by Mike Parker.
I should have loved this book, and its early moments of laugh-out-loud recognition certainly boded extremely well. But the author soon began imposing his acerbic opinions – about anything from middle-England Tories to Julie Burchill, via Lewis Carrol’s suspected proclivities (now, I’m no fan of any of those people, but I don’t want to read snidery in a book about maps). Whatever enjoyment I might have had after that was curtailed as I tiptoed forward, wary of what nastiness would come next. Other things I didn’t want to read included: the author explaining how he shagged his way round p.90 of the Birmingham A-Z in his over-sexed twenties (just no); and I shouldn’t need to say that mocking (obviously) autistic people is never funny.
A good book, spoiled. 1.5 stars.