"The fate of the galaxy rests on just one man.
That man is Captain Isembard Smith, and the galaxy is in a whole lot of trouble.
When the British Space Empire is attacked by a mysterious warship with the ability to jump between dimensions, Smith must investigate - which would be much easier without the threat of fanatical cultists, pirates and legions of army ants, and if his ship wasn't infested by man-eating toads.
Soon Smith and his moderately brave crew are drawn into a deadly game - a game without rules and only one thing is certain..it just isn't cricket!
Smith's mission will take him on a perilous journey where he must face his greatest fears: from the edge of space, through Hell itself - and even to France..."
Set in a future where the British Space Empire, fueled by Tea, Curry and Moral Fibre, has spread itself out into space, the Isembard Smith series can best be described as Stiff-upper lip "Boys Own" heroics artificially inseminating Space Opera in a test-tube still holding some Tom Holt DNA.
The end result is ...well I had to go back and delete the first version of this piece because I kept using words like "Spiffing" "Romp" and "Wizard". Great fun, basically.
What is weird is that if you pruned away only a few elements, this would be quite a dark series. The Empire is under attack from a loose alliance of bloodthirsty psychos with intent toward genocide and one chapter is not far off something Tim Burton would consider "Too dark and ****ing twisted.
Then again, this book features the deranged, trouser-phobic commando Wainscot, giant kamikaze lemmings and a lacrosse-fixated lady Battleship captain who has her own way of running a happy ship.
Smith himself neatly lampoons all the old-school British heroes - not the sharpest tool in the box (and more than a little xenophobic) -but brave, resourceful and determined. Utterly baffled by women though. Hippy girlfriend Rhianna can get a bit annoying but sex-bot-turned-pilot Carveth and headhunting alien Suruk are usually guaranteed to make a scene better.
Toby Frost takes a blunderbuss approach to parody - you can probably use half a sheet of paper just listing the sources he's aiming at - but never falls into what I call the "Custard Trap" where a comedy writer overdoes the silliness for its own sake.
If you've ever wondered what a Steampunk Dan Dare written by a young Terry Pratchett might look like, this might be what you're looking for.
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