If you are my regular reader, you will know that recently I confessed to my liking for what I call 'pulp fiction', that is, American crime thrillers. Released from the shame of my hidden proclivity, I went further, and started a series of book-tip posts for the benefit of fellow addicts. Alas, the first two tips failed in that, either they were not American, or not a crime thriller. Still, I promised to try and do better in future, and I will, I will.
At the same time, I invited any visitors with similar likings for the genre, to leave their recommendations; and up popped Larry. Now, I should have known better than to trust to the taste and discernment of a man with a blog entitled 'tamponteabag'. (Need I say more?) Nor was I too hopeful when I realised that the author was a woman, and more-over, a woman calling herself 'Poppy Z. Brite'. I have nothing against women, you should understand, after all I married one, and I'm happy to report that the 'little memsahib' has worked out wonderfully well. However, it has to be said, that they don't often write good thrillers. The early Patricia Cornwells were good, until the lesbian in her began to pervade the story lines, and the 'relationships' (dread word in a thriller!) became more important than the crime plot. But any woman who, feeling the need of a nom-de plume, comes up with 'Poppy Z. Brite' needs to be approached with circumspection.
Of course, it is possible that Larry's recommendation was a joke. If so, I don't get it, and it cost me 85p to order this 'joke' from my library. But I don't think it was. I may be a naive old thing, but I honestly think Larry loved this book. So let me tell you, dear reader, that I only got as far as chapter 7 (out of 15), but that was 3 or 4 more than I wanted to read, and only my impeccable sense of duty to this blog, and to you, dear reader, drove me on. If I tell you that the book's main characters are all promiscuous, murderous homosexuals in various stages of diseased corruption of either the mind or the body, and that their multifarious and disgusting sexual habits are dwelt upon with loving (that's irony!) detail in every chapter, you will, so to speak, get the flavour - and the flavour is, mostly, blood, puss and semen!
In the normal course of events, I would worry for Larry, and for the fact that he actually likes this book, but on the back cover, sundry worthies from the Sunday Times, the Independent on Sunday, and such like, have all chorused their praise for it and its author. Truly, there is no fool like a pretentious fool.