I read it, ok? I read it! Can the whole Richard Osman publishing complex leave me alone now?
Yes I did used to watch Pointless, and yes I did like him on Taskmaster, and yes I do watch Midsomer Murders... but sometimes you have to fight against being put in a box. So I decided I'd read The Thursday Murder Club, Osman's mammoth hit, when I was ready. Which, as it turns out, is four years after it was published.
So, here was my theory going in:
Richard Osman is a clever person, and a known wit, and wrote an above-average murder mystery. A clean-cut murder mystery is the exact sort of book his daytime audience laps up, and it was no doubt helped along by bookshops, keen to promote a celebrity book without the whiff of a ghostwriter. Once it got around that he'd actually written it and that it was pretty good, the snobbier end of the market read it, followed by the people who don't read much but will pick up a book everyone is talking about.
Did I begrudge him the success? Not in the slightest. He built a career and wrote a by-all-accounts enjoyable book. But I suspected that there were many better mysteries out there, languishing for the want of a celebrity author. I also suspected that many fans of the book aren't huge mystery readers, and that someone with real knowledge of murder mysteries and their history might be less impressed.
What tipped me into reading it was my recent short-story reading challenge. One of the books I read was a Marple collection called the Thirteen Problems, many of which resolve around something called the Tuesday Night Club, in which people discuss mysteries and - naturally - Miss. Marple solves everything. The Thursday Murder Club was a clear reference to that, and so I thawed to the idea of reading the book.
And it was... pretty good. Slightly above expected.
The story is set in a ultra-elite retirement community, where four very different retirees (an ex-spy, a working-class nurse, a Scargill like ex-union man, a psychotherapist) enjoy their weekly murder club. Soon there are three seemingly-unrelated murders on their hands, and the club all-too-easily attaches themselves to the police investigation.
The mystery itself isn't wildly special, but Osman feints well enough that I was surprised by several reveals. This could easily have been quite a chocolate-box whodunnit, but instead his clear love of spy thrillers bleeds through, giving the stories larger scope and an international feel. I imagined he'd be a fairly technical writer, but instead he wields emotions to the point that most readers are more invested in the characters than the puzzle.
It's the characters that will probably have me coming back for more. They are each incredibly likeable and engaging, and not just the main four - minor characters are all given life and warmth. The exception to this is community owner and eventual victim Ian, who is painted to caricature levels of selfish assholery. If you've ever seen the manager in Waiting for God (the 90s sitcom) then that's this guy - which stands out in a non-sitcom setting.
The writing itself is, as expected, witty and easy to read. He does one of my personal bugbears - continually referencing products by name, which can both age material and distract a reader - but that's very much a me thing. Doing it here and there is fine, but too often and it starts to feel like a writer desperate to show you how real it all is. It's ok when characters (especially the elderly who do put stock in brands) do it, but sometimes a character can just eat a chocolate bar, not a Cadbury Fruit and Nut.
Speaking of chocolate bars, the fat-shaming in this is pretty unbearable. DCI Chris Sutton's 'extra two stone' is considered by one-and-all to be the source of all of his problems, requiring advice from all quarters. He is implored to try pilates, join a gym, not eat after 6pm, and is even tricked into taking the stairs rather than the lift. It's suggested that lack of confidence in this area is the reason he has given up on his appearance, and why he hasn't got a nice girlfriend to share his life with. As someone with an eating disorder, I felt deeply judged by Osman. It's also a hint of classism, as it's all a very much done in the way the middle-class speak about weight and that people in the police wouldn't.
Where the book does a lot better in its discussion of age and grief. The fear of dementia - or of otherwise losing oneself - hangs over the characters like an anvil. It's there in Elizabeth both hiding her husband's dementia and setting herself little memory tests, Ron wondering about whether he could still give a good performance on Newsnight, and Ibrahim trying to keep up with the latest health and technology. These aren't timeless detectives like Miss. Marple, but living breathing people who know their time is growing shorter.
I appreciate that some of this review has been grudging (though how many people are willing to read something that they are disposed to dislike and give it a fair go?) but I think that 'positive but not thrilled' is about the accurate level of enthusiasm to have here. I'll read the next at some point and no doubt have a good time, and that's about all the mental thought I'll give it going forward.
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