Book Review: Bournville - Jonathan Coe

I did not get on well with this story. I know every novel has to be about The Pandemic, but this feels like it really wants to hammer home that Boris Johnson wasn't an especially good PM. I mean, yeah, we lived it. We know.

At its heart, a story about how a family survives from the Second World War until the end of Covid might be interesting. It pops back and forth in time. It flips between diary entries and third party storytelling.

But it is just so dull and trite. I found the foreshadowing particularly clumsy:

Carl Schmidt, her late husband’s grandfather, who had come to Birmingham in mysterious circumstances in the 1890s

Several parts seemed to just be lists from Wikipedia. The author describes the family's first television as letting them...

... see the racing from Kempton Park and the women’s hockey from Wembley Stadium, take a tour round the Historic Houses of England, learn about Poultry on the General Farm and discover how cricket bats were made in King Willow. Doll could obtain ‘practical help for the housewife’ from Joan Gilbert in About the Home while Sam absorbed the political wisdom of the contributors to In the News

That happens repeatedly. You can't build atmosphere simply by regurgitating a list of facts.

oil prices had soared in the wake of the Yom Kippur war, the trade unions had flexed their muscles, the IRA had killed twenty-one people in a Birmingham pub and a Labour government had been elected.

The problem with anchoring a fictional story in reality is that any observations the characters make are either highly prescient or totally naff. One character goes to the West End to watch The Mousetrap in its opening weekend:

As for the play, I must say I was rather disappointed and thought it was pretty ropey, compared to her books. Very slow and obvious. I’m glad I saw it when I did because I imagine it will be closing before very long.

The characters are drawn so broadly that we're never under any doubt who the baddies are; anyone right-wing, basically. The constant mention of Cadbury's chocolate feels like weird product placement. About as subtle as a block of Dairy Milk thrown at the head.

Perhaps the brightest spot is the (unintentionally?) hilarious sex-scene, wherein the description of a blowjob is intercut with Tony Blair giving a reading at Princess Diana's funeral.

The whole thing is one sentimental cliche after another.