In this post, I'd like to formally apologise for reaching 43 summers before reading Kingsley Amis' Lucky Jim.
Christopher Hitchens is right, it is the finest comic novel of the 2nd half of the the 20th century; but not as right as some bloke called Toby Young, who chucks in the first half as well.
As I wipe away remaining hysterical tears from the 'Merrie England' public lecture scene, I furthermore issue a general statement of regret to several friends and colleagues, on whom I have urged David Lodge, or Malcolm Bradbury, as the finest exemplars of the campus novel; without mentioning the Master. Was any ill-informed lit critic ever so blind!
Finally, oh fickle Lords of memory, please let the requisite time of forgetting pass quickly, so I can read it again.
