Raisin Hell

By no stretch of the imagination a good book, but an unusually interesting one for followers of contemporary British politics.

You know, of course, Bonkin' Boris , elected representative of the commutariat of Henley-on-Thames in the Commons, former editor of The Spectator and, in between episodes of tabloid disgrace, a shadow Tory minister. One of London's great erudite and erring eccentrics. Who would not wish secretly, as I do, to be Boris, with his wit, his bicycle and his series of improbably high profile amorous folies a deux

Steeped (like its author) in the comic tradition of the early Evelyn Waugh, without for a moment reaching those heights, this book does start rather well - indeed, schooled by the British literary establishment in the supreme importance of a memorable opening sentence, Boris has slaved over his to get it just about right.

As it is improbable in the extreme that you, dear reader, will ever buy or wade through this book, it is no great sin to reproduce it here:

On what he had every reason to believe would be the last day of his undistinguished political career Roger Barlow awoke in a state of sexual excitement and with a gun to his head, the one fading as he became aware of the other

Unfortunately, the story also rather detumesces from that point on, in the effort to keep an impossibly complex plot involving a bumbling Jihadist conspiracy to blow up Uncle POTUS in the crumbly if hallowed precincts of Westminster Hall. No subplot, byway or implausible background story is left unexplored, nor is any opportunity to show off arcane knowledge left unexploited.

Johnson's primary political question for the persevering reader (growing every more dispirited as the light touch is replaced by weary slog) is whether one should love or hate America, in the light of Iraq, Abu Ghraib, Paul Newman salad dressing, and a thousand other indignities. After a few enjoyable set pieces and a great deal of self-indulgence, the question is left unanswered, apart from one's prior knowledge of The Spectator and its general attitude of amused contempt and affection for the Yank.

The Greene Blues

Our very own Aussie lass Shirley Hazzard came across Grahame Greene on the island of Capri in the late 60's and managed to strike up a friendship based initially on her superior ability to quote Browning. The interaction lasted over the next 20 odd years despite Greene's erratic and occasionally nasty behaviour, and only faltered when he became too frail and elderly to travel to Italy.

This book documents the interaction, with moderately charming vignettes of other local and not-so-local characters. Worth a look even if you're not that much of a Greeniac.

Babylon a la Polk

This is a short (220pp), pithy, beautifully written account of Iraq and the Iraqis from earliest times to today, written by an American whose Middle East academic credentials are impressive and who was also actively involved with US Middle East policy under the Kennedy administration. He dismisses the current disastrous US/UK military action in a few short sentences - it was always about the oil. His point, and its hard to disagree, is Santayana's dictum: those who don't understand history are condemned to repeat it...

Strange to realise for the first time, reading this on Anzac Day, that the spectacularly unsuccessful attempt by Australian troops and others to occupy Gallipolli was a direct consequence of Britain's decision to invade Iraq in November 1914 and a few days later to declare war on the Ottoman empire. On that occasion, they made no bones about the reason: to protect their oil sources. Forty odd years of uneasy British occupation of Iraq followed, until the revolution of 1958 which installed Saddam's predecessors.