My 20th Century British Literature professor assigned this along with Possession and Disgrace. I would say that she went overboard with making us read books that focus on this intellectual community of Britain, but now I feel safe to say that she must have grown to believe that upper class cunts with so much secondary schooling that they talk in some form of always in some manner of stuck-up referential moonspeak are what consist of the entire population of Britain.
Case in point, this book is written so deep inside of the author's ass that to an outsider to the British 70's - 80's literary intellectual scene you have no clue what are the author's hang-ups and what are pieces of the actual culture.
I won't fuck around here - I had to read this book, and it is not funny or in any way relatable to me - I'll go out on a limb and say that this would hardly relate to anyone who is not in the small circle of people who are like the author.
This also had the problem of being a part of a series - and it's not the first in it's series.
Why would anyone set a person to read a piece in a series where it is not the first in the series? Sigh.
I would talk at length about this, but even thinking about this book fatigues me. I just don't care about Lodge and the ilk he writes for - this book is sometimes funny, but often leaves me cold for a variety of reasons.
I don't think that I, much like most of the population, will ever really "get" this sort of comedy. It's prissy and indulgent and it speaks to another, older sort of person. Therefore, I refuse to rate this or to go into detail on it. I just don't give a shit.