Seasonal Suicide Notes: My Life as it is Lived (original 2009; edition 2009)

This book came briefly into my possession, having been left behind by a previous occupant of a holiday apartment. After flipping through it, I eagerly anticipated a bilious, vicious diatribe against life in general from an authentic curmudgeon. I ended up rather disappointed. Lewis can certainly be vicious, particularly about Nobel Prize winning author Harold Pinter and his lady wife, but he comes over more as a disappointed man, with Strindberg in suffering the pain of “not being what I most would be”, petulant at his repeated failure to be elected to fellowship of the Royal Society of Literature, whingeing about the inadequacy of his pay and almost craven in his detailed description of various medical problems. He sets himself up as a misanthrope, but then lets scarcely a page go by without naming one or more of his notable friends and acquaintances. His family are central to his life. The only physical contact he can recall with his father is a handshake on his wedding-day but his affection for the man can’t be hidden. His mother is clearly a different kettle of fish: he writes virtually nothing about her except to note that she flatly refused to come and see her grand-son juggle in the circus and that her husband was the only person who could stop her doing exactly what she wanted at all times. He writes her name in full, including, bracketed, her maiden name. He writes little about his feelings for his wife but his love for, and dependency on, her is clear. He is deprecating about the academic achievements of his children but his love for them is also unmissable, as well as his pride in his eldest son’s circus skills.

He describes the work as an antidote to Round Robin letters – it is part blog, part reminiscence, part common-place book with a deal of nostalgic grumbling about how things change but never for the better. He trawls the Hereford Times and Western Mail for amusing items about petty crime and the tribulations of benefit claimants, finding that Age Concern suffered a “cruel setback” when their kettle was stolen and a couple are “in shock” after the theft of a plastic swan worth £10 from their garden.

He repeats rather adolescent vulgar jokes told to him by friends such as Barry (Cryer) and Paul (Bailey). One, at least, is worth saving – A woman goes into a pet shop to buy a parrot. She is offered one at a significant discount because it used to live in a brothel and the vendor can’t guarantee that it won’t repeat unsavoury words. She takes it anyway. At home the parrot comments politely about the décor and praises the good looks of the new owner’s daughters. Then her husband comes home …… I think you’ll have to buy the book for the punch-line (or look on p. 191 in your local bookshop).

His failure to gain the fellowship of the Royal Society of Literature rankles. After being told by several friends that being FRSLit. is no great shakes and that he shouldn’t worry about it, he finally realises that they are all fellows and wonders why they haven’t mounted a campaign to get him in. He tries to make up for it by adding to his final by-line, after Dr Roger Lewis, MA, PhD, DLitt (Hon), FRSA, FRGS and FRAS. Not sure about the last – Astrological? Aeronautical? Anthropological? For good measure he makes sure we know that he stays at the Royal Society of Medicine – presumably his psychologist wife is a fellow.

I am grateful to him for one insight into Pinter, the man. Paul Bailey long ago wrote a review of a Pinter radio play in the Listener parodying Pinter’s laconic style. Forty years on Bailey ran into Pinter coming out of the Gents at the Royal Academy – “Don’t think I’ve fucking forgotten”, snarled the Nobel Laureate. I am less grateful that Lewis has thoroughly put me off Lady Antonia’s memoir which I have already bought.

His moaning about money, or the lack of it, wears a bit thin when you consider his lifestyle, shuttling back and forth between darkest Herefordshire and Bad Ischl in Austria, his gourmet dinners and his stupendous bar bills, with nights spent downing Brandy Alexanders in the Groucho. He finds Alan Coren’s leavings of £3 million or so particularly provoking but, for heaven’s sake, Coren had great talent and everybody knew who he was.

Seasonal Suicide Notes is, by its very nature, a fragmented work the pages of which can be read in any order you choose – no bookmark needed. I found myself repeatedly reading out bits to my long-suffering wife, something I only do with books that make me laugh. The author is probably nicer than he makes out, even if he has badly upset one or two people along the way. One of the blurb writers suggests that he is the kind of drinking companion we’d all like to have – I agree, even if you’d have to tell him to give it a rest when it came to money, or the FRSLit. ( )

Roger Lewis boasts that he has a large chip on his shoulder and whilst his self deprecating style of writing initially made me laugh it began to grate after a while. There are some funny stories but also lots of non-funny ones and two thirds of the way through the book I lost interest. ( )

If you're nauseated by annual round robin letters featuring your friends' uber-talented children and recollection of bijou holidays in far-flung parts of the world, then Roger Lewis' collection is the antidote you need. Acerbic, spiteful, misanthropic, wounded, bitter, critical and very, very funny. ( )

Far too many obscure references to unknown (to me) people and TV shows... ( )