My aunt flew
for Air India.
Every trip
back she would bring in the latest copy of Asterix and Obelisk.
From ‘Asterix
the Gaul’, to ‘Asterix and the Son’, every single one.
Between the
ages of 10 and 14, I had read them all. Repeatedly.
And in the
evolution of my own personal style of humour, the battle was between René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo's decidedly
French turn of phrases, translated brilliantly by Derek Hockridge and Anthea Bell; and PG Wodehouse’s taciturn, yet shudderingly-powerful snark,
Jeeves.
Uderzo won. Woodehouse’s Jeeves a close
run in. I did not do Tintin.
PS: Pic credit: Getty
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