Nick Hornby, Slam – either I’m getting older and older, or Hornby is writing for a younger and younger reader. Still enjoyable though.
Russell Brand, My Booky Wook – I don’t read many autobiographies. I fully expected to hate this (even just based on the title) but having read and enjoyed it, I now like Russell Brand quite a lot more than I did before.
Irvine Welsh, Ecstasy: Three Tales of Chemical Romance – a handful of short stories. Some of the most bland and forgettable of Welsh’s stuff.
X, QI: The Book of Animal Ignorance – did you know that female kangaroos have three wombs and three vaginas? You would if you’d read this book, or sat still near me for several days after I’d read it.
Marina Lewycka, Two Caravans – charming, poignant and thoughtful book about migrant workers and an adorable dog.
Louis Theroux, The Call of the Weird: Travels in American Subcultures – Theroux’s guileless voice works as well here as in his documentaries.
Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones – beautifully moving. Incidentally, it seems Peter Jackson is turning it into film. I think I’ll have to see that.
Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – as always, Thompson is viscerally funny.
William Burroughs, Naked Lunch – not so much viscerally funny as viscerally ugly. Hard to stomach, at times. Burroughs dares you to enjoy it.
Iain Banks, Espedair Street – charming, inventive and slightly wistful exploration of a grown up rock star.
Mark Stephen Meadows, I, Avatar – Mark was kind enough to send me his new book a few months ago. Well laid out and beautiful whilst also being informative and thought provoking. Still don’t ‘get’ virtual worlds? Read this.