He's a very good golfer in a Wodehouse short story (it's been a few weeks since any Wodehouse). He wants the girl, but the girl has had her head turned by Raymond Parsloe Devine, the tedious novelist, who is expecting to be a big hit with Valdimir Brusiloff, the visiting Russian literary lion. Parsloe Devine lionises a couple of other Russian lions, and Brusiloff gives him short shrift. The rest of the Wood Hills Literary Society loses its faith in Parsloe Devine and shifts away from him. Then Brusiloff sums up his position.
'No novelists any good except me. Sovietski - yah! Nastikoff-bah! I spit me of zem all. No novelists anywhere any good except me. P.G. Wodehouse and Tolstoi not bad. Not good, but not bad. No novelists any good except me.'
The meta-moment was, by me, unexpected.
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