Yesterday I posted on Bluesky that I’d finished this book and that I found it affected me negatively. I decided I should probably explain myself. I only finished it yesterday so this is just my initial emotional reaction. I expect there will be more thoughts later.
This is not exactly a book review, more a post-trauma self-analysis. If it was a review, I’d give Charlie Says five stars, but it’s not for the faint hearted and not everyone will like it.
Our protagonist Charlie is a moderately successful comedian, known largely for the racism of his performances “back in the day.” He’s also known as the person who voiced that cartoon cat who used to warn children about everyday dangers in public information films.
He’s trying to restart his career with new material and escape his past. He even has an Asian agent (who was briefly his girlfriend). But audiences still want to hear his cat voice, preferably making racist jokes. The cat meows obscenities in his ear and he repeats them aloud into a microphone.
When he returns to his home town to attend his mother’s funeral, the true horror begins.
The description of the town and the poverty of the people who live there is very evocative, and some bad things happen, but what Williamson does to me then is worse than violence. Charlie is welcomed, and balks only slightly at the casual racism that his family still toss around.
Here’s the thing: I know these people. I grew up in a council flat in Govan, a very poor area of Glasgow. It’s where Rab C. Nesbit is from if that helps you picture it. I well remember the ubiquitous chips on people’s shoulders. We were the pinnacle of creation: we the white, able bodied, protestant, cis-het working class. Everyone else was fair game for mockery and cruel humour.
There were jokes about black people, brown people, oriental people, disabled people, queer people, Irish people, travelling people, women. Catholics weren’t funny, just targets for violence. Looking back, it was awful, but I was complicit.
This might sound like I’m making excuses for myself, but I was a young closeted gay boy trying to fit in. It felt to me that the people around me understood the world, that everyone had a place and a role in it. I thought I was too stupid to grasp what others knew instinctively. I laughed at racist, sexist and homophobic jokes, retold them, joined in with conversations that would get all of us cancelled now. Just to belong.
Really, the jokes are only a part of it. I was a horrible child.
I have some sympathy for my Govan community too. Life was hard for a lot of people, and maintaining dignity by playing the part of the noble working class can make it bearable. A lot of contemporary evil has its roots in poverty.
Anyway, back to the book. Charlie is trying to be a better person, to escape from his past and from the cat who still wants to control him. But he consistently fails: whether with an audience or his family, he falls too easily back into type, feeding on the positive feedback he gets for being a good old racist boy. Doesn’t he love his country, his own people? And it’s only a bit of fun – you can’t laugh at anything these days.
There are key scenes that I don’t want to give away, but he’s forced to accept that the cat is a part of him, not an evil outside influence. And when he faces difficult choices, he takes the easy one every time. Apart from once, but he changes his mind almost immediately.
Mr Williamson is telling us (me in particular it feels like) that we are still the problem. The attitudes of our childhood stay with us, dormant bulbs in the dark mulch if our subconscious, and they will start to regrow as soon as we give them any light.
I’ve spent decades learning, growing, trying to become a better person, and in a moment Neil took a razor blade and sliced through it all to find the cowardly and insecure little boy that’s still inside me. It’s a painful reminder of the need for constant vigilance. I think I’m aware of my own privilege, but sometimes we need to be reminded, even if it hurts.
When people talk about extreme horror they usually mean graphically described violence, but this is worse. This is truly extreme.
Thanks, Neil
I only came out as gay about three years ago, and I never had any sexual experience with a man until my late forties. I’ve been married to a woman for most of my life and, despite knowing from childhood that I was attracted to men, I never did anything about it until the last year of my marriage. It sounds ridiculous now but that’s the way it was.
stewartguitar 