By the eighth page I was emitting a stricken woofle like a bulldog that has been denied cake.

This scathing review confirms all my priors about this project. Perhaps I’m being unreasonable, but I’m equal parts depressed and enraged by this book’s existence. I don’t know who constitutes “The Wodehouse Estate” (he had no children) but they ought to resign immediately.  My first impulse was to call Faulks a string of glorious Wodehouseian insults, but that’s far too good for him.