Sunday, 31 December 2017


Writing this blog I realise that 2017 has been a really good reading year, because I’m struggling to narrow it down to my usual two or three favourites; so many books were special to me this year. 

Particularly: CALL ME BY YOUR NAME by Andre Aciman, a fantastic story of adolescent love and adult loss; CAPTAIN SCOTT’S LAST EXPEDITION by Robert Falcon Scott, a transfixingly wonderful account of his journey to the Pole, which ended in full ugly-crying on the Gatwick Express (for me, not for him; he was dead, I was just coming back from Cyprus); and THE CAZALET CHRONICLES, by Elizabeth Jane Howard, a fabulous 3000 pages on civilian life in WWII.  Then there’s INSTEAD OF A LETTER by Diana Athill, a story about a really, but really, bad break-up; JG Ballard's EMPIRE OF THE SUN, which is really remarkable account of a Singaporean prison camp, and, though it hardly needs me to give it the nod, LORD OF THE FLIES by William Golding, which is even better than I remember it in high school.  And then I can’t help but mention LIFE AND FATE by Vasily Grossman, a story about who of his friends and family he sold out to survive the Stalinist purges.

Lowlights were WE THAT ARE YOUNG by Preti Taneja, BEL CANTO by Ann Pratchett, and FEROCITY by Nicola Lagioia.

In other good news, I’m proud to report that I’ve managed to be about 50:50 men and women, without particularly needing to aim for female authors.  Here’s my 2017:
1.    FEROCITY by Nicola Lagioia
3.    WE THAT ARE YOUNG by Preti Taneja
7.    PANCHINKO by Min Jin Lee
11.  ALL CHANGE by Elizabeth Jane Howard
12.  ORANGES ARE NOT THE ONLY FRUIT by Jeanette Winterson
15.  THE FRY CHRONICLES by Stephen Fry
42.  BOSWELL’S LONDON JOURNAL 1762-1763 by James Boswell

I wonder if 2018 can come close.  Sneak peek: it's beginning with 800 pages of PENDENNIS by William Thackeray . . . 

FEROCITY by Nicola Lagioia

I left this book in Luxembourg, so was just wondering how to write up a blog post on it when I can't type up any extracts.  I googled without much hope and was surprised to find that the New York Times and I are almost entirely in agreement, down to the sections they quote.  This book, marketed as a mix of Franzen and Ferrante is in fact a bog-standard thriller with ideas about women that are lame even by this genre's low standards of gender equity.    Take it away, NYT:

“Ferocity,” . . .  begins with a woman, “naked, and ashen, and covered in blood,” stumbling down a highway in the middle of the night. Her toenails are painted with red polish and the bruises on her ribs stand out like ink stains against her paper-white skin. The woman — her name is Clara Salvemini — is the glamorous, good-hearted, and mysteriously self-destructive daughter of a Pugliese construction baron, but her biographical details are the least important thing about her. This is how you introduce an archetype, not a character. . .. .  After this opening scene, it is possible to predict the remainder of the novel’s plot with a reasonable degree of accuracy. Readers will not be surprised to learn that Clara was involved in an illicit underworld of drugs and sex or that the investigation into her death uncovers a tangled conspiracy that implicates her town’s most respected citizens.


 This is the most Japanese book I have ever read. I haven't read that many Japanese books, but I think it would be hard to imagine another one besting this.  First, enjoy this hilariously tragic part of the author's bio:
After Mishima conceived the idea of The Sea of Fertility tetralogy in 1964, he frequently said he would die when it was completed.  On November 25th, 1970, the day he completed The Decay of the Angel, the last novel of the cycle, Mishima committed seppuku (ritual suicide) at the age of 45.
The book itself tells the story of a young man who is in love with a temple.  Yes, you can re-read that sentence if you like,but that's pretty much what it's about.  The young man has a serious stutter, serious issues with women, and is in training to be a priest.  It is quite interesting to see what a Zen priest's life involves.  Waking up is the 'opening of the rules'; then breakfast is 'gruel session' accompanied by the recitation of 'gruel session sutras,' while dinner is 'medicine'.   Also interesting is the fact that this takes place during the second World War, making this I think the only book I've ever read that tells the Japanese civilian experience of that war; odd, when I think of how many European and American versions of this story I've read.

There is lots of interesting hijinks, such as stealing flowers, so his friend can indulge his passion for flower arranging.  What a crime!  There is lots of moralising about this.  A Zen puzzle is brought up: A kitten enters a temple, and two monks fight over her. The Superior resolved this by cutting the kitten's head off.  Another monk responds by putting his shoes on his head.  I don't find this very puzzling: clearly, the Superior is some kind of psychopath.  However, this is not what we are supposed to get from it.  Indeed there is lots more moralising, about other topics, but especially about the beauty of the temple, and this kitten puzzle comes up a lot.  I feel like a bad person, but I couldn't follow.  And I also sort of couldn't be bothered to follow.  Temple?  Zen? Flower arranging?  Kitten murder?  An enjoyable strange last read of 2017.

WE THAT ARE YOUNG by Preti Taneja

This book came with a great cover and glowing reviews.  A Dickensian story of contemporary India?  I am so in.  But unfortunately two hundred pages later I am so out.

It is extraordinarily slow moving - there is some party that goes on for about fifty pages, during most of which the main character is thirsty and for some reason keeps telling us about it.  I mean wow.  Even Proust can only sort of get away with that kind of pace.  Also the style was just gratingly annoying.  Read the below, and if you can't see why this is annoying WE CAN'T BE FRIENDS:
She is Gargi, the key is in her hand.  How good it will feel to put it in, turn it, open Bapuji's office door.  She will lock herself inside. Alone.  The silence . . . She will order the blooms for her father's Mughal desk herself. Swollen, pink-scaled Gingers, bright orange Birds of Paradise with thirsting beaks and spiked blue tongues that pierce the air.  
I felt bad about giving up, but life is short, and so is life's potential reading list.  One thing my blog has made me realize is that I typically only read about fifty books a year - so life time, I probably can only read about three thousand books total.  That makes me feel like panicking.  There is no way WE THAT ARE YOUNG is getting one of those slots.

Saturday, 30 December 2017

HOMEGOING by Yaa Gyasi

Occasionally a book takes the literary establishment's fancy, and HOMEGOING was lucky enough to be the book that did that taking this year.  It is an interesting premise, being a family story across centuries.  It begins with a pair of sisters in Ghana, one of whom is enslaved, and the other of whom becomes a slave trader's wife.  From these very different destinies their descendants' lives diverge utterly, and the book carries on through the generations, giving a chapter to one person on each side in each generation.  It is therefore essentially a series of short stories.  They are well and engagingly written, and I was impressed by how quickly the author got you to care about each new character.

I am however I find curiously unmoved by the book, and I can't quite think why.  First, perhaps there is something about it that seems a little too facile.  The American stories in particular did sometimes read a bit like a well-behaved walk through key moments of African-American history: picking cotton, being unjustly imprisoned, doing heroin, etc.  I suspect the author may be young, and might have an undergraduate degree if African-American lit or history. 

Second, I was sort of taken aback by the turn the African stories took.  As I began I was interested to see how the author in the twentieth century would manage the tension of the gulf between Ghana's $1,500 GDP per capita and the USA's $60,000 (See The Atlantic for a very interesting discussion on what black American GDP would be - clue, it's still 20x what Ghana's is).  The answer is, she doesn't; strangely, while the American stories follow a more or less 'typical' family, the African stories suddenly veer off into the atypical, following a tiny minority into the diaspora.  It feels like a weird ducking of a very important fact.  Also, troubling somehow - in these stories there is definitely no 'greatest hits' approach to Ghanaian history, with Independence barely featuring.  This I found really strange; at least for the rest of Africa, Ghanaian independence is an enormous event, a beacon for the rest of us, as Ghana crossed that finish line first.  Somehow, this bothered me.  I felt like Ghana was given the same attention as America, as if history wasn't happening there somehow.  Perhaps that's not fair; but I suppose this isn't a courtroom and I don't have to be.

Friday, 29 December 2017


Feast your eyes on this abomination of a cover.  Truly, publishers have utter contempt for women.  I can only hope that this is not based on cold hard analysis of what women actually buy, though I fear it may be.  But my god, it won the PULITZER and they make it look like something out of Hallmark. 

You have to have sympathy for women buying it hoping for Hallmark, because it is in fact a hair-raising story of child abuse and revenge, wrapped in a sort of retelling of the Lear story. 

A THOUSAND ACRES is set on a farm in Iowa, and tells about the father of three women signing over his farm to them as his health fails.  He is a terrible old tyrant, and gets worse as he gets sicker, changing his mind about the farm and making their lives miserable.  They decide not to give in to him, as they recognise how he has hurt them over the years.  The sisters manage to keep the farm from him, but lose everything else in the process, including their marriages, the respect of their community, their relationship with each other, and eventually even the farm itself, which goes to that eternal winner, the bank.  There is however something really triumphant in the bitterness with which they fight.  Here is the middle sister, Rose, dying of cancer at 37 from her hospital bed:

"I have no accomplishments.  I didn't teach long enough to know what I was doing.  I didn't make a good life with Pete.  I didn't shepherd my daughters into adulthood.  I didn't win Jess Clark.  I didn't work the farm successfully.  I was as much of a nothing as Mommy or Grandma Edith.  I didn't even get Daddy to know what he had done, or what it meant.  People around town talk about how I wrecked it all.  Three generations on the same farm, great land, Daddy a marvellous farmer, and a saint to boot." She used my hand to pull herself up in the bed.  "So all I have is the knowledge that I saw!  That I saw without being afraid and without turning away, and that I didn't forgive the unforgivable.  Forgiveness is a reflex for when you can't stand what you know.  I resisted that reflex.  That's my sole, solitary, lonely accomplishment."
Rose in many ways fights the hardest to build a new life on the farm.  Her sister visits her home after her death:
The living room, I realized, hurt me the most, because that was where Rose made her last stand . . .
I loved this evocation of the grandeur of the domestic struggle. Indeed, this book is beautifully written throughout - here Smiley is, even finding romance in a Perkins, which I would have thought impossible.  It's  the oldest sister describing the relief she feels when she gives up a life on the land for a life in the town:
I liked the same thing about that as about working my waitressing job at Perkins, where you could get breakfast, the food of hope and things to be done, any time.  There was nothing time-bound, and little that was seasonal about the highway or the restaurant.  Even in Minnesota, where the winter was a big topic of conversation and a permanent occasion for people's heroic self-regard, it was only winter on the highway a few hours of the year.  The rest of the time, traffic kept moving.  Snow and rain were reduced to scenery nearly as much as any other kind of weather, something to look out the window at but nothing that hindered you.  

Tuesday, 26 December 2017

CAKES AND ALES by W Somerset Maugham

As a teenager I loved OF HUMAN BONDAGE by W Somerset Maugham, with the love that is special to teenagers, private and intense.  I found it profound; I found it wonderful.  I was excited therefore to see CAKES AND ALE in a second hand book store, and to see it described as "the book by which Maugham most wanted to be remembered - and probably still is."

I for sure hope not, because whereas in my memory OF HUMAN BONDAGE is an extraordinarily contemporary story of finding meaning in a meangingless world, CAKES AND ALE is a strange uptight tale of an uptight young snob and his attempt to have an affair with a woman who is much too good for him.  I can't think I've ever read a more dated book. 

My key takeaway is: I'm never re-reading OF HUMAN BONDAGE.  The memory is far too precious and I don't want my adult self ruining it.

Monday, 25 December 2017

PANCHINKO by Min Jin Lee

I had actually forgotten I read another book by this author, FREE FOOD FOR MILLIONAIRES.  which is a good thing, because had I remembered I would certainly have avoided PACHINKO.  This would have been a pity, as it is a much better book.  It tells the story of multiple generations of Koreans who live in Japan and is an interesting set of human stories mixed up with a history lesson. 

It starts in the early 1900s, with a fantastic set of first lines:
History has failed us, but no matter.
At the turn of the century, an aging fisherman and his wife decided to take in lodgers for extra money . . . 
From their unspools a long and complicated family saga.  The Japanese do not come out of it very well; I guess this is not surprising; Japan is not famed for the welcome it gives immigrants.  Even into the 1980s, after multiple generations born in Japan, the Koreans still can't even get Japanese passports. 

Beyond your classic immigrant and poverty problems, the characters also need to navigate what appears to us now an extraordinarily harsh set of moral structures.  For example, a forty year old man finds out his mother was not married when she got pregnant with him.  So he has the obvious response: he kills himself.  Yup.  He's not alone.  People kill themselves left and right in this novel, apparently over basically nothing, and everyone else seems to find this pretty normal.

Also of interest is the ongoing debate about moving back to the Koreas, once they are created, with some characters wanting to move back to South Korea, but most deciding in the end for the new Communist utopia in the North.    It's an interesting example of the road that definitely should not have been taken, and about how your parents bad decisions become your own

Thursday, 21 December 2017


I enjoyed this book, but with the mildly guilty feeling that both the writer and myself were wasting our time.  

A sort of genre thriller with literary aspirations, it tells the story of a young man in 1910s Vienna.  He is an actor with erectile problems with goes on to be a spy.  It’s strong on atmosphere, on historical detail, and on fun; but it lacks plot, and, more importantly, heart.  It’s obviously written by a very capable person, but seems to lack purpose, or a reason for being.  

It was more or less a kind of popcorn.  Expensive and unusually flavoured, but popcorn all the same.  I am not sure why Boyd or I bothered.

Sunday, 17 December 2017

THE POWER by Naomi Alderman

The book had a great premise, but not so much with the plot.  However, the premise was great, so let's talk about that.  THE POWER imagines a world where women gradually acquire the ability to generate powerful electrical shocks from their own bodies.  Female readers, let me tell you, it is fun to see how the worm turns.  In some countries, like Saudi Arabia, it results in a revolution.  In Moldova, sex traffickers get what is coming to them.  I particularly enjoyed the parts where changes were less dramatic; one of the central male characters recounts with horror how frightening it has become to walk down an ordinary dark suburban street.  Welcome to our world, gents.

As women become more powerful they of course begin to abuse their power.  I was surprised how random and brutal it seemed when they force men to stay home (they are described as 'dead-eyed') though that is common in many cultures today for women.  There is also a horrible rape scene, which reminded me how rarely one reads about that kind of violence against men.  Thrillers are usually full of tortured and dead young women, so this was a fun (?) inversion too.

The book tries to resolve by having a global war.  Let's ignore that.  The fun is the premise, which worryingly, for me, read a bit like wish-fulfilment.  I guess everyone wants to be on the winning side.

Sunday, 10 December 2017


I wanted to like this book, and I’m surprised I didn’t.  It won the Pulitzer, and for the first hundred pages or so, seemed really promising: well plotted, intricate in the world it created, tightly paced – everything you expect from the Pulitzer.  Then it kind of went off the rails. 

UNDERGROUND RAILROAD  tells the story of a slave called Cora who manages to escape from her ‘owner’.  Up to and including the escape, the story is very engaging.  Then she gets recaptured, escapes again, then she gets recaptured, escapes again – you get the idea.  I guess this could work, but Cora doesn’t really develop over the course of these various incidents.  She stays just the same, so after a while all this incident starts to read like fiction from before the Renaissance – Everyman, or Pilgrim’s Progress – where the point is not the story so much as the moral of the story.  Which could also work, but then what is the moral?  I have no idea.  What I got from it, is: slavery is bad.  Agreed.  But I think that was already clear, and made clear in much finer novels than this.  I recommend, for this lesson in the fiction, the gobsmacking: THE KNOWN WORLD by Edward P Jones, another Pulizter winner on slavery, and by far the better book.  Or THE HISTORY OF MARY PRINCE, by Mary Prince, where an escaped slave, tells you all about it herself.

Friday, 1 December 2017

ALL CHANGE by Elizabeth Jane Howard

This is the last novel in a quintet I wrote about at great length here.  I've not got a great deal to add, except to say how incredibly more-ish it is.  I would happily read five more.  It's like mainlining plot.  I  must just say how deeply annoying this review is in the Guardian:
And yet there remains something deeply and comfortingly old-fashioned about what we are told will be the last slice of Cazalet life. . .  it cleaves to the reassuring form of the family drama, in which people come and go, get born and die off, fall in and out of love, and either stay firmly on track or go spectacularly off the rails. Even in 1990, it was hardly innovative, and now, despite our Downton-friendly, pastiche-loving times, it is difficult to imagine many more novels like this appearing. . 
I suspect this person of being a judge on that waste-of-time prize the Booker, which just loves to reward 'innovation' in novelistic form - ie, the pretense that books are better without plots.   This is all nonsense.  I bet if you asked this person what their family was like, they would reply exactly as above - people come and go, fall in and out of life, etc.  LIFE IS PLOT.  And I bet this person, just like everyone else who ever lived, doesn't like hearing other people describe their dreams (" . . and then the horse turned into a handbag . . ").  And why is that? BECAUSE PLOTLESS STORIES ARE BORING

Wednesday, 29 November 2017


I probably should not have begun this book by reading the Introduction by the author.  She described the book as a 'modern classic,' which it may or may not be, but it is certainly not something you can say about your own book.  It is like admitting you are pretty: no one with even basic social skills would do that.  Also, she dwells extensively in the Introduction on the deeply obvious point that there is a fine line between autobiography and fiction.  Anyone who feels this needs to be re-stated is, in my opinion, not very bright.  I KNOW I AM SO HORRIBLE BUT IT IS HOW I FEEL.

Introduction aside, there were some elements of the book that I enjoyed.  It's about a young girl being brought up by an eccentric and fervent Christian mother, and is often very funny. Here, for example, is where she goes to see a girl she admires who works at a fish stand:
Week after week I went back there, just to watch.
Then one week she wasn't there any more. 
There was nothing I could do but stare and stare at the welks.  Whelks are strange and comforting.
They have no notion of community life and they breed very quietly.
But they have a strong sense of personal dignity.
Even lying face down in a tray of vinegar, there is something noble about a whelk.
One can't deny this is hilarious.  However while the main story is engaging and fun, unfortunately there are also long stretches of - get ready for it -  disconnected fragments of fairy tales.  I know! It's worse than dream sequences.  I showed her by skipping these bits entirely.  Modern classic indeed.


This book just goes to show that merit is not always rewarded.  A quirky, funny, sad story of 1970s Nigeria, it’s a very good book, and sadly seems to have been rather forgotten.  Or at least the internet doesn’t remember much about it, and if the internet doesn’t remember you, who does?  The copy I have is an old library book, which I see was only checked out three times in nine years.  I always find an underused library book oddly tragic.

MY MERCEDES IS BIGGER THAN YOURS is about a man and his car.  Here we are on page one:
Once upon a time a young man was savouring the pleasures of a new car.  He was thinking that there were really occasions when a car seemed to drive itself as it were, seemed to respond to some remote stimulus independent of the driver.  It had its moments of cursedness, of course, when it whined and snorted for no particular reason, then there were moments of heavenly smoothness when it floated on the crest of some intangible wave . . . It was like when you have gone into a woman.  Some of the time is taken up with clumsy flopping about; trying futilely to find the perfect position and rhythm.  Then there are moments of complete synchronization of limbs which seem to come about without effort.
And enjoy this snippet, which shows us that 1970s Nigeria was not so different from today:
It was going to be one of those mad, mad Mondays in Lagos, when motor traffic was snarled up all over the town in hot, murky despairing stretches.  The people who owned cars all observed the ritual of the beginning of the week with religious fervour.  On Monday, after the weekend interruption, they resumed the grim scramble for crusts that feel off the tables of the great of the earth. 
He takes the car back to his rural home, and there gets into an accident, losing the car and beginning a profound downward spiral.  I particularly enjoy this observation:
For instead of continuing to function and perhaps getting the better of time and circumstances, he simply allowed them to take the initiative and suppress him.  In life as in sports the important thing is not to win but to go on performing.
In his search for a way out he veers wildly from politics to religion:
(Christianity) offered the negative values of self-denial and humility.  These values were contrary to his concept of himself.  And they were certainly not of much use to his people.  Self-denial was not much of an achievement, if you were born in circumstances under which it was inescapable. . . . An attitude of stoicism was possibly the best response to such a hard life but it would be cruel to try to make what was obviously a heavy burden appear like a virtue. . . . But if intellectually he had drawn away from Christianity, emotionally he was attracted back.  Especially during his period of despair.  Christianity was invented by underdogs for underdogs.  And Onuma had become one of the deprived of the earth.

I won’t give away the end - which involves his acquisition of another car, but not of the happiness he hoped for - on the very slim chance you come across this book. It's really has all the makings of an African classic, and I'm not sure why it's not better known.

Tuesday, 31 October 2017

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME by Andre Aciman

Well let's file this under DROP EVERYTHING AND START READING THIS.   It's a story about love, and youth, but also - in a complicated way - about age, and loss.  It is on the face of it a tale of a few weeks in the lives of a pair of young lovers, but is somehow also a story about their whole lives, and about how rare happiness is, and how impossible to hold on to. 

At first the enjoyment of the book is in the vivid reconstruction of a teenage crush.  I had forgotten how painful and horrible that experience is, and it makes me glad to be a grown-up.  The crush is conducted in utter secrecy, as this is the mid-eighties in Italy and the pair are both men.  This reminds us that while first love is awful, forbidden first love is far worse.  Elio, the younger of the two, experiences wild excitement and horrible self-consciousness.   Here he is reflecting on something the other man, Oliver, has said to him in passing:
"If not later, when?" What if he had found me out and uncovered each and every one of my secrets with those four cutting words?  I had to let him know I was totally indifferent to him
Oliver returns to America at the end of the summer and eventually we hear he is going to marry. Elio's father comforts him as he tries to deal with this news:
If there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don't snuff it out, don't be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we'd want to be forgotten is no better. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything - what a waste!
Elio goes to see Olive many years later, to find the feeling is still alive between them:
.. . we'll speak about two young men who found much happiness for a few weeks and lived the remainder of their lives dipping cotton swabs into that bowl of happiness, fearing they'd use it up, without daring to drink more than a thimbleful on ritual anniversaries
The day I finished the book I went to the cinema to watch the movie.  I just somehow needed to go through it again, and, despite my summary in the first paragraph, I'm still not sure quite what to take from it. I think its something about how happiness is elusive, and to be treasured; I think it's also about death; but I can't quite put it into words.  I see that the author is a noted Proustian scholar, and that doesn't surprise me at all, though I couldn't say why exactly either. Read it and let me know what you think.  

Monday, 30 October 2017


What I got from this book is that Stephen Fry is a very nice man in fairly urgent need of an editor.  I collected this book from a pile given away for free on the street, and read it when I ran out of books I'd actively chosen.  Keeping a sufficient flow of books arriving sometimes feels like a least a part-time job.  

The book covers Fry's time at university and the first few years afterwards. This is a brief period, but somehow takes 400 pages to tell.  This is partly because he has so much success to recount.  It is hard not to read this as a story of privilege and victory, as Fry has an agent before he leaves university and is thereafter almost always in work, going from television to West End to journalism.   

What cuts the honey is the vinegar of Fry's sadness.  I have heard he suffers from depression, and I can believe it, based on this book.  He takes an extraordinarily bleak view of many topics.  He deeply romanticises Cambridge and after a long lyrical piece on punting on May mornings, here he is: 
Don’t be too hard on them. Suppress the thought that they are all ghastly tosspots who don’t know they’re born, insufferable poseurs in need of a kick and a slap. Have some pity and understanding. They will get that kick and that slap soon enough. After all, look at them now. They are all in their fifties some of them on their third, forth or fifth marriage. Their children despise them. They are alcoholics or recovering alcoholics. Drugs addicts or recovering drug addicts. Their wrinkles, grey, bald, furrowed and fallen faces look back every morning from the mirror, those folds of dying flesh bearing not a trace of the high, joyful and elastic smiles that once lit them. Their lives have been a ruin and a waste. All that bright promise never quite matured into anything that can be looked back on with pride or pleasure. They took that job in the city, that job with merchant bank, stockbroker, law firm, accountancy firm, chemical company, drama Company, publishing company, any company. The light and energy, the passion, fun and faith were soon snuffed out one by one. In the grind of the demanding world their foolish hopeful dreams evaporated like mist in the cruel glare of the morning sun. Sometimes the dreams return to them at night and they are so ashamed, disappointed that they want to kill themselves. Once they laughed and seduced or were seduced, on ancient lawns, under ancient stones and now they hate the young and their music, they snort with contempt at everything strange and new and they have to catch their breath at the top of the stairs.
This is an extraordinarily dark view of life after college, and makes me feel very sad for Fry. 

Less sad, more revolting, as if often the case of memoirs on professions that require your parents to have money to (politics, arts, media), is the tinyness of the world involved.  The same small set of people are involved from university onwards. This is the UK for you, and I am fairly inured to it by now.  Not Fry's fault of course, and he name drops absolutely as lightly as possible, but still hard to swallow.