"Arthur gingerly flicked through the pages of the latest theoretical tome on Alekhine's Defense. The expression on his face showed the impact this book was making on him--a scholarly look while he pondered a particularly deep move, followed by a huge grin and ear-splitting laughter when he took in the concise explanations of both side's plans."

Alas, chess literature simply doesn't have this effect. Most people see our game as a serious, intellectual pursuit played by serious, intelligent individuals (I should mention Raymond Chandler's view of the game: "Chess is as elaborate a waste of human intelligence as you can find outside an advertising agency."). In their minds, humor demeans the game and takes away from its obvious artistic and scientific impact.

I can't tell the reader of this review just how much hate mail I get whenever I try to add a bit of humor to my Chess Life articles. Typical quotes from irate players include, "Fire Silman immediately!" "Silman should be banned from the USCF for life!" "Silman should be forced to apologize to all Chess Life readers."

If these well-intentioned but unimaginative people would unclench their buttocks for a moment, they might find that chess offers something else to its devotees other than the quasi-religious fervor that they grasp so desperately--these "extra benefits" are relaxation, fun, and a chance to laugh at one's own stupidity.

Unfortunately, aside from a few cartoons sporadically placed in various magazines (would you believe that Watson's Chess Man cartoon series was pulled from Chess Life when droves of its subscribers went ballistic with rage? Relax people...unclench...unclench...), there is very little to laugh or grin about.

This lack of a proper, irreverent perspective doesn't have to get the better of you, though. There ARE rare sources of chess titillation, if you know where to look. One of my favorite reads used to be Joel Benjamin's Chess Chow. Now defunct, this magazine was filled with sophomoric humor, biting articles, and pictures of your favorite players in compromising poses.

When Joel wrapped it all up, I thought the laughter was gone forever from my world. Food suddenly tasted bitter, sex became bland (it was at this point that I gave up chasing Wilt's record), and chess itself had seemingly lost its soul.

For those who have suffered through the same "dark night," may I suggest two highly interesting bits of reading material: First, let's look at the English equivalent to Chess Chow--Kingpin. Each issue (three issues a year are produced) is approximately 65 pages long and is full of articles by such famous British Grandmasters as Mickey Adams, Nigel Davies, Stuart Conquest, Glenn Flear, and the list goes on and on.

Turning to the contents, our eyes immediately rest on Edward Winter's Forum, Gary Lane's Agony Column, Nigel Davies Voice of Reason (in one, he discusses the deplorable ethical standards of top players), Hack Attack (here we quiver to Michael Wilder's expose on Larsen's eating habits), GM Tony Kosten's Cross Channel Flannel, Winning by Blundering (by Amatzia Avni) and, last but certainly not least, Tony Miles' rousing literary review of Schiller's books.

Of course, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Theoretical discussions often appear, the letters section is capable of getting downright testy, other articles crop up to highlight the laugh lines on our face, and those wonderful book reviews; oh, those detailed, honest, penetrating book reviews (clearly my favorite part of the magazine).

Let's take issue 28 (Spring of 1998) as an example. Here we are given nine pages of book reviews. One classic look into chess literature concerned Eric Woro's chess/vampire novel, Under the Black Sun. Grandmaster Conquest explores every detail of this book for three pages. Conquest makes us laugh, he makes us cry, he makes us wish the review was several dozen pages longer. A typical paragraph:

"The author writes in a deliberately difficult style at times, littering the text with literary and philosophical allusions, name-dropping for no particular reason (Zelda Fitzgerald, Camus, Milton, Emma Bovary, Faust, etc.) other than perhaps to show us which books and writers he has studied. His characters are often asking each other questions like, 'Haven't you ever read Ayn Rand?' There's a scene where Martin's interlocutor tells him to '...read Derrida, Doucault, Lacan.' It's pseudo-intellectualism of the kind satirized by Woody Allen. Even more irritating is the moment when Monique throws Martin against the wall in her library, and three books fall on his head. They are, we discover, a book of Esperanto grammar (the relevance eludes me), Hamlet and Oedipus by Ernest Jones (both Hamlet and Oedipus feature elsewhere), and The Divided Self by R.D. Laing, a study of schizophrenia from which the novel takes its title. As if this isn't already bad enough, Martin then says to Monique, 'Have you read Ernest Jones?'"

Picking yet another snippet from this review: "At other times the language descends to levels of astounding ineptitude. A gross example is the opening sentence of Chapter 14, which reads, 'They sat together at the kitchen table together.' A printer's error, you say? I'm not so sure, because back in Chapter 1 we get this: 'She had thought it would come from the dog. The fun, that is. She hoped that when she brought it back from the pound it would display some of the happy, happy personality you'd expect from dogs rescued from the pound.' Another baffling line, which surfaces more than once, is 'Ex-squeeze me,' instead of 'excuse me.' Maybe this is just some trendy American street talk, like 'she flipped him the bird,' another Woro favorite. Rachel gets the best gag in the book, near the end: Martin tells her that 'Golem never made it with a girl,' to which she replies, putting her hand on his leg, 'Well, I've never made it with a ghoul.' Yep, that's the best one..."

In the end, Conquest says, "...one of the worst novels I have ever read, and therefore I urge you all to order it immediately. Like a cult movie, panned by the critics and ignored at the box office yet worshipped by a select few as a timeless classic, Under the Black Sun is so bad that it's actually quite good."

Personally, I never had any intention of reading Under the Black Sun. However, now I can't wait to savor each of its pages. Who knows? Woro might quickly become my favorite author. This shows us the power of a good review.

As you can see, Kingpin is a nice mix of humor and information. Both serious and funny, I recommend it to anyone who wants to smile as he reads. In fact, those great reviews are worth the price of a subscription alone.

Write to:
Kingpin
27 Quebec Road, Ilford
Essex IG1 4TT England

Or e-mail Mr. Manley at: jon_manley@msn.com