signed copies and it is easy to believe that the conversations and events are grounded in truth – as if Plug were a kind of literary Ali G. or a conversational Henry Root.
That said, the satire at the expense of the Booker prize and its winners is a little mild and muted, and he might have considered going for the jugular when he had the opportunity. Still, if you find the sledgehammer style of a Tom Sharpe or Tibor Fischer a little headache-inducing, Ewen’s gentle and self-deprecating approach might be for you. But while there are some telling – sometimes to the point of becoming surrealistic – comments on the literary scene, supported by often hilarious and apposite metaphors, there are, equally, long passages dedicated to Plug’s drunken escapades which go a little too far in expecting the reader to suspend disbelief, and the tonal pull is chiefly towards facetiousness. Moreover, the climax is just too contrived, predictable and unsatisfying, which made this reader think twice about buying the follow-up, despite The Spectator’s glowing recommendation.
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