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If this had been Will Self's first attempt as an unknown writer, it would never have been published. Of this we may be certain. Cumbersome, long-winded and full of phonetically rendered London-speak dialogue that would have most impartial readers reaching for the off-switch within two pages, this book is a testament to the undeserved literary success of the 21st century celebrity.
The central conceit is in itself an intriguing one - a disgruntled cabbie buries a record of his grievances, only for it to be discovered and mistaken for a religious text by future man, after Britain has been engulfed in a cataclysmic deluge that destroys the very fabric of society. You would expect this to signal the start of a vicious satire on the nature of religion and scriptures. It does so in a way that is barely satisfying and so mired in unnecessary sordidness as to render the exercise utterly pointless. And how hard Self makes his beloved reader work to even decipher his dialogue! Foolishly, I bought this book on the strength of that central conceit, and an admiration for Self's uncompromising persona as projected through his journalism and TV appearances. But his wretched repetition of loveless lives and illegible conversations meant that, after labouring through the first hundred pages, I merely flicked through the following hundred in the hope of finding some respite, then gave up altogether after another hundred. Self's barely concealed disdain for anything outside London - not to mention ordinary people - and his dreary racism (Japanese fares are never human, they are 'Japs') hardly endear me to him, either. Unfortunately, Self's own Dave-like fame and the unthinking sycophancy of the masses will ensure that this book remains a bestseller, as will anything else he carelessly cares to pen. There are many, many more deserving titles that will never reach the shelves of our bookstores.

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