A couple of dozen years ago, a friend of mine from college owned a bookstore. He always had a knack for leading me to some really great books and underappreciated authors, so when he handed me a copy of Flashman and told me to have a go at it, I took it home and dove right in. And Oh. My. God. There was nothing like it for excellent reading and rollicking fun. The Flashman Chronicles purported to be the story of one Harry Flashman, who was tossed out of Rugby School for drinking in the great Victorian novel/memoir Tom Brown’s School Days. Meticulously researched and brilliantly written, the Flashman books told the saga of the Victorian era of colonialism. Unapologetically non-PC, they are profane and funny. Bodices are ripped, bosoms heave, men are men and villains are real people whose tales can be confirmed on Wikipedia or other, more old-fashioned sources.

I have read and reread every one of the Flashman novels; there are twelve, and alas, there will be no more. The author, George MacDonald Faser, passed away of cancer in January. I just heard about it yesterday, when I had the great good pleasure of meeting Ms. Otter for a late lunch of Cuban food, as she passed from Key West to Palm Beach. Ms. Otter and I may have been separated at birth, since our tastes in film and books are pretty much identical.

Here’s to Sir Faser, and Sir Flashman. May they meet in the afterlife and continue to swap tales of derring-do.