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A Ton of Malice: The Half-Life of an Irish Punk in London
1979. PUNK IS IN DECLINE.
ESPECIALLY THIS PUNK.
On the platform at Holyhead I approach a uniformed man with a whistle.
'Is this the 6:55 to Auschwitz?' I ask.
'Enough of your cheek, lad.'
'Arbeit Macht Frei!'
'What?'
'It's Gaelic for thank you.'
March, 1979. Sid Vicious is dead, Margaret Thatcher is very much alive, and Barry has just arrived in London. Twenty years old, Irish and angry, he cons his way into a job at Sellafield, home of Britain's military-grade plutonium. It's the start of a hilarious and hallucinatory coming-of-age tale that ranges from sordid coal-bunker squats to the tea room at the Ritz, via the Parisian Left Bank and the blooming poppy fields of Ireland.
Here is a portrait of an artist on acid, amphetamines and PCP, who finds himself working at the heart of Britain's nuclear industry. It pulses with stories and stories within stories, eye-watering, sexy, terrifying and poignant. A wild, hellish descent that is also a rush for the stars, A Ton of Malice is the demented love-child of Irvine Welsh, Hunter S. Thompson and Matt Groening.
And, if it matters, it's almost all true.
ESPECIALLY THIS PUNK.
On the platform at Holyhead I approach a uniformed man with a whistle.
'Is this the 6:55 to Auschwitz?' I ask.
'Enough of your cheek, lad.'
'Arbeit Macht Frei!'
'What?'
'It's Gaelic for thank you.'
March, 1979. Sid Vicious is dead, Margaret Thatcher is very much alive, and Barry has just arrived in London. Twenty years old, Irish and angry, he cons his way into a job at Sellafield, home of Britain's military-grade plutonium. It's the start of a hilarious and hallucinatory coming-of-age tale that ranges from sordid coal-bunker squats to the tea room at the Ritz, via the Parisian Left Bank and the blooming poppy fields of Ireland.
Here is a portrait of an artist on acid, amphetamines and PCP, who finds himself working at the heart of Britain's nuclear industry. It pulses with stories and stories within stories, eye-watering, sexy, terrifying and poignant. A wild, hellish descent that is also a rush for the stars, A Ton of Malice is the demented love-child of Irvine Welsh, Hunter S. Thompson and Matt Groening.
And, if it matters, it's almost all true.
- GenresFiction
237 pages, Kindle Edition
Published May 30, 2017
8 people are currently reading
60 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
October 8, 2017
This book was an intriguing mix of seriously dark humour which had me wincing, and some really puerile writing, which made me wonder if the same person had written it.
The story follows Barry McKinley on his journey from Rainy Town, Ireland to London. Here he lands a plum job in a nuclear plant as a draughtsman, despite having zero experience and no qualifications. Imbibing a mixture of both legal and illegal substances, Barry stumbles from one bedsit to another, describing his “adventures” and oddball characters he meets along the way.
There were flashes of absolute brilliance, where the writer captured the feel of the late 70s. The importance of fashion and music, and the bizarre clash of punks and hippies crossing paths. Then there were the disappointing parts where I thought a teenage boy was writing “What I did on my weekend” for English class on Monday morning. The disparity in parts of the book surprised me.
"As useful as a pogo stick in a minefield.”
”The small suitcase beside the bed contained toiletries, underwear and a packet of Rizla: everything I needed for permanent exile. I could walk out with all that I owned and still have a free hand to hail a taxi.”
"Downstairs, somebody rang the bell, but nobody answered. That’s how it goes when you live in flats. Silence and withdrawal is an anti-bailiff strategy. I ignore it too, until it became apparent that some lunatic was kicking down the door. Then I knew it was for me.”
The story follows Barry McKinley on his journey from Rainy Town, Ireland to London. Here he lands a plum job in a nuclear plant as a draughtsman, despite having zero experience and no qualifications. Imbibing a mixture of both legal and illegal substances, Barry stumbles from one bedsit to another, describing his “adventures” and oddball characters he meets along the way.
There were flashes of absolute brilliance, where the writer captured the feel of the late 70s. The importance of fashion and music, and the bizarre clash of punks and hippies crossing paths. Then there were the disappointing parts where I thought a teenage boy was writing “What I did on my weekend” for English class on Monday morning. The disparity in parts of the book surprised me.
"As useful as a pogo stick in a minefield.”
”The small suitcase beside the bed contained toiletries, underwear and a packet of Rizla: everything I needed for permanent exile. I could walk out with all that I owned and still have a free hand to hail a taxi.”
"Downstairs, somebody rang the bell, but nobody answered. That’s how it goes when you live in flats. Silence and withdrawal is an anti-bailiff strategy. I ignore it too, until it became apparent that some lunatic was kicking down the door. Then I knew it was for me.”
September 20, 2018
This is the story of a 20 year old Irish 'punk' living in London in 1979. It's told in the form of a diary running from March to December of that year, with flashbacks to his formative years in a provincial town in Ireland. He is nasty to his girlfriend and hates eveything. His girlfriend eventually leaves him and he spends the rest of the book wandering around feeling sorry for himself, taking drugs, being generally sarcastic and nasty, and wondering why she left him. He gets beaten up only once in the narrative which is surprising, given his tongue. That's the plot, essentially. I stuck it out to the final, inevitable confrontation with the girlfriend but there is no redemption.
At times, it's incredibly funny, with some very dark humour. Otherwise it's full of increasingly improbable, self-aggrandizing tall-tales, which often end with a pithy one-liner intended to devastate his opponent. Or pass over his head. For his references are often litarary and nihilistic, of course. He shows off throughout the book. While some of it's funny, most of the time it's like listening to a boastful teens embellished stories. Characters tell him how beautiful he is, how thin he is; women flirt with him endlessly as they all take drugs. It's beautiful, wasted, emaciated, sharp-tongued, proto-junkie chic -- I really despise this nonsense. It's not difficult to believe some of the text was written as long ago as 1981 because it's certainly puerile. As for the punk element, this is the Sid Vicious side of punk, the cartoon side, drugs, nihilism & self-destruction, nothing to do with punk at all, it's more the Lou Reed New York death rock junkie bollocks. And I thought The Roxy closed in 1978?
At times, it's incredibly funny, with some very dark humour. Otherwise it's full of increasingly improbable, self-aggrandizing tall-tales, which often end with a pithy one-liner intended to devastate his opponent. Or pass over his head. For his references are often litarary and nihilistic, of course. He shows off throughout the book. While some of it's funny, most of the time it's like listening to a boastful teens embellished stories. Characters tell him how beautiful he is, how thin he is; women flirt with him endlessly as they all take drugs. It's beautiful, wasted, emaciated, sharp-tongued, proto-junkie chic -- I really despise this nonsense. It's not difficult to believe some of the text was written as long ago as 1981 because it's certainly puerile. As for the punk element, this is the Sid Vicious side of punk, the cartoon side, drugs, nihilism & self-destruction, nothing to do with punk at all, it's more the Lou Reed New York death rock junkie bollocks. And I thought The Roxy closed in 1978?
June 27, 2017
This is a kick-ass, no-holds barred story of an Irish punk living in London when the Irish were still basically persona non-grata and The Celtic Tiger was a long way off. With a plot line that involves the main character's quest to win back his love, his antics along the way are at times laugh out loud and at others, poignant. Anyone who lived through this era - of squats, low-rent flats in London, sex, drugs and rock'n'roll etc., will relate to this book. An excellent read.
November 22, 2017
despite loving this at the start from about half way in I just didn't really enjoy it as much and found it confusing in parts. overall a good read....
December 6, 2017
Brilliant read. I loved the style of writing. it was a great insight into life in London in 1979 for an Irishman addicted to drugs, told with great wit. My kind of humour.
April 15, 2019
An interesting insight into both the punk scene and life as an Irish person in the UK. Its a bit hard to like the storyteller, though at times his tales inspire sympathy.
August 28, 2025
An emotional, angry, stoned and brilliant ride
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews