Witty, wonderful and wicked, this is a truly entertaining novel.Boris T. Craymore, minimalist poet, enthusiastic drinker and reluctant academic, wakes up in London in the house of a woman who looks strangely familiar. Craymore can't recall how he crossed the world to get there, until his memory returns in a series of bizarre flashbacks that flicker from Sydney and across the Blue Mountains to key scenes from his London past. Craymore jokes and bumbles in his attempts to piece together his life and create an improved version of himself. Back in Auckland, his ambitious colleague Danielle Thornsides insists that the police investigate his disappearance and discover why his nephew and his nephew's weird girlfriend have moved into Craymore's house. Meanwhile, underworld characters from Sydney and Auckland begin to take an interest.
Ireland was born Kevin Mark Jowsey. As an infant he travelled to London with his parents where they lived for a time before returning to New Zealand. Shortly thereafter, his parents' marriage failed and he grew up on his maternal grandfather's Waikato farm, and then in Takapuna where he lived with his father. After leaving school, he studied at Auckland Teachers' College but did not complete a qualification.
After changing his surname by deed poll to Ireland in 1957, he headed to London in 1959 where he remained for twenty-five years (with the interlude of a short interval in Bulgaria, translating Bulgarian poetry into English); for two decades, Ireland was employed by The Times.
In 1986, Ireland was writer-in-residence at Canterbury University; in 1987, he was awarded the Grimshaw-Sargeson Fellowship; in 1989, he was the University of Auckland's writing fellow, assistant editor of Quote Unquote, and president of PEN, 1990–91.
Kevin Ireland OBE has published novels, short stories, memoirs, a book on fishing and another on growing old. Awards include an honorary doctorate, the 2004 Prime Minister’s Award for Literary Achievement and the 2006 A.W. Reed Award for his contribution to New Zealand writing.
Ireland died after a battle with cancer in Auckland at the age of 89.
Ireland is not particularly well-known outside of his native New Zealand. And within NZ he is perhaps better known for his poetry than his prose. Initially I was a little sceptical about the writing in here. In the opening stages this seemed filled with wooden, unconvincing characters with clunky dialogue and some seriously poor attempts at humour.
But then around a third of the way in I found that it was really growing on me as it developed into quite a slapstick and calamitous affair and I even caught myself laughing a couple of times too. It has a very offbeat, Kiwi feel about it. It is bizarre but actually quite enjoyable.
Without doubt some of the dialogue is dubious, particularly the police officers, almost everything they say sounds impenetrable and not very human like, but then maybe that was Ireland’s point, after all he’s certainly not shy in having a pop at some other types in here from British snobbery to Kiwi academics as well as highlighting the less than smart behaviour of the criminals. In the end this was quite a fun, clever and entertaining read that danced to a rather different beat, but one I eventually got into.