A terribly written brilliant read. Set yourself on some sort of sunlounger, or the adjunctive part of some Peckham bar and let Bobby’s brain pour straight into yours. Just don’t pause to actually question the quality of the copy. Because this book isn’t about that. It’s a vehicle for Mortimer’s unmistakable maunderings, of which there’s plenty of muscle-flexing.
You’ll follow Gary, the short-arse lead, as he’s kept on a short-arse lead, falls in love and laments a dog called Lassoo. Wandering from warm melon to warm melon, Gary’s problem is that he can’t elope from his loser life. Suffocated as a solicitor at a local law firm (this is coming from the cockroach king himself), and semi-friendless in South London’s most famous favela, Gary is a little fella with even littler going for him.
That is, of course, until one night when he meets a bloke called Brendan, a lass called Emily, gets the number for a personal sock-line, a corn-on-the-cob dongle deposit, shares a steak and chips, winds up with a copy of The Satsuma Complex, and finds himself embroiled in a frankly shit thriller. The rest is a bit of a ride. Not a rollercoaster, but a bit of a ride.
Expect:
LOLs. LAFS even.
Jane Brurier references
Toffee clogs
To stand for the national anthem
A couple of batterings, and a battery of battenburg
And one moment of stark, almost unsettling, emotional outpouring
Fuji 9/10 – Highly Recommend