I really wanted to write a review for this book, but I haven't read it yet and I would, essencially, be "making it up", as it were . This would go completely against Mr Littlejohn's belief in the impossibility of spontaneous thought and creativity, suggested by the title which, if anything, suggests that he thinks those who enjoy his fussy little rants have no imagination and are incapable of anything remotely artistic, inventive or original.
In fact, he almost taunts them, standing there on the front cover, all stretched out and portly due to a poorly dimensioned JPEG. He almost seems to be saying "YOU couldn't even make it up. That's how little I think of you, reader. I, Mr Richard Littlejohn, think you're unable to use your minds for anything beyond mere functionality, and are just waiting for me to pour my glib simplifications and bigoted views into your cavernous thought-holes, left barren by a lack of fantasy. I will continue to exploit these poor souls until the last one of you dies after drowning because you forget to close your mouth in the shower. Imagine that! Oh, that's right, of course you can't, and that's why I am your master".
He's mean, isn't he?
I think I'll judge this book in the spirit it which was written in and say, although I know very little about this book or it's contents, I definitely think it's publication is another example of the Nanny State taking over, political correctness gone mad and that it should be sent back to where it came from, wherever that is.