As a rule, I disapprove of reviews which review the author and not the book, but some occasions demand it. The British, I don’t know why, are notoriously myopic, mean-spirited even, about multiple talents. In France one could be a poet and a stripper and be taken equally seriously as either. David Baddiel is best known as a comedian and thus his chances of being read as anything but a comic novelist will be compromised. I know this, for I was guilty of the prejudice myself when I served as a Man Booker judge in 2002 and learned that David was to be a colleague. He was, I presumed, to be the media floozy; I could hardly have been more wrong. Though we disagreed passionately on every book — with the singular exception of Carol Shields’ Unless which we both championed — I quickly learned that David has a ferocious intellect and the kind of moral gravity that only a comedian can conceal. And this isn’t a pal’s commendation. I’ve never eaten a meal at David’s table, nor he at mine. But I know enough of him by now not to be surprised to find him dealing in weighty matters.

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