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An Encyclopaedia of Myself

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An Encyclopaedia of Myself

By: Jonathan Meades
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About this listen

LONGLISTED FOR THE SAMUEL JOHNSON PRIZE 2014

‘A symphonic poem about postwar England and Englishness … A masterpiece’ Financial Times

The 1950s were not grey. In Jonathan Meades’s detailed, petit-point memoir they are luridly polychromatic. They were peopled by embittered grotesques, bogus majors, vicious spinsters, reckless bohos, pompous boors, drunks, suicides. Death went dogging everywhere. Salisbury had two industries: God and the Cold War. For the child, delight is to be found everywhere – in the intense observation of adult frailties, in landscapes and prepubescent sex, in calligraphy and in rivers.

This memoir is an engrossing portrait of a disappeared provincial England, a time and place unpeeled with gruesome relish.

 21st Century Europe Great Britain Modern Political Science Politics & Government Cold War

Critic reviews

‘By far the best picture of the 1950s I have read’ George Walden, The Times

‘A sulphurously brilliant alphabetical stroll through the seamier byways of the author’s youth in post-war Salisbury’ Jane Shilling, Evening Standard, Books of the Year

‘A radiant account of Britain getting itself together’ Kathryn Hughes, BBC Radio 4, Books of the Year

‘An Encyclopaedia of Myself is a corrective – an anti-misery memoir’ Stuart Jeffries. Guardian

‘Meades vividly conjures a vanished world of Cracker Barrel cheese adverts, Aertex shirts and ‘Johnny Remember Me’ on the airwaves … He is a very great prose stylist, with a dandy’s delight in the sound and feel of words, and we are lucky to have him.’ Ian Thomson, Spectator
All stars
Most relevant
Close your eyes & enjoy the erudition. (*bring a dictionary). Nostalgic for 50s & 60s England? Meades captures so much of that time, articulating your sense of loss for things you can't remember, but instantly recognise. They're described in lovingly unsentimental detail: childhood car crushes, the taste of poster paint, biscuits, holidays in weather-beaten caravans with weather-beaten relatives, parental banter, illicit curiosity about death, Benny Hill & Ken Russell and most of the parks and gardens of Dorset, Wiltshire & Hampshire.

Listening to Meades' monologues are a chore for many, but a joy to some of us, so several hours of autobiographical revisionist rambling is well worth your money or Audible credits. Meades' delivery is deadpan to a fault and you could be forgiven for thinking it's a po-faced indulgence of a book, but listen carefully and the humour will emerge. You could listen 10 times and still not register every reference. Enjoy the density responsibly.

So dense with detail you could cut & serve as pie

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Meades' own narration makes this memoir an absolute joy to listen to. Very funny too.

An absolute joy

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This is the most enjoyable autobiography particularly since the author/narrator is a unique genius! Formidable!!

Magnificent!

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I find Meades interesting, perhaps you will too. Or not, in which case try rock climbing. And if you don't like that either maybe stop being so very fussy.

Meades can talk for England

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I first got hooked on Meades' stuff back in 1997 with the television series Even Further Abroad. His rambling monologues full of twisting turns, loops, call backs and gnarly dead ends fascinated me. Half the time I wasn’t sure if he was just making up long words to sound good. He was, and it did. His trademark po-faced delivery is hilariously funny but would be nothing without intelligence and bucket loads of charisma. Now, if you know Meades’ television work, charisma might not be the first thing that jumps out at you. In his shades and suit disguise he might seem anonymous. But for me, the television character ‘Jonathan Meades’ is as important a comical creation as, say, Spinal Tap. a pastiche, a cartoon and a withering dissection of the format.

Almost immediately becoming one of my fantasy dinner party guests, I tried catching everything he’s done since. A glaring omission though in my Meades journey was his books. Not a great one for fiction, it was a lucky twist that this arrived, his rather fanciful and obviously way over the top autobiography. The structure is simple. Alphabetically, he travels through his life and tells us his story. And it’s a good story. Growing up in a similar place to that which I did, despite being a few decades before me, it was all instantly recognisable and was easy to share the nostalgia. The opening alphabetical entry “Abuser, sexual: ..” should sort the men from the boys. Literally and figuratively. It resulted in the first of my involuntary satisfied nasal snorts which occurred at regular points throughout the book. The sign of a good purchase.

There’s no need to tell you about the quality of the writing. It’s flawless. But where this triumphs, predictably, is Meades' deadpan, matter of fact delivery. It’s funny and in places moving, and makes the recording seem very slight at a mere 12 and a half hours long. It rattles by. He packs in a lot and as usual for him, by the time you’ve finished digesting one idea or observation, you’ve missed a couple more. It requires repeated listens and that’s exactly what I’m doing now. Just letting it flow over me and somehow, feeling myself become that tiny bit more cerebral by osmosis. Here’s hoping. But I’ll draw the line at wearing shades and a suit. For now.

Meades nust.

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