Tuesday, October 15, 2013


Which is what his friends called P. G. Wodehouse.  My favorite writer ever -- I finally stopped reading him while riding in the subway because if he caught you just the right way you'd start laughing and not be able to stop.  And people would think you were a lunatic.

132 years ago today he was born.

Proof, one might speciously argue, of a benevolent God.  If you click here you can read My Man Jeeves -- a pretty good place to either start or come back to -- for free.  If you're feeling flusher, to the degree of, say, five or six bucks, you can buy the new Vanity Fair which has an excerpt from a "new" Wodehouse book written by someone who isn't Wodehouse.  Because nobody lives to be 132.

The gist of the new book is that Bertie and Jeeves are visiting the Earl of something-or-other's country house and for reasons that weren't fully explained in the excerpt (although it's probably safe to assume they involve the getting of either a girl or some money), Jeeves must pretend to be the aristocrat and Bertie must pretend to be his butler.

Ordinarily this would throw me into a fit of exasperation, but I read the thing and laughed quite a bit and, channeling the new Pope, thought hey, who am I to judge?

Nice wheels.
Wheels in the sense that you can see three of them, or the slang-ish collective singular for car?
The latter.
Ahhh.  The car in question looks a bit like the one Matthew Crawley was driving when he was hit by the lorry at the end of last season's Downton Abbey.
An Ace, I think.
By Ace, do you mean the model of the car or the decision to leave Downton Abbey?
The former.
Ahhh.  Terrible career move, if you ask me.
I agree.  The man's not Hugh Grant.
So few of us are.


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