Craig brown

Tuesday

Marcus Berkmann

A shortage of Nigels and other calamities: humorous stocking-fillers

This is the part of the run-up to Christmas I always look forward to most – the ‘silly’ books, loo books, even non-books produced by serious publishers who may resent the huge piles of money they make every year while delicate, thoughtful literary novels remain unbought and unread. As it happens, I have just finished a wholly unsatisfactory book of short stories – no names, no packdrill – so a few weeks of loo books have proved surprisingly refreshing, like a palate cleanser after a hideously over-thought restaurant meal. They are all recommended for grumpy old relatives, or even yourself. Ysenda Maxtone Graham’s Scream (Abacus, £14.99) comes in the familiar

Thursday

Dot Wordsworth

What’s the right way to voyage?

My husband has ordered a copy of Craig Brown’s new book, out next week, a bit late for my birthday. I know he’ll grab it while I’m doing the washing up and later read out bits, which would be nice if he were any good at it. I wonder if the book explains the title: A Voyage Around the Queen. I see the idea, glimpses of the late Queen from many points of view, a speciality in which the author excels. The title reminded me of John Mortimer’s play A Voyage Round My Father, on which Rupert Everett toured last autumn. An East Midlands theatre site announced it as A Voyage

Thursday

Wallace Arnold

Wallace Arnold: Pity the hard-pressed Snuff Community

Could it really be 40 years since one was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature? Borne up the stairs on the shoulders of John Julius Norwich and Sir Roy Strong, I was inducted by Lady Antonia Fraser and the late Paddy Leigh Fermor, resplendent in their ceremonial robes. Meanwhile, I myself was clad in the society’s prestigious tweed ‘posing pouch’, passed down from generation to generation, unscrubbed. The Society has long been a sanctuary of civilisation, allowing a wide range of authors, from James Lees-Milne to Debo Devonshire, to mix and mingle in a spirit of inky camaraderie. So imagine my horror upon hearing that the RSL