I find that I come to this series of Novels very late: as Dr Doctor Taylor so modestly takes care to tell us, through the voice of Mrs Maureen 'Kinky' Auchileck, one of his most charming characters, this is the FOURTEENTH occasion on which he has delighted us with his tales from the life of 'Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly'.
I am not sure as to the dramatic date of Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly's first appearance in the pages of the literature of Northern Ireland, but by Episode 14, we have reached 1969, and to prove it are presented with a veritable slew of real-life details, vividly bringing to life the author's hours spent online with newspaper archives of the period. But in Ballybucklebo it's good news: Catholics and Protestants get on so well here that before long, in the interests of political harmony, like Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, it's a case of 'Hey Kids, let's put the show on right here!'
I think that what Patrick Taylor has created here is one of the very sharpest parodies I have read in recent years. But it doesn't do the obvious, finding humour in the events and characters of North Down in the late 1960s: Taylor is much too clever for that. No, Taylor's target - and it's a bullseye every time - is the sentimental novelist of small-town nostalgia and feel-good blarney: he spikes him repeatedly, relentlessly, and utterly without mercy, until the reader can take it no longer. The writing is sheer, pitch-perfect bliss: no noun need feel the want of an adjective, no verb an adverb, no institution escapes mention without a potted wikipedia definition. And Taylor's take on lesser authors' tin-eared dialogue is delicious: it was in Chapter 3, when I came upon the following 'conversation' between two old friends (from their days as medical students at - where else? - Queen's University Belfast) that I really thought I'd died and gone to heaven:
"[My exams are] behind me now. One early basic sciences exam called the Primary, four years training under supervision after our houseman's year, then the big one in London, written papers, practical cases at Saint Bart's, then orals at the Royal College itself."
"And you passed. You can put FRCS, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, after your name, drop 'Doctor' and adopt the honorific 'Mister'."
Jack laughed. "All because of some mediaeval academic dispute between physicians who demanded to be called 'Doctor' and barber surgeons who had to make do with 'Mister'." ... and so on, and so on, and on, and on. Priceless.
As a child, I read an Enid Blyton bedtime story in which a lazy little boy was given garden chores to do during 'bob-a-job' week. To his dismay, the owner of the garden refused to pay him when he came to collect his 'bob'. It seemed that the boy had failed properly to stack the shelves: had he done so, he would have found the money hidden there; instead of washing each flower-pot, he had merely sprayed the pile with the hose - thus missing the money hidden amongst the pots; you get the idea.
Taylor is playing a similar game here: for lazy little boys who don't care to read this book with due care and attention, only bemused disappointment will result; but for the good scouts among us prepared to read it closely and to see it for what it is, the wondrous gift of laughter lies in store.