The Bunk Up

Regressive, Reckless, and Ridiculous: Meet the Worst Book I've Ever Read

In all honesty, this is the worst book I’ve ever read. It’s so backwards-leaning, demented, idiotic, and irresponsible, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Long and Sidebottom are actually Trump and Musk respectively.

Daisy is our female protagonist who has just been cheated on by her boyfriend, been fired from her job, and, encouraged by friends, now wants to take a holiday. To give you a first idea of what Daisy is like, let’s examine her thoughts about that:

»My pout returns when I remember she’s right. I have no job to try and take holidays from. I have no boyfriend to seek permission from.«

The male protagonist, Frazer, is by no means better.

»From what I know, Nigel is a prize ass, anyway, and I’m sure no mother could be proud of a son who wears brown corduroys and a feather fucking earring while he sticks toenail clippings to bits of cardboard – all at the same time.«

His behaviour resembles that of a reckless, careless, horny teenager. He doesn’t mind “forgetting” using a condom much and when asked to visit the local pharmacy for the pill after, he refuses because he’s a man…

Daisy's reaction to this is… surprising as well: She starts hopping, “Trying to get it all out. You know, fling it downwards!” as a means of birth control.

Frazer also thinks “pulling out” is a valid method of contraception, and so does Daisy, as she doesn’t even react to it. He also doesn’t mind jumping the next available female despite harbouring very strong feelings for Daisy. To get rid of said woman the morning after, he behaves extremely rudely and insultingly to her.

There’s also a notable side character called Frank. Frank seems to be a middle-aged white male of the “disgusting sexist” variety. Whenever and wherever he sees a woman, he greets her like this:

»Frank is sitting at his spot on the bench, and lifting a hand in greeting to me, he shouts out, “Morning, sugar tits.”«

And this is by far the most “harmless” greeting…

Fittingly, the writing feels cheap and bland, with absolutely no highlights and humour of this type:

»He makes money out of used loo rolls and my life is so shit I need the toilet tissue.«

There’s a lot of sex and I usually don’t complain about smut but the sparse and barren language as well as a complete absence of noticeable, credible desire or at least lust gives it a mechanical, transactional, and sometimes clinical feeling. Let’s take a look at Daisy’s and Frazer’s first “encounter” (abridged):

»“Show me your dick and I’ll sign the piece of paper.”

[...]

“Oh yeah. Okay then. Here goes.”

[...]

He winks at me. “Fine with me. Listen. This is going to sound weird, but can I touch your boob just a little bit?”

[...]

“Okay.”

[...]

“I want to touch it.”

[...]

“You can if you want but then you’ll have to excuse me to go to the loo and know I’m going to think about your body as I beat off. I’ve gone past the point of no return here.”«

This, fellow readers, is how they fall in insta-love. It is also the moment when I started feeling nauseous.

Even though this is more of a novella, there’s still tons of filler material, e. g. Daisy going on a dinner date (a disaster both story- and novel-wise) during which she complains about the size of one of the waiter’s eyes…

»The waiter huffs loudly and shifts from one foot to the other. I’d feel sympathetic for him but he definitely has one eye bigger than the other and looks down right shifty.«

The authors go on, and on, and on to put every single shitty cliché into their novel…

»Shirley reaches out and pats Daisy’s hand. “Aww, darling, you should have said if you’re premenstrual.”«

… to “dumb blondes”...

»Maybe because, a, your dick definitely does NOT taste of lychees like you promised.«

… and great, loving parenting styles…

»Your brother ran away at thirteen when I told him he couldn’t dye his hair pink. He did the same at fourteen when I told him his new earring looked stupid. It was a peacock feather, for God’s sake.«

There’s even blackfacing…

»Kathy and I are dressed in hoodies and jeans. We’ve put the darkest fake tan on our faces and hands so we look a different race altogether from a distance. That’s what we’re going to be all night long.«

This could go on for all of the 260 pages of this irredeemably bad book, one of the very few without any redeeming qualities at all.

There was one moment, though, that made me laugh out loud but, unfortunately, it was unintentionally funny and only serves to show how, uhm, “intellectually challenged” these authors are:

»She then turns over and is out as if someone has put a chlorophyll-filled tissue in her face.«

Dear Andie and D.H., the word you were looking for is “Chloroform” which firmly belongs to the 19th and early 20th century from which your novel’s jokes, ideas about gender, sex, and societal norms also come.

Your verbal diarrhoea is disgusting and solely garners one star out of five because I can’t give none.

Ceterum censeo Putin esse delendam