Kiss Myself Goodbye: The Many Lives of Aunt Munca

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Each chapter is truly an adventure. While I truly admire the author's to nasty, I'm deducting a star for the fact that I did have to skim in a couple of places, as well as that she was familiar with the players as part of his family, whereas I had to just guess as best I could and go with the flow regarding who fit in where. It got that complicated at times. But, don't be put off as in the end it's a "ripping good yarn" for sure.

But something tells me that Munca will be around for a while yet. She can’t be shaken off. I will always think of her, and I never even knew her. I'm normally not drawn to these sorts of memoirs (i.e. personal recollections about the author's wealthy family members), but Ferdinand Mount's "Kiss Myself Goodbye" is so well-written and bizarre that I stayed up late to finish the book in one sitting. It's true: Mount's mysterious Aunt Munca was a millionaire, but she was born into poverty and obtained her money by being a talented liar. Grifting those who've benefited from inherited wealth is a much more interesting story than pure nepotism. Mount with Margaret Thatcher at a party in London, April 1992. Photograph: Dave Benett/Getty Images Mount is one of our finest prose stylists and Kiss Myself Goodbye is a witty, moving and beautifully crafted account of one woman’s determination to live to the full. The moral of the tale is that the fabrications of a lifetime will unravel after death, especially if there happens to be an assiduous nephew to hand.Georgie Johnson with Meg Donovan, 1971. (Photo: Hugh Donovan / used by permission of Charles Donovan)

Through years of painstaking research Mount has discovered all. The 1930s popular song which he has taken for the title of his book opens with "I'm gonna kiss myself goodbye / goodbye, goodbye / I'm gonna get my wings and fly / Up high, up high". And boy! From her lamentably impoverished childhood in Sheffield, a dead labourer-father and a scant education in the unmerciful institution run by the Sisters of Mercy for the the very poor, did Munca fly! Extraordinary … shed[s] a brilliant light on the strangeness of people's lives, the need for disguise and masquerade, the shame that drives people to act in the most peculiar ways, the ghosts that reside, unburied, within us. It is to her credit that she only began to withdraw after a health ordeal hit her hard. As soon as Georgie told me about her oral cancer diagnosis, I came to her side. She was understandably terrified of an operation that was going to remove parts of her face. I came to stay again, just before the surgery, for moral support. Although the surgeons left her with only a faint scar and some damage to the inside of her mouth, she took it badly. It had a slight but noticeable effect on her diction. After all that childhood conditioning about perfection, no wonder what seemed like a miraculous recovery to her friends was nothing of the sort to her. When we spent Christmas 2007 together, she didn’t want to eat in front of me, because the damage to her mouth made eating a more ungainly process. Eventually, she began skipping eating altogether, subsisting on build-up drinks. Each time you think you have finally figured out what the conclusion will be of his aunt's life you discover the story is bigger and more complex than you could have imagined.With her proud head and hooded eyes she does indeed look, Mount thinks, like a squaw. Unca’s money comes from his firm, Lennard’s Shoes, which is a notch below Dolcis and a notch above Freeman, Hardy and Willis. Munca has breeding as well as brass: her entry in Debrett’s Baronetage describes her as “dau. of late John Anthony Baring of New York”, which is curious because she has no trace of an American accent and never once mentions her illustrious father. The anomalies in her story are noted by young Mount, who will remember her once telling him that her mother had been a lady’s maid. They say most families have a skeleton in the closet somewhere along the line. The skeletons in this book wouldn’t fit into a closet – they’d need a whole graveyard. This book proves the maxim that fact is stranger than fiction, and then some. If it was a novel, it would be dismissed as complete nonsense, so wildly implausible that it couldn’t possibly be taken seriously. But it’s not a novel, it’s all documented fact. It's written beautifully and with feeling for those involved, where there could have been a well-deserved disgust at how people have acted, there's a presence of it all happening 'in its time' and that despising the behaviour wouldn't be healthy or fair, as many of the conclusions are based on very well-researched hunches, if not actual fact. The amount of research is staggering and adds hugely to the narrative, and the results show just what can be achieved in researching your heritage - at your peril! I also can't say enough about the delivery. I suspect the story would come off as somewhat humorous if you read it, but the delivery is so wry, the accent so perfect that I occasionally laughed out loud. Was he frightened of Thatcher? “You couldn’t not be frightened of her! But sometimes, she would annoy you into being a bit braver, and you’d say: ‘Well, I really wonder if that is true, prime minister.’” If he sounds a bit like Sir Humphrey in Yes, Minister, he is also able to see how things must sometimes have felt from her side. “The snobbery [Thatcher was, famously, the daughter of a grocer] was quite startling, stretching all the way from Christopher Soames [the Conservative cabinet minister] to Jonathan Miller [the theatre director]; the use of suburban as the ultimate insult, combined with sexism of a kind which even then seemed out of date.”

If you do nothing, you will be auto-enrolled in our premium digital monthly subscription plan and retain complete access for 65 € per month.I found this book listed on The Economists' top ten books of 2020. And who would mistrust The Economist? When I was 21, I came out to her by letter. I was terrified. I had been deeply wounded by being outed at school, twice. I was part of the Section 28 generation, unable to go to any authority figure with my worries about being gay in a country that openly hated gay people. Under Margaret Thatcher, the gay liberation gains made in the ’70s were gradually reversed, to the point where the government and the newspapers that supported it were starting to agitate for the re-criminalisation of homosexuality. After I was outed at 16, with disastrous consequences, every self-preserving fibre in me rallied and I ‘inned’ myself permanently so as to survive. From the moment of my birth in 1974 until her death, Georgie was the person to whom I was closest, after my parents. It was Georgie my father called from Westminster Hospital in 1974, to say, ‘You’re a Godmother’. Georgie dashed from Victoria to be at my mother’s bedside, meeting me when I was three hours old. When we moved from central London to Fulham, in search of more space, Georgie and Claude followed. One of my earliest memories is of Georgie arriving at our house. I can’t have been more than three or four. “Look who’s here,” I remember my mother saying. “It’s Georgie, your Godmother.”“Georgie’s not my Godmother,” I said, quite confidently. “She’s my friend.” I didn’t yet understand that people could be more than one thing and if it was a choice between ‘godmother’ and ‘friend’, then Georgie was ‘friend’. I think she realised in that moment that she’d been subtly upgraded because she never forgot it, recalling it right up to the weeks before her death. Delightfully compulsive and unforgettably original. Mount unpeels the layers of this mysterious life with the tenacity of an experienced detective and the excitement of a fresh-eyed enthusiast.