Money was a fist full of cents better. Money was a touch thinner, too; a trifle more worked-out. Money was plotless, too, too, but the voice of John Self somehow carried you through to the end. This book, which treads pretty much the same ground (the dogshit streets of post-Thatcher London), does so with even less page-turning delight. Oh the page-turning is there, you still want your fix of those sentences... but by about half way through you're yawning and reaching for the switch.Nicola Six wants to die, so that would make the book (like Money) another suicide note. Only, she isn't the narrator, and Martin Amis is away on a Sabbatical in the States. Another writer (a Yank) squats in his pad and tells the tale of how she does it for her. There's a pub, called the Jesus Christ, a sort of soap-opera setting for the characters to meet in - or brush shoulders. There is dart playing, there is money, there is sex (with videos but not porn) and there is literature. Or something of the sort. But as to who will do the deed (i.e. bump the poor thing off) the book doesn't keep you guessing, more like groaning. If you haven't thrown it against the wall by page 400 you might just finish it. And then again you might not.PS, I liked the nuked spuds.