These are performance poems - and it shows. They're wry, witty and dramatic, with unexpected turns and a whiff of the absurd. But they also come across as ephemeral and light: reading them, you get the feeling that McGough is rarely - perhaps can't be - serious, even if he's occasionally poignant. `In Vain' for example, comments wistfully on the wastefulness of plastic surgery, while `Dressed for the Occasion' is about an old man clearing out the wardrobe, with death anticipated as the next occasion to dress for. But poems like `Bad Day at the Ark I - IV' (hinting at ecological crisis and species extinction) and `The Father, the Son' (about Judas Iscariot) are missed opportunities - entertaining and diverting without being either moving or terribly profound. A light-hearted cynicism seems to pervade the collection, constantly fearing (it seems to me) to engage with things on a deeper, more meaningful level. If you like your poetry that way, of course, you'll probably enjoy the book. Otherwise, steer clear of what is largely a frustrating offering.