This book feels a little like listening to Bowie’s first album, in that: if you’re a fan of the later works, you’ll enjoy going back to see where it all began, but if you’re new to the works, you’ll be better off starting with one of the later ones.

So, having read most of Andy Carrington’s books over the last year or so, and championing each and every one of them, it was interesting to read these early poems ranging from 2004 – 2011, which don’t contain much anti-fascist/anti-establishment sentiments as with his later books, but which instead give you an insight into Carrington’s struggle through the shithole arse-end of modern life, reflecting on the deaths of loved ones, suffering from Crohn’s disease, the temporary highs of women and sex, and his attempt to find meaning during the long lonely winter of self-reflection and being a writer/developing his poetic style.

Great stuff. ( )