The autobiography of this writer of over 50 poetry books for adults and children includes the famous people he knew â from Philip Larkin to Jimi Hendrix and Paul McCartney â as well as his own Merseyside pop-star days and his part in the British poetry scene of the last thirty years.
This is a very evocative, witty, and perspicacious account of a life greatly and warmly loved by Roger McGough’s very, very many fans. Yet I was left wondering if offstage McGough perhaps sometimes scratches his head in bewildered wonderment as to the sheer number of devoted fans he has acquired? From childhood to rolling around the Liverpool club ‘scene’ of the 1960s, to happy family life today, he describes himself as “…not the author of my life, but its ghost-writer …” (p.388) and a few words later “I wish I’d been able to come up with someone more outrageous.” Why outrageous? Someone more outrageous would have been so desperately boringly ordinary. Doing outrage is easy. It’s the lazy man (or woman’s) first method of choice of attracting attention. Outrage doesn’t flatter. Too often outrage fails to register any quality other than total lack of imagination. Mr McGough is anything but afflicted by a lack of imagination.
I found this an enjoyable and easy book to read; though my guess is that it may prove considerably tougher for anyone who hasn’t either experienced British life in the 1960s and 1970s or who hasn’t read / listened to much of the political, domestic, cultural and music scenes of that time; particularly in Liverpool and Northern Britain. If, when the author so much as mentions “Lily the Pink” the reader doesn’t spontaneously start humming the tune, or singing the lyrics (to any verse); that may be taken as a pointer for the reader to engage in some homework first!
Roger McGough’s fairy godmother appears to have bestowed upon him a characterful cocktail of self-awareness sharpened with a blood-drawing edge of wry humbleness; though whether that has in part been subconsciously developed by the man himself, or merely heightened through recall and review, I am not in a position to determine (and neither would I want to); other to say that having once briefly met Mr McGough, I thought him utterly and (most importantly) naturally charming, and more intelligently curious about, and observant and fascinated by, the inane quirks and wonderments of life-as-it-is-lived than almost anyone else I know. This book bears that out. Such qualities promote a happy longevity in the public eye. Yet quite why he hasn’t (yet) been appointed Poet Laureate, I cannot imagine; he’d surely be the most popular since John Betjeman? Perhaps the man himself prefers discretion in place of managing that oh-too-fine line between creative flippancy and undesirable offence?
But does the reader find the real Roger McGough within these pages? Only his wife will know for certain.
I like Roger McGoughs poetry but I feel he missed a real chance to have a great autobiography as to me it's only dotted with the humour I hoped it would contain
Roger McGough has lurked at the back of my consciousness for years. When I was a girl I loved the song Lilly the Pink, and over the years I've heard scraps of his work now and again. But really, if I'm honest, I've always thought of him as that bloke who was in that band with Paul McCartney's brother (Mike McGear).
A few years ago when my nephew (in law) married a wonderful lady (*waves to Rob & Rachel*) we sat at their reception at a table with some of the bride's friends. One of them an elderly gentleman by the name of Neil who read one of McGough's poems for them. And since then I've been meaning to check out some of his work. But where to start? At the end, of course, so via the wonder that is the Amazon Marketplace I found myself, for the price of one Euro cent and three Euros (postage), the proud owner of an ex-library copy of the man's autobiography.
It's as well written as you would expect from a professional poet, in fact the use of language is exquisite in places, and the narrative jogs along nicely, sometimes getting a little ahead of itself but always coming back so that it all makes perfect sense.
The people he has known (from Susan Saranden to Salman Rushdie) and the places he has been! But the thing that I will remember from this book is that he (almost) invariably refers to Paul McCartney as "Mike's brother". Because there is so much more to Roger McGough than being "that bloke who was in that band with Paul McCartney's brother".
When I was a youngster my Saturday morning television viewing was Tiswas and one of the stars of the shows was John Gorman. Every once in a while they would show a flashback to John’s days in a sixties group with two other fellas: Paul McCartney’s brother and this bloke that looked a bit like Buddy Holly. (I had already disobeyed dad’s strict instructions not to play his records or use his music centre to become a Buddy Holly fan!) When I found out that the Buddy Holly lookalike was actually a poet, at first I was put off a bit until I actually heard one of his poems – and that he wrote the lyrics to Lily the Pink – then I was hooked for life. Roger McGough has written some fantastic poems, a few of which are reproduced in these pages, but Sounding Off with McGough is a program that I try not to miss on BBC Radio 4 and this book more than lived up to my expectations from hearing the poet on the radio. This book is well worth a read.
I think autobiography writing must be a very difficult art, as so many come across as self-justifying and name-droppy. The former is likely instinct; the latter could well be publisher-driven. This was disappointing, I felt, concentrating more on the 60s and The Scaffold than the poetry - the Mersey Sound gets a chapter.
The longer form occasionally suits McGough, but as he says, his average length is 82 words. To extend to this distance was always going to be a challenge. The chapters are all basically the same length, which gives the sense of it being bashed out which is a shame.
Worse, at times the odd remark really irks, such as the suggestion that a trio of young women singers were better off seeking husbands. While I am sure that no offence was intended, it did make me think of those comments that are sometimes dropped in by an embarrassing uncle.
I was hoping for an insight into the splendid poet; what I got was yet another piece of evidence of the truism that one should trust the tale, not the teller.
Roger McGough, the thinking man's Scouser, tells us where it all went right. And sometimes wrong. A memoir written in the same spirit as his poems, so light-hearted, playful and witty for the most part. A few laugh-out-loud moments. Apparently-frank accounts of major failures and disappointments. Lots of big names dropped. He knew Mike McGear's brother, too. Self-deprecating, of course, but not too much. A pleasure to read.
Loved reading the short chapters which were almost like short stories in themselves. I read it from page one to page end page. However, it could be picked up like a poetry book and you could read any chapter in any order.
Slight. The poet struggles with the written word, as he himself admits. McGough says a lot but tells us very little about himself in this book. Why the divorces Roger? Are you actually a conceited pain in the arse as opposed to the jolly Scouse troubadour that you portray here? Not much said, not much done within these pages I’m afraid.
I can see now why Ian Macmillan and Michael Rosen were right to continue their poetry into the writing of their autobiographies. This did teeter dangerously on the edge of the conventionally dull on occasion - the lists of who was at a particular party, who was kind, who wasn't, type affair. But because McGough is a fine and funny poet enough, indeed most, had the right wry touch.
Disappointing I had expected more It was a series of brief flashbacks But very little about the man and his poetry where it comes from. the narrative was bland and was like a series of anecdotes loosey hung together.
Found this a little disappointing after enjoying his poetry performances. Written in a sort of flashback style. But didn't really tell us in depth about the author or his poetry. I guess it just shows that crossing genres isn't always easy. Fine poet. less fine autobiographer.