I was worried, worried that for all the fame Karl Pilkington has enjoyed this past year or so, he'd have gained some actual - genuine - knowledge, and by default this book would have become less enjoyable, clouded by information and 'facts' that actual rang true.
I needn't have worried. Karl remains as impervious to knowledge as a moth does to the damaging effects of hot light bulbs. He seeks knowledge, but when it happens upon him something gets twisted in the transmitter and it comes out of his mouth adapted, totally different to the true meaning.
Not that his wonderful theories don't have some basis, that they somehow make sense despite the absurdity of the claim. How about his assertion that we're all told to eat five portions of fruit a day only because there's so much 'rubbish fruit' they're trying to get rid? They're even palming it off in shower gels such as 'hint of kiwi', says Karl by amusing way of 'proof'.
Where as Karl's previous book 'The World of Karl Pilkington' suffered somewhat because you couldn't hear his perfect dead-pan delivery, this book revels in the fact that it is one long ramble, about his holidaying life and what his girlfriend's parents have for tea each night.
You learn next to nothing about the places he visits, but then surely that was to be expected. He devotes a chapter to his Madeira holiday and I don't think he mentions what it was like once.
All in all this is a good read with lots of chuckle-out-loud moments. Karl is here to stay it seems, and still wonderfully unaware of what all the fuss is about.