It's a long time since I have read a book which started so strongly and which became weaker and weaker and more boring as it progressed. At the start this is a wickedly funny book, written from the perspective of a washed-up former senior City chap who is now drinking too much, being rude to his wife and colleagues and despised or pitied by most people, including his two children. There are many funny moments and some terrific lines.
But then ... well, if other people's dream are always boring (and they are) that another person's nervous breakdown is ten times worse. The narrator's behaviour becomes more and more erratic - but not in an amusing way - and his thoughts more and more jumbled until the reader can barely tell what is actually happening. And it is simply tedious to read page after page about this sad man driving around, taking tablets, drinking whiskey, driving some more, stopping for cigarettes, taking another tablet ... oh, god yawn-a-roony about a self absorbed looney.
Two stars because it started well and made me laugh quite a lot. If only Powell had been able to sustain it.
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