Reviewed by Michael Murphy

Piss off you limp-wristed poufter! If the preceding sentence failed to offend you, and perhaps even made you smile, then you might consider reading Ray Smith’s first instalment in the Jack Bottomly chronicles, The Flush of Victory: Jack Bottomly Among the Virgins. As crass as it is satirical, Smith’s latest book puts just about every ethnic, national, orientation and gender stereotype into a blender, swallows the insulting mix in one big gulp, and then proceeds, to no one’s surprise, to use the bathroom loudly and with gusto.

According to Charles Foran, the "long, singular career of Ray Smith is testament to the virtues and perils of literary wanderlust." Writing since the late 1960s, Smith has published seven books in his "irreverent" career, but none seem quite as blunt, or perilous, as his latest.

The story begins in 1979 Ottawa and follows Major Jack "Bummo" Bottomly, an intelligence officer for the Canadian Air Force, as he attempts to outwit his boss, the CIA, the KGB and the banks, all in one fell swoop. Although much of the story takes place in the Ottawa office, Bummo does his fair share of travelling. First he goes to Vancouver, where an investigation into an apparent airplane sabotage leads him and his drinking buddy/Australian counterpart Bluey into a whole mess of trouble involving an international conspiracy, a trip to Europe, and several close encounters with stock characters of several nationalities: the Americans are dirty and ruthless, the Russians are stupid but tough, and the British are dandies. With some help from the naïve but computer savvy Mellish, Bummo simultaneously begins to develop his retirement plan, which involves secretly transferring funds from an illegal corporate slush fund to a Swiss bank account. In typical Canadian fashion, of course, between all the so-called espionage and spy games, Bummo and Bluey still find time to drink copious amounts of beer, which often as not results in fistfights with gay men.

A picaresque tale in the broadest sense, The Flush of Victory chronicles a series of misadventures and debaucheries, all, presumably, for a lark. Yet, as the story unravels, and the various offences begin to pile up, it becomes hard to imagine exactly why this book does what it does. While satires are notorious for being purposefully offensive, in most cases there is an ulterior motive, some clear message that is being sent along with the insults. But the purpose of Jack Bottomly’s story seems merely to be offensive, which, after the first few chapters, becomes tiring and unoriginal. The writing can be a bit dreary at times as well, particularly when Smith attempts to mimic foreign accents. "Owyerdoinmateorright?" asks Bluey repeatedly, to the point where just seeing the greeting makes one grumble. Although the story’s main purpose is primarily to entertain, due to its reliance upon being offensive over telling a good story, it becomes difficult to keep plodding through once all the gears have been set in motion.

For example, the plot of Jack Bottomly’s first adventure seems to mimic, perhaps a bit too closely, the typical spy thriller plot, even as it supposedly takes aim against the genre. As a result, even the most unassuming reader can quickly guess at the outcome of the narrative. Since the book’s storyline promises no surprises, one at least hopes that it’s protagonist might offer something extra to pick up the slack. But old Bummo is about as likeable as the words "fart sack," a phrase he uses a number of times throughout the story. At no point does Jack Bottomly reveal anything beneath his shallow exterior other than a kind of stupid arrogance. At times, he even appears downright malicious, more a villain than a hero, exemplified when he practically rapes his comatose, and virginal, secretary.

Piss off you limp-wristed poufter! Admittedly, Smith’s writing is a tad cleverer than the first sentence of this review would have you believe. The Flush of Victory makes no pretensions about its purpose, nor should it attempt to tame itself for the sake of a few possibly squeamish readers. In fact, though it may appear contradictory, one of the most pleasing aspects of this book is its offensiveness. Far too many Canadian writers are politically correct to a fault, and this book speaks against that trend loudly, and without shame. As Foran writes in his review of the book:

[The Flush of Victory] is as defiant as anything Smith has published in the course of his shape-shifting odyssey as an outsider to mainstream literary culture. Canadian writing, then as now, is unreceptive to the scabrous, the calculated outrage. It struggles with bookish conceits of any kind, as a matter of fact, preferring its fictions straight, no-chaser, with as little formal innovation as possible. Even simple satire is a tough sell.

As far as it challenges the norm of Canadian literature, Smith’s book is a success. Overladen with toilet humour, racial slurs and just about every lowbrow joke out there, Smith’s attempt to skewer Canadiana and anyone sensitive enough to care would’ve worked had the book actually succeeded in other areas, such as plotting or character development. Unfortunately, when taken out of context, the book remains rather uninspiring, and its protagonist about as appealing as a recently used, but unflushed toilet.

Michael Murphy is the editor of the Southernmost Review. He teaches writing in London.