...Why did I hate this book? Let me count the ways.
The hero (JD) is a public school educated journalist of reactionary views (no connection here obviously with the James Delingpole who writes for The Spectator). In JD's world women are "babes", the working class are "oiks", and computer games are cool. Not as cool though as drugs which are consumed at tiresome length throughout the novel.
Halfway through I thought I might have missed the point of this book and that perhaps it was intended as some sort of parody of the Bloke-Lit genre. If this is the case then Delingpole does just not signal his intentions clearly enough. Taken straight this book is simply offensive and cringe making. For example in one passage the hero refuses to buy drugs at Glastonbury from a dealer because he is Black (hilarious, no?). A character is put down at a dinner party because she disapproves of fox hunting, is Scottish and (it is implied) lower middle class or worse.
Other passages are simply bizarre: an extended description of spot-squeezing and toe-clipping in nauseating detail fills several pages in the style of a bad and totally unfunny observational comedy routine.
Characterisation is non-existent. In a touching homage to Chick-Lit the hero's best friend is gay. Unfortunately Delingpole's masterly hand produces the most unsuccessful sexual impersonation since Peter Wyngarde played Jason King. Think Julian Clary, think Stephen Fry, think the worst thing you have ever read in your entire life.
Being charitable it may be that this book was cynically written by a clever man to appeal to a boorish audience...
As they say on the blurbs, if you are afraid of laughter in public places don't read this book on the tube: people will laugh at you.