Psmith in the City

I’ll admit: I approached *Psmith in the City* with mild trepidation. Wodehouse’s country-house comedies are comfort food, but a satire of *banking*? Yet within minutes, Cecil’s narration had me hooked—Psmith’s opening monologue about the ‘soul-crushing’ nature of commerce is delivered with such arch relish that I actually laughed out loud in a coffee shop. (The barista gave me a look. Worth it.) The genius here is how Wodehouse weaponizes Psmith’s unflappable confidence against the rigid hierarchies of the City. When our hero turns a mundane bank error into a full-blown diplomatic incident—complete with forged signatures and a fake mustache—Cecil’s timing is *flawless*. His Psmith doesn’t just *say* lines; he *savors* them, stretching vowels like taffy when the absurdity peaks. That said, the Mike-Psmith dynamic occasionally feels *too* lopsided; Mike’s cricket obsessions, while funny, start to drag in the second act, and Cecil’s portrayal of him veers into caricature. The audio quality is pristine, though the lack of distinct vocal markers for minor characters (like the perpetually flustered Mr. Bickersdyke) means a few jokes lose their punch in crowded scenes. Still, this is Wodehouse at his most *modern*—a blueprint for every workplace satire that followed. If you’ve ever fantasized about outwitting a pompous boss with sheer audacity, or just crave narration that sparkles like champagne, this is your audiobook. Just don’t listen at work. You *will* snort-laugh during a meeting.