The Artist Type
Pan, London, 1970
(first published by Jonathan Cape 1967)
price: 5/- (25p); 192 pages
The blurb on the back:
Falling in love was like getting burnt for Geoff Barnes - there were three degrees...
Audrey - a wild, wonderful, consuming, destructive bitch
Rosemary - blonde, athletic, married yet unsatisfied
Jane - a willing body and ever-ready cheque-book
Sex unlocked the heart of every woman - but somewhere Geoff lost the key to himself...
An uninhibited, raunchy, bitter-sweet cocktail drunk to the sound of TV jingles, agency parties and high boots jouncing along the King's Road.
'A cynical scamper through the corridors of sex, with a hero who compensates for his minimum of talent by a maximum of dalliance' - Daily Sketch
When I woke up there she was, lying beside me, and I thought, watching here, Jesus, if only she wouldn't talk. Because she always looked wonderful asleep, especially naked; there was nothing you could say against her body, and with her eyes shut and her mouth closed, her face was lovely, too.
The alleged sexual revolution of the 1960s produced a tidal wave of misogyny in popular culture from the nasty little Alfie all the way through to the supposed politics of Eldridge Cleaver. This is a pretty minor contribution to the trouble-with-birds genre, and it's mostly harmless, if only because the narrator is so pathetically inadequate. (Mind so, so was Michael Caine's portrayal of Alfie, but he still became something of a role model for the brain-dead.)
To be fair, there's bugger all to say about this. It's okay, but pretty pointless, and there's no way that it can possibly match the sheer exuberant style of the sleeve.
Is this the same Brian Glanville who turned into quite a decent sportswriter. Probably.
ARTISTIC MERIT: 2/5
ENTERTAINMENT VALUE: 2/5
HIPNESS QUOTIENT: 2/5