One of my students loaned me this book after a unit on controversial art, and I have to say this is one of the most enjoyable art books I've ever read. There's something about the organization/disorganization of this that reminds me of a 17-year-old livejournaler I used to be obsessed with, who had such "projects" as listing the entire gamut of available "moods" and then writing "kill me".
Shrigley has the same sort of morbid, OCD embrace of failure. He holds it close to his chest and shows himself in half-sentence, half-drawing, half-thought, from the start of the book to its enigmatic "end".