From boozy celeb autobiography (Alex James) to boozy celeb fiction. This is the second Andrew Holmes I've read, Criminal Records being the other, of which I berated the cover but applauded the novel within. It's the opposite with this one, I'm afraid. The cover (with the Absolut bottle; not the one pictured here) is beautiful. The fact that I am partial to book covers with booze on (cf. Graham Swift, Last Orders, edition c.1997), as well as telling me more about myself than I probably care to know, made this a must-buy for 99p, but was a disappointment, if I'm honest.
I believe this was Holmes' debut, and it shows: it is a fine idea, but it's just a bit too try-hard. It also employs that tactic of introducing lots of pointless minor characters and their stories at the start of various chapters, so beloved of the Grishams and Picoults of Bookworld: Norbert Enwistle was not having a good day. His pet chihuahua, Wonderwall, had pissed all over the baby-pink broderie anglaise blouse he had laid out for his shift at the local branch of Corsets-R-Us... OK, I may be paraphrasing slightly, but you get the gist. These asides are fine if they actually add something to the plot - Jonathan Coe does it brilliantly - but here they just scream out, "I've got all these ideas that don't really fit, but I can't be bothered developing them, so I'll just shove them in... here, and bump up my word count too!"
However, don't let this review put you off reading Criminal Records; it really is very good.