Quite simply one of the most godawful pieces of garbage I have ever had the misfortune to pick up. I genuinely cannot believe this ever got published. There was just about enough characterisation to show the characters as one-dimensionally unpleasant and the writing was the prose version of aggressively bad soap opera. Imagine Colin Bateman or Chris Brookmyre, but without any talent or charm whatsoever. In fact, imagine that Piers Morgan decided to write a crime novel; halting yet aggressive delivery that the purveyor somehow thinks is charming, brainless populism underscored with an utter contempt for the audience.

The people who published and marketed this tripe should be hunted down and given a stern talking to, preferable with a pair of hot pliers. ( )

Londra può anche trasformarsi in una credibile città pulp: è quello che avviene con il film di Guy Ritchie, Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, e con i romanzi di James Hawes. Fra l’understatement e l’ironia di entrambi gli autori, i prestiti dai generi, i personaggi standard, da una parte Ritchie riesce ad elevare la qualità metonimica dei luoghi del suo film, creando grazie a un linguaggio disinvolto un’immagine di Londra scoppiettante e contemporanea. Rancid Aluminium di James Hawes, con la formula inedita di “azione e riflessione” (il mix di thriller – spionaggio – witticism – interior monologue), conferisce a Londra una qualità molto pop, una dimensione ironica, leggera, senza scadere nella letteratura di entertainment commerciale. ( )

Bored (and boring) thirty seven year old, work-avoiding British layabout inherits his father's company only to find it on the verge of bankruptcy. He cheats on long time girlfriend, who is desperately hearing her biological clock. Then he gets involved with the Russian underworld in an attempt to save his failing business and pay back the money supposedly owing to the taxman.

The author has several promising themes to work with here, but fails on all counts. This didn't work for me on any level. Make no mistake, it is awful. The narrative and characterisation are simply dreadful; it was not funny; the Russian mafia stuff was unbelievable; and the sex puerile and blokish. Contrived, silly and rather boring and, worse still, badly written and ungrammatical.

The back cover blurb compares this to 'a cross between Tom Sharpe and John Le Carre', and with 'the black humour of Carl Hiassen'. Big shoes - and Hawes certainly goes nowhere near filling them. 'The funniest British novelist writing today' the blurb goes on. The reviewer clearly needs to get out more.

Lately I seem to be totally missing the point of many very hyped novels. I'm not sure if it is me - perhaps I am getting old(er) and (more) curmudgeonly. Or perhaps they are just crap. ( )