Francis Plug, fictional author of this wonderful book, can be instantly elevated to the pantheon of infuriating, inspired nuisances, alongside Henry Root and, God forbid, Dennis Pennis.
Plug has attended a great many author events, ostensibly to research a guide for aspiring authors (among whose ranks he counts himself) on how to interact with their public. The title pages of books signed and dedicated to Francis by these unsuspecting authors are reproduced like trophies throughout. As a survey of the strange world of "public authors", emerging from their writing rooms to the adulation of their readers, this would be engaging enough: Plug's exchanges with dozens of Booker-prizewinning authors are priceless. But the novel (really an ingenious hybrid of fact and surreal fantasy) takes on much extra resonance in the portrayal of Plug himself, an alcoholic chancer with a propensity for whisky-fuelled escapades. Plug's tatty day job as a gardener for the rich banker Mr Stapleton, culminating as it does in an exhilarating showdown, is surely a parable for our times.
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