Because That Chocolate Factory Money Didn't Last Forever

As a teenager, Roald Dahl studied at Repton School in Derbyshire. When I was fourteen, I traveled to Repton with the Flint Youth Symphony. Later in life, I was nearly caught lying about pretending to be British, by a British person. I was saved by mentioning that I had studied at Repton. Apparently knowing the name of an obscure British prep school is acceptable proof of nationality. Thank you, youth symphony and thank you, Roald Dahl.

What do we normally know Roald Dahl for, other than saving me from humiliating myself in front of his compatriots? “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” is probably one of his most well known kids‘ books. Most of the wee lads and lasses I grew up with had read at least a few of his other works, too. “The Witches,” “Matilda,” and “The BFG,” come to mind. They’re often dark and strange children‘s book, full of imagination and often violence. Still, they’re children’s books, and most often, Dahl is thought of as a children‘s author.

But what about Roald Dahl, purveyor of sexy fiction?

I say to you what I said to my mother upon learning that Sherlock Holmes had a brother named Mycroft.

Whaaaaaaaaaat?

Yes, many do not know that Roald Dahl wrote adult books, let alone books that may or may not be considered of an erotic nature. His first published work was a short story detailing his life as a fighter pilot in the Royal Air Force. Another short story, “The Smoker,” was later adapted into the fourth section of the film “Four Rooms.” For those of you who’ve seen it, it’s the one with Quentin Tarantino, where a guy gets his finger whacked off in a bet.

Well, with Tarantino involved, it now may not seem so strange that Dahl wrote not just one, but several erotic novels, such as “Stitch Bitch.” His book, “Dirty Beasts,” however, is ironically meant for kids.

The title of his other titillating tome is “My Uncle Oswald,” and let me just say that it’s simply delightful. By today’s supersexed teenage pregnancy standards, it’s not even that dirty. I mean, we’re not talking about Lewis Carroll here, so get your mind out of that filthy 2010s gutter and wallow in this charming, old, 1930s romp! Dahl sets up “My Uncle Oswald” as a collection of passages from the narrator’s uncle’s diary, detailing his exploits and schemes, some of a financial nature, others with a more sensual motivation. Good old Uncle Oswald appeared multiple times in Dahl’s writing career, with these so called diary excerpts being published in magazines from The New Yorker to Playboy. That’s right! Playboy! I’ll give you a moment to fall out of your chair with shock. Hang on, it’s going to get even more outrageous!

In, “My Uncle Oswald,” a young Oswald learns of a Sudanese blister beetle, that when ground up and ingested, makes Viagra look like one of those comically large mallets that knock cartoon characters unconscious. The drug is cleverly marketed as a potency pill. That’s the brilliance of a book like this. We all know what he’s talking about, but there‘s just something about British people using a whole lot of ridiculous euphemisms for sexual encounters that makes me titter with joy. At first the crafty junior entrepreneur, Oswald, makes a small fortune selling this wonder pill to Britain’s oldest fornicators. Yet, like all ridiculous plots, Oswald is not content with his meager earnings. That’s where Yasmin Howcomely comes in.

That name alone is enough to send me into a fit of giggles. You thought Ian Fleming was clever with Pussy Galore? As if! Miss Howcomely has an important, um, position, to play in Oswald’s business proposal. With the aid of Oswald’s potency pill, and Yasmin’s charms, the pair set out to trick the world’s greatest thinkers, artists, politicians, plus a few royals, into unknowingly donating a, shall we say, specimen, to sell to wealthy women who would like to be the mothers of great thinkers, artists, etc. We’re all adults here. You can put pieces together exactly how Yasmin Howcomely helps in this process. Oddly, Dahl uses the same sort of silly, ridiculous humor in “My Uncle Oswald,” that he does in his children’s books. Only instead of describing how Charlie was chased by an evil vermicious knid, he discusses how Yasmin was chased around the room by a half naked Bernard Shaw! If that isn’t whimsical, I don’t know what is.