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Reversed Forecast
The first novel from the brilliantly unconventional Nicola Barker is a tale of gambling, allergies, music and dogs, set in some of London’s less scenic locations.
Chance meetings between its cast of eccentric individuals – Ruby the bookie's cashier, violently disturbed (and disturbing) Vincent, Samantha the would-be cabaret singer, wilfully sickly Sylvia and Little Buttercup the never-quite-made-it greyhound – result in the unlikeliest of couples; and there’s always the risk that it could all work out disastrously as characters select each other and try or don’t try to make winning combinations. But, as Ruby, the story’s soft-centred heroine, ‘Losing, that’s the whole point of the gamble.’
Chance meetings between its cast of eccentric individuals – Ruby the bookie's cashier, violently disturbed (and disturbing) Vincent, Samantha the would-be cabaret singer, wilfully sickly Sylvia and Little Buttercup the never-quite-made-it greyhound – result in the unlikeliest of couples; and there’s always the risk that it could all work out disastrously as characters select each other and try or don’t try to make winning combinations. But, as Ruby, the story’s soft-centred heroine, ‘Losing, that’s the whole point of the gamble.’
208 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1994
3 people are currently reading
108 people want to read
About the author
Nicola Barker
34 books302 followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author in the Goodreads database with this name.
Nicola Barker is an English writer.
Nicola Barker’s eight previous novels include Darkmans (short-listed for the 2007 Man Booker and Ondaatje prizes, and winner of the Hawthornden Prize), Wide Open (winner of the 2000 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award), and Clear (long-listed for the Man Booker Prize in 2004). She has also written two prize-winning collections of short stories, and her work has been translated into more than twenty languages. She lives in East London.
Nicola Barker is an English writer.
Nicola Barker’s eight previous novels include Darkmans (short-listed for the 2007 Man Booker and Ondaatje prizes, and winner of the Hawthornden Prize), Wide Open (winner of the 2000 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award), and Clear (long-listed for the Man Booker Prize in 2004). She has also written two prize-winning collections of short stories, and her work has been translated into more than twenty languages. She lives in East London.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
November 7, 2015
[4.5] More bizarre and chaotically loveable eccentrics from NB, back in the less gentrified time when a shambolic northern art graduate could work in a bookie's and afford to live in a grotty studio in Soho. Feels like home even though I wasn't there then. Dog racing, crap low-level criminals, pub bands, and a strange teenage girl obsessed with pigeons (who'd probably now be considered to be on the autistic spectrum) all feature.
Along with confused, fluid, lust/annoyance-fuelled sexual attractions, with a scene or two that I initially misread as troubled - such is the way discourse on these things have changed over the last two decades, but it was only ever playfighting. A reminder that people are more complicated than Tumblr would like them to be.(And of a time with someone when I thought silently, "You can't carry on like that these days, haven't you grown out of that like I did? Didn't you get the memo? I worry someone who didn't used to be this way herself might end up accusing you of something".)
Most ludicrous line: Vincent stared at the guitar. ‘If you’re expecting me to vomit into a musical instrument, I’d prefer a trumpet.’
One of my favourite Barkers, re-read worthy, along with the superlative Darkmans - and the two early short story collections which, unlike her recent manic writing style, feature a relaxed tone similar to this short novel, her first.
Along with confused, fluid, lust/annoyance-fuelled sexual attractions, with a scene or two that I initially misread as troubled - such is the way discourse on these things have changed over the last two decades, but it was only ever playfighting. A reminder that people are more complicated than Tumblr would like them to be.(And of a time with someone when I thought silently, "You can't carry on like that these days, haven't you grown out of that like I did? Didn't you get the memo? I worry someone who didn't used to be this way herself might end up accusing you of something".)
Most ludicrous line: Vincent stared at the guitar. ‘If you’re expecting me to vomit into a musical instrument, I’d prefer a trumpet.’
One of my favourite Barkers, re-read worthy, along with the superlative Darkmans - and the two early short story collections which, unlike her recent manic writing style, feature a relaxed tone similar to this short novel, her first.
February 6, 2019
Stylistically this is fairly unadventurous, is a breeze of a read compared to much of the later stuff; but what Barker lacks in formal invention she makes up for in unhinged and unpredictable (and often weirdly hilarious) character behaviour that only a handful of writers could ever manage to execute. For example(!):
"She pulled open the fridge. Milk, cheese, butter. In the freezer compartment: vanilla ice-cream. She took out these things and went back to Connor, who was still in his bedroom, bare-chested, immobile. She opened the carton of milk, pulled at the waist-band of his trousers and poured the milk down inside. The milk was cold.
‘Stop!’ He tried to move away. ‘Stop that!’
She laughed at him.
‘I can’t!’
She threw down the empty carton and picked up the tub of ice-cream, ripped off its lid and pushed a handful of it into her mouth.
Connor’s trousers were wet and heavy. He began to unbutton them, but couldn’t help noticing as he did so how the skin on her chest and neck seemed even redder and angrier. He stopped what he was doing and instead took the carton of ice-cream from her, put in his hand and scooped some out. He applied it to her throat and her chest. She enjoyed this sensation: the coldness of the ice and the warmth of his skin underneath it.
She pulled him to her. He still smelled of oranges. She pushed her face on to his neck, into his hair and smelled him properly. What did he really smell of? She felt his hands on her breasts, her back, but they held no ice now, were simply touching her. She whispered, close to his ear, ‘What do you taste like?’ and took a tentative nibble.
‘Christ!’
He jerked his head away, slapping a hand on to the spot she’d bitten. He checked his fingers to see if she had drawn blood. The expression on her face implied that she had. He frowned at her. ‘That’s dangerous.’
‘You taste like tomatoes.’
He couldn’t help smiling.
‘You’ve still got bean-juice all over your face, it’s probably that you can taste.’ He put out his hand and gently wiped some of the mess from her cheek. She grabbed his fingers and pushed them into her mouth, sucking them, tasting salt and garlic and resin. The feel of her mouth excited him. His trousers felt strange, though, as if prematurely full of creamy semen. He wanted to take them off but was embarrassed by his sudden state of arousal. She sucked his fingers and then his hand, covering it in speculative licks and nibbles. He was being savaged by an irrepressible toy dog. She ran her nose from his wrist to his armpit, savouring him, chewing at his underarm hair and tasting the nasty bitter taste of his deodorant. She spat and screwed up her face. To quell the taste she grabbed hold of the pat of butter and bit into it. He said, ‘Don’t eat that! It’s butter! Don’t eat butter like that,’ while he tried, at the same time, to pull off his trousers.
She watched this and laughed when she saw the head of his penis jutting out from the opening in his boxer shorts. Roughly she shoved him backwards, on to the bed. Her mind was crammed full of buttery things, yellow things, oil and excess.
He lay on the bed, at once hopeful and hopeless. She knocked the remnants of the tray on to the floor, picking up some mushrooms in the process, one of which she pushed into his navel, then straddled him, low down, squatting either side of his knees and staring at his manhood. She had never seen a penis before and was both fascinated and amused by what she saw. He looked like a pink leek, a radish, a red asparagus. He smelled milky. His eyes widened as she leaned forward and took the tip of him into her mouth. She said, her mouth now full, ‘You taste like an oyster, like a prawn.’ She was not overly impressed by the taste, but it seemed a natural enough flavour so she pressed down her teeth, ever so slightly.
He sat bolt upright - ‘Don’t bite it! Please God!’ - and jerked her head away.
He saw her face, so stupid, so child-like, so full of impulse, and wondered what they were doing, what they could do. At the back of his mind he knew that he would make love with her, if he could, but he didn’t know, couldn’t be sure, that she wouldn’t change her mind half-way. through, get bored or get angry. She wasn’t emotionally consistent. He pulled her closer to him and touched the redness on her chest and neck, then took her nipple into his mouth as she sat astride him. She pulled it away.
‘That’s my job.’
Is she joking? he wondered.
Her face was serious. ‘If we have sex now …’ she frowned, ‘will it be interesting? Will it taste of anything? I mean, what would we do?’
Even as she spoke, he felt himself diminishing. He said, ‘I suppose the point is that you do it because you want to be close to another person.’ She pulled back slightly and stared at him. His face was covered by his hair, his body was lean. Like the bacon, she thought, not too much fat on it. She pushed his hair away from his face. Underneath it, his eyes were uncertain. She liked that. She felt herself warming inside, bubbling a little, like milk before it boils.
She pushed him gently down again and pulled off his shorts. This is a real, live, proper man, she thought, delighted. She pulled the covers over him, as though tucking him up for the night, scooped another mittful of ice-cream from the tub, and then slipped in beside him. She pushed down her creamy hands and took hold of his now somewhat flabby member. He gasped at the coldness of her touch. ‘Where does this go?’ she asked quietly. Then added, ‘Don’t tell me, I’ll guess.’"
"She pulled open the fridge. Milk, cheese, butter. In the freezer compartment: vanilla ice-cream. She took out these things and went back to Connor, who was still in his bedroom, bare-chested, immobile. She opened the carton of milk, pulled at the waist-band of his trousers and poured the milk down inside. The milk was cold.
‘Stop!’ He tried to move away. ‘Stop that!’
She laughed at him.
‘I can’t!’
She threw down the empty carton and picked up the tub of ice-cream, ripped off its lid and pushed a handful of it into her mouth.
Connor’s trousers were wet and heavy. He began to unbutton them, but couldn’t help noticing as he did so how the skin on her chest and neck seemed even redder and angrier. He stopped what he was doing and instead took the carton of ice-cream from her, put in his hand and scooped some out. He applied it to her throat and her chest. She enjoyed this sensation: the coldness of the ice and the warmth of his skin underneath it.
She pulled him to her. He still smelled of oranges. She pushed her face on to his neck, into his hair and smelled him properly. What did he really smell of? She felt his hands on her breasts, her back, but they held no ice now, were simply touching her. She whispered, close to his ear, ‘What do you taste like?’ and took a tentative nibble.
‘Christ!’
He jerked his head away, slapping a hand on to the spot she’d bitten. He checked his fingers to see if she had drawn blood. The expression on her face implied that she had. He frowned at her. ‘That’s dangerous.’
‘You taste like tomatoes.’
He couldn’t help smiling.
‘You’ve still got bean-juice all over your face, it’s probably that you can taste.’ He put out his hand and gently wiped some of the mess from her cheek. She grabbed his fingers and pushed them into her mouth, sucking them, tasting salt and garlic and resin. The feel of her mouth excited him. His trousers felt strange, though, as if prematurely full of creamy semen. He wanted to take them off but was embarrassed by his sudden state of arousal. She sucked his fingers and then his hand, covering it in speculative licks and nibbles. He was being savaged by an irrepressible toy dog. She ran her nose from his wrist to his armpit, savouring him, chewing at his underarm hair and tasting the nasty bitter taste of his deodorant. She spat and screwed up her face. To quell the taste she grabbed hold of the pat of butter and bit into it. He said, ‘Don’t eat that! It’s butter! Don’t eat butter like that,’ while he tried, at the same time, to pull off his trousers.
She watched this and laughed when she saw the head of his penis jutting out from the opening in his boxer shorts. Roughly she shoved him backwards, on to the bed. Her mind was crammed full of buttery things, yellow things, oil and excess.
He lay on the bed, at once hopeful and hopeless. She knocked the remnants of the tray on to the floor, picking up some mushrooms in the process, one of which she pushed into his navel, then straddled him, low down, squatting either side of his knees and staring at his manhood. She had never seen a penis before and was both fascinated and amused by what she saw. He looked like a pink leek, a radish, a red asparagus. He smelled milky. His eyes widened as she leaned forward and took the tip of him into her mouth. She said, her mouth now full, ‘You taste like an oyster, like a prawn.’ She was not overly impressed by the taste, but it seemed a natural enough flavour so she pressed down her teeth, ever so slightly.
He sat bolt upright - ‘Don’t bite it! Please God!’ - and jerked her head away.
He saw her face, so stupid, so child-like, so full of impulse, and wondered what they were doing, what they could do. At the back of his mind he knew that he would make love with her, if he could, but he didn’t know, couldn’t be sure, that she wouldn’t change her mind half-way. through, get bored or get angry. She wasn’t emotionally consistent. He pulled her closer to him and touched the redness on her chest and neck, then took her nipple into his mouth as she sat astride him. She pulled it away.
‘That’s my job.’
Is she joking? he wondered.
Her face was serious. ‘If we have sex now …’ she frowned, ‘will it be interesting? Will it taste of anything? I mean, what would we do?’
Even as she spoke, he felt himself diminishing. He said, ‘I suppose the point is that you do it because you want to be close to another person.’ She pulled back slightly and stared at him. His face was covered by his hair, his body was lean. Like the bacon, she thought, not too much fat on it. She pushed his hair away from his face. Underneath it, his eyes were uncertain. She liked that. She felt herself warming inside, bubbling a little, like milk before it boils.
She pushed him gently down again and pulled off his shorts. This is a real, live, proper man, she thought, delighted. She pulled the covers over him, as though tucking him up for the night, scooped another mittful of ice-cream from the tub, and then slipped in beside him. She pushed down her creamy hands and took hold of his now somewhat flabby member. He gasped at the coldness of her touch. ‘Where does this go?’ she asked quietly. Then added, ‘Don’t tell me, I’ll guess.’"
February 24, 2010
Another disturbing gem from this subtly brilliant London-based authoress. Worth reading for the climactic sex scene that wipes the floor with 9 1/2 Weeks.
August 23, 2025
3.5
After I finished my Elizabeth Taylor project earlier this year, both my Muriel Spark and my Anita Brookner reading projects are now also nearing their end, and being a damaged reader I'm already looking for the next British 20th century writer whose work I can read completely, and chronologically. For some reason I think I'll try Nicola Barker.
Reversed Forecast gave me a jolt because the world and the characters seem so familiar to me. Not only was early 90's fiction full of people and settings like this, but life was as well. The book reminded me of being in my early twenties in Berlin in the early 90's and doing and feeling and saying the stupidest shit. It's a deeply Gen X book before that was a label and a thing. I felt at home in it like one might feel at home in a cluttered, somewhat filthy apartment.
It's also a somewhat frustrating book. It suffers from too many quirky characters, for the first 60 pages I found it tough going. But then Ruby buys the dog and things pick up considerably. I can never tell if or when Barker and/or her characters are serious about their pronouncements, but that's also very 90's.
After I finished my Elizabeth Taylor project earlier this year, both my Muriel Spark and my Anita Brookner reading projects are now also nearing their end, and being a damaged reader I'm already looking for the next British 20th century writer whose work I can read completely, and chronologically. For some reason I think I'll try Nicola Barker.
Reversed Forecast gave me a jolt because the world and the characters seem so familiar to me. Not only was early 90's fiction full of people and settings like this, but life was as well. The book reminded me of being in my early twenties in Berlin in the early 90's and doing and feeling and saying the stupidest shit. It's a deeply Gen X book before that was a label and a thing. I felt at home in it like one might feel at home in a cluttered, somewhat filthy apartment.
It's also a somewhat frustrating book. It suffers from too many quirky characters, for the first 60 pages I found it tough going. But then Ruby buys the dog and things pick up considerably. I can never tell if or when Barker and/or her characters are serious about their pronouncements, but that's also very 90's.
August 24, 2024
Barker bursts forth fully formed with her first novel, her skill for off-kilter introspection that nevertheless makes a kind of sense, and bizarre characters who nevertheless don't seem stranger than someone you could run into on your commute, all there on the page immediately.
Slightly less manic than her later stuff (the oddest character here, Sylvia, with whom birds are obsessed, wouldn't raise an eyebrow from any of the weirdos in Darkmans), but its shorter length makes it probably a good place to dip a toe into Barker's work, if you were so inclined.
Slightly less manic than her later stuff (the oddest character here, Sylvia, with whom birds are obsessed, wouldn't raise an eyebrow from any of the weirdos in Darkmans), but its shorter length makes it probably a good place to dip a toe into Barker's work, if you were so inclined.
September 1, 2024
Strange and vivid and also very funny. A lot happens / nothing happens / what on earth has just happened sort of novel where plot keeps sneaking up on you, without giving you anything quite so straightforward as a climax (though with several near misses)
July 21, 2019
Highly addictive! Characters you'd never want to come across in real life!
Read
October 7, 2012Chance meetings between its cast of eccentric individuals - Ruby the bookie's cashier, violently disturbed (and disturbing) Vincent, Samantha the would-be cabaret singer, wilfully sickly Sylvia and Little Buttercup the never-quite-made-it greyhound - result in the unlikeliest of couples. The first novel from the brilliantly unconventional Nicola Barker is a tale of gambling, allergies, music and dogs, set in some of London's less scenic locations. Chance meetings between its cast of eccentric individuals - Ruby the bookie's cashier, violently disturbed (and disturbing) Vincent, Samantha the would-be cabaret singer, wilfully sickly Sylvia and Little Buttercup the never-quite-made-it greyhound - result in the unlikeliest of couples; and there's always the risk that it could all work out disastrously as characters select each other and try or don't try to make winning combinations. But, as Ruby, the story's soft-centred heroine, observes: 'Losing, that's the whole point of the gamble.'
August 8, 2016
Oh, this is refreshing. Fifteen pages in and Nicolas Barker's evocative, effortless prose has charmed me again. Standout characters and vivid atmosphere transport the reader to the heart of a London no less likeable for being imperfect. Brilliant.
Update!
Finished now. This book is so damn likeable. Sort of like Martin Amis in a really good mood. I bloody loved this.
Update!
Finished now. This book is so damn likeable. Sort of like Martin Amis in a really good mood. I bloody loved this.
February 15, 2009
Another nutball novel by Nicola Barker! I think this was her first, but all the elements of her later books are here: the reprehensible characters, the sense of being in this world but slightly askew...It's worth tracking this one down if you like her later work.
October 10, 2013
A real pleasure - odd and interesting characters, vivid and arresting writing. Her first book, and the first of hers that I've read. I look forward to reading more.
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews