Joy in the Morning

Who could resist that endorsement from Douglas Adams on the cover of Joy in the Morning? I used to read loads of PG Wodehouse in high school, but I'm not sure I've picked one up in the last forty years. Have I read Joy in the Morning before? Who knows? It's a Jeeves and Wooster book (always my favourite genre of Wodehouse, though I also dabbled in Psmith and Blandings), and it involves numerous misunderstandings, fancy dress, secret meetings, a cottage burning down (which event everyone takes far too lightly, in my opinion), a zealous Boy Scout, and an earnest policeman. As usual, Bertie Wooster tries to help out his friends, finds himself quickly out of his depth, and has to call on the inimitable Jeeves for solutions (there was not quite enough Jeeves in this volume for my money, but I'm sure I can rectify that elsewhere). The thing about Wodehouse is, you know exactly what you're in for.

At first I couldn't help hearing Wooster's narration in the perfect voice of  Hugh Laurie (what an inspired piece of casting that was!), but I was soon reminded of why I adored these books so much as a teenager. Wodehouse's reputation took a massive hit in the UK after he broadcast to America from Germany during the war (to be fair, he was stuck there, and the broadcasts were comic, not political), but I feel as if he's gradually been rehabilitated, though he never returned to live in the UK again. Joy in the Morning was published in 1948, when he was probably held in greatest scorn in his native land.

Wodehouse excels at two things: neatly constructed, absurdist plots, and an utterly delightful, idiosyncratic voice. Playful, energetic, mellifluous and uniquely convoluted, every page presents fresh treasures. Opening at random:

There arose before me a vision of this relative by marriage, as he would probably appear directly I mentioned Boko's name -- the eyes glaring, the moustache bristling and the tout ensemble presenting a strong resemblance to a short-tempered tiger of the jungle which has just seen its peasant shin up a tree. And while it would be going too far, perhaps, to say that Bertram Wooster shuddered, a certain coolness of the feet unquestionably existed.

Now, you either love this stuff or you hate it. Me, I think I still love it.