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Dear Lupin: Letters to a Wayward Son
Nostalgic, witty and filled with characters and situations that people of all ages will recognise, Dear Lupin is the entire correspondence of a Father to his only son, spanning nearly 25 years.
Roger Mortimer's sometimes hilarious, sometimes touching, always generous letters to his son are packed with anecdotes and sharp observations, with a unique analogy for each and every scrape Charlie Mortimer got himself into. The trials and tribulations of his youth and early adulthood are received by his father with humour, understanding and a touch of resignation, making them the perfect reminder of when letters were common, but always special.A racing journalist himself, Roger Mortimer wrote for a living, yet still wrote more than 150 letters to his son as he left school, and lived in places such as South America, Africa, Weston-super-Mare and eventually London. These letters form a memoir of their relationship, and an affectionate portrait of a time gone by.
Roger Mortimer's sometimes hilarious, sometimes touching, always generous letters to his son are packed with anecdotes and sharp observations, with a unique analogy for each and every scrape Charlie Mortimer got himself into. The trials and tribulations of his youth and early adulthood are received by his father with humour, understanding and a touch of resignation, making them the perfect reminder of when letters were common, but always special.A racing journalist himself, Roger Mortimer wrote for a living, yet still wrote more than 150 letters to his son as he left school, and lived in places such as South America, Africa, Weston-super-Mare and eventually London. These letters form a memoir of their relationship, and an affectionate portrait of a time gone by.
187 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2011
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 157 reviews
May 6, 2015
This is my month for epistolary books. I've just finished Lady Susan and I'm reading this memoir told through letters from the father to the son, the author. I'm also readingPhilip Larkin: Letters to Monica, another memoir told through letters.
Dear Lupin is hilarious. The father writes very dead-pan letters to his son Roger whom he nicknames Lupin after Lupin Pooter in The Diary of a Nobody from the time he goes to Eton through all his years of not settling down to anything. An example of the humour:
This is from a lawyer (before he became a QC) and a judge, it's a bit hackneyed but nonetheless funny.
Judge: "Mr. Smith, you are being extremely offensive."
Mr. Smith: "As a matter of fact we both are. The difference being that I am trying to be and you can't help it."
I read that out loud to my son and he said, "Someone ought to tell that to Judge Judy." They should too.
Mortimer's daughter Louise, known as Lumpy, has now dug out about 500 letters her father wrote her and is jumping on the bandwagon with her own book. I read an extract of it and they weren't anything like as amusing as Mortimer's to 'Lupin'. Perhaps there was a special bond between father and son, or perhaps she just wasn't as wayward and didn't need so many attempts at correction as Dear Lupin although she certainly seemed to have been a bit of a naughty girl,
"If you ever leave bits of stick and bamboo all over the lawn again, thereby mucking up the mowing machine, I will string you up to the laundry line and flog you for two-and-a-half hours with long boughs of freshly cut holly. So watch it and don’t push your luck too far!"
Rewritten in the light of discovering Dear Lumpy: Letters to a Disobedient Daughter and reading extracts from it.
Dear Lupin is hilarious. The father writes very dead-pan letters to his son Roger whom he nicknames Lupin after Lupin Pooter in The Diary of a Nobody from the time he goes to Eton through all his years of not settling down to anything. An example of the humour:
This is from a lawyer (before he became a QC) and a judge, it's a bit hackneyed but nonetheless funny.
Judge: "Mr. Smith, you are being extremely offensive."
Mr. Smith: "As a matter of fact we both are. The difference being that I am trying to be and you can't help it."
I read that out loud to my son and he said, "Someone ought to tell that to Judge Judy." They should too.
Mortimer's daughter Louise, known as Lumpy, has now dug out about 500 letters her father wrote her and is jumping on the bandwagon with her own book. I read an extract of it and they weren't anything like as amusing as Mortimer's to 'Lupin'. Perhaps there was a special bond between father and son, or perhaps she just wasn't as wayward and didn't need so many attempts at correction as Dear Lupin although she certainly seemed to have been a bit of a naughty girl,
"If you ever leave bits of stick and bamboo all over the lawn again, thereby mucking up the mowing machine, I will string you up to the laundry line and flog you for two-and-a-half hours with long boughs of freshly cut holly. So watch it and don’t push your luck too far!"
Rewritten in the light of discovering Dear Lumpy: Letters to a Disobedient Daughter and reading extracts from it.
April 11, 2017
I read the majority of this book on flights back and forth across the Atlantic, and it proved to be perfect entertainment. I tried to watch the in-flight movies, but this Dear Lupin was much more satisfactory as a source of enjoyable amusement. I was still able to listen to the jazz channel in the background.
As the description says, this is a book of letters from a father to his son. The father despairs for the destiny, or lack of it, of his wayward son. It is unlikely that any of his advice will ever sink in. Nevertheless, he perseveres, and gives it anyway. The interspersion of comments from the recipient make it even clearer that the paternal advice will never have a positive effect.
Lupin believes that his family are middle class, but they are definitely towards the upper end of middle class, straying into upper class. The circles in which they mix are certainly in the upper echelons of English society.
What made this book even more interesting for me was that I have lived, on and off, in the area of most of the events for the past 35 years, so I know all of the places very well.
Without spoiling the read for you, I conclude this review with some amusing tidbits that I highlighted on my way through. I hope that they tempt you into reading the whole book.
(A comment from the son which is tacked to a letter that he received when he was in hospital)
- My mother (sometimes known as the Bureau of Misinformation) is desperately worried and following my liver biopsy calls a distant cousin who is a doctor for advice: ‘I’m most frightfully worried about my son Charles, they’ve just done an autopsy on him.'
- For some reason or other I got on the wrong train at Waterloo but luckily I quite like Bournemouth.
- ‘How eager for fame a man must be To write up his name in a W.C.’
- Mrs Cameron stayed on Thursday night: she and your mother talked incessantly; neither listened to a word the other said which was sensible as neither was saying anything really worth listening to.
- Yesterday I met an old buffer in Newbury who had been at the Gaselee’s party. He tried out a new hearing aid there, switched it on to a maximum volume and has been stone deaf ever since.
- My father’s account of the middle-class existence of a long-suffering, elderly gentleman in Berkshire, together with his self-deprecating humour, continues to prove to be a big hit in Africa.
- Your mother was hoping to have her first day’s cubbing last Friday but it was cancelled as the head groom at the Old Berks stables had peppered a female employee with a humane killer and then blown his own head off. He had worked there for twenty-five years and the girl, whom Nidnod knew well, is thirty years younger than he was! It’s odd the way demon sex keeps on obtruding into fox-hunting!
(Nidnod is the family nickname for Lupin's mother)
- John’s successor at Ascot is Piers Bengough, a tough but agreeable South African Jew whose sister Mrs Quarry lived near the Thistlethwaytes at Eversley. I hope he will follow the example of Bernard Norfolk and John A. by letting us use the Ascot Authority stand through out the year.
(My (reviewer's) mother-in-law was housekeeper to the Bengough family)
- 1st lady: My dog did very well. He got a first, a second and was Highly Commended.
2nd lady: Mine did all right too. He had a fight, a fuck and was highly delighted.
- Also dead was my former commanding officer General Sir Guy Salisbury-Jones, whom we called Winchester-Smith.
(You have to understand English geography to get this one!)
- Once a judge observed to him, ‘Mr Smith, you are being extremely offensive,’ to which Smith saucily replied: ‘As a matter of fact we both are. The difference is that I’m trying to be and you can’t help it.’
- Two definitions of a Gentleman:
1. He has all the qualities of a saint bar saintliness (Hugh Kingsmill).
2. He always gets out of the bath to do a pee (Anon).
Are you tempted?
As the description says, this is a book of letters from a father to his son. The father despairs for the destiny, or lack of it, of his wayward son. It is unlikely that any of his advice will ever sink in. Nevertheless, he perseveres, and gives it anyway. The interspersion of comments from the recipient make it even clearer that the paternal advice will never have a positive effect.
Lupin believes that his family are middle class, but they are definitely towards the upper end of middle class, straying into upper class. The circles in which they mix are certainly in the upper echelons of English society.
What made this book even more interesting for me was that I have lived, on and off, in the area of most of the events for the past 35 years, so I know all of the places very well.
Without spoiling the read for you, I conclude this review with some amusing tidbits that I highlighted on my way through. I hope that they tempt you into reading the whole book.
(A comment from the son which is tacked to a letter that he received when he was in hospital)
- My mother (sometimes known as the Bureau of Misinformation) is desperately worried and following my liver biopsy calls a distant cousin who is a doctor for advice: ‘I’m most frightfully worried about my son Charles, they’ve just done an autopsy on him.'
- For some reason or other I got on the wrong train at Waterloo but luckily I quite like Bournemouth.
- ‘How eager for fame a man must be To write up his name in a W.C.’
- Mrs Cameron stayed on Thursday night: she and your mother talked incessantly; neither listened to a word the other said which was sensible as neither was saying anything really worth listening to.
- Yesterday I met an old buffer in Newbury who had been at the Gaselee’s party. He tried out a new hearing aid there, switched it on to a maximum volume and has been stone deaf ever since.
- My father’s account of the middle-class existence of a long-suffering, elderly gentleman in Berkshire, together with his self-deprecating humour, continues to prove to be a big hit in Africa.
- Your mother was hoping to have her first day’s cubbing last Friday but it was cancelled as the head groom at the Old Berks stables had peppered a female employee with a humane killer and then blown his own head off. He had worked there for twenty-five years and the girl, whom Nidnod knew well, is thirty years younger than he was! It’s odd the way demon sex keeps on obtruding into fox-hunting!
(Nidnod is the family nickname for Lupin's mother)
- John’s successor at Ascot is Piers Bengough, a tough but agreeable South African Jew whose sister Mrs Quarry lived near the Thistlethwaytes at Eversley. I hope he will follow the example of Bernard Norfolk and John A. by letting us use the Ascot Authority stand through out the year.
(My (reviewer's) mother-in-law was housekeeper to the Bengough family)
- 1st lady: My dog did very well. He got a first, a second and was Highly Commended.
2nd lady: Mine did all right too. He had a fight, a fuck and was highly delighted.
- Also dead was my former commanding officer General Sir Guy Salisbury-Jones, whom we called Winchester-Smith.
(You have to understand English geography to get this one!)
- Once a judge observed to him, ‘Mr Smith, you are being extremely offensive,’ to which Smith saucily replied: ‘As a matter of fact we both are. The difference is that I’m trying to be and you can’t help it.’
- Two definitions of a Gentleman:
1. He has all the qualities of a saint bar saintliness (Hugh Kingsmill).
2. He always gets out of the bath to do a pee (Anon).
Are you tempted?
January 27, 2015
This is a VERY funny, yet deeply wistful book. Roger Mortimer (b.1909, d.1991) was not merely a remarkably talented writer ((horse) racing correspondent at The Sunday Times, but also THE most unselfish and supportive parent imaginable. Between 1967 and 1991, and always with the very best and most loving of intentions, he wrote letters of wise, helpful and sensible advice, and guidance, to his ever more headstrong, wayward, and unappreciative only son and heir Charlie (aka ‘Lupin’)(b.1952).
Dear, darling, Lupin. The son guaranteed to have any parent tearing their hair out in frustration. The son who tested unselfish parental love and devotion to the utmost limits. The Prodigal Son, whose remarkable father responded with heroic forbearance. Roger Mortimer is a role model and an inspiration to all who are, or would be, parents. Lupin’s mother, (nicknamed ‘Nidnod’), sadly took a less character demanding path into an all too upper-middle class alcoholism: described with great sadness in 1997 by her husband as “Your dear mother is endeavouring to live on a purely liquid diet with unfortunate results.”
Roger clearly despairs that, despite the privilege of a very expensive Eton education, his only son (sandwiched between two daughters) will ever prove capable of inheriting the responsibility of upholding the honour of the family. Yet Roger never quite gives up on his flesh & blood, his beloved Pooter-esque ‘Lupin’. In 1971 he advises, ”The unfortunate truth is that in an era of growing unemployment, you have no qualifications and a poor record. I really think you would be well advised to go to Australia for three or four years …” and in the following year, ”Must you always try and kick the ball through your own goal?”
Roger’s sense of humour is, one senses, his survival mechanism. In 1978 he observes with an exquisite black acerbity, “Mrs Cameron stayed on Thursday night: she and your mother talked incessantly; neither listened to a word the other said which was sensible as neither was saying anything really worth listening to.” Earlier choice examples include: “Whilst I was waiting [at the crematorium] I looked at the racecard and saw that the first for the fryup on Tuesday was Daisy Simmons…” [1971]. Here “fryup” means cremation of a body; not a cooked full English breakfast!! The “racecard” is the printed order (list) of funerals scheduled to take place that day. Equally and uncompromisingly to the point is “I hear your distant cousin Phil Blackwell cooled [died] recently.”[1979].
So it is that in the manner that clearly identifies him as a member of the English upper-middle, Roger dextrously and routinely resorts to a broad lexicon of slang, including some Cockney rhyming slang, such as in 1972 “Have you got the tintack yet?”: which translates as ‘sack’ as in loss of employment. Did he, I wondered, collect that example on active service in World War 2? Other slang I puzzled over included “… was boracic lint until ten years ago…”[1979] which I interpreted in the context as rhyming slang for ‘skint;’ but derived from where?
Roger never, ever, gives up his genuine and heartfelt attempts to win over and bring his son back into a proper relationship with the family. The strength of his desire to forgive his son and welcome him back into the fold barely wavers; even though he knows within himself that he needs at least some minor outward sign of contrition (and repentance?) from ‘Lupin’ who, so tragically, proves unable to give his father even that small consolation. Therein lies an endearing sorrow within the terrific observational humour of this book.
It is Roger’s remarkable and enduring ability to find something to write about almost anything and everything that is positively humbling. Over the course of a quarter of a century he persistently and one-sidedly keeps lines of communication open, maintaining contact, refusing (being British to the core) to countenance failure; “I am not at my best today as I think I have given myself a slight hernia bending down to cut my toenails with my gardening scissors.”[1976]; and a little later, “Not much local news: three people were roasted to death in a car accident at Theale.”[1976].
Did Roger write with a pre-determined long term view of providing his son with a highly publishable, though one-sided, correspondence; a financial nest egg? What exactly did Roger mean when he wrote in 1986, “Headaches are another family weakness and in 1935 I had one after a migraine that lasted for a year before suddenly disappearing when I backed a good winner at Ascot… Perhaps we are really not a very healthy family: the only time I have felt really well was at school and in prison.”
Truly a book not to be missed.
Dear, darling, Lupin. The son guaranteed to have any parent tearing their hair out in frustration. The son who tested unselfish parental love and devotion to the utmost limits. The Prodigal Son, whose remarkable father responded with heroic forbearance. Roger Mortimer is a role model and an inspiration to all who are, or would be, parents. Lupin’s mother, (nicknamed ‘Nidnod’), sadly took a less character demanding path into an all too upper-middle class alcoholism: described with great sadness in 1997 by her husband as “Your dear mother is endeavouring to live on a purely liquid diet with unfortunate results.”
Roger clearly despairs that, despite the privilege of a very expensive Eton education, his only son (sandwiched between two daughters) will ever prove capable of inheriting the responsibility of upholding the honour of the family. Yet Roger never quite gives up on his flesh & blood, his beloved Pooter-esque ‘Lupin’. In 1971 he advises, ”The unfortunate truth is that in an era of growing unemployment, you have no qualifications and a poor record. I really think you would be well advised to go to Australia for three or four years …” and in the following year, ”Must you always try and kick the ball through your own goal?”
Roger’s sense of humour is, one senses, his survival mechanism. In 1978 he observes with an exquisite black acerbity, “Mrs Cameron stayed on Thursday night: she and your mother talked incessantly; neither listened to a word the other said which was sensible as neither was saying anything really worth listening to.” Earlier choice examples include: “Whilst I was waiting [at the crematorium] I looked at the racecard and saw that the first for the fryup on Tuesday was Daisy Simmons…” [1971]. Here “fryup” means cremation of a body; not a cooked full English breakfast!! The “racecard” is the printed order (list) of funerals scheduled to take place that day. Equally and uncompromisingly to the point is “I hear your distant cousin Phil Blackwell cooled [died] recently.”[1979].
So it is that in the manner that clearly identifies him as a member of the English upper-middle, Roger dextrously and routinely resorts to a broad lexicon of slang, including some Cockney rhyming slang, such as in 1972 “Have you got the tintack yet?”: which translates as ‘sack’ as in loss of employment. Did he, I wondered, collect that example on active service in World War 2? Other slang I puzzled over included “… was boracic lint until ten years ago…”[1979] which I interpreted in the context as rhyming slang for ‘skint;’ but derived from where?
Roger never, ever, gives up his genuine and heartfelt attempts to win over and bring his son back into a proper relationship with the family. The strength of his desire to forgive his son and welcome him back into the fold barely wavers; even though he knows within himself that he needs at least some minor outward sign of contrition (and repentance?) from ‘Lupin’ who, so tragically, proves unable to give his father even that small consolation. Therein lies an endearing sorrow within the terrific observational humour of this book.
It is Roger’s remarkable and enduring ability to find something to write about almost anything and everything that is positively humbling. Over the course of a quarter of a century he persistently and one-sidedly keeps lines of communication open, maintaining contact, refusing (being British to the core) to countenance failure; “I am not at my best today as I think I have given myself a slight hernia bending down to cut my toenails with my gardening scissors.”[1976]; and a little later, “Not much local news: three people were roasted to death in a car accident at Theale.”[1976].
Did Roger write with a pre-determined long term view of providing his son with a highly publishable, though one-sided, correspondence; a financial nest egg? What exactly did Roger mean when he wrote in 1986, “Headaches are another family weakness and in 1935 I had one after a migraine that lasted for a year before suddenly disappearing when I backed a good winner at Ascot… Perhaps we are really not a very healthy family: the only time I have felt really well was at school and in prison.”
Truly a book not to be missed.
August 6, 2013
I was given a copy of this book free by Waterstone's to read and review.
The book isn't something I would normally read, but after looking at the inside cover I thought it sounded interesting.
However, my gut instinct was correct. I didn't manage to get past page 30 and I tried twice.
I just didn't get it. I don't know why we've been given these letters to read. They're not insightful or interesting.
Maybe it's because the book is classified as humour and I didn't get it. I didn't find any of the letters funny.
I probably wouldn't recommend this book to anyone I know that reads.
The book isn't something I would normally read, but after looking at the inside cover I thought it sounded interesting.
However, my gut instinct was correct. I didn't manage to get past page 30 and I tried twice.
I just didn't get it. I don't know why we've been given these letters to read. They're not insightful or interesting.
Maybe it's because the book is classified as humour and I didn't get it. I didn't find any of the letters funny.
I probably wouldn't recommend this book to anyone I know that reads.
July 24, 2012
Mildly amusing for the first half ....grindingly tedious thereafter
June 22, 2013
Dear Lupin is a series of letters from a father (Roger Mortimer) to his son Charlie over a twenty five year period. It was picked as part of the Waterstones Book Club for this summer, and I was intrigued enough to add it to my must-read list. The letters themselves are witty and insightful, giving readers the sense of a close and loving relationship between a father and his son. Charlie himself comes across as a typical young lad, getting into a number of sticky situations which he always seems to pull himself out of, with a considerable amount of support from his father.
Roger’s letters to Charlie are filled with wise advice, some gentle chiding, constant reminders that he is there for his son no matter what, and some real laugh out loud moments: “I naturally don’t expect you to exist like a constipated mouse there..” The family and local news he imparts always seems to consist of recent deaths, which I found quite amusing (in a very dark way!) For example: “Not much local news: three people were roasted to death in a car accident at Theale.” I can imagine receiving one of his fathers letters must have been quite an experience for Charlie, never knowing what to expect.
Although I did find the letters from Roger interesting and amusing, I didn’t seem to get on very well with this book – not certain why, perhaps it just wasn’t my sort of thing. Roger himself was obviously an incredibly funny, intelligent and loving individual, and a terrific father to his wayward son, and the book itself is very short – less than 200 pages so it is a quick read, but just not satisfying for me on a personal level. However, I can appreciate that many people will thoroughly enjoy this, so if you’re intrigued give it a go!
Please see my full review at http://www.bibliobeth.wordpress.com
Roger’s letters to Charlie are filled with wise advice, some gentle chiding, constant reminders that he is there for his son no matter what, and some real laugh out loud moments: “I naturally don’t expect you to exist like a constipated mouse there..” The family and local news he imparts always seems to consist of recent deaths, which I found quite amusing (in a very dark way!) For example: “Not much local news: three people were roasted to death in a car accident at Theale.” I can imagine receiving one of his fathers letters must have been quite an experience for Charlie, never knowing what to expect.
Although I did find the letters from Roger interesting and amusing, I didn’t seem to get on very well with this book – not certain why, perhaps it just wasn’t my sort of thing. Roger himself was obviously an incredibly funny, intelligent and loving individual, and a terrific father to his wayward son, and the book itself is very short – less than 200 pages so it is a quick read, but just not satisfying for me on a personal level. However, I can appreciate that many people will thoroughly enjoy this, so if you’re intrigued give it a go!
Please see my full review at http://www.bibliobeth.wordpress.com
June 12, 2013
The rave reviews and 'funniest book of the year' accolades this book has had in the British press led me to believe it would be side-splittingly funny, and it was, on occasion, but ultimately I found it a rather melancholy read.
The author of the letters is witty, waspish and gossipy, but also, on occasion, racist and misogynistic. His letters are mostly about his family, friends, neighbours and acquaintances, an endless list of Lord this and Lady that and plenty of old military types and women described as 'old trouts'. There are plenty of passages about bodily functions, both human and canine, and moans and gripes about growing old.
In addition, almost everyone described sounds like an alcoholic, including the wife of the author, who seems to spend her entire life ill, drunk, drink-driving or fox-hunting, so I can't say I warmed to her.
The receiver of these epistles is Charles, or Lupin, only son of the author, and he's not a likeable character. The words feckless, irresponsible, spoilt and selfish come to mind. But his father's letters betray his love for his son, despite the son's many short-comings.
Admittedly, I did find the letter about the train journey with Lord Wigg extremely funny - but funniest book of the year? I can't help thinking that the reviewers in The Sunday Times need to read more funny books.
The author of the letters is witty, waspish and gossipy, but also, on occasion, racist and misogynistic. His letters are mostly about his family, friends, neighbours and acquaintances, an endless list of Lord this and Lady that and plenty of old military types and women described as 'old trouts'. There are plenty of passages about bodily functions, both human and canine, and moans and gripes about growing old.
In addition, almost everyone described sounds like an alcoholic, including the wife of the author, who seems to spend her entire life ill, drunk, drink-driving or fox-hunting, so I can't say I warmed to her.
The receiver of these epistles is Charles, or Lupin, only son of the author, and he's not a likeable character. The words feckless, irresponsible, spoilt and selfish come to mind. But his father's letters betray his love for his son, despite the son's many short-comings.
Admittedly, I did find the letter about the train journey with Lord Wigg extremely funny - but funniest book of the year? I can't help thinking that the reviewers in The Sunday Times need to read more funny books.
June 7, 2012
A great read. Letters by a father to a son who, some 40 years later, still does not seem to have reached an acceptable state of existence. That the son has kept the correspondence all this time says something in itself. Love, hope, hurt and exasperation feature in strong measure. Eventually there is a degree of acceptance... However, the over-riding characteristic is one of irreverent, outrageous, delicious humour in describing middle-class English country life that stretches eccentricity beyond extreme. I was interested to learn that Roger was father-in-law to author Paul Torday and it occurs that Torday did not have far to go to find the characters which feature in his novels.
September 1, 2012
"My mother once had a dwarf kitchen maid called Minnie who played jazz rather well on the piano. She was given the sack because her playing made the butler over-excited...we had a chauffeur who commiteed suicide by lying face down in a puddle. Talk about doing things the hard way! i suppose we did have some fairly weird servants."
Dear Lupin is a charming, hilarious and acerbic collection of letters from a devoted and long-suffering father to a work-shy and wayward son. Chronicling 20 years of a seemingly one way relationship, we are treated to an inside look at the zany, ironic and stoic wit of Roger Mortimer as he relates every day life of a genteel British family in the 60s, 70s and 80s. Such a delightful book. It makes one yearn for the days of letter writing and wayward sons! A gem of a read.
Dear Lupin is a charming, hilarious and acerbic collection of letters from a devoted and long-suffering father to a work-shy and wayward son. Chronicling 20 years of a seemingly one way relationship, we are treated to an inside look at the zany, ironic and stoic wit of Roger Mortimer as he relates every day life of a genteel British family in the 60s, 70s and 80s. Such a delightful book. It makes one yearn for the days of letter writing and wayward sons! A gem of a read.
July 5, 2012
Definitely a winner. Found myself laughing out loud on many occasions and empathizing the rest of the time. Touching and heartfelt. As a father of 3 boys, I got this totally. Easy to read in letter sized chunks, what comes off the page is the genuine warmth of a man's love for his son. As is so often the case with boys, here, Roger Mortimer's words are those of a parent watching a car-crash happen and hoping that the driver has remembered to wear his seat belt. Often, as a father, he is the seat-belt. Written in an acerbic style full of brilliant rude (and quite often non PC) euphemisms and reserved wit, I would highly recommend this book.
September 23, 2012
I read this book on an airplane and by the end was literally howling with amusement. My fellow fliers most likely thought I was daft. With the taciturn yet heady style that only the British upper crust can muster, these letters to a "fuck-up" son from a disapproving father just get more amusing with each year. That Roger saved every letter makes him not a mess after all, but one very wise son. I fear with email that books such as these, love letters and new correspondence will be lost forever, so grab this book and enjoy the hilarious look at love, disgust and judgement as only a father can provide a son he truly cares about.
August 24, 2014
These quaint family letter collections have been a surprise hit in the UK; has the buzz reached America yet? Roger Mortimer, born in 1909 and raised in London, was a soldier at Dunkirk (and a POW) and later became horse racing correspondent for the Sunday Times and authored a few books on the topic. He’s a born writer; in these letters of paternal advice to his incorrigible children his voice is gossipy and sarcastic: at times like Jane Austen’s, often like Oscar Wilde’s; always classically English and self-deprecating.
Besides the titular feckless offspring, the letters are also populated by Roger’s exasperating wife ‘Nidnod’ (Cynthia) and their menagerie of smelly pets. With a manor home near Newbury, Berkshire, Roger and Cynthia belong to a fading class of upper-crust country types: Nidnod hunts and they share many of the tastes and prejudices of the gentry (such as, I’m afraid, mild racism), yet their house is crumbling and they are both rather hapless about keeping up appearances; Roger’s notoriously awful dress sense and Nidnod’s horrid wigs ensure that they will never be taken entirely seriously by their neighbors.
Roger is occasionally morbid in these letters; he was both a pessimist and an atheist, and he took a rather unseemly interest in sudden deaths and murders. And yet the Hungerford massacre (a rare UK mass shooting in 1987: a gunman killed 16 and wounded 15) – during which he and Nidnod were trapped in a restaurant in that very town – gets hardly a mention. Roger’s surprising nonchalance on this occasion only reinforces that traditional Englishman’s “stiff upper lip,” an attitude of holding firm and not making a fuss.
Mortimer must have been part of the last generation to rely entirely on letters. He exhibits a touching nostalgia for the simpler days of his childhood: “When I was born there were far more horse-drawn vehicles in London than cars. No one had flown the Channel and middle-class families had six indoor servants.” These charming volumes of family correspondence (see also Dear Lumpy: Letters to a Disobedient Daughter) form a relic of a bygone era as well as a relaxing read.
(This review formed part of an article about letter writing for Bookkaholic.)
Besides the titular feckless offspring, the letters are also populated by Roger’s exasperating wife ‘Nidnod’ (Cynthia) and their menagerie of smelly pets. With a manor home near Newbury, Berkshire, Roger and Cynthia belong to a fading class of upper-crust country types: Nidnod hunts and they share many of the tastes and prejudices of the gentry (such as, I’m afraid, mild racism), yet their house is crumbling and they are both rather hapless about keeping up appearances; Roger’s notoriously awful dress sense and Nidnod’s horrid wigs ensure that they will never be taken entirely seriously by their neighbors.
Roger is occasionally morbid in these letters; he was both a pessimist and an atheist, and he took a rather unseemly interest in sudden deaths and murders. And yet the Hungerford massacre (a rare UK mass shooting in 1987: a gunman killed 16 and wounded 15) – during which he and Nidnod were trapped in a restaurant in that very town – gets hardly a mention. Roger’s surprising nonchalance on this occasion only reinforces that traditional Englishman’s “stiff upper lip,” an attitude of holding firm and not making a fuss.
Mortimer must have been part of the last generation to rely entirely on letters. He exhibits a touching nostalgia for the simpler days of his childhood: “When I was born there were far more horse-drawn vehicles in London than cars. No one had flown the Channel and middle-class families had six indoor servants.” These charming volumes of family correspondence (see also Dear Lumpy: Letters to a Disobedient Daughter) form a relic of a bygone era as well as a relaxing read.
(This review formed part of an article about letter writing for Bookkaholic.)
June 17, 2013
What a delightful book. Any parent wondering if their adolescent offspring will ever amount to anything will be cheered by this collection of letters from the sports journalist Roger Mortimer to his - by his own admission - feckless son Charlie.
Spanning decades, the letters begin with career advice, swiftly adapted to the trail of abandoned jobs Charlie leaves in his wake, go on with increasing exasperation at his son's butterfly concentration span before settling on a general tone of affectionate resignation. Throughout we are treated to hilarious views of Charlie's horsemad mother, visits from cantankerous elderly relations and dinners with retired regimental colleagues and eccentric, not to say bonkers, friends and neighbours.
Charlie keeps his own comments and explanations to the minimum, usually along the lines of 'once more, my father is obsessing about the phone bill' - an observation of such blithe teenage insouciance that my sympathy for the poor father who had to foot it (£75 in the 1970s was a BIG PHONE BILL) rocketed. I gather Charlie's 2 sisters have since published their own collections of letters from this wonderful, witty man; how amused Roger Mortimer would be if he knew that his clever, teasing, affectionate scrawls were comfortably supporting his family well into their middle age.
Spanning decades, the letters begin with career advice, swiftly adapted to the trail of abandoned jobs Charlie leaves in his wake, go on with increasing exasperation at his son's butterfly concentration span before settling on a general tone of affectionate resignation. Throughout we are treated to hilarious views of Charlie's horsemad mother, visits from cantankerous elderly relations and dinners with retired regimental colleagues and eccentric, not to say bonkers, friends and neighbours.
Charlie keeps his own comments and explanations to the minimum, usually along the lines of 'once more, my father is obsessing about the phone bill' - an observation of such blithe teenage insouciance that my sympathy for the poor father who had to foot it (£75 in the 1970s was a BIG PHONE BILL) rocketed. I gather Charlie's 2 sisters have since published their own collections of letters from this wonderful, witty man; how amused Roger Mortimer would be if he knew that his clever, teasing, affectionate scrawls were comfortably supporting his family well into their middle age.
March 6, 2014
BOTWA moving and humorous selection of letters from a despairing father to his wayward son.
Give me strength! Best bit? Mozart's Horn Concerto coined as episode introduction music
Blurb - The late Sunday Times Racing Correspondent Roger Mortimer wrote to his wayward son Charlie over a period of twenty five years. The correspondence was sometimes touching, often hilarious and always generous. Charlie is publishing this collection as a tribute to a father who never gave up on him despite his frequent disasters and general inability to live up to expectations.
'Initially there were hopes that I would get my house colours at Eton and become an officer in the Coldstream Guards. Ultimately my dad merely hoped that I would avoid "being taken away in a Black Maria" ... As he predicted it is only in later life that I have come to fully appreciate the affection and wisdom imparted by him to me.'
Read by David Horovitch and Nicky Henson.
Abridged and Produced by Jane Marshall A Jane Marshall production for BBC Radio 4
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 12, 2013
Reading this, it's hard not to feel vaguely jealous. Not many dads would keep up correspondence with their children over many years, into adulthood, through thick and thin.
Roger Mortimer wrote to his children at school, wrote after visits, wrote about him and his wife, the dogs, the neighbours, local deaths, giant slugs, everything.
A professional writer, he nicknames his perennially unemployed and gadabout son 'Lupin' after the similar son of 'Diary of a Nobody' (and I think Charlie gets off lightly compared to his sister Lumpy!).
This book is composed entirely of his entertaining letters to the son he never gives up on. Forever sending him money, he sees him through a dozen changes in career and always manages to lace his criticisms with fatherly affection as well as humour.
Very touching and funny to read, this insight into the true middle classes and a very eccentric family won't disappoint.
Roger Mortimer wrote to his children at school, wrote after visits, wrote about him and his wife, the dogs, the neighbours, local deaths, giant slugs, everything.
A professional writer, he nicknames his perennially unemployed and gadabout son 'Lupin' after the similar son of 'Diary of a Nobody' (and I think Charlie gets off lightly compared to his sister Lumpy!).
This book is composed entirely of his entertaining letters to the son he never gives up on. Forever sending him money, he sees him through a dozen changes in career and always manages to lace his criticisms with fatherly affection as well as humour.
Very touching and funny to read, this insight into the true middle classes and a very eccentric family won't disappoint.
August 26, 2014
I read this on the plane and found it rather sad and not at all funny. It conveys quite well what used to be the life of a certain part of the English upper classes, but it seems to me that these we-inherited-our-money and-don't-know-what-to-do-with-life people have a pretty dreary outlook on life. The attitude seems to be: "I am not going to be as successful as I would like to be (or as those before me), so I will opt out and treat life as a bit of a joke - something rather boring that one foolishly got dragged into and where the best thing is to hit the booze and muck about until the whole thing is over". Life is a drag, but at least it is not serious! There does seem to be some kind of love between the father and the son, but their upbringing means that at most this can be expressed in an off-beat and slightly jokey way - despite the fact that most of the time the son was probably having a lot of difficulty getting by. So sad, sort of insightful in a way, but not very funny.
May 27, 2012
Letters written by Roger Mortimer to his son Charlie who has followed his father to Eton but is unfortunately failing to make any impact on anything while he is there, or in fact after leaving school. Charlie drifts from one job to another, to the exasperation of his parents who would much prefer him to settle down to a worthwhile career.
Despite the differences between father and son, the letters are affectionate and funny. The last letter is written very shortly before Roger's death.
This is also an intriguing picture of a family who all seem to be as mad as hatters. It is a great read and something a bit different.
Despite the differences between father and son, the letters are affectionate and funny. The last letter is written very shortly before Roger's death.
This is also an intriguing picture of a family who all seem to be as mad as hatters. It is a great read and something a bit different.
April 16, 2013
While Roger Mortimer writes in a dead-pan and droll style, I certainly did not find it hilarious and "lol" as some commentators. It reflects some of the awful racism and nationalistic condescension typical of that generation and class. The warmth and affection of Roger for his wayward son is touching. The fact that Charlie,the son, has chosen to publish the book leaves me with mixed emotions. On the one hand it is a tribute to his father, on the other it is another instance of shameless scrounging.
May 14, 2017
More hilarity from the Mortimers. Only just prised it from from the costive shelves of Long Stratton, Norfolk, England library due to it's popularity with a book group. Slightly less light hearted than the Lumpy volume but definitely a finisher. But why all the car crashes, Roger? Should be a set book at A level and a copy sent to every serving soldier in the English speaking world (followed by a debrief of course) along with the pin ups and biscuits.
March 24, 2014
Very moving and wistful. It is what Roger says between the lines that makes it so powerful. Through inference, letting his son know he is okay. Did Charles realise that at the time? Roger's knowledge and approval of sexuality and acceptance of humanity made one feel accepted as a reader - a reader privy to the domestic life of a family - such a privilege and that one must be grateful for. Thank you.
July 25, 2012
I absolutely loved this book. Drove my husband wild giggling my way through it and reading passages aloud. A great light hearted read.
March 12, 2013
This is a delightfully amusing book, which I thoroughly enjoyed !
August 12, 2013
Enjoyed the very eccentric style of writing I the letters. However, the son, added very little to the narrative.
January 15, 2014
very frustrating!!!
December 28, 2012
Few books are laugh out loud funny . This is one !
August 10, 2013
I just loved this book!
August 9, 2025
The Shambles,
Great Wyvern
September 23rd, 1982
Dear Turpin,
I am speechless, and more than a little hurt, that you have seen fit to abscond from your post as Governor of The British Virgin Islands after a scant two days. It was awfully decent of your Godfather Major Dawkishly-Blount to have got you the job in the first place, despite your total lack of qualifications, suitability, experience, or motivation, and I have to say I think he shall be somewhat put out. When will you grow up a little? It hardly qualifies as an excuse that the only virgin to be found walked like a duck and smelled of soup, as you so charmingly put it.
Despite being, as I said, speechless, I shall now commence a somewhat verbose, and even, if I may, to some degree pleonastic, account of the goings on over the summer, if you can call it that, with temperatures barely sufficient to thaw an Eskimo's ice pop.
The Liechtenstein Yacht Show was something of a success, though they may rethink the location for next year, what with the logistics and getting the boats there etc. They made an awful fuss about me, holding some sort of celebratory beano where yours truly was nominated ‘Yachting and Maritime Correspondent of the Year’. I was presented with a platinum bell buoy, but would have preferred a fat slice of bread, since things are a little tight at the moment having just completed the observatory in the eastern wing.
Bing-Ding is her usual self, but has gone back to the Iranian chewing gum, which she consumes plentifully, sprawled on a divan in the conservatory, which she has now draped with all sorts of exotic fabrics and hangings in the style of a Turkish hookah’s boudoir. She gets high as a kite and then moans on terribly, singing and ululating until she is quite hoarse. She mentioned some piffle about going to see the vet for some more Cunningham's Linctus, which usually does the trick and soothes the old larynx (or pharynx, I forget which). She cheered up the next day though, when she and ‘Bucktooth’ Bugsy from the WI managed to stomp to death a holt of otter kits that had been bothering the Admiral’s trout in the chalk stream.
We had the Wallerbeigh-Hopps round for a light supper yesterday, and they came with a rather fetching thing called Alice (niece, I think) who was awfully keen to shoot one of the pheasants on the drive. Well of course we let her have at it, but it seems that being a touch myopic (and colourblind to boot!) she took out Lucy, your Mother’s Tasmanian black swan. We made the best of a bad situation and roasted it anyway and it wasn’t half-bad, if a little muddy tasting. Your Mum of course got in a terrible funk, but Jumpy made up for it by getting his man to run us over a case of rather nice Chablis from his cellar (1952, if I recall – though I don’t at all: I have to confess that by the time we’d polished off the six, we went on to Bénédictine cocktails, and after a swift round of absinthe chasers, came up with the bright idea of driving to the Bournemouth Yacht Club for a nightcap). Looks like Bing-Ding pranged the new car on the way home, which will cost me a few quid!
I see Princess Grace expired due to a motoring incident. In Billinsgate three Turkish men were killed when a trolleybus went awry. Do look after yourself, and when you’re back on the mainland, think about dropping me a line.
Affably yours, E. Gregious-Leigh
*Dad has taken to calling me ‘Turpin’, because I’m such a complete Dick. He’s miffed that I’ve given up another job, preferring instead to take loads and loads of drugs like a total lege. He writes about the yacht show, where he got an award, and talks about having supper with the neighbours.
Great Wyvern
September 23rd, 1982
Dear Turpin,
I am speechless, and more than a little hurt, that you have seen fit to abscond from your post as Governor of The British Virgin Islands after a scant two days. It was awfully decent of your Godfather Major Dawkishly-Blount to have got you the job in the first place, despite your total lack of qualifications, suitability, experience, or motivation, and I have to say I think he shall be somewhat put out. When will you grow up a little? It hardly qualifies as an excuse that the only virgin to be found walked like a duck and smelled of soup, as you so charmingly put it.
Despite being, as I said, speechless, I shall now commence a somewhat verbose, and even, if I may, to some degree pleonastic, account of the goings on over the summer, if you can call it that, with temperatures barely sufficient to thaw an Eskimo's ice pop.
The Liechtenstein Yacht Show was something of a success, though they may rethink the location for next year, what with the logistics and getting the boats there etc. They made an awful fuss about me, holding some sort of celebratory beano where yours truly was nominated ‘Yachting and Maritime Correspondent of the Year’. I was presented with a platinum bell buoy, but would have preferred a fat slice of bread, since things are a little tight at the moment having just completed the observatory in the eastern wing.
Bing-Ding is her usual self, but has gone back to the Iranian chewing gum, which she consumes plentifully, sprawled on a divan in the conservatory, which she has now draped with all sorts of exotic fabrics and hangings in the style of a Turkish hookah’s boudoir. She gets high as a kite and then moans on terribly, singing and ululating until she is quite hoarse. She mentioned some piffle about going to see the vet for some more Cunningham's Linctus, which usually does the trick and soothes the old larynx (or pharynx, I forget which). She cheered up the next day though, when she and ‘Bucktooth’ Bugsy from the WI managed to stomp to death a holt of otter kits that had been bothering the Admiral’s trout in the chalk stream.
We had the Wallerbeigh-Hopps round for a light supper yesterday, and they came with a rather fetching thing called Alice (niece, I think) who was awfully keen to shoot one of the pheasants on the drive. Well of course we let her have at it, but it seems that being a touch myopic (and colourblind to boot!) she took out Lucy, your Mother’s Tasmanian black swan. We made the best of a bad situation and roasted it anyway and it wasn’t half-bad, if a little muddy tasting. Your Mum of course got in a terrible funk, but Jumpy made up for it by getting his man to run us over a case of rather nice Chablis from his cellar (1952, if I recall – though I don’t at all: I have to confess that by the time we’d polished off the six, we went on to Bénédictine cocktails, and after a swift round of absinthe chasers, came up with the bright idea of driving to the Bournemouth Yacht Club for a nightcap). Looks like Bing-Ding pranged the new car on the way home, which will cost me a few quid!
I see Princess Grace expired due to a motoring incident. In Billinsgate three Turkish men were killed when a trolleybus went awry. Do look after yourself, and when you’re back on the mainland, think about dropping me a line.
Affably yours, E. Gregious-Leigh
*Dad has taken to calling me ‘Turpin’, because I’m such a complete Dick. He’s miffed that I’ve given up another job, preferring instead to take loads and loads of drugs like a total lege. He writes about the yacht show, where he got an award, and talks about having supper with the neighbours.
July 12, 2017
Some say the message is medium: Dear Lupin is a collection of letters that span nearly 25 years, and through this form offer the most intimate insight into the Mortimers' lives. If intimate is the right word- it seems like multiple opportunities to be delighted at the sheer hilarity of it is more suitable.
Letters. Seems dated now, doesn’t it? Something you only tend to at Christmas out of obligation, not because the simple act offers any sort of satisfaction. (I bet many people have said the same about over-indulging in mince pies, but there you go.) Here, it conveys admirably parental despair. In reality, nothing in our modern day with the prevalent technology could genuinely reveal to the same depth any relationship. Imagine being a historian, sifting through the one line texts. There's no detail behind what we communicate now, because who has time to go into the neighbour's health? Why bother? It's this offhand thinking that not makes it difficult not only for people in the future to discern who we really are, but it makes life clouded for ourselves when we can't even engage with each other. What does anything mean to us?
Roger Mortimer typically humoured the pages with self-deprecation or painstaking accurate remarks. “Doubtless you regard me as monumental bore, tolerated only at times because I fork out some cash, but senile as I am I probably know a bit more about you and your friends than you seem to realise” Hm. Bet a lot of parents today would be much more success in talking to their children if they realised in themselves these words.
Anyway, it is rather clear to see that although Charlie entertained a school career at Eton, it wasn’t exactly the most successful, as he was constantly reminded to try and get through a term “without a chorus of disapproval and despair from the unfortunate masters who have to try and teach you something.” Joyfully Charlie moves through life though, and it’s almost bizarre, like watching a time-lapse of a plant, to see the style and tone of the letters change. One moment it’s from a reprimanding father, another it’s from a more- well, still reprimanding father, but with a rather letter edge to the words.
“Dear Charles, I am very impulsive. Your mother is also very impulsive. That is quite enough for one family. Let us have a little… deliberation from you. So to start with, get rid of that motorbike. I did not give you £40 for that, as you well know!”
But, like everything, things start to break down and crumble, and although the earlier letters were cheerful and lighthearted, punctuated with concerns, the hilarity seeps away towards the end of the collection, where above all Roger voices his fears of ageing, of dying. It is poignant and raw- often a gruff acceptance of fate that retells all our own fears. This is a book which will not only inspire you to laughter and morose reflection, but to start writing letters again yourself.
Letters. Seems dated now, doesn’t it? Something you only tend to at Christmas out of obligation, not because the simple act offers any sort of satisfaction. (I bet many people have said the same about over-indulging in mince pies, but there you go.) Here, it conveys admirably parental despair. In reality, nothing in our modern day with the prevalent technology could genuinely reveal to the same depth any relationship. Imagine being a historian, sifting through the one line texts. There's no detail behind what we communicate now, because who has time to go into the neighbour's health? Why bother? It's this offhand thinking that not makes it difficult not only for people in the future to discern who we really are, but it makes life clouded for ourselves when we can't even engage with each other. What does anything mean to us?
Roger Mortimer typically humoured the pages with self-deprecation or painstaking accurate remarks. “Doubtless you regard me as monumental bore, tolerated only at times because I fork out some cash, but senile as I am I probably know a bit more about you and your friends than you seem to realise” Hm. Bet a lot of parents today would be much more success in talking to their children if they realised in themselves these words.
Anyway, it is rather clear to see that although Charlie entertained a school career at Eton, it wasn’t exactly the most successful, as he was constantly reminded to try and get through a term “without a chorus of disapproval and despair from the unfortunate masters who have to try and teach you something.” Joyfully Charlie moves through life though, and it’s almost bizarre, like watching a time-lapse of a plant, to see the style and tone of the letters change. One moment it’s from a reprimanding father, another it’s from a more- well, still reprimanding father, but with a rather letter edge to the words.
“Dear Charles, I am very impulsive. Your mother is also very impulsive. That is quite enough for one family. Let us have a little… deliberation from you. So to start with, get rid of that motorbike. I did not give you £40 for that, as you well know!”
But, like everything, things start to break down and crumble, and although the earlier letters were cheerful and lighthearted, punctuated with concerns, the hilarity seeps away towards the end of the collection, where above all Roger voices his fears of ageing, of dying. It is poignant and raw- often a gruff acceptance of fate that retells all our own fears. This is a book which will not only inspire you to laughter and morose reflection, but to start writing letters again yourself.
December 25, 2022
Citaat : Een brief die met 'Mijn beste Charles' begint kun je meestal beter laten liggen. Deze brief staat boordevol prima adviezen, die geen van alle opgevolgd worden.
Review : Roger Mortimer (1909 - 1991) studeerde aan Eton en Sandhurst en vocht in Duinkerken. In 1947 werd hij journalist bij de Sunday Times en schreef hij diverse standaardwerken over paardensport. Roger Mortimer trouwde in 1947 met Cynthia Denison-Pender. Het paar kreeg twee dochters en zoon Charles.
Charlie Mortimer (1953) studeerde (met tegenzin) aan Eton. Hij was o.a. soldaat, auto-restaurateur, fabrikant van onderbroeken, manager van een popgroep, handelaar in oude metalen, antiekdealer, autoverkoper en scheepsmaat in Kenia.
In deze briefwisseling tussen vader en zoon maken we kennis met Roger – de vader – en diens zoon Charlie, die zijn vader grijze haren bezorgt tijdens zijn periode op Eton. De brieven staan dus ook bol van goedbedoelde vaderlijke adviezen, naast huis-tuin-en-keukennieuws over het wel en wee in en om zijn ouderlijk huis. Maar bovenal getuigen zijn brieven van een onvoorwaardelijke liefde van de vader voor Charlie, die door zijn vader Lupin wordt genoemd, naar de hoofdpersoon uit Diary of a Nobody. De brieven overbruggen 24 jaar, te beginnen in 1967 als Charlie 15 is. Waar zijn vaders brieven uitblinken door hun gedetailleerdheid, zo kort zijn die van Charlie en die bevatten ook niet meer dan het hoognodige. De brieven zijn dolkomisch en heerlijk amusant, maar weten af en toe ook een gevoelige snaar te raken. De nieuwtjes over gebeurtenissen en politiek, zijn me iets te Brits. Het concept op zich vind ik wel knap zeker in deze tijd waarin brieven hopeloos ouderwets zijn. Het boek breekt een lans voor handgeschreven post en stelt de almaar groter wordende generatiekloof aan de kaak. In zijn totaliteit vormt dit boek wel een liefdevol portret van een verloren tijd.
Review : Roger Mortimer (1909 - 1991) studeerde aan Eton en Sandhurst en vocht in Duinkerken. In 1947 werd hij journalist bij de Sunday Times en schreef hij diverse standaardwerken over paardensport. Roger Mortimer trouwde in 1947 met Cynthia Denison-Pender. Het paar kreeg twee dochters en zoon Charles.
Charlie Mortimer (1953) studeerde (met tegenzin) aan Eton. Hij was o.a. soldaat, auto-restaurateur, fabrikant van onderbroeken, manager van een popgroep, handelaar in oude metalen, antiekdealer, autoverkoper en scheepsmaat in Kenia.
In deze briefwisseling tussen vader en zoon maken we kennis met Roger – de vader – en diens zoon Charlie, die zijn vader grijze haren bezorgt tijdens zijn periode op Eton. De brieven staan dus ook bol van goedbedoelde vaderlijke adviezen, naast huis-tuin-en-keukennieuws over het wel en wee in en om zijn ouderlijk huis. Maar bovenal getuigen zijn brieven van een onvoorwaardelijke liefde van de vader voor Charlie, die door zijn vader Lupin wordt genoemd, naar de hoofdpersoon uit Diary of a Nobody. De brieven overbruggen 24 jaar, te beginnen in 1967 als Charlie 15 is. Waar zijn vaders brieven uitblinken door hun gedetailleerdheid, zo kort zijn die van Charlie en die bevatten ook niet meer dan het hoognodige. De brieven zijn dolkomisch en heerlijk amusant, maar weten af en toe ook een gevoelige snaar te raken. De nieuwtjes over gebeurtenissen en politiek, zijn me iets te Brits. Het concept op zich vind ik wel knap zeker in deze tijd waarin brieven hopeloos ouderwets zijn. Het boek breekt een lans voor handgeschreven post en stelt de almaar groter wordende generatiekloof aan de kaak. In zijn totaliteit vormt dit boek wel een liefdevol portret van een verloren tijd.
July 3, 2018
A look into the world of an ‘upper-class’ British family over a span of 20 or so years, often very funny and endearing, with some real gems of humour. Nevertheless I found this book quite difficult to read at times.
I liked the dry humour of the letters, and that Roger Mortimer poked fun at himself as well as others; it seemed on every page that one of his acquaintances (we never know much about any of the people) is rolling drunk, falls off a horse or drops down dead (or all 3 of the above!)
The book can be charming, in that it shows the deep affection in which he holds his children, for all their faults. However I found the blatant racism, sexism and snobbery quite disconcerting - so only 2.5 stars.
I liked the dry humour of the letters, and that Roger Mortimer poked fun at himself as well as others; it seemed on every page that one of his acquaintances (we never know much about any of the people) is rolling drunk, falls off a horse or drops down dead (or all 3 of the above!)
The book can be charming, in that it shows the deep affection in which he holds his children, for all their faults. However I found the blatant racism, sexism and snobbery quite disconcerting - so only 2.5 stars.
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