It ain’t like your regular sort of day.

Nope. It ain’t.

It ain’t my regular kind ‘o book, neither.

It’s interesting how so many people found this Booker Prize winning novel boring, with the usual “What were the judges thinking?” comments. For me, this book was sort of an artichoke with many overlapping segments and all the characters knowing most of what’s at the heart of it. They have been together for so many years that no one needs to discuss their simmering resentments; it would seem petty to bring up their grievances at this late day but deep inside, they would like to. They’re from the generation of post-WW II men who don’t communicate, where real men don’t complain, they just get on with it.

The story centers around Jack Dodds, a butcher who has died of cancer and whose last wish was that his ashes be scattered in the sea by four men who were his drinking companions; there is an uneasy history between the five which is slowly explained in choral fashion, with the added mystery of why his widow, Amy, doesn’t want to accompany them. The frequent narrator of events is Ray, who first met Jack when they were soldiers and whose life was saved by Jack in the desert during the war. Despite an uncanny talent for picking horses, Ray is an insurance clerk whose life has left him and whose daughter now lives in Australia. The youngest of the group is Vince is a dealer in luxury cars who was adopted by Jack. The perpetual instigator of the group is Lenny, an ex-boxer, whose daughter had a past relation with Vince. The fourth member is Vic, an undertaker, who is the peacemaker on this journey. Absent is Amy, Jack’s widow, for reasons we are slow to understand but one of the keys to the story is June, the mentally-disabled daughter she had with Jack, who she visits regularly even though June is unable to recognize her and who Jack never visited, one of the thorns in their relationship. All of the older men whom has fancied Amy at some point but she chose Jack.

All of these threads, and more, are factored in as the story develops. In a sense, it’s like a story of family where there’s a long history which each knows all or a part of but is never discussed, just left to brew. As I read, I had questions because so much seemed to be left incomplete or unexplained but the spaces were gradually filled in. The author, Graham Swift, admits to this being a sort of homage to Faulkner’s “As I Lay Dying” (which I’ve never read) so that gives you an idea: the author isn’t rushed to explain, he just lets the characters get around to doing it at their own speed. It’s not a straight narrative but an accumulation of perspectives on a shared past. Stories well-told through dialogues are difficult to do but worth the trouble to read. I liked it very much and admired in particular the craftwork behind this mosaic.

The plot of this novel can be seen in other reviews on this site, or more comprehensively at http://www.bookrags.com/studyguide-la...

I came to this novel having last year read my first two Graham Swift novels, the strong Waterland and the excellent Mothering Sunday, one of my top 20 novels of 2016, but wary in case this was another of the right author, wrong book phenomenon associated with the Booker prize.

Unfortunately I think its a classic example (at least with the benefit of hindsight)

Although I enjoyed the book it did not reach the heights of the other two books, and as a Booker winner is very much middle ranking (neither an outstanding or a stinker).

Overall I found the book too sentimental, and although the Point of View chapter technique serves well to explore the small secrets, passions or resentments known peculiar to each character, it only highlights the interchangability of the main characters and the fundamental sameness of their backstories as well as the "voice" for each that Swift uses.

Having read the book I discovered there is a film adaptation and its telling that I could guess in advance and with almost complete accuracy the list of London "character" actors that would be cast.

Последното пътешествие на петима мъже, от които единият - вече покойник, ги изправя пред равносметката на изминалите 50 години. Трагедиите са тривиално-незабележими, предателствата - невидими, и всъщност в живота никой не познава истински никого, просто защото не желае да го познава. Познанието, според старото клише, носи тъга. Навикът е далеч по-лесна смазка за реалността.

Романът на Суифт е някак типично по английски приятно старомоден, съставен от мънички детайли, изобилстващи със скрити значения и щедро поръсен с английска зеленина и пролетен дъжд - в рамките на един единствен ден. Началото и краят си приличат, а промеждутъкът е неусетен миг, често уж секунда изчакване, но стартовата линия така и не е пресечена.

Мисля, че намразих Ейми заради сляпата и упорита нерешителност. Но това е то цял един живот - запълнен, но непознаваем.

This was easily the least exciting Booker Prize winner I’ve ever read.
You know that other London all us new hipster Londoners never get to know? Even though we all live together, on the same streets, we are divided by our pubs. There are the new hipster pubs with craft beer and a cosmopolitan atmosphere, and then right next to them, there is an old man pub. The Weatherspoon’s kind of affair with a tatty carpet and a clientele that has known each other for decades.

If I ever end up in a pub like that, it’s by mistake or by some unforeseen circumstances. I’m ashamed to admit that I have little curiosity about the people there and usually just feel uncomfortable and want to leave. Those pubs are like little towns, every newcomer is an event in itself, though I’m sure the hostility is entirely imagined by me and due to my unchecked social anxiety. *

* I know there are many people that disagree with me entirely on this point and for some reason maintain that old man pubs are actually the best. This is irrelevant to this review.

“Last Orders” is an old man pub novel. And is just as thrilling. I’m told it is a tribute/remake/rip-off of As I Lay Dying by Faulkner. I can’t comment on that as I haven’t read any Faulkner at all but I feel Faulkner has to be better than this.

Other than being a pub novel, it’s a road trip novel with a group of friends driving to Margate to scatter the ashes of their late friend as per his last wish.
There is some plot, secrets are revealed, some sort of emotions are felt but everything really tastes like stale beer. Or like the idea of holidaying in Margate. My life has been so far more exciting than the stories of the characters and it’s not like there is anything quaint about them either. It’s a bunch of sad old men who look back on their lives, weighing their regrets and realising they too will die soon. They are also indistinguishable and it’s not helped by the fact that there is, for example, a Vic and a Vince.

(That is all not to say you can’t write an amazing book about a boring person, but for that I’d like to direct you to ‘This is How’ by MJ Hyland.)

I think the problem is actually not that they are boring but that they are not authentic. They are still like those figures I see when I quickly peek inside an old mans pub, some characters from a British sitcom from the 80s that’s all old London slang and zero substance. I didn’t buy the whole Sarf London vernacular – it feels forced. This is how I would make them talk (and I clearly know fuck all about South London vernacular despite living in Camberwell for three whole years).

There is also a film. Maybe it’s better.

Upon reading the premise, I remember that the film has been watched: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0253200/

Dedication: For Al

Opening quotes:

But man is a Noble Animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave. Urn Burial by Sir Thomas Browne.

I do like to be beside the seaside. John A. Glover-Kind

Opening: It ain't like your regular sort of day.

should've been a short story

As the story opens, Jack has died and four of his friends are gathered in a London pub to carry out his last wishes regarding scattering his ashes. This small group of characters reminisces about Jack, which leads them to musings about the past. We learn their backstories through flashbacks, along with facts about Jack’s life. It is told in an atmospheric way. The tone is wistful. It is a quiet and reflective story. It is not all that dynamic, but I enjoyed it and am glad I read it. This book won the Booker Prize in 1996.

3.5

This begins: “It ain’t like your regular sort of day.” Not exactly “Call me Ishmael” but you have to start somewhere. A little workshoppy, but there’s some promise there. Perhaps it could turn into a one-day, colloquial journey through themes and characters.

But then again, maybe not. In a few brisk chapters we have encountered (the word met suggests more purchase than we are given) Ray, Jack, Sue, Sally, Vince, Vic, Lenny, Amy, Bernie, Brenda, Joan, Mandy, Carol and Charlie. Was there any need to introduce us to Bill, 150 pages in? 150 pages in and I have to furrow my brow to be certain who’s the mother, who’s the daughter, who’s married to whom, and who’s the dead guy. Workshoppy. Yes, I think that’s the appropriate word here. 150 pages in and you can tell that the dead guy wanted his ashes tossed by his friends. But they have to travel and they have to remember things about themselves, and about the dead guy. 150 pages in and you can already tell there looms some larger secret, but one that will be held just far enough away from us to drive us toward that teasing denouement, in lieu of, say, plot. 150 pages in … and I don’t really care anymore.

There was one scene where Ray's daughter tells him she is following some man half-way around the world to Australia. I felt Ray's loss. I know that ache. That is why "Old men get pissy eyes." But that moment was soon obscured by the next brief chapter where the reader must sift the pronouns to see just who it is he's writing about now.

I have reading friends who swear by Graham Swift. And the Booker people sure like him. I've tried 2 1/2 books and I give up.

На вълнолома на времето

Четирима приятели се събират в лондонска кръчма, за да се сбогуват с покойния си другар Джак Додс – майстор касапин и сърце на компанията от десетилетия. Рей, Вик, Лени и осиновеният син на Джак Винс прибират урната в картонена кутия и поемат на пътешествие към кея в Маргейт (Кент), за да разпръснат праха над морето, както гласи последното желание на покойника. Пътуват в луксозен мерцедес, който Винс е избрал за повода. Колкото неподходящо комично, толкова и тъжно, като съдбите им, предадени през разговори и спомени в деликатния роман „Последни поръчки“ на Греъм Суифт.

Ако историята ви звучи прозаично, то е, защото тя действително е такава. Занимава се с обикновени хора и техните обикновени съдби. Това, което прави книгата оригинална, е умението на Суифт да ни убеди, че си заслужава да прекараме 370 страници в компанията на тези герои. Колкото повече участваме в това увлекателно и трагикомично пътешествие, толкова повече усещаме, че несполуките, провалените взаимоотношения и страхът от смъртта са като прах, който ще се разпръсне над водата.

Необикновен е и подходът на Суифт. Половината глави в книгата са именувани на местата, през които приятелите пътуват, докато останалите – на героите с техните гласове, които ни изповядват спомените си. Така например Суифт обогатява историята с гледната точка на вдовицата на Джак Ейми, която се грижи за умствено изостаналата им дъщеря Джун и е ключова за отношенията им. Тази първоначално объркваща, но без съмнение занимателна структура, е заимствана от романа на Уилям Фокнър „Докато лежах и умирах“. Очевиден факт, който Суифт не крие, още повече че героите в двете книги поемат на път, за да се сбогуват с близък (макар в едната да става въпрос за ковчег, а в другата за урна с прах).

Това вероятно кара част от журито, което награждава романа на Суифт с Букър през 1996 г., да изрази съжаление, че не е връчило приза на Маргарет Атууд, разкривайки абсурдните и дори фарсови обстоятелства покрай някои престижни награди. Суифт е невинен в тези евтини обвинения. Романът му заимства предпоставката и структурата, но сюжетът, героите, обстановката и самият стил са коренно различни. Спорен е въпросът дали това намигване към Фокнър обогатява с нещо романа, тъй като читателят трудно ще открие паралели между Американския и Английския юг, но това е въпрос за друг разговор.

Изреченията са кратки, мислите на героите са простички, отсъстват интелектуални или поетични монолози. Напълно в синхрон със средата, в която са прекарали целия си живот – няколко пресечки в Южен Лондон. Изключение прави участието на Джак и Рей във Втората световна война, което отнема няколко глави и създава историческа перспектива за обстоятелствата, покрай които се е формирало поколението им. Мечтите на младите войници за собствен бизнес, свобода и щастливо семейство бързо биват смазани в баналното им съществуване у дома.

Ако действително времето е плосък кръг и всеки момент съществува едновременно с всеки друг, то „Последни поръчки“ на Греъм Суифт ни разкрива именно горчивата ирония, породена от часовниковия механизъм и зъбчатите му колела, между които младостта с нейната наивност и старостта с разочарованието ѝ биват смазани на прах. От този прах ние се учим да живеем, да приемаме и да се надяваме, че когато дойде краят ни, ще има поне четирима особняци, които да ни изпратят въпреки вятъра, който брули лицата им, на вълнолома на времето.

В речта си за наградата Букър Суифт благодари единствено на своите читатели и оставя впечатлението за скромен човек, израснал на същите улици като своите герои. Романът му е филмиран няколко години по-късно и поради звездния си актьорски състав продължава да стига до зрителите, докато книгата стига до нас благодарение на издателство „Кръг“, които са свършили чудесна работа с редакцията и превода.

Honestly? I think it's brilliant, objectively. It's really interesting getting in the characters' minds throughout the car trip, as if someone photographed our mental trips while we look out of the window pretending to be in a music video, it's interesting.
I didn't like it because I don't like the feeling of regret that older people have, especially them, but I like that (some of them) they realise they can do better. Still, I would have really spared myself the time of reading it, I hate Vince with vibrant passion and Jack and Ray are despicable in their ordinary way. Cheers for my boy Vic, my pal, my sweet cheese, my good time boy, I would have plucked my eyes if it wasn't for him.

Unfortunately I couldn't connect to this book..the language, the words, the English working class just could not engage with my 2011's mind in any way.