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A stuttering but almost successful attempt to become a QPR fan, gives way to bold stabs at embracing the totems of British sport--The Open, The Boat Race, Wimbledon--with Miller bent on breaking the "code" that allows others to find passion, drama and fun, where he finds only bad catering, yobs and stupefying boredom.
The investigation is punctuated by the ongoing story of his own endeavours in top-flight international sporting competition, as Miller finds himself drawn to the painted windmills and baffling geometry of crazy golf, pursuing his new passion around the seaside towns of Britain and onwards to European Championships, in Latvia (where he is billed by no less an organ than the Baltic Times as "the Eddie the Eagle of miniature golf").
Miller is the witty, acutely self-conscious traveller at the heart of his own story, but nevertheless pursues serious lines of enquiry into the self-deception and surrender to tribalism that characterise the sports fan, and what underpins his own long-standing resistance to "joining in". No major revelations here, but this is a light, entertaining read that could have even the most unsporty types thinking about grabbing a putter. --Alex Hankin --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
It's gripping AND humourous AND smart.
The problem is the book never quite finds a point. It opens with a pathetic moan about "lad culture" and struggles to overcome the fact that the author is ultimately writing about a subject he doesn't really like. The overdrawn saga undoubtedly has its high points, but as the author flits between hating "lads", trying to like sport and a fight-against-the-odds tale in the world of Crazy Golf, you do have to stop and wonder if there is a point to it all.
Along the way there are some great stories but also some well made serious points. Those that stay in my mind are the sections in the book which cover football. These are the most sensible viewpoints I have seen written (in newspapers and books) about 'the beautiful game'.
Quite frankly, if you're looking for that, look elsewhere (Mark Simpson's 'Male Impersonators' turns football over beautifully). There are occasional flashes of entertaining insight, but they are drowned in the endless, and frankly tiresome, recounting of the author's oh-so-wacky pursuit of miniature golf which is in truth the focus of this book. This is a book suffering from a bad case of Louis Theroux syndrome; if you still find him entertaining, you'll probably like it. If a little light self-deprecation whilst patronising a bunch of socially marginalised but otherwise harmless misfits strikes you as tired, and a lazy way to fish for cheap laughs, save your money.
The world is still waiting for the Anti-Hornby, who will hammer the last nails into the coffin of Laddism and laugh nastily while doing so: 'Tilting at Windmills' takes a weak stab at being the apostate's 'Fever Pitch' but ultimately wants too much to be loved and gives up after the first hurdle.
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