Now that the Winnie-the-Pooh books have fallen out of copyright, I can say with impunity I never could stand the fat wee bastard. A huge pall of boredom and irritation falls over me at the very thought of the Hundred Acre Wood, with the characters tooling about in search of the East and West Poles; the whole concept of the “Bear of Very Little Brain”; the diabetes-inducing honey fixation; the tiresome nursery prattle about heffalumps, kangas and Pooh Sticks.
Nothing happens in the stories except for time being killed. There’s no jeopardy, there are no dangerous undercurrents. A balloon pops — that’s as thrilling as matters get. I’ve always felt with AA Milne that this is an adult’s idea of what nice children will
