We're in 1980's Belfast the but the only terrorist in this story has literary revenge in mind. A really funny tale about growing up after University, outwitting the hands that feed you (aka Arts Council minions), the city's 'arts' scene, a poetical scam and a giant rabbit. Poetry lovers may be shocked but if you're a biscuit connoisseur this book is for you. A warning though, you may never want to drink milk again.
Mad Dog fell silent. Then he began to laugh, a strange, slow, staccato guffaw, as though someone was trying to start a water-logged tractor. I looked at Winks. He was giggling like a schoolgirl. This was grotesque. Winks was showing off to a man who had come to remove our kneecaps.
Oliver and I swapped incredulous glances.
'Ah Holy God that's brilliant', said Mad Dog, swiping a hairy forearm across his damp eyes. 'That is fucken brilliant.'
What happened next could not have been predicted.
(Mind you, this was not your average Monday morning.)