This is the second Rankin book I’ve read, and it somehow reminded me of the literary equivalent of fast food – McDonald’s, to be precise: Looks close enough to the real thing, but not really appetizing, and leaves a vaguely unsatisfying feeling in the stomach.
The jokes that were funny when I read them for the first time in “The Witches of Chiswick” just seemed stale now, the plot … well, there wasn’t much of one, to begin with. It seemed as if Rankin had written another novel around the jokes from the first one I read.
A quote from the Daily Telegraph on the front cover said, “Everyone should read at least one Robert Rankin in their life.” I think they wanted to say “at most", not “at least".
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