The wonderings, ponderings and other 'ings' of me. Lifestyle, review, news and opinion posts. Chic with a hint of sarcasm... hopefully!

Wednesday, 3 August 2011

Reviewing The Slap



So I've decided since my last post, enough of reading papers that are full of lies or death, and opted instead to read a couple of books. Hopeful that the outcome would result in a little culture, a little broadening on my fictional horizons and so on I joined a book club and the first book assigned to us was called The Slap.

Set in Australia the story follows several peoples views of one guy slapping a kid, that wasn't his, at a BBQ. Not the sort of book I would normally go for but I gave it a shot none the less. What a waste of several hours that was. Having read the word c**t on the first page I knew it was going to be hard going (though its obviously meant to be push buttons as this continues the whole way through the book) the language was only the tip of a rather pathetic iceberg.

All the characters, without exception, are possibly the most retarded bunch of fuck wits I have ever read about with minimal redeeming features in their personalities or actions. The book is supposed to pose the question 'should he or shouldn't he have done it', but when taking into account the fact that the child is horribly spoilt having never been disciplined, still breastfeed well past the age of developing teeth and was about to hit another child its pretty easy to conclude yes he bloody well should have. That said the hitter himself is far from likeable but at the end of the day you just don't care!

Critics claim it to be controversial but it's about as provocative as a bully walking into a room and purposefully starting on everyone there, itching for a fight. Trying to come off as mature and groundbreaking The Slap reminds me more of a teenager swearing its head off because they think its a grown up thing to do.

Winner of the Commonwealth Writers' Prize 2009 and an international best seller I feel sure that those who voted for it were raised in a psychiatric hospital. I'd also hazard a guess that the writer has never in his life had a relationship with a real woman (except for his mother and the myriad of prostitutes I suspect he frequently visits).

I couldn't even send it to a charity shop when I finished reading as much of it as I could, mainly because I couldn't live with myself if this action had inflicted such drivel on another member of the human race. The only way I can see this book being of use to anyone is if they had just had a particularly large bowel movement and only afterwards realised that there was no toilet roll.

Next Time: The Raising by
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