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A Scribbler in Soho Reviews

A Scribbler in Soho by Naim Attallah

A Scribbler in Soho

A Celebration of Auberon Waugh

Naim Attallah

3.38 out of 5

5 reviews

Imprint: Quartet Books
Publisher: Quartet Books
Publication date: 3 Jan 2019
ISBN: 9780704374577

A fitting tribute to the acerbic wit and incisive commentary of one of Britain's finest post-war journalists. Probably the greatest journalist since George Orwell, Auberon Waugh produced an astonishing amount of biting satire, spoof diaries and consistently riveting observation during three of the most traumatic decades in our recent history. This celebration of his work considers his time at Private Eye, and in particular, his Diaries (which he considered his masterwork); his editorship of the Literary Review and ends with an account of his co-founding the Academy Club.

3 stars out of 5
Melanie McDonagh
1 Feb 2019

"the author describes in detail all the events of Waugh’s career"

It’s an odd book, neither an outright anthology nor biography nor memoir, but something of all three, in which the author describes in detail all the events of Waugh’s career with which he was involved, especially as the proprietor of the persistently loss-making Literary Review, which Waugh edited. There’s too much space given to libel actions but we do get lots of his pieces, which remain subversive, funny and often to the point. He couldn’t survive now, and that, you know, reflects badly on us.



4 stars out of 5
1 Feb 2019

"A Scribbler in Soho also includes many of his finest ‘From the Pulpit’ pieces"

Naim Attallah says in his conclusion that Waugh was ‘a man who feared no one, whose wit was uniquely inventive and entertaining and the loss of whose genius is incalculable’. Hear, hear to that.

3 stars out of 5
24 Jan 2019

"Naim Attallah describes Waugh as his mentor, hero and idol. But the riddle of the journalist’s split personality is left unresolved"

I never knew Waugh personally... and when I sat down to compile that anthology I was mindful thatI had no right to call him Bron, as his many friends did. Yet reading Naim Attallah’s new anthology, I wonder whether this was actually an asset. Attallah was a close friend of Waugh’s, and his boss and patron during Waugh’s long stint as editor of Literary Review. In a heartfelt foreword he calls Waugh his mentor, his hero and his idol. His affection and admiration is sincere, and often rather moving, but it doesn’t bode well for a book about a man who — in print, though not in person — could be spectacularly cruel... No matter. It would be very difficult to produce a bad or boring book about Auberon Waugh — and although Attallah sometimes threatens to have a jolly good go, Waugh rides to the rescue whenever the paean becomes too fulsome. Waugh was incredibly prolific (you could compile several books like this one and still not scratch the surface) and among these old favourites are many entertaining articles I’ve never seen before.

4 stars out of 5
Roger Lewis
18 Jan 2019

"Auberon Waugh’s skewering of humbug would spark a Twitter meltdown today"

From the pulpit of this little magazine, Waugh was able to inveigh against modernism in the arts (“solemn drivel”) and poetry that failed to rhyme, scan or make sense. He inaugurated the Bad Sex prize, for seedy passages of erotica in fiction. He also jeered at venerable asses such as the poet Stephen Spender, who had never written a line anyone could remember. “You would have thought, by the law of averages, he would have written one such line, if only by accident.” Under Waugh’s editorship, which ended only with his demise, the Literary Review lost £120,000 annually. The debts were covered by the very forgiving and forbearing Attallah.

3 stars out of 5
John Carey
13 Jan 2019

"A celebration of the splenetic writer and Private Eye stalwart Auberon Waugh"

Despite all this, Waugh never ceased to love and idolise his father, and the snobbish persona he adopts in his writing is clearly based on Evelyn. More to the point, although his wounds caused him pain and infections for the rest of his life, he worked almost to the day of his death with prodigious energy, writing each week for several periodicals. Nor did he allow his suffering to affect his temper, but treated subordinates with courtesy and consideration, as their testimonies, printed by Attallah, bear out. The writer was detestable, but the man was not, and Attallah rightly celebrates him.