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A review by pookykun
Meantime by Frankie Boyle
4.0
3.5
Much like the protagonist, a sad, hallucinating valium addict, I often had little to no idea of what was actually happening throughout Meantime, and couldn't easily keep track of the characters and the plot, scene to scene. This could just be me, as I am often confused by simple things. I pretty much require others to read books after me so that I can ask them what actually happened in it while they kiss me either softly or roughly and explain how dumb I am. Then again, perhaps it's not me. Perhaps it's a case of too many names and characters, too many themes and monologues, all vying for attention and none especially standing out. That said, I did enjoy most of the monologuing and aimless philosophising on UK politics, simulations, and corruption, though I can also see a lot of people bouncing off it hard.
Behind all of the jokes and the drug taking there is a deep sincerity, a search for meaning in the fog of impossible cruelty that we wade through day by day, hands outstretched, pushed on only by the desperation for everything to somehow be ok. Sometimes, the book was so funny I had to put both hands over my mouth to cover my laughter. At other times, it was so heartbreaking I had to turn back to previous scenes, just to distract myself, just to numb and make sense of the unexpected sting.
Anyway, the plot is quite simple at its core, and I expect that this is where Boyle will most improve as a storyteller over time, but on a sentence to sentence level, particularly regarding imagery and dialogue, he doesn't mess around. He's got some mad skills with a pen.
"His voice was somehow booming yet gasping, like he was speaking to you from a vast tunnel where he was running for his life."
"I heard some kind of strangled yell from downstairs, which usually meant it was around ten, and limped out of bed to face the disappointed gaze of the bathroom mirror. My body looked like a dropped lasagna."
"Her hand moved to my throat and exerted a pulverising force on my windpipe. I couldn't talk; if I could, I would have begged for my life. 'You like that, don't you?' she purred, despite the tears rolling down my face onto her hand. She leaned in and started biting me on the lip. I thought about screaming but she was holding my face in her teeth and I didn't want to upset her. She was pressing me down onto the sofa. I was trying to push myself up, but was nonetheless moving relentlessly down, like a nightmare about judo."
"I watched the news. It was so harrowing that I half-expected it to end with the presenter pressing a pillow over the camera and putting us out of our misery."
The only problem with all this, with these wonderful sentences and images that are reeled off relentlessly from start to finish, page after page, scene after scene, is that it can be sort of distracting. Distractingly entertaining, if that is even a thing.
Look, this isn't a real review. These are just the notes I left in my phone over a boring ten minutes at work, while I was waiting to be useful. I should probably type this up on a PC, form some sort of a structure, finesse a central point into all of this, etc etc, but shit, boy, I'm tired. I went to the gym after work. I did sprint intervals and squats and lunges. And some other stuff, too, while a bigger guy either checked himself out in the mirror over my shoulder, or watched me like he thought I might get away if he blinked. Well, I did get away. And I posted this review. See ya never, gym rat. (This is why I don't write for a living I guess.)
Much like the protagonist, a sad, hallucinating valium addict, I often had little to no idea of what was actually happening throughout Meantime, and couldn't easily keep track of the characters and the plot, scene to scene. This could just be me, as I am often confused by simple things. I pretty much require others to read books after me so that I can ask them what actually happened in it while they kiss me either softly or roughly and explain how dumb I am. Then again, perhaps it's not me. Perhaps it's a case of too many names and characters, too many themes and monologues, all vying for attention and none especially standing out. That said, I did enjoy most of the monologuing and aimless philosophising on UK politics, simulations, and corruption, though I can also see a lot of people bouncing off it hard.
Behind all of the jokes and the drug taking there is a deep sincerity, a search for meaning in the fog of impossible cruelty that we wade through day by day, hands outstretched, pushed on only by the desperation for everything to somehow be ok. Sometimes, the book was so funny I had to put both hands over my mouth to cover my laughter. At other times, it was so heartbreaking I had to turn back to previous scenes, just to distract myself, just to numb and make sense of the unexpected sting.
Anyway, the plot is quite simple at its core, and I expect that this is where Boyle will most improve as a storyteller over time, but on a sentence to sentence level, particularly regarding imagery and dialogue, he doesn't mess around. He's got some mad skills with a pen.
"His voice was somehow booming yet gasping, like he was speaking to you from a vast tunnel where he was running for his life."
"I heard some kind of strangled yell from downstairs, which usually meant it was around ten, and limped out of bed to face the disappointed gaze of the bathroom mirror. My body looked like a dropped lasagna."
"Her hand moved to my throat and exerted a pulverising force on my windpipe. I couldn't talk; if I could, I would have begged for my life. 'You like that, don't you?' she purred, despite the tears rolling down my face onto her hand. She leaned in and started biting me on the lip. I thought about screaming but she was holding my face in her teeth and I didn't want to upset her. She was pressing me down onto the sofa. I was trying to push myself up, but was nonetheless moving relentlessly down, like a nightmare about judo."
"I watched the news. It was so harrowing that I half-expected it to end with the presenter pressing a pillow over the camera and putting us out of our misery."
The only problem with all this, with these wonderful sentences and images that are reeled off relentlessly from start to finish, page after page, scene after scene, is that it can be sort of distracting. Distractingly entertaining, if that is even a thing.
Look, this isn't a real review. These are just the notes I left in my phone over a boring ten minutes at work, while I was waiting to be useful. I should probably type this up on a PC, form some sort of a structure, finesse a central point into all of this, etc etc, but shit, boy, I'm tired. I went to the gym after work. I did sprint intervals and squats and lunges. And some other stuff, too, while a bigger guy either checked himself out in the mirror over my shoulder, or watched me like he thought I might get away if he blinked. Well, I did get away. And I posted this review. See ya never, gym rat. (This is why I don't write for a living I guess.)