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Revision as of 09:37, 19 September 2020
, 09:37, 19 September 2020no edit summary
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Chris McCool is 67. He likes to think of himself as a bit of a man about town; an elegantly ageing roue, if you like. He's enjoying his retirement with a much younger wife, Vesna, and he surely does enjoy reliving his glory days as a hep cat of the 1960s. Vesna doesn't seem to mind as he dresses her up in A line dresses and panda eyes. Chris lives in a gated community - but we soon discover that it's more halfway house than retreat of the rich. Because Chris is a raving nutter and unreliable narrator. I'm not giving it all away - there's none of this gradual dawning on you nonsense for the reader of ''The Holy City'', Chris McCool is mad, bad and well, as he'd have said himself in his younger days, completely out there.
My thanks to the good people at Bloomsbury for sending the book.
You might also like to look at the anti-Thatcher nastiness of [[The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks]] or [[His Illegal Self by Peter Carey]]. For another unreliable narrator, try [[Please Don't Leave Me Here by Tania Chandler]].
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