Reading A.A.Gill’s book Pour Me when you’re trying your hand at writing… is like Fight Club. You show up, you ask pretty please can someone punch me repeatedly in the stomach, and when A.A.Gill obliges you, you love every tooth-rattling second of it.
The experience goes something like this:
How did he do that?… Ok, how did he do THAT?… Now, that’s just ridiculous, how did he DO that?!
This man could slay with a four word sentence. Not even four big words, not even the fanciest synonyms for the four words he’s picked. And yet… KOed. Every. Single. Time. Everything about it is cohesive, there is not one single extraneous syllable, and the tone matches the subject matter to perfection. The jokes are wry, and often have a kickback second meaning to them that you only notice when you’ve put the bastard book down… so the damn thing haunts you like a literary poltergeist. The Peeves of aspiring writers; throwing red pens at the back of your head, snickering that you’ll never reach high enough to brush the soles of Gills’ boots, because of course you won’t. Why are you even here? Oh yeah, to get sucker-punched in the kidneys by jealousy of this man’s outrageous talent, and love it. Which reminds me; I’m off, skull singing and eyes bugging, to read some more.