Money, the 365 page suicide note of a wannabe film maker from old London town, is ablaze with dazzling sentences. Though the three clause invective probably wasn't invented by Martin (or his pop) it is as though it were created just for him to exploit. His diatribes against everything will crease you up; unless, of course, you are one of the countless millions who despise every word he writes.This book is full of inventive language, but it doesn't have a plot. Oh, there's a story line about a geezer who has made one advert which he thinks qualifies him to become a bigshot director stateside. But the story hangs on the man's name, John Self, and how he signs himself up into financial and sexual knots. If he got his true comeuppance, perhaps there would be some justification reading through to the end - other than the superb writing, that is. The shitty little roach deserves to be crushed.
