Another case of my reading a book because it looked interesting, with no memories attached to the author's name, and then realising I had in fact read something by him before. Dan Richards was, it turns out, the co-writer of Holloway, which granted is the second Rob Macfarlane book I'd go for if I were on Pointless (as a former victor recently told me I should be) and the category was Rob's books, but even so. And Rob is one of the interviewees here – indeed, one of the ones who inspired me to pick it up, alongside Bill Drummond and Stewart Lee. Others range from names I know and can recognise as quality personnel but wouldn't actively have sought out – Jenny Saville, Vaughan Oliver, Stanley Donwood – to ones which, much like the author's, rang no bells for me whatsoever, such as the printer Richard Lawrence. But all of them make for interesting company. Dame Judi Dench, even while complaining about most of the interviews she has to do and which she clearly sees as both impertinent and irrelevant to the work, seems nevertheless to enjoy this one. And listening to Donwood discuss the artwork for Radiohead's noughties albums is much more fun than listening to the bastard things ever was. Elsewhere, if the conversation with Drummond inevitably covers some familiar ground, Richards is at least aware of that, and makes a few valid-feeling stabs at possible insights into the career and drives of that remarkable individual. Possibly having some particular insight on account of his own quixotic projects: the title derives from an enormous airship which he built within an East Anglian student bar, as you do, and a big part of the book's motive, in so far as it has one, is a celebration of the remarkable results when people are allowed to follow their creative urge wherever it may lead. The corollary inevitably being a lament for the constrictions increasingly placed even on art school educations – something which has, of course, only got worse in the seven years since this was published. But then that's true of most everything, isn't it? And the book itself stands as a wonderful, inexplicable artefact. You know those comedy quest books, Round Ireland With A Fridge or whatever, and how they often aspire to some deeper significance, which they may or may not attain? This has the same relationship to those as Daniel Kitson's storytelling shows, which are no longer even attempting to be comedy per se, have to the regular run of Edinburgh shows which think they're being sneaky when they reveal a heart. With Richards, as with the people he talks to, the work is what it is because that's what it needed to be, and that only became apparent through the making of it.