I won't be churlish, I did enjoy reading this collection of short stories but it does seem frontloaded with the best tales.
It's great to get back to that late 1970s, early 80s vibe when men were men and women pranced about in their living rooms doing the shake 'n' vac. It seems with the increasing feminisation of society, men no longer quite know how to think in the same way, their mindset has changed, not necessarily for the worse, mind, but 'not so self-assured' as John Lennon once sang. But this book is a pure rush of nostalgia, helped by Forsythe's authoritative tone and journalistic know-how. It's almost impossible, having read the first paragraph of his story, to turn away from it.
That said, his cosy world view starts to pall about half way through. There is a misogynistic tone - women are usually shrewish housewives, or alternatively a dusky, self-assured Shakira Caine type with breasts that rise and fall underneath a silk blouse. The locale switches oddly from international jetset - of Day of the Jackal style, to dull suburbia, to the Republic of Ireland and the six counties, the latter prompting you to look up the author's background on wiki. A lot aims for Roald Dahl territory but the twists don't always work or seem a bit signposted. Still, the first half is first rate stuff.