Foreword

With the publication of Pompey, the outrageously talented Jonathan Meades established himself as one of the funniest and truest writers we have. No one understands England better than Meades, its seediness, squalor and stylelessly corrupt hypocrisy, its eccentric wit and scabrous vitality. He has done for Portsmouth (Portsmouth, for heaven's sake) what Baudelaire did for Paris, Joyce for Dublin and Paul Bowles for Tangier, but in a style entirely his own and entirely suited to the hilariously seamy post-war world his novel inhabits. His stunning prose can pun, allude, shock and entertain without ever seeming to cry out for admiration. So I will cry out and admire it. One of the very best and most absurdly underrated novels of the nineties, it should have won a sackful of awards. As Shakespeare so prophetically cried: ‘O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey?’

Stephen Fry