I read this novel as I had obviously enjoyed Sillitoe's Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, liking its raw prose and its subject matter.
The problem here is, clearly, that I still liked Sillitoe's raw prose, but the subject matter felt far less stimulating. The athletic exploits of a troubled teenager are much more interesting to me than the love troubles of a working-class young man whose life revolves aroud evenings at the pub. The fact that my already poor relationship with pub culture is now at an all-time low most likely didn't help.
Still, I was glad to find a reference to bastards grinding you down that predated Margaret Atwood by almost three decades.
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