Review – Shakespeare for Squirrels by Christopher Moore
Preamble
It is a rare occasion that I actually pre-order anything these days. In earlier years, I ill-spent a good deal of pocket change at the video games shops on such hopeful endeavours, praying that the game I was pre-purchasing would be worth the full price that I laid out.
I was frequently burned.
That said, I did not say that it was a ‘never’ occasion, just that it is currently rare for me to pre-order anything, as measured wisdom has come clamping down around my wild and foolish heart (some of the time). But I did pre-order Shakespeare for Squirrels without batting an eye. And am I ever glad I did.
The book was released today. I read and finished it today. I can count on one (maybe two hands) in which I have done something like this. But damn, if it was not worth all of the fevered delight with which I slammed my thumb over and over on the Kindle, turning page after page until the zany tale drew to its hilarious conclusion.
Review – 5/5
Shakespeare for Squirrels is the third book in the Pocket saga, which starts with Fool and is preceded by The Serpent of Venice. I gave both of those books full marks, so perhaps it makes sense that I was champing at the bit like a transmogrified donkey man to get this book into my eye holes. Where the first tale was focused on King Lear, the second on the Merchant of Venice and Othello, this one is a peculiarly perverted retelling of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Like the other stories in the book, this is a bawdy tale, which means there is shagging, shagging, and more shagging. Also a bit of murder and other less salacious adult themes. Unlike the familiar mantra about comedy (which thankfully died with the advent of the Internet), dirty humour is not some kind of skill-free cheap shot which is employed by hacks of all stripes. It is an art form, one that smashes propriety to bits in the name of a good old donkey (see that word again) laugh. It is not witless – in fact, I would say that this particular example is the height of wit.
I laughed out loud – a lot – as I read Shakespeare for Squirrels. The only other example I had of this was Fool, which I read on a plane back in the pre-COVID days as I headed down to warmer climes for a vacation with my ex. She elbowed me a few times for said donkey laughs as I ripped through that book in a day as well.
The fact is, Moore’s writing is not simply some hackneyed shouting of ‘cock and balls’ into the void that is the reader’s mind (although change-ups like that happen a couple of times throughout the book and are welcome). It is a layer-cake of single entendres, double entendres, self-referential bits (there’s always a bloody ghost) and absolutely ridiculous situations that are arranged against the backdrop of an intriguing tale. Storycraft is an art and Moore is at the height of his game. He teases the reader with a mystery – albeit a mystery that is set in a world of goblins and fairies and a monkey with a penchant for fucking hats. The story has legs, ones that carry it through to an appropriately fourth-wall breaking mind fuck that leaves one wondering if the damn monkey missed their hat and had a go at the old grey matter through an ear.
I can’t tell you how many lines I highlighted as I read the book – actually, scratch that, I can (thank you, Kindle software). 20 different bits of hilarity that I saved for later. Moore’s writing is a perfectly taut blend of perverted filth and lyrical prose – I mean, where else are you going to get a line like ‘And there you are, sobbing like you’ve been dirked in the dick by grief’s dark dagger.’?
The story that inspired the book, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, actually holds a pretty dear place in my heart. It was one of the first plays I acted in as a child in school, a nascent career which was rodgered down the old foul quitter shitter by the stank winds of fate (in actuality, I am a terrible actor and it was never a dream of mine, but, you know, grade school). Decent hand at the part of Oberon or no (definitely no), this experience seeded (hehehe) a love of Shakespeare that I carry with me to this day. And Moore does a fantastic job of honouring the Bard with this filthy caper-esque reimagining of the tale.
If Shakespeare were alive today, I have a feeling that he would be rather pleased that his legacy has led to stories of oversexed squirrels and masturbating cretins, a jism-soaked explosion of colour and laughter that is Shakespeare for Squirrels. I know that I would be, were I in his ancient and rotted shoes somewhere in a dank hole in Stratford-upon-Avon.
I really hope there’s a book four in the Pocket saga.