Priestley's last novel and a fine one, if not his most famous.
Two down-at-heel academics, each of whom has spent many years away from Britain, find themselves back in London in the image-obsessed Swinging Sixties. They form the Institute of Social Imagistics to explore and capitalise on the trend and carry it through to fame, fortune and a happy ending. They're clear-eyed to the point of cynicism about the worth of what they're doing, but nonetheless do it faithfully and well, all the while helping themselves liberally to whisky and women.
Some of the satire now feels dated: the neurotic comedian, the aggressively Northern industrialist and the sex kitten who dislikes sex all feel of their time. But Priestley hit the bullseye: within a very few years Mrs Thatcher was having her image made over in exactly the way it happens in the book, and New Labour's makeover wasn't long after that.
But it still succeeds because of the compelling central characters: Cosmo Saltana, dark and saturnine and stern, Owen Tuby, voluble Welsh and persuasive, and Elfreda Drake the widow whose bequest gives them the seed capital to begin the venture and accompanies them all the way through, taking care of the sensible parts of the business, recovering her confidence as she does so, and sometimes acting as a kind of motherly Greek chorus, explaining the action and having it explained to her in deft candlelit conversations.
Priestley's not so well remembered as he should be just now. Not a great novelist; he was with some justification called a poor man's Dickens. But he has enormous talent and humanity, and was a superb craftsman.