I was once asked in an interview who my hero was, and was – for a few moments – flummoxed. I don’t really go in for heroes. I gave it a thought, though, trying to dredge up the names of people I truly admire, the people I would like to emulate. And there it was: PG Wodehouse. It takes a special talent, a very great genius, to be able to make people laugh the way Wodehouse could. His are the books I invariably turn to when I’m feeling blue. His are books I can read anytime. His are books I delight in reading again and again – even when I know what plot twist is coming next, what brilliant similes and completely Wodehousian turns of phrase lie around the corner.
So, yes; Wodehouse is my hero, and this superb collection of some of his finest work is the latest in a long line of Wodehouse’s books that I’ve read. Week-end Wodehouse packs into its pages a very varied sampling of Wodehouse, both fiction and non-fiction. There are short stories and excerpts of novels (the latter, where necessary, with a short introduction to provide background) featuring some of Wodehouse’s best-loved characters: the Blandings Castle lot, Jeeves and Wooster, Mr Mulliner, the Oldest Member and his golf stories, and Ukridge among them. There are excerpts long and short, all the way from a single sentence (“He looked like a bishop who had just discovered Schism and Doubt among the minor clergy”) to entire chapters out of A Damsel in Distress, Heavy Weather, Summer Lightning, etc.
There is non-fiction, too: Wodehouse’s introductions and prefaces to some of his own books; a couple of dedications (from Heart of a Goof, for instance: “To my daughter Leonora, without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time”), and more, all of them a brilliant showcase of this man’s inimitable sense of humour. The only section – just a page long – which I found puzzling was something entitled Good News from Denmark, which no matter how hard I tried to read it (even aloud, in the hope that it would sound like garbled English), made no sense to me – it seemed to be Danish, and with no translations provided, so I’m still pretty much in the dark.
But when a book is liberally studded with classic Wodehouse gems like “Then he uttered a hollow, mirthless laugh – a dreadful sound like the last gargle of a dying moose” or ”Even at the Drones Club, where the average of intellect is not high, it was often said of Archibald that, had his brain been constructed of silk, he would have been hard put to it to find sufficient material to make a canary a pair of cami-knickers”… ah, bliss. This is what makes for top-notch weekend reading.