No More Mr. Nice Guy

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I'm no prude but........ - Rated
Was it really necessary to be so disgusting? What with hairbushes, prostitutes and lesbian sex, I don't think the book needed it. A journey indeed, one i just wanted over and done. I'd call the book a real page turner as I couldn't turn pages quick enough to get to the end. What was that all about at the end, going in to a monastry? I thought I'd missed something.Didn't get it at all. Yes, funny moments that made me smile but too many more that made me cringe. I chucked the book in the end, not one I'd lend to a friend.

HITTING THE NAIL ON THE HEAD - Rated
A fantastic journey with Frank as he confronts his midlife crisis, as well as all his middle-class prejudices. The sex is hilarious - I particularly enjoyed his description of a 'gam' with a street prostitute - and he writes about the male condition with great insight and affection. It is also a joy to read because the prose flows beautifully and the jokes and observations come thick and fast. So glad I've discovered him. Not for the prudish, although my wife was in fits of laughter despite herself.

Very male, very real. - Rated
This was a great read. An exploration into the main man, Frank’s, mind was a whirlwind ride of hilarity that you could imagine your father, brother or partner going through. A mid life crisis he carries off in complete style. What's more you don't begrudge him one mind boggling second of it! An entertaining read. This book reminds me why I read books, for shock, fun, and insight.

A book about irony, self-discovery and lament. - Rated
Howard Jacobson's fiction is all about irony, self-discovery and lament. No More Mister Nice Guy is no exception. Frank Ritz, a celebrated and successful TV critic, is thrown out of his own house by his partner, Mel, who writes feminist erotica. So begins Frank's personal odyssey in search of meaning about his own sexuality. He gets in his car and visits all the places that have been sexual 'milestones' in his own life. What we as readers get along the way are ribald, earthy and, most importantly, extremely funny depictions and comments about man's basic urges and needs. In its own way, this book is Jacobson's updated version of Portnoy's Complaint. But with a Mancunian accent!

And the irony and lament? These lie in the fact that Jacobson produces his own work of erotica that uses increasingly graphic description and language to support the increasing despair felt by the central character. By the end, all Frank's sexual excess cannot compensate for the passage of time, the loss of friends, and his feelings of inadequacy. Frank is finally portrayed as a victim not a villain.

Above all, this novel once again highlights Jacobson's gift of expression; one that is almost unique among contemporary authors. The chatty, loquacious and literate use of language (with its puns, sardonic asides, Yiddishisms, and quotes from other texts), flows so easily that you feel, at times, that you are reading a script from one of his own television documentaries. It is the writing of someone who wants, and knows how, to communicate ideas. But, as ever, this is done with a loud guffaw rather than a straight face.