I stumbled across Robert Rankin’s “Brentford Trilogy” some years ago.
I also started a little out of order, as I’d picked up a copy of a book, classified as British humor, with a cover picture of Elvis toting 7.62 mm Mini-gun, which spews 6,000 rounds per minute. The armament is a running gag in a number of the books. Hey, I bought the novel based on the cover art. It did deliver. Plus that novel introduced me to Sprout-lore.
It’s not unlike Douglas Adams or any of the other serial Brits who do almost pointless series that are comedy, and the structure sometimes leaves a little to be desired. And all I recall, as I glance at the bookshelf, is that it starts with The Antipope, and the running gags don’t stop. For that matter, I seriously doubt that Rankin’s work would ever translate to America because it’s quaintly British, in a parochial, provincial manner. And hilarious, at least, to me it’s side splitting funny. While I laughed out loud at Torpedo Juice, I smirked through Rankin’s latest, Knees Up Mother Earth.
It’s an acquired taste, to be sure. It’s British. Colloquial British. One has to understand the difference between pint pulled by a traditional part-time barman with a bowtie, and pint pulled by a regular bartender. I can’t say that I’ve ever tasted the brand of choice in the novels, but I’ve seen my share of the inside of the pubs, and I can grasp some of the subtle nuances of language and flavor.
After all, that’s what it’s all about, too.
It’s just silly material, but I don’t mind paying for a richly hardbound copy of the book, at the inflated British prices, because I’ll treasure the novel for a while. The main characters in the latest #7 or #9 in the trilogy, Pooley and Omalley are back, and they are burdened with trying to save the world.
But I can’t recommend this type of novel for standard issue Americans. It’s like redneck jokes, you know, those just don’t work in other parts of the country. Who would understand the inherent humor in a title, The Suburban Book of the Dead? (Part of another series, but the characters and places interchange pretty freely.)
There’s another side of the Brentford series that’s equally amusing, given some of the circles that I’ve circulated in, there’s a number of inside jokes about the esoteric occult. Which gets layered in with bawdy humor, body humor, and a pair of lads who really would like nothing better to do than sit at the bar and have a beer while avoiding hard work. Or work of any sort.
Which is why I find the books so amusing. But then, I have weird tastes.
