I couldn't quite understand the concept behind this book. In Barrowcliffe's dedication he says that the story is of interest because it is so 'topical' and representative of modern love and sex, but if the story is so commonplace, who is it of interest to? The blurb asks you to decide '40 girlfriends, does that make him a stud or a loser?' Get that, readers? FORTY girlfriends! Phwooar! Read all about it in nauseating detail you filthy voyeur!
I will lay my cards on the table with this review- although a fair amount younger than the author it seems highly unlikely (or impossible) I will match his number of romances by the time I hit 40, so if I sound bitter then I hold my hands up. Out of all my male friends I only know of one who, at 35 is approaching the number of partners Barrowcliffe had, so I just don't buy it that this sort of behaviour is normal. Most men these days marry at around age 30, rather than Barrowcliffe's 40.
Putting aside the concept, is it a good read? Barrowcliffe seems to have a split personality that is difficult to sympathise with. He's obviously a cocky, arrogant and confident man and that's why he's been so successful in attracting women, but at the same time he seems curiously self-loathing. That's probably quite common in many men, but makes for an eye-gougingly infuriating experience. It reads like 'Ho ho, ...dirty anecdote, sweeping generalisation about men and women, ...judgmental snarking, joke, ...oh dear I'm really a mess who is just looking for real luurve, readers!.'
Fundamentally, who cares? Why should I care if Mr Smug got laid a lot, but shock horror found the whole thing a bit empty and wanted to settle down with a nice girl? Isn't that just growing up? Barrowcliffe isn't a good enough writer to make the anecdotes worthwhile - although he does a bit of self-deprecation, you can tell that he really thinks highly of himself. And not much of others.
Fortunately the author ends up with a respectable wife who (I notice) hasn't had 40 boyfriends. While I don't want to be evil and wish for the failure of a marriage just to prove someone wrong (although it's not beyond me to do so) - one does wonder, (a bit like what happened to Howard Stern after Private Parts) that the book's fairytale ending of 'I'm a bit of a rogue but look I love my wife' isn't tempting fate a bit.
So if you're the kind of half-man who is a bit intimidated by bed-busting tales of smug sexual conquest, avoid and read someone like Pete May, who, (unlike Barrowcliffe) seems eminently likeable and who also writes 'who cares' autobiographical novels about his problems (in his case, having to rent lots of different properties rather than have lots of sex).
As for whether the stories in Mr Wrong are true or not, that misses the point, are they really that unbelievable, or just depressingly all-too real? Barrowcliffe had his cake and ate it. You can pay him money to read how he did it. Fortunately I borrowed my copy from a friend.