I see from the cover of this book that at least three reviewers had kind words to say about Gordon Brown’s previous effort. ‘Very moving,’ the Guardian wrote. ‘Readable and intelligent,’ alleged the Sunday Times. ‘Trust me: this is a fine book,’ claimed The Spectator. Perhaps they were being polite because the author is not a professional writer, or because all his royalties will go to charity. Perhaps Courage was a dramatically better book. Wartime Courage, though, is lame.
And I’m not just saying that because Gordon Brown’s economic incompetence has caused me such misery. Nor just because as a starving author (late of his publisher, Bloomsbury) I deeply resent the allocation by the publishing industry of time, money, space and attention to people who can barely write and anyway have well remunerated day-jobs. I say it mainly because I’m at least as interested as Brown is in the wartime heroes and heroines whose exploits he describes here, and they deserve much better than this leaden, clunken-fisted cuttings job.
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