This is a sterling book by Frank which smashes the crockery of twee neologisms as it mutters and then, gathering pace at a quite remarkable rate, spurts to its astonishing end. In that sense one might opine that the text ends up, metaphorically speaking, upside-down (and somewhat, it has to be said, idiomatically), on the mantle-piece, the textual "spine" as wrinkled as a battered and carefree mustache. Until, at length, one is rather reminded of Lacan in an apercu to Heidegger thrown (as it were) away as they motored through France on their famous camping holiday: "le préconscient est éclairée par l'aporie mon cher Martin, qui est poussé à un discours par rapport à l'imaginaire strictement incorporé - ou devrions-nous parler de facilité? - par l'écran au-delà de l'écran." What both men failed to understand was that the young soi disant blouson noir, and hitch hiker they had picked up just outside Perpignan, was one Jean Baudrillard, and that secreted in the back seat this Jean Baudrillard was scribbling away furiously and with a rapt expression on his face.