‘A man who views the world the same at fifty as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.’ - Muhammad Ali.
The shadow of Billy Liar was loosely draped over the sagging shoulders of many working class youths born in the '60s and growing up -after a fashion - in the ‘70s. There was the marvellous 1963 film, of course, with the splendid Tom Courtney and Julie Christie - ‘she makes me go misty’. There was even a sit-com, and Keith Waterhouse’s 1959 novel and its titular protagonist were such a part of our cultural heritage that referring to someone as ‘a bit of a Billy Liar’ was commonplace.
Billy Liar is the story of Billy Fisher, a 19 year old fantasist who lives with his parents and works for the local undertakers. It’s grim up north and Billy dreams of leaving but, well, you know …
Its a cracking read, funny, touching and, well, frustrating. Or, more to the point, rereading it recently - into my sixties with a whimper if not a bang- I realised just how frustrating Billy himself is. Yes, other characters are annoying but Billy is no anti-hero, more of a symbol of everyone’s mealy-mouthed moments of disappointment. Billy Liar is a tragi-comedy for sure and a damned good one at that, but its certainly more bitter than sweet.
Undoubtedly this was the progenitor of the "angry young man" sub-genre of British lit that would come in the following decade.