Howard Jacobson's fiction is all about irony, self-discovery and lament. No More Mister Nice Guy is no exception. Frank Ritz, a celebrated and successful TV critic, is thrown out of his own house by his partner, Mel, who writes feminist erotica. So begins Frank's personal odyssey in search of meaning about his own sexuality. He gets in his car and visits all the places that have been sexual 'milestones' in his own life. What we as readers get along the way are ribald, earthy and, most importantly, extremely funny depictions and comments about man's basic urges and needs. In its own way, this book is Jacobson's updated version of Portnoy's Complaint. But with a Mancunian accent!
And the irony and lament? These lie in the fact that Jacobson produces his own work of erotica that uses increasingly graphic description and language to support the increasing despair felt by the central character. By the end, all Frank's sexual excess cannot compensate for the passage of time, the loss of friends, and his feelings of inadequacy. Frank is finally portrayed as a victim not a villain.
Above all, this novel once again highlights Jacobson's gift of expression; one that is almost unique among contemporary authors. The chatty, loquacious and literate use of language (with its puns, sardonic asides, Yiddishisms, and quotes from other texts), flows so easily that you feel, at times, that you are reading a script from one of his own television documentaries. It is the writing of someone who wants, and knows how, to communicate ideas. But, as ever, this is done with a loud guffaw rather than a straight face.