White Powder, Green Light

James Hawes's attention to detail and canny observations of the minutiae of life ensure a constant supply of laughs throughout this fast-paced and acerbic yarn. That he helped turned one of his previous novels - Rancid Aluminium - into what the Guardian considered to be 'the worst film ever made in the UK' is an obvious source of pride for Hawes. The experience was clearly an inspiration to him, for it is the world of the British film industry, and specifically the obnoxious individuals living in it, that provides him with much of the raw material for this, his fourth novel. Admittedly the designer-label-obsessed, cocaine-snaffling denizens of Soho's drinking dens are a fairly easy target, yet the author approaches their awful superficiality, prodigious drug consumption and weird sexual peccadilloes with perfect irreverence. Hawes also tosses into the mix the vagaries of fashion and coolness, the eternal struggle between the generations, and - moving between London and Wales - saves some of his best shots for the vagaries of a language suffering from a lack of recognizable vowels. Both barrels are reserved for those who insist on everyone having to learn 'bloody stupid Gaelic names' instead of something more universally practical, like Spanish. As if all that wasn't enough, we also have to contend with a trademarked crusty Greenpeace activist and the uncertainties of life for a mid-30s single mother adrift far from home and wrestling with the worries of being a normal human being. This is a rapid-fire satire that hits its targets repeatedly, whether they be the born-again dead language enthusiast, the ludicrous Welsh TV 'Oscwr' ceremonies, the consequences of a friendless Friday night on the Web, or the fast-buck yearning for enough money to ensure a lifetime wrapped in the salvation of a world consisting of 'linen and agas'. (Kirkus UK)