This book started life as a writing project for a university course, and should really have ended it there. I can, with all honesty, say that it's one of the worst I've ever read.
For those who don't know, Dominic Knight is one of the Chaser team. The Chaser are a satirical group who still have the word "boys" added to any description of them, despite the fact that marriage and children have intervened in their youthful years of jubilation.
It's fitting, this perma-boy attitude, as it peppers the work. The reader is presented with a scarcely believable tale about a guy who can't decide what to do with his life - or, more importantly, who to shag. The 40 chapters - he's a DJ, it's a countdown, geddit? - contain the sort of observational comedy that would be interesting if it wasn't so laboured. It's chock-full of pretentious musical reference - though sadly not at a level that would earn a Pitchfork thumbs-up - and there's really a lack of narrative development. Most figures are cardboard cut-outs, particularly the women of the book, who seem to either provide some kind of deus ex machina role, or exist to be ogled and lusted after. Elsewhere, the about-face his parents make at the book's conclusion really goes against the role they've played for its entire duration.
To be fair, Knight's book does warn that it could be a thinly-veiled whinge about his life. If only it were that. The text seems to be a poorly-woven collection of namedroppings and excoriations of parts of Sydney's culture (the law, the University of Sydney and the North Shore, generally) which appear to be fuelled by a strange mixture of self-loathing and a desire to be known for trenchant insight.
The combination of weak story and weak humour beg a basic question: where were the editors on this project? It smacks of a novel that's been pushed out the door in the hope that the author's Chaser appeal would shift units. It's the sort of thing that, in the hands of any other writer, would have been flogged into shape with a couple more revisions.
Even if you're a lover of the male equivalent of chick-lit, you deserve much better than this dross. Appalling.