“The thing is [with life] you mustn’t I think, think about it. Think about it and it would break your heart. But if you just stagger through, like I do - well yes: life's a laugh”
A potpourri of English middle-class stereotypes descend on a English seaside town for a summer holiday. They’re a disparate lot ranging from the wealthy Howard and Elizabeth to the strapped for cash Brian and Dotty, added to this there is Norman, who has funded a trip to Chicago with his boss’ daughter using ill gotten gains and Howard who stays at home on the pretence of ‘work load’ but in fact has ulterior motives. Actually at the seaside are Melody, a single mum who’d rather not be a mum, Miles, who’s married with two kids but doesn’t want anyone (especially the women he meets) to know, the ultra possessive and totally obnoxious John and his poor wife Lulu and let’s not forget Brian and Dotty’s son Colin with his breast fixation.
This novel could easily have been called Middle classes behaving badly. It’s all a bit rudimentary, it is a story of lust and snobbery. The blurb on my copy compared this to P.G. Wodehouse and Tom Sharpe. I would lean more towards Sharpe (One scene in particular involving hand cuffs is straight from Tom Sharpe’s ‘Blott on the Landscape’). All the people are over the top caricatures, they have to be to create the humour here which is mainly of the English seaside postcard variety of the ‘Carry On’ films, although it does also have its dark side. For the most part the humour works with the hapless Brian involved in some of the better scenes (his analysis of how to make love to a woman is hilariously cringeworthy). It is all a bit frantic as we bounce from one mishap to another as in the great tradition of the British farce lots of sticks are grabbed at the wrong end.
Summer Things is about frantic illicit encounters of the sexual nature, the book title being a euphemism for sex, the books opening sentence leaves you in no doubt of what’s to follow. Most of the humour works well, some of it less so. It is however, to paraphrase the great Kenny Everett, all done in the best possible distaste.