Falling Towards England

Unreliable Memoirs #2

by Clive James

'When we got off the ship in Southampton in that allegedly mild January of 1962 I had nothing to declare at customs except goose-pimples under my white nylon drip-dry shirt.'

In the first volume of "Unreliable Memoirs," we said farewell to our hero as he set sail from Sydney Harbour, bound for London, fame and fortune. Finding the first of these proved relatively simple; the second two less so. Undaunted, Clive moved into a bed and breakfast in a Swiss Cottage where he practised the Twist, anticipated poetical masterpieces and worried about his wardrobe.

Genres: Biography, Nonfiction, Humor, Memoir, Autobiography, Australia, British Literature

176 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1985

About the author

Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name. See this thread for more information.

An expatriate Australian broadcast personality and author of cultural criticism, memoir, fiction, travelogue and poetry. Translator of Dante.

Reviews

[Tony · Rating 5 out of 5]

Second reading - the first being back in metaphorical 'short pants'. Enjoyed this a great deal more than the first. More of the development of the character we all know and love, although it does seem to get a little self-indulgent towards the end.

Love the man... sorely missed. Hope he says hello to DNA for me.

[Paul · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is the first book I've read by Clive James. It was enough for me to decide it's really Clive James you read, not this particular book, and he's brilliant. He's also an awesome example of what brilliant really means: not somehow extremely technically intelligent, the way you might describe an Einstein or a Bohr, but rather dazzlingly clever, sparkling, and bright. His story in Falling Towards England is fun, but any couple of pages could be read on their own with enjoyment, and it's really his wordplay and spontaneous reflection and insights that keep me reading. He also knows just how to describe a mood or a scene so that you recognize and sympathize with it immediately and deeply, usually with a smile.

As just one delightful example which I happened to read right before writing this, towards the end of the book James is describing a holiday he took in Italy. Visiting a girlfriend of his who lived there, they scandalized the neighborhood by staying together in a small rented room and earned a crowd of male followers eager to glare at them disapprovingly:

"Francoise's good looks, however, though sufficiently startling, were not quite enough to explain the element of potential homicide informing that massed masculine gaze. It was my beard that had tipped them over the edge. They probably didn't like my shoes, either - a new ox-blood pair with gold buckles at the sides. The shoes had cost not much more than five pounds, so I don't suppose the buckles were real gold. But they weren't superfluous. They were holding down the straps. It was the straps that were superfluous."

[Jonathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

It was a sad day when Clive James shuffled off his mortal coil last year. For those of us who appreciate his mighty wit and general good spirits we are lucky to have such a large body of work to treat ourselves to almost unending chuckles and outright laughter. This, his second volume of autobiography, begins with his arrival in England from Australia in the early 1960s and follows his desperate attempts to keep down a job, find somewhere to live and begin his immersion into a life to be mostly spent on the top side of the world.

I have said before that Clive James would be my ideal dinner party guest, but now from what I have read I think I would probably spend the whole evening in the kitchen preparing anything and everything to keep him fed and watered. But I wouldn't mind as long as he kept the conversation going. As an addendum I have just discovered the sad passing of Margarita Pracatan (PRACATAN!!) who ensured that with her amazingly inaccurate salsa renditions of many a fine pop song (Clive James said of her 'She never let the words or melody get in the way') each episode of The Clive James show in the 1980s would leave the audience and myself in the most uplifted mood for a Sunday night, even with the prospect of school not so many hours away. So I say goodbye as she sings 'Hello'. Then if you like what you see 'Take A Chance On Me.'

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMOWw...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2bY6p...

[D · Rating 4 out of 5]

Outrageously funny sequel of Unreliable Memoirs. It makes fun of the author, England in the 1960’s and the adventures of the Australian diaspora in London at the time.

[Colin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Thirty-something years ago I read Clive James' Unreliable Memoirs. It was one of the funniest books I had ever read, and also one of the most truthful about the universal experience of childhood and early adolescence. Quite why it has taken me so long to read the second book in the series is a mystery.
Falling Towards England starts with James arriving at Southampton and covers the next couple of years drifting from job to job and room to bedsit to room in London while he waits to take up a place at Cambridge. Like its predecessor, it is very funny (truly laugh out loud in places), witty and self-aware. It's also (of course) beautifully written and constructed. I loved it, and will read the remaining three volumes of unreliable memoirs in much shorter order that I did the first and second.

[Greg · Rating 5 out of 5]

Clive James is a joy to read.

[Ian Russell · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read this first about twenty years ago, about the time of the paperback release. The reason I’ve read it now is down to an overnight stay in hospital and, following advice and not wanting to risk any valuables being lost whilst I lay unconscious, I picked this book - yes, a real book - from the very front and middle of the shelf closest to eye-level, and stuffed it in the overnight bag. Of course, this wasn’t the only reason for selection: I simply thought it would be something I could dip into at random.

It the event, it didn’t quite work that way. In short, it was far, far too good. Luckily, the place where I randomly dipped in at was page 1 and thereafter all dipping randomly was forgotten.

One other thing I had seemingly forgotten is that Clive James is the amongst the best of humorous writers. Every paragraph has a comical gift. He knows precisely when to play a running gag and exactly when a gag is spent. His turns of phrases are a real joy, at times quite literally tears of laughter made it impossible to read on.

It’s an autobiography which reads as a flowing narrative, much like a novel. It isn’t bogged down by the usual biographical digression, it’s one thing following another. Obviously, some is made up, or at least exaggerated, for effect but it’s an effect that makes the telling funnier.

[Karen · Rating 5 out of 5]

The second in the Unreliable Memoirs set of books sees Clive James newly arrived in post-war England, a Sydney boy trying to make good in the bright lights, high(er) society and learned sets of English society. Don't read this, however, if you're expecting the really breezy, cleverly observant, self-deprecating ways of his childhood. Young adult Clive James is a different beast and he's out of place, out of step and seemingly somewhat out of clues in this world.

Moving from self-deprecation clearly into a form of almost self-loathing, the Clive James that is trying to find his way in England, leading eventually to University post-grad studies, is struggling, and as you'd expect from Clive James he lays that on the line - warts, failures, drunk debauchery, questionable attitudes to friends and women, financially broke, morally bereft and simply lost, he's a bit on the whingy side, as well as brutally honest and self-flaggelating.

It's not until I finished FALLING TOWARDS ENGLAND and had some time to think about it that I came to see the the honest microcosm of that entire period. On the one hand self-reflective, on the other utterly self-destructive. Inward looking, scared and timid whilst also being a time of great scientific and societal advancement. In the middle of all of that sat an Australian man with no idea what he's doing or where he's heading, with a desperate need for acceptance, love and to be in on the act.

Sprinkled, as usual, with great observations, some positively cringeworthy moments, and a heap of stuff that everybody who has ever wondered what the hell they are doing with their lives could find well worth reading.

“Some people are different, and so are the rest of us.”

[Susan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Like reading an early day, more erudite if more pompous and alcoholic, David Sedaris. The early 60's are James post university (Sydney) pre-graduate (Cambridge) years. He spends them in London mostly broke, mostly drunk, and mostly not getting much if looking a lot... Just as I began to tire of the whining a real humanity would shine through. I wanted to shout at him the read some science: geology, biology, engineering anything but this his muddle of music, poetry, art and politicks would have brought him some perspective; after all this is when the DNA molecule was being unravelled right next door, well maybe a few years earlier. But that is not what the sixties were all about. Jame's oblique takes on racism and the gaping wound of 20th century genocide which continue to afflict every bright, bushy tailed artist is cogent.

[Giles · Rating 3 out of 5]

I bought this volume, and I suspect I'm not alone here, on the strength of Unreliable Memoirs. That book I devoured with relish. The stories of growing up were finely observed and often hilarious. In this follow up they are haphazard and filled with so many ill-defined characters and changing locations it's difficult to keep up. More worryingly the stories are, for the most part, just not very interesting.

James' tone of phrase is still good and if you imagine the book being read to you in his unique dead pan drawl it helps, but it ain't a patch on part one.

[Kay · Rating 4 out of 5]

I don't think Clive James made as much of a splash in the US as he did in the UK, where he had a show on the BBC and on various radio programs, but he's quite funny. I picked this book up when we lived in Cambridge, England after seeing him on the Beeb. For some reason I've always considered him to be the Australian equivalent of Calvin Trillin -- which is fair to neither Trillin or James, but they're both witty men of a certain age, prone to droll one-liners.

[Sephie · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read his hilarious prequel - Unreliable Memoirs, some years ago and loved it (especially the bit about the 'dunny man'). This picks up the story of Clive's emigration to England in search of a literary career, and all the trials and tribulations he encounters with acommodation, interviews and girls - not to mention the 'Singapore Suit'!

[Marianne Broadgate · Rating 3 out of 5]

Very funny and particularly interesting read about life in London in the sixties.

[Colin · Rating 3 out of 5]

The book is less funny than the first, and James comes across less-likably, spending three years largely just sort of kicking around London.

[J Simpson · Rating 4 out of 5]

Clive James' memoir about being a young, struggling writer who moves to London on a whim in search of literary greatness is everything that's wonderful about Clive James. Its recollection and attention to detail is worthy of awe, especially considering this took place in the late '60s. You know that saying, "If you can remember the 60s, you weren't really there?" Clive James remembers, which is impressive at he wasn't exactly tee-totalling.

James' memoir isn't perfect, don't get me wrong. He adheres to the wild would-be-Bohemian "troubled young artiste" that so many young men fall into, especially in older eras. The idea that reading and appreciating Shakespeare somehow excuses not being able to hold down a job, constantly borrowing money off of friends, etc. Much of his writing is firmly grounded in the male gaze, as well, especially when he talks about women. That isn't really a downside in this case, however, i feel. This is Clive James' gaze, and he makes no bones or pretentions about them. And while he does speak candidly - and often at length - about going to bed with pretty young women, its seemingly rooted in genuine appreciation and even love. Women are not treated as some inanimate objects in Clive James' world.

My personal favourite detail was how rooted it is in various artforms and media. I came to know Clive James through his critical work - writing about books, i want to say. James is the true Renaissance Man, however, being familiar with everything from film to art to theatre. As an interdisciplinary critic and artist, myself, that's always been my favourite thing about Clive James' writing. He's as knowledgeable and passionate about opera as about Australian advertising. He makes no distinction between 'high' and 'low culture,' and i love that. That's what i aspire to, and what i'm trying to do with all of my various criticism and creativity.

Add on to that an almost hallucinatory recall of era detail, and Falling Towards England serves as time machine as well as time capsule. High Street, Picadilly Circus, Tufnell Park in the '60s all come to life, reanimated by Clive James' near-perfect recall. It's an impressive feat that shows what's possible within the format of a memoir. He helps you to understand the times themselves while, simultaneously, helping you to understand the artist. The two are indistinguishible and interchangable and speaks to how much a critic is both shaped and also represents the times for which they speak. That's what i've always aspired to with my own critical work - an understanding of an era, its psychology, mores, taboos and tastes. To be a critic, you must understand people as much, if not more, than the art itself. I find myself re-invigorated towards this pursuit after hungrily devouring this slim tome.

Much recommended!

[Jeremy Walton · Rating 5 out of 5]

Treats of London
Clive James follows up Unreliable Memoirs, his best-selling account of growing up in Australia, with this book which describes his life in 1960s London before going up to Cambridge (his time there is the subject of May Week Was in June, the third volume of his autobiography). So this is about an intermezzo in his life: grown-up enough to try and make a new start in a new city, but not yet having received the benefits of the formation and support that Cambridge was to give him.

One view (which includes, perhaps, his) of this story would end up querying whether he was really grown-up at all, as he tries his hand at one stop-gap job after another, including wine merchant, librarian, sheet-metal worker and publisher's assistant. Each unsuccessful stint is described in his usual self-deprecating style, along with his parallel experience of unsuitable accommodation (including a spell sleeping in a large brown paper bag). His finely-honed style makes a catalogue of disasters look entertaining, and he does the same for his descriptions of his friends Bruce Beresford and Barry Humphries (disguised here as 'Dave Dalziel' and 'Bruce Jennings' respectively), and the trips he took to Italy where his girlfriend - and later wife - Prue Shaw (who's called 'Francoise' here) was researching early Italian literature.

So a lot depends on whether you like his style, and whether you can resist quoting passages like this description of a staple foodstuff of the time [p152]:

"When you cut it up, put the pieces in your mouth and swallowed them, the British hamburger shaped itself to the bottom of your stomach like ballast, while interacting with your gastric juices to form an incipient belch of enormous potential, an airship which had been inflated in a garage. This belch, when silently released, would cause people standing twenty yards away to start examining the soles of their shoes. The vocalized version sounded like a bag of tools thrown into a bog."

If - like me - you do, and you can't, then reading (or re-reading) this book will bring many rewards: nods of recognition, paroxysms of discomfort and howls of laughter.

Originally reviewed 7 May 2014

[Dickon Edwards · Rating 3 out of 5]

Read this very quickly, as part of a sudden ambition to devour all 5 of CJ's memoirs in order. This second book is pleasingly short and breezy, and covers his time as a twentysomething living in rented rooms in London in the 1960s, drifting aimlessly between minimum wage jobs until he decides to Sort His Life Out and go to Cambridge for a second degree.

'For the lost soul, the university is the modern monastery' - I certainly related to that, having returned to education in my forties.

I was slightly shocked at how easy it was for CJ get into Cambridge, seemingly without an interview. It seems he just wrote a letter to a kind tutor back at Sydney Uni, who was also a distinguished alumnus of Cambridge. So distinguished that he could get the young James a place on his recommendation alone. Does that sort of thing go on now?

There's also the implication that a degree from Sydney Uni isn't worth much when trying to build a career in London, at least compared to one from Oxbridge. One wonders how much things have changed.

[Andrew · Rating 5 out of 5]

The Aussies call us whingeing Poms, but Clive James does enough whingeing of his own at the beginning of this, the second volume of his memoirs, as he disembarks at Southampton on his way to fame and fortune in London, like many of his fellow countrymen. Ohhh the weather's cold! Ohhhh, snow's wet! Ohhhh, what's this brown water? (Beer, in case you can't guess!) Ohhh, why won't the girls go to bed with me? Well, boo bloody hoo! He soon settles into his usual laconic writing style as he relates getting fired from or running out on the succession of short-lived jobs at which he proves spectacularly incompetent, while living in overcrowded, barely habitable (even by Aussies) digs or flats in various run-down districts in 60s London. He gets his crumbling teeth fixed up by an Australian dentist, who sees him at a party: 'Flash the fangs for me, Jeez, come and see me tomorrow morning!' Visits Florence, where he discovers Italians don't like beards, although he does see a lot of great art. Finally, his wait to become eligible for a grant finally over, he goes up to Peterhouse, and we move on to the next volume of Unreliable Memoirs! To be continued...

[Jonathan Corfe · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read this out of indulgence: I had ordered it, it had arrived, it beat not reading it.
I read this out of sequence as this was the second book in the series but arrived second to the last one. It is second in my preference to the last one as well.
It might be because I'm in a grumpy mood or it might be the subject matter: the first and third Unreliable Memoirs were more entertaining and written with more of James' signature flair. It could also be that the topic of being young, drunk, broke and directionless struck too much of a chord, especially now that I'm middle aged, drunk, broke and directionless.
I don't know. Maybe I'm being unfair. The selection of reading matter ought to reflect your mood and my mood should steer me toward Hunter S Thompson. The problem is, in Blenheim, Whitcoulls and Paper Plus only sell popular dross and the second hand bookshop only sells second hand popular dross.
Maybe some rioting might cheer me up.

[Cynthia May · Rating 4 out of 5]

James' death was a blow: he epitomises the academic with an earthly touch. He is self-deprecating and, in retrospect only, self-aware.
I laughed aloud at the first in this trilogy but the second was sobering. Here was a deluded man struggling to find his place in the world and in his craft. How did he emerge from this phase to be the brilliant man we know now?
He recaptures England after the war and the move of Australian artists to what they thought was the centre of culture and ideas. We feel his ego colliding with his need to survive, literally, in a freezing and foreign land. His writing is still funny but his inability to see his own blunders jars. James is real, flawed and brilliant. How we will miss him.

[Sylvia Clare · Rating 5 out of 5]

hilarious and although i was not part of that scene in the swinging sixties ( just too young) i can remember talk of it well and looking in from the outside it seemed so glamorous byt as james now shows me i wasnt missing much after all. He just makes it all come to life with his inimitable way ot expressing himself. I can almost hear him telling it to me as i read it since i used to gravitate towards any show which had his name on it for obvious reasons, i found him incisive, insightful and hilarious at the same time. Might be quite old now, i remember reading unreliable memours when it came out first of all and loving that too, laughing out loud with some frequency. next installment please from loal charity bookshop i believe.

[El · Rating 3 out of 5]

Book 2 of Clive James's memoirs. I have recommended this to so many people in the past because, back then, I found it hilarious. Sadly, this time around (many years later) I found it difficult to accept the blatant sexism and egotism. Clive James is usually self-deprecating in the later telling but that doesn't negate the way he behaved at the time. As with Book 1, I wish I'd not re-read this as I loved it when I first read it. On another level though, I found it fascinating as a bit of English social history where a person could just walk from one job into another and find somewhere to live with no problem. The social history details were, for me, the best parts of this work.

[Natalie · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book was February's book club pick.
It was a very interesting biography of Clive James. For me I felt that Clive suffered with depression. The book describes a young man with great expectations arriving in a new country with no family and limited fund's. What transpires is the bitter whether, disappointment, debt and alcoholism. Never settling in jobs, lodgings and women and leaving a trail of debt in his cigarette smoke.
It was a car wreck to read and even though this is meant to be a humourous read and making light of the crash, you can't help but read the pain.

[Vincent Hernot · Rating 4 out of 5]

It's 3 1/2 rather than 4 stars.
The reason is that some of it feels slightly forced at times, and while in the first volume (Unreliable memoirs) truth and fiction blended seamlessly, in this one he seems to have worked harder at obscuring truth. I don't mind (I don't really know any of those people anyway), but sometimes it feels as if James is writing one of those romans a clef (like The Apes of God, say...) which, when you do not have the key, can seem to drag on a bit.
But of course it remains Clive James, so much to enjoy!

[Rob Kemp · Rating 5 out of 5]

Just re-read this joyous tale of James' arrival in England in the early 1960s. Living and lodging around West London hanging out in Melbury Road, in Twickenham, in Florence, Soho and the Iron Bridge pub in the east end with a cast of characters - some of the more famous ones disguised to protect the guilty - it's a great short read with plenty of examples of how this great writer loved playing with and drawing pictures so perfectly with words.

[Anne Siddell · Rating 3 out of 5]

I enjoyed this more than the first volume of Clive James' autobiography, Unreliable Memoirs. Arriving in England at the start of the 1960s, he writes hilariously about his impecunious life in London and in doing so captures brilliantly the atmosphere of a post-war society that's about to experience the huge upheaval of the swinging sixties.
As always, his prose combines laugh-out-loud humour with erudition and sharp social commentary.

[Dylan · Rating 5 out of 5]

Typically and wonderfully Clive..dry, witty, self-deprecating, occasionally absurd and loaded with great one-liners. The late 60s London are wonderfully brought to life, with a dramatis personae of eccentric aristocrats, dream-fuelled Aussies, and clever elusive women who largely escape the James charm. Warm, tender, and funny.

[Michael Gordon · Rating 4 out of 5]

A re-read for me, just after the great man’s passing. It’s impossible not to read it now without hearing his voice, pronunciation and the emphases in his speech. He once said he wrote words before he spoke them and in re-reading this it’s evident.

Sarcastic, witty and wonderfully self deprecating. Laugh out loud reading without fear or favour.

[Margery Osborne · Rating 4 out of 5]

not as funny as the first book but does proceed at a slower pace w more 'character' development and at least a tiny bit of reflection, reading like less of a stand-up routine than the first book. not exactly wise but at least slightly thoughtful (possibly at the expense of humor).

[Sally · Rating 4 out of 5]

Erudite humour, an outsider's view, squalor, lovelife, literature, parties, fierce landladies, real history. You want to give the young Clive a shake, now and then - but so does he, so that's fair [dinkum].