Real Ale, Real Books, Real Men?

The Racketeers were formed over two years ago out of a network of friends, and friends of friends. Some of us were habitual readers, some of us joined the group as a spur to reading more. One of us had some previous experience of a book group. All of us are male.

Our first meeting took place in a house. Since then we’ve met every month on a Friday night in the Briton’s Protection in Manchester. (The name Racketeers was inspired by the pub’s name and the shifty overcoat George wore on one occasion.) The pub atmosphere is an integral part of our ethos. We like the noise, we like the beer, we like the idea of talking about literature in these surroundings. Other drinkers frequently express an interest in our discussions and sometimes get involved, swapping book choices with us. (We’ve also recorded an incident of sexual harassment, involving hostile lip action, which we were drawn into by the vapour of existentialism that hovers about our group. It was regrettable and unpleasant but, Camus-like, we emerged with self-knowledge greatly enhanced.)

Our protocols, such as they are, are flexible. We take it in turns to produce a shortlist from which the group choose next month’s book. Our meetings usually begin with a half-to-an-hour of informal talk as people arrive. At some point one of us calls the meeting to order. No one is certain how this happens, or who chooses to take responsibility. It could be someone bored with a conversation about the Premiership, or about Iraq, or work; it could equally be someone avoiding getting a round in. The compiler of the previous shortlist is then charged with starting the discussion on the book chosen from it. Again, there is no formula for this, the speaker simply presents his take on the book from whichever angle or angles he pleases. After that it’s pretty much a free for all, although we always insist that everyone has a say. The longer the discussion goes on, the more we drink, the more provocative the discussion becomes. We tend to work towards an aspect of the book that seems most important, or most contentious. It’s as likely to be the way the author uses language, as it is the ideological underpinnings of a novel. Last month’s discussion began with the description of the landscape in Halldór Laxness’s Independent People and ended up in a disagreement on the novel’s political meta-narrative. Things got heated. There was swearing.  It can get very personal in our group.

At some point we’ll decide that the discussion has exhausted itself and take a vote on the book. Next business is the selection of the following month’s book. The owner of the shortlist briefly presents each one and establishes whichever voting system he thinks appropriate, a practice that often results in hideously complicated procedures, but which we’re nevertheless deeply attached to. Last item of business is to fix up the date of the next meeting and establish who’s presenting the next shortlist. Recently we’ve taken to doing this earlier in the evening, having learnt from experience that agreements arrived at after 10.30 are open to free interpretation the following morning.

Every year we have an AGM, and remove to a Chinese restaurant. We discuss membership and the fact that we have no women members. We agree this is a situation we should remedy, then resolve not to change as, statistically, we’re in a minority as far as book groups go. We reaffirm that our unusualness is worth perpetuating and should be celebrated. (It is, frequently.) We also select the Racketeers Book of the Year. This year we awarded £50 for a celebratory meal to the winning author, a former Booker winner. Clearly thrilled by the honour, he responded in writing with great humour and magnanimity. He also cashed the cheque. Indications this year suggest that members are looking to economise, since Laxness (deceased) and Naguib Mahfouz (ninety plus) are already strong front runners.

We have no barrier to any kinds of books. Biographies, short story collections, poetry, non-fiction have all featured on shortlists, though apart from Fred D’Aguiar’s Bloodlines, all have been prose novels. We’ve read a range of authors from Dostoyevsky to Tracey Chevalier, V.S Naipaul to Donna Tartt and Monica Ali to Richard Wright. We’re always up for a challenge and there’s a real delight in selecting from shortlists full of unexpected treasures. Since our last three authors have been Mahfouz, Laxness and Lewis Grassic Gibbon there seems to be a yearning for a book less ordinary among us, which may or may not be the inevitable outcome of maleness and literature in close proximity. On the other hand we rejected John Irving on one occasion in favour of Cheaters by Eric Jerome Dickey, (largely, in must be said, as a result of some members voting on the basis of weight avoirdupois rather than weight littéraire), so while our processes are far from infallible they at least have the virtue of being unpredictable.

The coincidence last year of our reading of Gore Vidal’s The Golden Age and the parliamentary debate on Iraq prompted intense discussion in our group. The issue of 9/11, WMDs, the future of Palestine and Vidal’s Pearl Harbour theory were all discussed passionately and at length. This is how it should be. Since a fundamental purpose of art is to challenge the way we look at the world, the real business of any book group should be to explore the ways in which literature impacts upon the reality of our lives, and vice versa.  The idea that people read only as a form of escapism gets short shrift in our group. For us literature is a way of engaging with the world, not a vehicle for escaping life’s harsh realities. Jennings Ale, on the other hand, is ideally suited to this purpose.