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A remarkable novel about the pornography of everyday life. Filthy, funny and ferocious, it imagines a world where shopping reigns supreme, sex has ceased to have anything to do with love, and pregnancy has become the final fetish.
sexual experiment is either perfect or deeply unfortunate. If you're going to partake in the premeditated termination of foetuses for one's own sexual pleasure, then it can be unfortunate if your activities coincide with a widespread re-evaluation of the issue of abortion. Alternatively, the recent controversy surrounding abortion has brought Justin's adventures to a wider audience. He's received free publicity for his crusade. Only it doesn't feel like he's saving the world any more. The
jumping images and scratched sounds. Rebecca is hurt. She has been vandalised by Colin's heavy feet and fast legs. Her body feels like scattered stones. It's incomprehensible to her. The pain is a powerful throb, like a heart beating inside her skull. Her blood surrounds her. It's as if all agony is, is a pulse, a countdown, a mindset where all memory is rendered absurd. She can make out little of her surroundings. There is bleach where she lies. There is rat poison, too. Rebecca closes her eyes.
has begun to leak into his open skull, closing off a hemisphere of feeling and thought. 'I can't be arsed going out any more. All those wankers, chasing cunts – I can't be fucked with that.' Colin watches Boys 1 and 2 closely. His veins seem to course with fizzy blood. Or something bitter, perhaps. Boy 2 forks an entire sausage with one jab and allows it to hover in front of his face. 'You don't have to go out, Colin. You can shag prostitutes.' 'They make you wear condoms and you can't kiss
down the wings, cross, score, celebrate and rue with such sincerity. Yes, it's truly wonderful. But reality's ice must always thaw, so Steve moves towards the cutlery drawer. From which he removes a knife. Looking back, Steve assumes that deep down all he ever wanted was money. If you hold your breath and dive under rocky pretence and swim over the brittle coral of honour, well, all you ever find is the barnacled shell of cash, and in it the pearl of guilt; shame. The large compromise that
knife and tucked a napkin into your collar – just at that moment when you're ready to feast, you lose your appetite. I can never do that again, you say of some activity. No, I can never do that again. It has become dull. I hadn't noticed, but I am already full and must find new appetites. Justin asks at the bar for paper and a pen. The barman prints out a ream of blank till paper and hands it to him with a biro. 'Cheers, mate,' says Justin, catching sight of a staff photo Blu-tacked to the