Plus, there's the delicious irony of Simon Day going on a horrible holiday to Australia and ending up in the Gold Coast (for which he has my utmost sympathies) and, on the way, being stuck next to a garrulous drunk who never stops being offensive. Perhaps the book was written so that you'd feel empathy with Day, because the book as a whole feels like you're stuck in a room with a man who won't shut up, for hours on end, occasionally threatening to tell you something interesting ("In fact we all went on holiday together to Miami, but that's another story" - a story we never get to read about, mind), but never amounting to more than a very longwinded moan.
There's a couple of good bits. Near the start it feels like it's being written in the character of an old Colonel Blimp-type. Then you realise it's just being written by a Colonel Blimp-type, and the shine goes off. There's a very good few pages where Day goes to a gig with a grumpy ex-army type, a horrible car-crash account of missing a gig because of England in the 1996 European quarter-finals, a description of John Thomson as a demented clockwork pirate ... And that's really about it. One of those books that should be fascinating and fails inexplicably, just like Black Sabbath's roadcrew's memoirs.
Possibly I'm ill-disposed to it because I read it at 5 in the morning, suffering insomnia. But I believe a book emblazoned with the slogan "They really were marvellous times" needs something more enjoyable in it than somebody going on about all the cocaine they never enjoyed.
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