August 16th, 2013


boy's own

'Let's get gay', decided the erstwhile hero of the book I'm reading right now. It's page 162 and I'm thinking, well, you know what I'm thinking.

It isn't just the lashings of Edwardian slang that makes it almost feel like one is ploughing through a novel in some devilish version of Polari or Nadsat (and there's an episode of Doctor Who where the aliens are actually speaking Polari, and the Tardis doesn't translate it. What up with that, then?).

It's just that these jolly old boys own adventures, which I picked up for at a remainder bookshop, well, they're jolly fun, but man, do they lend themselves to a certain reading, with the whole chaps only all boys together thing. I'm sure you understand, my dear old bean.

That minor eyebrow raise aside, they're still rollicking fun (so long as one takes all the king and country larks with lashings of salt and ginger beer) and have brightened my mornings on the bus (because sometimes I'm not in the mood to struggle through a homework text before dawn). And they'd never be printed in Russia anyway, if the rabidly tory opinions of the protagonists are anything to go by (not a fan of the ragged trousered radical, by any stretch, for his lack of style as much as his politics, old bean).
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