By Nicola Barker
Shortlisted for the fellow Booker Prize, Darkmans is a thrilling, remarkable exam of the ways that heritage can play jokes on us all... If heritage is simply a ill funny story which retains on repeating itself, then who precisely may be telling it, and why? may it's John Scogin, Edward IV's notorious courtroom jester, whose favourite hobby was once to burn humans alive - for amusing? Or might it's Andrew Boarde, Henry VIII's health care professional, who kindly wrote John Scogin's biography? Or may it's a tiny Kurd referred to as Gaffar whose days are blighted through an unspeakable terror of - uh - salad? Or a stunning, bulimic harpy with ridiculously susceptible bones? Or a guy who guards Beckley Woods with a Samurai sword and a pregnant terrier?
Darkmans is a really sleek ebook, set in Ashford [a ridiculously sleek town], approximately very out of date matters: love and jealousy. It's additionally a e-book approximately invasion, obsession, displacement and ownership, approximately comedy, paintings, pharmaceuticals and chiropody. And the most personality? The earlier, which creeps up at the current and whispers anything rather darkish - relatively unspeakable - into its ear.
The 3rd of Nicola Barker's narratives of the Thames Gateway, Darkmans is an epic novel of startling originality.
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Cannae stick a cunt thit rips oaf his mates, Lenny snarled. – Whin ye think aboot it though, it's Granty's poppy. He kin spend it oan whit he likes, Jackie said. They looked at him with bemused belligerence. Eventually Lenny spoke. – Away ye fuckin go. – In a wey though, the cunt won it fair n square. Ah ken what we agreed. Build up a big kitty wi the club money tae add a bit ay spice tae the caird games. Then divvi up. Ah ken aw that. Aw ah'm sayin is thit in the eyes ay the law. . Jackie explained his position.
Ah telt ye, ah've goat tae fuckin nash. Me n Lexo pulled a bit ay business oaf. Ah'm sayin nae mair oan the fuckin subject, but it's best ah disappear fir a couple ay weeks. Any polis cunts come tae the door, yuv no seen us fir yonks. Ye think ah'm oan the fuckin rigs, right. Yuv no seen us, mind. – But whair ur ye gaun Frank? Whair ur ye fuckin well gaun? – That's fir me tae ken n you tae find oot. What ye dinnae fuckin well ken they cannae fuckin well beat oot ay ye, ah sais. Then the fuckin boot gits up n starts fuckin screamin it us, saying thit ah cannae jist fuckin go like that.
Cunts that are intae baseball–batting every fucker that's different; pakis, poofs, n what huv ye. Fuckin failures in a country ay failures. It's nae good blamin it oan the English fir colonising us. ah don't hate the English. We are colonised by wankers. We can't even pick a decent, vibrant, healthy culture to be colonised by. No. We're ruled by effete arseholes. What does that make us? The lowest of the fuckin low, the scum of the earth. The most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat intae creation.