John Brock

John Brock is a fictional British undercover agent created by Desmond Skirrow. He appeared in three fast-paced, witty, and irreverent spy novels written in the late 1960s. Like his creator, he is a successful advertising executive in London; but he is also a part-time agent coerced to work from time to time for an secret department on the Addison Road run by the fat man. Brock is tough, witty, combative, extremely competent, and supremely resilient. Even by fictional standards, he absorbs incredible amounts of physical damage at the hands of his adversaries before, after a few whiskeys and a few hours sleep, he is ready for his next fight against overwhelming odds and, quite likely, yet another beating.

Cigarettes and sweet white wine

At the time of his first appearance in It Won't Get You Anywhere, published in 1966, Brock is mostly likely in his early 40s, a large (at least 6'1"), tough, extremely fit man who had apparently served with British special forces in small boats during World War II, probably with SIS (Secret Intelligence Service} or SOE (Special Operations Executive). An elliptical reference to climbing Gothic church spires, a traditional activity of students at Oxford, indicates that he may have attended that university before his military service. He smokes cigarettes, drinks large whiskeys, prefers sweet white wine and Champagne to dry, and has an eye for the ladies, with whom, as is usual with fictional agents, he is frequently, though not always, successful.

My father taught me at his knee never to say no, for a refusal may offend. Whatever it is, he used to say, accept it at once and then, if necessary, reject it at leisure. I have always tried to follow this ridiculous advice and to teach it to the wives of all my friends. It never got me anywhere, of course, but I have always enjoyed the effort.

And, like most fictional agents and private eyes, he also has an unlimited capacity for alcoholic consumption. In the course of a day he can drink a few Campari and sodas in the morning, wine with lunch, several large whiskeys in the afternoon, then absorb a beating that knocks him unconscious, restore himself with a few more whiskeys, grab a couple of hours of sleep, and be ready to go the following day with never a hangover or even an ache in his bruised body.

Sunny but surly

In spite of the detached and witty restraint of most of his first-person narration, Brock can be both surly and truculent, especially when dealing with those he considers his adversaries. His usual response, although not always a wise one, to those attempting to coerce him is an inelegant, "Get stuffed!" Aside from that, however, he eschews profanity and vulgar language, letting his actions express his emotions. He is, in fact, disrespectful and mistrustful of almost everyone in authority. Upon being ordered to visit The Fat Man at the beginning of It Won't Get You Anywhere,

I pushed open the front door in Addison Road and walked past Det.-Sgt. Pratt. But Pratt had been replaced, and a newer, bigger, keener copper shoved the thick arm of the law across my throat.... He was confident as well as keen, and he flipped as though he was greased. I grabbed his throat and dangled him against the panelling.... I punched him low and let him slide.... "I'm Brock," I said. "I didn't want to come here, and I won't want to come the next time either."

Hardware

Brock keeps his Volvo in a garage "under a block of cocktail cabinet flats behind the King's Road," where a "Volvomaniac" mechanic has spent years tinkering with it to maximize its preformance. "Many more of your modificatons," grouses Brock, "and I'll be the fastest thing between any two filling stations on the road." Brock's preferred arm is an enormous single-shot Kruger Hawkeye Special that shoots .265 Magnum shells. The shells are expensive, "but it is the nearest thing to an elephant gun under twelve inches." Unless he is "non-operational with fright", he carries it in his luggage. Brock says that he can reload it fast enough, but that, in fact, he has never had to shoot it twice. "The Kruger is designed to make such a spectacular stew of anything it hits that it stops most fights stone cold dead."

The fat man

The fat man, Brock's sometime boss in the Addison Road, sits, along with his wheezing, "odious" poodle, in a second-floor room filled with enough Victorian bric-a-brac "to sink the Portobello Road" and where the "walls are flocked with fleur-de-lis and the shelves are stocked with Dickens" and nothing is later than 1910; there he sips Calvados and tries to find a partner for scrabble, at which he always wins. His aides, Muir and Greene, direct a department with 242 field operatives. Down in the basement, just as in the James Bond films, Pusser Talbot runs a supply department filled with improbable gadgets and armaments, including a recent addition, "a motorized Graziella bicycle that collapses into a small Revelation suitcase labelled Metropole Hotel, Brighton." Brock, however, disdains all of the gadgetry, yearning only for his Kruger Hawkeye Special, which, at The Fat Man's orders, is kept locked away from him.

Fear and coercion

Given Brock's ingrained distaste for authority in any form, why then, does he occasionally risk his life at the fat man's orders? Two words: fear, and coercion. As a young man, Brock met the fat man in a Brighton pub just after the war. "I had my theory of perverse action at the time, just a matter of lowering your head and charging in, instantly and at the unlikeliest spot.... there was unlimited trouble lying around to be picked up. He had a great way of picking it up, handing it to me so that he could observe perverse action in action, and disappearing." A while after that, the fat man offered him a post and additional training. Eventually Brock agreed. After three months of training, he is sent on his first job.

It was completely unnecessary, highly illegal and minutely recorded in words and pictures. And now, if he presses the button marked Brock, I will be instantly transported in a plain wrapper to Germany to be electrocuted, then brought back here to be hung. They will then ship me across the Channel to be decapitated, and afterwards I will probably spend the rest of my life in the black hole of Madrid.

Now the fat man keeps Brock's gun (and passport) unless absolutely needed. "For my own good, he said."

"You know I've used it only five times since I've had to follow your nose for you."
"If you can call it that," he said. "And you slaughtered seven people with those five shots, remember?"
"Eleven," I said.
"Do you want a chit?" he said.
"Stuff the chit," I said. "It's my own pistol."

Popular culture

As might be expected for a successful advertising executive, Brock has a wide range of knowledge and appreciation of popular culture. He enjoys pub food and eulogizes, among others, the specialities at the Swiss Cottage, the Wellington in the Strand, the Windrush in Witney, and the Amberly Inn in Woodchester Priory. He alludes frequently to films and their stars: Humphrey Bogard, Nelson Eddy and Jeanette Macdonald, Charlton Heston, James Cagney (at least twice); Richard Burton, Big John Wayne (at least twice—"Perhaps there's nobody left but Big John Wayne and me."); the two stars of Shane, the classic Western film of 1953 ("for a happy minute or two, Provis and I got back to back and laid about us like Alan Ladd and Van Heflin."). As well as mentioning the American singer Nat King Cole and television personality Dick Van Dyke, he also brings in the science-fiction writers Ray Bradbury and Brian Aldiss. And in spite of his apparent Englishman's disdain for all things Welsh, including its culture, its people, and its food, Brock does make favorable mention of the great Welsh rugby player Wilf Wooler twice, and even more often of the beautiful Welsh songstress Shirley Bassey.

Novels in which Brock appears

• It Won't Get You Anywhere — The Bodley Head, London, 1966; Lippincott, New York, 1966, ISBN 0552079111
• I Was Following This Girl — The Bodley Head, London, 1967; Doubleday, New York, 1968, ISBN 0552081159
• I'm Trying to Give It Up — The Bodley Head, London, 1968; Doubleday, New York, 1969, ISBN 0370006445