E Squared by Matt Beaumont

I’ve decided to post on a sequel because, frankly, it’s too good to pass up. And also because it gives me an excuse to read a few more Flashman novels for the purposes of 120 Units...


Picking up almost a decade later from e, E Squared is basically more of the same, only this time the format has been expanded to include text messages, blogs, MSN, etcetra along with e-mails to tell the story. The remains of the cast from e are employed at Meercat360, an agency so cutting edge it employs a hairdresser. That said, Brett and Vince are still in the pay of Miller Shanks, although they have found themselves posted to their Dubai Office:

When we joined, we got the standard Miller Shanks letter about the need to show ‘cultural sensitivity’. Vince reckons that cuts both ways and when the Dubai police start showing sensitivity towards his need to throw up outside the Grand Hyatt after half a dozen banana daiquiris, he’ll return the favour.

Needless to say, things quickly go downhill:

Vince and I are lying low today. Bit of a kerfuffle last night. You know that complex of artificial islands they’re building in the shape of the world? Vince got a bit ADHD on whisky sours and emptied a very large dumper truck of rocks into the sea. Now the toe of Italy is sporting an outcrop that looks like a severely inflamed bunion. I’ve Google-Earthed it and you can see it from space. Dubai’s Finest are out in force.

Meanwhile back in London, Liam O’Keefe is flogging off the office fixtures and fittings on e-bay to settle his astronomical gambling debts, the creative assistant is on the window ledge threatening to jump, another member of staff is in Guantánamo Bay and director David Crutton’s son has gone AWOL while his teenaged daughter is in hospital with an infected tattoo... Things are looking ugly:

No calls or disturbances from anyone, including you. Except get me a bottle of vodka from the special cupboard. Then no disturbances.

It requires a little perspective. Over in France, Simon Horne, formerly of Miller Shanks, is now living in the Dordogne being abused (verbally and otherwise) by his disgusting housekeeper Papin. He has however, started a blog, Crépuscle dans le Périgord, where he keeps note of all the little things that happen to him, like a letter from his wife’s lawyers:

After such a start to the day, there is only one thing for it, I’m going to have to uncork the ’59 Armagnac. I shall post later with an update.

That said, compared to an office full of suicidal staff and an operation to catch the office thief using interrogation by Serbian paramilitaries, Hornblower’s tribulations in France are a walk in the park.

A Partial Indulgence by Stephanie Theobald

A phantasmagoria of excess and high-art, Theobald’s novel is a riot of indulgence, from food, to sex, to good painting, and of course, alcohol.


High society art dealer Charles Frederick de Vere leads a life of debauchery and opulence but his extravagant existence is quickly unravelling, haunted by his shady past and the death of his lover. As he slowly descends into his own personal hell, his former companions; Boston tough-cookie Carmen and wild spirit Cosima, niece of his childhood friend Ellsworth, drift in purgatory styled as a country home, soaking up ‘pre-meds’ that taste of red wine.

Freddy’s first meetings with Cosima are at Ellsworth’s country pile where the talented artist is knocking out forgeries for the London market. He cooks her eggs and caviar while tantalising her with the French dish of Ortolan:

“Tiny song birds from France. Illegal to eat. You lock them in a box, gorge them on figs and then drown them in Armagnac... You’re supposed to put a cloth over your head when you eat them. To keep in the fumes.” He drinks. “But mostly to hide yourself from the eyes of God.”

However Cosima and Ellsworth are now long dead and Carmen looks set to join them. The increasingly spooked de Vere looks back on his life and his school days with Ellsworth, who appeared one night with a bottle of claret looted from his father’s cellar:

He was holding a bottle of wine. On the label I could see a large letter ‘V’, a golden laurel and the words: Mouton Rothschild 1945 – L’Année de la Victoire. “They blather on about Château Petrus,” he said, starting to open the bottle, “But the day before I go to hell I shall drown my sorrows in a bottle of Mouton ’45.” When he’d pulled the cork out he smelled it. “Still a trace of death,” he said, tossing it into the fire.

The wine leaves a bad taste in Freddy's mouth:

My stupor at the richness of the taste was heightened by the fact that there was something almost disgusting about the wine. “Horrible, isn’t it,” Ellsworth said, his eyes filled with glee. “Funny that they call it victory wine,” I observed. “Why funny?” He frowned. “Why should victory be a pleasant flavour?”

Why indeed? Ellsworth’s penultimate act is to open a bottle of Mouton ’45 on the night he commits suicide...