Some, I'm sorry to say, did zip right over my head.

Now, the author did warn me that I might not get all the cultural references, and he was right. You have to admire an author who can pour this much of his brain and guts on a page and make a coherent collage or pictures depicting multiple meanings. Well, I would categorize author Chris Rose's novel as a satire, a cross between a parody and intelligent poetry. Beneath the pier encounters with the opposite sex, et al… set against the birth of Scargill and Thatcher feuding… Dancehall adventures via train rides to Heaven, scooter cruising almost coast to coast. Coming full circle by way of loss and more loss, you would hope lessons are learned… The book progresses through myriad dream sequences, interwoven song-themes, a father’s philosophical ramblings, ever blackening wit, leitmotif – or seemingly recurring scenes is someone laughing at our hero? And Phillip’s own, lyrical, strut-like, black or white manner. And all he’d deemed important was only ever an illusion, his reflected image included. With a little imagination, he might realise things midweek aren’t that bad: there’s the loving family, the secure job amid mass unemployment, a relationship with the perfect young woman… Or maybe he realises too late. He longs for the weekend, or a greater, permanent escape from the daily grind of factory life in an industrial town. When not doing his ‘thing’ in Wigan’s Casino Club – voted ‘The Greatest Disco in the World’ by Billboard Magazine – Phillip hates the world. Phillip sees life in a simplistic if passionate way: up or down, us and them, black, white and nothing in-between. Without the rose-tinted spectacles, but with hindsight and humour, and with poignancy and affection. It’s also a Britain of definite youth cultures, when the wrong attire on the wrong street might equal a beating for your blunder, often regardless of your football allegiance… A look back. It’s a time of great social and political upheaval – industrial disputes and bullying unions, racial discord and the National Front.

Wood, Talc And Mr. J by Chris Rose