It has to be said that most authors of funny science-ish fiction have a small hamster wheel in their heads where their brain ought to be. Some even have a couple of hamster wheels rotating in opposite directions. You can spot them a mile off. Mr David, on the other foot, has a small, three-ringed circus complete with merry-go-round and a fire-eating chimpanzee Ringmaster. He is, quite simply, one diagnosis short of a clinical sectioning – and frankly, what more could you hope from in a writer?
These short stories will fling you from peculiar pillar to wonderful post, having much the same effect as the more expensive option of changing your name to Timothy Leary and ordering a pantechnicon of psychotropics from Harrods. For the same cost as six in-flight peanuts from Fly-If-You-Dare Holidays this chap will destroy planets for you, eviscerate Welsh future-history for you (yes indeed, Myffanwy), pull the wool from your eyes so that you can see little alien girls as the murderous swine that they are and, if you stick with him to the end, give you a “Mahatma uppercut” that your orthodontist will thank him for.
The writing is tight, the formatting is neat, the spelling is pure Home Counties, not faux-English foreign, and – in spite of the breadth of the “oh ye gods, he wouldn’t, would he?” of the subject matter - there is nothing in here to frighten your grandmother or to stop the hen slaying. I mean, to stop the hens laying. Splendid stuff. I commend this kindle to the world, and I recommend its liberal application.