The Diary of a Nobody begins with

Introduction by Mr Pooter

Why should I not publish my diary? I have often seen reminiscences of people I have never even heard of, and I fail to see - because I do not happen to be a 'Somebody' - why my diary should not be interesting. My only regret is that I did not commence it when I was a youth.

Charles Pooter
The Laurels,
Brickfield Terrace
Holloway

In many ways, Charles Pooter is not a Nobody. He is an oaf, a buffoon, a clot but he has a position as a City Clerk and at the end of the book is rewarded in a handsome way for his services to his "grand old master": his boss Mr Perkupp!

In lots of ways, the nature and style of this diary reminds me of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole … " A person who thinks highly of himself, who can do no wrong, whose moral stance on every issue is the only stance and why can't the rest of the world see that?

I have found myself smitten by this book and can read it time and again. Pooter really is such a clot, but the construction of the book is so good that each reading of it brings smiles and laughter at the same places every time. It tells us a lot about the book that Pooter's two best friends are Cummings and Gowing! He loses his composure at the drop of a hat or, more accurately "I left the room with silent dignity, but caught my foot in the mat."

Pooter likes to think he is the master of all he surveys. In reality, he is downtrodden and in charge of nothing.

The diary begins one week after Pooter and his wife Carrie moved into their new house. Pooter's character is set immediately: he arranges something that Carrie had already arranged; he dismisses his butterman only to repent

The book has a series of running jokes in addition to the one off jokes. The first of the running jokes involves the scraper outside their side door: all and sundry either fall over it or rip their trousers on it. Pooter seems incessantly to say, "Must remove that scraper."! Not funny when presented like that but read it and see!

April 8, Sunday. … I had to take the Curate (whose name, by-the-by, I did not catch,) round the side entrance. He caught his foot in the scraper, and tore the bottom of his trousers. Most annoying, as Carrie could not well offer to repair them on a Sunday.

The language of the book is Victorian, as we should expect: some of the sentence constructions might appear awkward now. On reflection, though, this is part of the attraction of the book: the language is as pompous as its main character!

In May Pooter and Carrie attended the Lord Mayor's reception. Of course, calamity piled up on calamity.

As they got themselves ready: "In the dark, I stepped on a piece of the cabbage, which brought me down on the flags all of a heap. For a moment I was stunned, but when I recovered I crawled upstairs into the drawing room and on looking into the chimney-glass discovered that my chin was bleeding, my shirt smeared with the coal-blocks, and my left trouser torn at the knee.

As befits the Nobody element of Pooter, at the reception itself: "I was a little annoyed with Carrie, who kept saying: "Isn't it a pity we don't know anybody?"

Pooter's Ironmonger is clearly among friends: "To think that a man who mends our scraper should know any member of our aristocracy!"

"I put my arm round [Carrie's] waist and we commenced a waltz … A most unfortunate accident occurred. I had got on a new pair of boots. Foolishly, I had omitted to take Carrie's advice; namely, to scratch the soles of them with the points of the scissors or to put a little wet on them. I had scarcely started when, like lightning, my left foot slipped away and I came down, the side of my head striking the floor with such violence that for a second or two, I did not know what had happened. I need hardly say that Carrie fell with me with equal violence, breaking the comb in her hair and grazing her elbow."

I have to say that I guffawed at this:

August 1. - Ordered a new pair of trousers at Edwards's, and told them not to cut them so loose over the boot; the last pair being so loose and also tight at the knee, looked like a sailor's, and I heard Pitt, that objectionable youth at the office, call out "Hornpipe" as I passed his desk."

Pooter's son is William Lupin Pooter and he's a card or a cad or both. Suffice it to say that Lupin is a rogue who causes Pooter more grief than anything and who causes turmoil in all respects. Lupin turns up in August out of the blue: we find out that he's been sacked. Pooter is horrified and tries to take command of the situation … he fails.

As Lupin enters the fray, we see more and more that Pooter is an anachronism: boring, fuddy duddy, a laughing stock. Lupin livens up their life as he gets involved in scrape after scrape. Lupin is irreverent too; and this causes Pooter no end of trouble, especially when Lupin is dismissed by the firm that Pooter himself works for: of course Pooter got Lupin the job.

Lupin confounds his father at every turn: May 16 To my amazement, I read that Gylterson and Sons had absolutely engaged Lupin at a salary of 200 pounds a year, with other advantages. I read the letter through three times and thought it must have been for me. But there it was - Lupin Pooter - plain enough. I was silent.

Still, after all the ups and downs of the life of a Nobody, all's well that ends well:

July 11. - I find my eyes filling with tears as I pen the note of my interview this morning with Mr Perkupp. Addressing me, he said: "My faithful servant, I will not dwell on the important service you have done our firm. You can never be sufficiently thanked. Let us change the subject. Do you like your house, and are you happy where you are?"

I replied: "Yes, sir; I love my house and I love the neighbourhood, and could not bear to leave it."

Mr Perkupp, to my surprise, said: "Mr Pooter, I will purchase the freehold of that house, and present it to the most honest and most worthy man it has ever been my lot to meet."

He shook my hand, and said he hoped my wife and I would be spared many years to enjoy it. My heart was too full to thank him; and, seeing my embarrassment, the good fellow said: "You need say nothing, Mr Pooter," and left the office.

I sent telegrams to Carrie, Gowing, and Cummings (a thing I have never done before), and asked the two latter to come round to supper.

I enjoy this book and recommend it highly. Maybe it's its quintessentially British humour that appeals to me, who knows. I've read it before and I'll read it again.

Incidentally, Arthur Lowe of Dad's Army fame, once read this diary for book at bedtime on BBC Radio 4 (I think it was). If this is available on tape of CD, I strongly recommend that too: Lowe captured the spirit of this Nobody absolutely perfectly.

Duncan Williamson
17 February 2002