A representative dose of queasy verbal pyrotechnics from the morose sesquipedalian, this time animated by a loathing of the London media scene. Our protagonist – fractionally less dislikable than the rest of the cast – is a third-rate hack called Richard Hermes who, like his divine namesake, moves between the worlds of the living and the dead, though in this case (unlike other Self novels) only metaphorically. Hermes is drawn to a depressing coterie of media hangers-on and general Popbitch pundits that gather around the orbit of a minor celebrity; he is also driven by a futile desire for Ursula Bentley, a flighty, sexy it-girl of the sort that characterised West London nightlife in the noughties, and for all I know still does. The slim, bilious text is complemented by several vicious, inky sketches from political cartoonist Martin Rowson.

Many of Self's habitual themes are here – madness, hallucination, sexual fluidity, narcotics – and they fit the milieu rather well, though one always wonders why he devotes so much attention to a subculture for which he feels such obvious contempt. As so often with his books, there is a raw, frazzled sense of nausea to the writing, and a note of nastiness to many of the characterisations. But watching how Will Self puts a sentence together – which, for better or worse, he does like no one else – is always instructive, always a thrill. ( )

Will Self sometimes achieves greatness, but not in this novella, which reads like a bad episode of Rod Serling's Night Gallery. ( )