Royal Flash (The Flashman Papers, Book 2) by George MacDonald Fraser - PPPP
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Royal Flash is the second book in a series of twelve comprising the memoirs of a fictional Brit making his way through actual historical events beginning in the early-mid 19th century.
I like my comedy with a history lesson, or at least while copping a feel of history’s boobs, so I was of course very excited to get reacquainted with my favorite Victorian-era coward/scoundrel/lech.
Harry Flashman is back, and in what seems to be karma for recent transgressions, finds himself in a sticky situation in Germany, 1847. And once again, his talents for horses, foreign languages, and bedding ladies are on display as he navigates one of the most frightening and incredible experiences of his life.
As in the first book, Fraser skillfully weaves an interesting and entertaining tale full of vivid descriptions, insightful observations, and incisive wit. Further, there are a couple of powerful and surprising scenes that provide a window into Flashy’s complex nature and additional depth to the story.
The only problem I had was that I was a victim of my own high expectations. I loved the first book so much that I was unable rein them in. While there are many LOL’s to be had in this volume as well, since I was already used to Flashy’s antics, they were more subdued than the everyone-on-the-subway-is-looking-at-me-like-I’m-batshit-crazy LOL’s that I was hoping for.
Having said that, I of course recommend this book to everyone who enjoyed the first one, but must caution against getting your hopes up too high. 4 pearls!
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Bonus Quote #1 – This is one of the reasons Flashy and I would be bff’s: “My own idea of theatrical entertainment, I admit, is the music-hall; strapping wenches and low comedians are my line, and your fine drama and music bore me to death. So I found The Barber of Seville a complete fag: fat Italians screeching, and not a word to be understood.”
Bonus Quote #2: “We did not hurry on the journey, which was by way of Paris, a city I had often wanted to visit, having heard that debauchery there was a fine art. I was disappointed: whores are whores the world over, and the Parisian ones are no different from any other. And French men make me sick; always have done. I’m degenerate, but they are dirty with it.”
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