I quite liked Self's earlier books. The Quantity Theory of Insanity was amusing, Great Apes was internally consistent. This book however places him in the camp with so many British authors who have a large vocabulary but nothing to say.
I'm unsure what I hated most about it - the ridiculous plot, the bizarre speech patterns of the protagonists, the unconvincing attempts to tie up the loose ends, or just the over-riding smugness of the authorial voice.
I was lured into buying the book by a 3 for 2 offer and the reviews on the paperback written by his media mates. It is not 'wonderfully ingenious' or 'raucously imaginative'. It is neither 'Swiftian' nor 'Kafkaesque'.
Satire, such as a Modest Proposal, works because we understand the mindset of those being lampooned. In contrast, the Butt comes over as the ramblings of a middle-Englander out of his depth in nasty old foreignland. It slots in with the tranche of recent films (Taken, Babel and Transsiberian)which, though they have their moments, labour under the sub-text that if you leave the comfort of your nice Western life, bad things will happen and you will have only yourself to blame. It reminded me of an extended Christmas round-robin diatribe - 'and you'll never guess what happened to us next...'
The butt that Tom Brodzinski flicked off his balcony was the last cigarette he ever smoked. The Butt will be the last Will Self book I shall ever read. I already feel healthier.
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