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Brentford #8
Brightonomicon
Were you aware that there are, hidden in the streets of Brighton, twelve ancient constellations, like the Hangleton Hound and the Bevendean Bat? Well, there are, and on each one hangs a tale, a tale so strange that only The Lad Himself, that inveterate spinner of tales and talker of the toot, Hugo Rune, can get to the bottom of them. And he'd better do it quickly, because if he doesn't solve the dozen mysteries before the year is out, that'll be the end of the world as we know it.
7 pages, Audio CD
First published January 1, 2005
28 people are currently reading
593 people want to read
About the author
Robert Rankin
61 books860 followers"When Robert Rankin embarked upon his writing career in the late 1970s, his ambition was to create an entirely new literary genre, which he named Far-Fetched Fiction. He reasoned that by doing this he could avoid competing with any other living author in any known genre and would be given his own special section in WH Smith."
(from Web Site Story)
Robert Rankin describes himself as a teller of tall tales, a fitting description, assuming that he isn't lying about it. From his early beginnings as a baby in 1949, Robert Rankin has grown into a tall man of some stature. Somewhere along the way he experimented in the writing of books, and found that he could do it rather well. Not being one to light his hide under a bushel, Mister Rankin continues to write fine novels of a humorous science-fictional nature.
(from Web Site Story)
Robert Rankin describes himself as a teller of tall tales, a fitting description, assuming that he isn't lying about it. From his early beginnings as a baby in 1949, Robert Rankin has grown into a tall man of some stature. Somewhere along the way he experimented in the writing of books, and found that he could do it rather well. Not being one to light his hide under a bushel, Mister Rankin continues to write fine novels of a humorous science-fictional nature.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 87 reviews
April 29, 2012
The Frightenomicon
This was only my second Rankin.
I don't know whether I'll try any more. I'm too frightened.
It cast me into some weird existentialist quandary, possibly not even of its own creation.
I thought I would love the sense of humour and the music references (and I did enjoy a few guffaws), but it was a bit like being in a bar with a guy who has a very similar sense of humour, except he thinks his sense of humour is way better than yours and he won't shut up or turn-take.
For some reason, this novel reminded me of me. That guy in the bar might be me. And it made me sad. (How sad? Real sad.)
Maybe I'm just feeling low, down, reflective and/or self-deprecatory. In other words, hung-over.
The Ad Infinitomicon
I thought this would be the ideal way to come down off a David Foster Wallace high.
Instead, even moreso than "Infinite Jest" should have, it made me question myself and all (both?) of my pretensions (is it because Rankin shares some of my pretensions or because he doesn't have any at all?).
Maybe I am not as [choose one: intelligent/ stimulating/ witty/ charming/ polite/ gentlemanly/ funny/ incisive/ succinct (or if not succinct, MJ, relevant)] as I think I am or pretend to be online or hidden behind my [choose one: veil/mask/3D goggles/x-ray specs]...and I realised it first by noticing the same qualities or lack thereof in someone else.
But then maybe this is Dog's way of telling me to be less judgmental? Judge not lest ye shall be judged. Stop assuming the role of critic. Embrace the lowbrow. Embrace trash. Unselfconsciously. Without irony. Meta-free.
This novel would demand a lot of my mettle. And my Stephen Hawkwind collection.
The Reflectionomicon (You'll Be My Mirror, Reflect What I Am)
My meta-free resolve didn't last long.
I kept noticing what Rankin the author was doing, the way he was trying to write the story, at the expense of the story itself.
Ironically, I stopped thinking about his story, and started thinking about mine.
How to describe the feeling?
It's like looking into a mirror and seeing the fat version of yourself, or if you're fat or muscular, the thin, tedious, gangly version. (The first name "Ian" is supposed to be Scottish for thin and tedious. I was once thin, but no more.)
Worse still, it might just be a 20/20 vision of the fat version that you really are. (Well, surely that can't be right, not since I purchased my ab crunch machine with unique swivel action in four easy payments. Which reminds me, I must assemble it.)
The Confectionomicon
The book itself?
It just kept coming at me, it bored down at me from the future in my quest to finish it.
I was trying to focus on the book, but selfishly I kept thinking of me.
Had Rankin created some kind of black hole that was emitting negative energy or black body radiation (aka "Hawkwind Radiation") in my direction?
It was like having somebody shove a packetful of jelly beans down your throat and you stopped chewing half a packet ago.
Then I realised I was the one holding the packet.
Absurd, really.
The following Postscripts were added a few days after my original review, once I'd finished the book and my prescription metacine had kicked back in.
The Codicilinomicon
I bought this book for $2.
Another reason I bought it was that I thought it might be part of some continuum with Neal Stephenson's "Cryptonomicon" (which I haven't read yet).
I was fascinated by what the suffix "-nomicon" might mean.
I still don't know, apart from the fact that the title of Stephenson's novel refers to the "Necronomicon", a fictitious work referred to by H.P. Lovecraft in some of his works.
Anyway, I think that while I was in this weird time-space continuum, a little bit of Aleister Crowley or some occult personage penetrated my soft thinking machine and made me say some stupid, dumb, over-sensitive things, for which I apologise.
The Milliganomicon
I realised when I was looking at the back of the book for other people's inspiration that the "Morning Star" had called Robert Rankin "the English Spike Milligan".
Up to this point, having learned that these stories had been converted into radio plays, I had been thinking that they sounded like "Goons-Lite", so it was interesting to see that I was not the only person who had formed some sort of view like this.
For a moment, I questioned whether Spike wasn't English in the broad sense (he was born in India and educated in India and Burma, but spent most of his life in England, which in my opinion justifies the English moniker for him).
Then I wondered whether putting the adjective "English" in the description was supposed to imply inferiority or an element of dilution (e.g., a "poor copy" of some characteristic of a racial grouping better or greater than the English, such as the Scottish, Swedes, Swiss, Americans or, better still, Australians).
To illustrate this theory, imagine what you would think if someone described One Direction as an English Backstreet Boys or Shakira as a Colombian Beyonce. (Or for the oldies, Robin Trower as the English Jimi Hendrix.)
Anyway, whatever, I still feel that Robert Rankin is a Lite version of something heavier that he is not quite.
I don't want to demean him or his efforts. He's not bad, it's just that he's not great. But that's OK. Good on him for at least trying.
Me, I'm on the road to recovery, and I'll tell anyone who comes to my hospital bed that I'm feeling great.
Besides I have to get better in time for the "Gravity's Rainbow" group read.
That'll really blow my mind.
The Lexiconinomicon
Here are a few laddish chuckle berries that appealed successfully to my sense of humour:
"Pacey-pacey, Rizla...the worm of time turns not for the cuckoo of circumstance."
"I straightened my shoulders, cocked my fedora to that angle that is known as rakish, straightened the hem of my trenchcoat and entered the bar in the first person..."
"If the shirt fits, lift it."
"I shook my fedora. And wondered what the world might look like if you were standing upon your head and viewing it between the straps of a tart's handbag."
"The gilt was coming off the gilded youth."
"I am Hugo Rune. I think therefore I'm right"
"Who is to say who is real...you and I might just be characters in a book.
"That is absurd," I said. "And if it were true, who is reading about us now?"
"Perhaps a character in someone else's book. Who is in turn just a character in someone else's book. And so on, ad infinitum."
Oh no, did Rankin mean this as some infinite jest? A meta-joke?
"Pacey-pacey, Rizla...for surely as the quixotic seagull of haste besmirches the tart's handbag of time, so too does the spaniel of hesitance foul the footpath of destiny."
"Pacey-pacey, Rizla...the knotted condom of self-congratulation may well be..."
OK, that's enough.
Oh, look, there was another one that I'll have to quote from memory, because I've hidden the book back on my shelves.
It went something like:
"The bright sunlight came in through the distant windows."
I'm sure he wrote it for a laugh, but I still wonder how big a room in your home would have to be if it had distant windows.
But I digress.
The Haikunomicon
Like a pint of large?
Call in at the Flying Swan,
Talk a little toot.
This was only my second Rankin.
I don't know whether I'll try any more. I'm too frightened.
It cast me into some weird existentialist quandary, possibly not even of its own creation.
I thought I would love the sense of humour and the music references (and I did enjoy a few guffaws), but it was a bit like being in a bar with a guy who has a very similar sense of humour, except he thinks his sense of humour is way better than yours and he won't shut up or turn-take.
For some reason, this novel reminded me of me. That guy in the bar might be me. And it made me sad. (How sad? Real sad.)
Maybe I'm just feeling low, down, reflective and/or self-deprecatory. In other words, hung-over.
The Ad Infinitomicon
I thought this would be the ideal way to come down off a David Foster Wallace high.
Instead, even moreso than "Infinite Jest" should have, it made me question myself and all (both?) of my pretensions (is it because Rankin shares some of my pretensions or because he doesn't have any at all?).
Maybe I am not as [choose one: intelligent/ stimulating/ witty/ charming/ polite/ gentlemanly/ funny/ incisive/ succinct (or if not succinct, MJ, relevant)] as I think I am or pretend to be online or hidden behind my [choose one: veil/mask/3D goggles/x-ray specs]...and I realised it first by noticing the same qualities or lack thereof in someone else.
But then maybe this is Dog's way of telling me to be less judgmental? Judge not lest ye shall be judged. Stop assuming the role of critic. Embrace the lowbrow. Embrace trash. Unselfconsciously. Without irony. Meta-free.
This novel would demand a lot of my mettle. And my Stephen Hawkwind collection.
The Reflectionomicon (You'll Be My Mirror, Reflect What I Am)
My meta-free resolve didn't last long.
I kept noticing what Rankin the author was doing, the way he was trying to write the story, at the expense of the story itself.
Ironically, I stopped thinking about his story, and started thinking about mine.
How to describe the feeling?
It's like looking into a mirror and seeing the fat version of yourself, or if you're fat or muscular, the thin, tedious, gangly version. (The first name "Ian" is supposed to be Scottish for thin and tedious. I was once thin, but no more.)
Worse still, it might just be a 20/20 vision of the fat version that you really are. (Well, surely that can't be right, not since I purchased my ab crunch machine with unique swivel action in four easy payments. Which reminds me, I must assemble it.)
The Confectionomicon
The book itself?
It just kept coming at me, it bored down at me from the future in my quest to finish it.
I was trying to focus on the book, but selfishly I kept thinking of me.
Had Rankin created some kind of black hole that was emitting negative energy or black body radiation (aka "Hawkwind Radiation") in my direction?
It was like having somebody shove a packetful of jelly beans down your throat and you stopped chewing half a packet ago.
Then I realised I was the one holding the packet.
Absurd, really.
The following Postscripts were added a few days after my original review, once I'd finished the book and my prescription metacine had kicked back in.
The Codicilinomicon
I bought this book for $2.
Another reason I bought it was that I thought it might be part of some continuum with Neal Stephenson's "Cryptonomicon" (which I haven't read yet).
I was fascinated by what the suffix "-nomicon" might mean.
I still don't know, apart from the fact that the title of Stephenson's novel refers to the "Necronomicon", a fictitious work referred to by H.P. Lovecraft in some of his works.
Anyway, I think that while I was in this weird time-space continuum, a little bit of Aleister Crowley or some occult personage penetrated my soft thinking machine and made me say some stupid, dumb, over-sensitive things, for which I apologise.
The Milliganomicon
I realised when I was looking at the back of the book for other people's inspiration that the "Morning Star" had called Robert Rankin "the English Spike Milligan".
Up to this point, having learned that these stories had been converted into radio plays, I had been thinking that they sounded like "Goons-Lite", so it was interesting to see that I was not the only person who had formed some sort of view like this.
For a moment, I questioned whether Spike wasn't English in the broad sense (he was born in India and educated in India and Burma, but spent most of his life in England, which in my opinion justifies the English moniker for him).
Then I wondered whether putting the adjective "English" in the description was supposed to imply inferiority or an element of dilution (e.g., a "poor copy" of some characteristic of a racial grouping better or greater than the English, such as the Scottish, Swedes, Swiss, Americans or, better still, Australians).
To illustrate this theory, imagine what you would think if someone described One Direction as an English Backstreet Boys or Shakira as a Colombian Beyonce. (Or for the oldies, Robin Trower as the English Jimi Hendrix.)
Anyway, whatever, I still feel that Robert Rankin is a Lite version of something heavier that he is not quite.
I don't want to demean him or his efforts. He's not bad, it's just that he's not great. But that's OK. Good on him for at least trying.
Me, I'm on the road to recovery, and I'll tell anyone who comes to my hospital bed that I'm feeling great.
Besides I have to get better in time for the "Gravity's Rainbow" group read.
That'll really blow my mind.
The Lexiconinomicon
Here are a few laddish chuckle berries that appealed successfully to my sense of humour:
"Pacey-pacey, Rizla...the worm of time turns not for the cuckoo of circumstance."
"I straightened my shoulders, cocked my fedora to that angle that is known as rakish, straightened the hem of my trenchcoat and entered the bar in the first person..."
"If the shirt fits, lift it."
"I shook my fedora. And wondered what the world might look like if you were standing upon your head and viewing it between the straps of a tart's handbag."
"The gilt was coming off the gilded youth."
"I am Hugo Rune. I think therefore I'm right"
"Who is to say who is real...you and I might just be characters in a book.
"That is absurd," I said. "And if it were true, who is reading about us now?"
"Perhaps a character in someone else's book. Who is in turn just a character in someone else's book. And so on, ad infinitum."
Oh no, did Rankin mean this as some infinite jest? A meta-joke?
"Pacey-pacey, Rizla...for surely as the quixotic seagull of haste besmirches the tart's handbag of time, so too does the spaniel of hesitance foul the footpath of destiny."
"Pacey-pacey, Rizla...the knotted condom of self-congratulation may well be..."
OK, that's enough.
Oh, look, there was another one that I'll have to quote from memory, because I've hidden the book back on my shelves.
It went something like:
"The bright sunlight came in through the distant windows."
I'm sure he wrote it for a laugh, but I still wonder how big a room in your home would have to be if it had distant windows.
But I digress.
The Haikunomicon
Like a pint of large?
Call in at the Flying Swan,
Talk a little toot.
December 25, 2017
Reviewed December 23, 2017
Last February
I’d been desperately seeking something daft and the story’s premise fit the bill: Young man thrown off Brighton pier assists the guy who saves his life—The Perfect Master, Hugo Rune—in solving twelve bizarre conundrums . . .
Well! Those conundrums soon seemed all the same (a little too frat-boy silly for me), and I was down to a page a day—hanging on by the single threat of missing out on a nugget like this:
(Dialogue between our hero and a key recurring character)
“Case?’ said Fangio. Are you here on a case?”
“Not much of one,” I said. “A bunch of missing cats.”
“I don’t think it’s correct to refer to them as a bunch of cats,” said the leather-aproned barkeep. “That’s not the collective noun. I think you’ll find it’s a cabal of cats.”
“You mean like a dirtiness of dogs?”
“Not altogether like. More like a peregrination of pencils, or a hovering of Hoovers.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, you are into household appliances and appurtenances there, like a torturing of toasters. Although most folk only own the one. Or a philandering of forks—”
“Or indeed, a spontaneity of spoons,” said Fange.
“Yes, but that has more to do with the essential nature of spoons.”
“It’s a philosophical concept,” said Fange, “like a dialectical materialisation of Doctor Martens, or a Freudian slip of slippers.”
“And now you have moved on to the metaphysical realms of footwear,” I said, “which takes us seamlessly to a Lutheran dogma of loafers and a Papal nuncio of plimsolls. Or, and I am sure you will know this one, a scandal of sandals, which is from “Subterranean Homesick Blues” by Bob Dylan."
As another 'Good-reviewer' remarked, Rankin is an acquired taste.
Last February
I’d been desperately seeking something daft and the story’s premise fit the bill: Young man thrown off Brighton pier assists the guy who saves his life—The Perfect Master, Hugo Rune—in solving twelve bizarre conundrums . . .
Well! Those conundrums soon seemed all the same (a little too frat-boy silly for me), and I was down to a page a day—hanging on by the single threat of missing out on a nugget like this:
(Dialogue between our hero and a key recurring character)
“Case?’ said Fangio. Are you here on a case?”
“Not much of one,” I said. “A bunch of missing cats.”
“I don’t think it’s correct to refer to them as a bunch of cats,” said the leather-aproned barkeep. “That’s not the collective noun. I think you’ll find it’s a cabal of cats.”
“You mean like a dirtiness of dogs?”
“Not altogether like. More like a peregrination of pencils, or a hovering of Hoovers.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, you are into household appliances and appurtenances there, like a torturing of toasters. Although most folk only own the one. Or a philandering of forks—”
“Or indeed, a spontaneity of spoons,” said Fange.
“Yes, but that has more to do with the essential nature of spoons.”
“It’s a philosophical concept,” said Fange, “like a dialectical materialisation of Doctor Martens, or a Freudian slip of slippers.”
“And now you have moved on to the metaphysical realms of footwear,” I said, “which takes us seamlessly to a Lutheran dogma of loafers and a Papal nuncio of plimsolls. Or, and I am sure you will know this one, a scandal of sandals, which is from “Subterranean Homesick Blues” by Bob Dylan."
As another 'Good-reviewer' remarked, Rankin is an acquired taste.
March 24, 2024
Rankin's books continue to fail the Bechdel Test with flying colours
January 26, 2021
Having thoroughly enjoyed the original Brentford Trilogy and been mainly disappointed by Rankin's later work, I picked this up on a whim and really enjoyed it. A playful skit on Aleister Crowley with lots of awful puns, running gags and shaggy-dog tales.
August 21, 2010
Good for a bit of light-hearted fun. Really makes you want to track down RR in his local and 'talk the toot'.
If you like double entendre, unadulterated foolishness and a classic detective/adventure story with some zany mystic and occult nonsense thrown in then this is for you.
If you're a Terry Pratchett fan and you're looking for that sort of creative genius that makes you laugh yet leaves you lying awake wondering about the mysteries of life then this may not be your cup of tea.
Don't expect anything but the most orthodox 'twist in the tail'. The madness and surreality of this book lies in its constant digressions and fantastic dialogue. Underneath all of that, the structure is as 'straight down the road' as you can get.
If you like double entendre, unadulterated foolishness and a classic detective/adventure story with some zany mystic and occult nonsense thrown in then this is for you.
If you're a Terry Pratchett fan and you're looking for that sort of creative genius that makes you laugh yet leaves you lying awake wondering about the mysteries of life then this may not be your cup of tea.
Don't expect anything but the most orthodox 'twist in the tail'. The madness and surreality of this book lies in its constant digressions and fantastic dialogue. Underneath all of that, the structure is as 'straight down the road' as you can get.
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May 1, 2017
"The pungent turd!"
I think that sums this book up quite nicely.
I think that sums this book up quite nicely.
September 4, 2019
Great fun. Quirky and humorous. I think my only mistake is realizing this is one of the final books in a series. I should’ve started from the beginning. I think I’ll go back and remedy that error.
April 23, 2013
Published in 2005, this book ties together and references a lot of Rankin's earlier work. It's sort of a sequel to The Witches of Chiswick, as well as a link between the Brentford Trilogy and the books about Hugo Rune. Actually, I believe Rune originated in one of the Brentford books, but it was the Cornelius Murphy series that really developed his character. This story features Rune and his acolyte Rizla, who is really another established character with a lost memory, solving cases based on the Brighton Zodiac. Apparently the landscape zodiac is a real thing, or at least it is in the minds of conspiracy theorists, with constellations formed from roads and other landmarks in various places. Each of the chapters in this bookties in with one of the constellations in Rankin's native Brighton, although even the characters themselves note that some of the links are rather tenuous. I'm sure many of the jokes are best suited to people familiar with the locations in question, which I am not, but there were plenty universal gags as well. As usual, Rankin packs in a lot of different absurd plot devices, many based on conspiracy theories and urban legends, and quite a few referring back to bits from previous books of his. The Forbidden Zones from the Cornelius Murphy tales, the space pirates from The Greatest Show Off Earth, and the omnipresent barman Fangio all appear; and the main villain is Rune's arch-nemesis Count Otto Black. Rankin's style of humor isn't for everyone, pretty much requiring a high tolerance for running gags and lampshade-hanging (a recurring joke is that the story is supposed to take place in the sixties, but there are constant anachronisms that the book itself points out), but I quite like it. I understand this book was made into a radio broadcast, but I haven't heard it.
February 6, 2017
As a Brightonian I enjoyed all the local jokes and references, but the book as a whole was a bit too silly for my tastes, so I probably won't be reading any more by the same author.
July 19, 2014
The first of this Rankin's books I've read and I am sorry that it spent so long in the to-read piles, but maybe it was maturing..? But no, this is chock full of silly schoolboy humour with jokes you can see coming a mile off, and that is why it's so enjoyable! The artful anachronisms are especially puerile and get extra points as far as I'm concerned. whether this will be the first of many I'll read or a one off only fate knows, we will have to see what calls out to me from the library shelves. A very good read in a Douglas Adams kind of style.
May 12, 2009
Wierd dont sum it up. But in a good way of course.
Set during the 60s (altho you wouldnt really know it - its basically timeless except for times when dates become relevant!), its a series of chapters based on detective musings of the supernatural, wierd and ridiculous persuasion!
Highly reccommended - altho you may want a stiff drink ready!
Set during the 60s (altho you wouldnt really know it - its basically timeless except for times when dates become relevant!), its a series of chapters based on detective musings of the supernatural, wierd and ridiculous persuasion!
Highly reccommended - altho you may want a stiff drink ready!
February 7, 2014
Brilliant !
Full of Robert Rankin's mad thoughts. More exciting than the last Lazlo Woodbine thriller !
Full of Robert Rankin's mad thoughts. More exciting than the last Lazlo Woodbine thriller !
April 12, 2020
One of my favourite Robert Rankin books of "far-fetched fiction" and one I keep returning to time and time again.
Hugo Rune and his unwitting side-kick Rizla undertake a series of adventures based on the Brightonomicon - a series of zodiac signs made from the layout of Brighton streets. Seems crazy just to write it down! But what follows is 12 chapters of immensely enjoyable "toot", combining mystery, action, metal clubs, huge fried breakfasts and drinking. OK, a lot of drinking! But our unlikely heros reach a satisfying pinnacle against the inimitable Count Otto Black... and we find out the true identity of Rizla - no spoilers but this will bring a smile to any Rankin fans out there!
Overall, the book is very well-written, interspersed with the usual characters, mannerisms and phrases which seem to show up in Rankin's novels like a tradition, and old charter, or something...! 😉 Highly recommended.
Hugo Rune and his unwitting side-kick Rizla undertake a series of adventures based on the Brightonomicon - a series of zodiac signs made from the layout of Brighton streets. Seems crazy just to write it down! But what follows is 12 chapters of immensely enjoyable "toot", combining mystery, action, metal clubs, huge fried breakfasts and drinking. OK, a lot of drinking! But our unlikely heros reach a satisfying pinnacle against the inimitable Count Otto Black... and we find out the true identity of Rizla - no spoilers but this will bring a smile to any Rankin fans out there!
Overall, the book is very well-written, interspersed with the usual characters, mannerisms and phrases which seem to show up in Rankin's novels like a tradition, and old charter, or something...! 😉 Highly recommended.
July 2, 2017
Rankin takes you back to the 60's in Brightonomicon, yet it's only the decade that has changed. Still present are the running gags, the sly humour and the overtly British approach to farce and wordplay. For all the entertaining trademarks of Rankin it is the plot which fails to deliver here. The chapters are divided up in to mysteries to be solved by Rune and his new student, Rizla, and each chapter has little bearing to the vague plot that drifts through them. It feels like a scattergun approach, almost like a collection of short stories. Ultimately when the conclusion arrives it is difficult to assess whether there actually was a plot at all. That said, it's amusing to see Rankin shoehorn in as many refererences to previous books as possible, with a clear cavalier approach. Rankin fans will see some merit in this one, however newcomers might find it rather disjointed.
May 9, 2019
I finally had to give up, I made it about 30% through. The first 4 "zodiacs," and it was just so unenjoyable. The same tired jokes over and over. Rune doesn't pay for anything, haha, Rune hits people with his stick, haha, Rune eats all the food, haha. Funny the first time, maybe, not funny the 5 time, nor the 20th time.
Disappointing really because I really enjoy his Brentford series, and the characters therein. I thought this would be a continuation but it seems to be a entirely new story with a new set of characters, entirely unlikable and entirely forgettable (ha, see, I can make jokes too).
Disappointing really because I really enjoy his Brentford series, and the characters therein. I thought this would be a continuation but it seems to be a entirely new story with a new set of characters, entirely unlikable and entirely forgettable (ha, see, I can make jokes too).
November 16, 2016
The Brightonomicon is packed with (somewhat) funny one-liners, absurd characters and out-of-this-world adventures, as seen before in Rankin’s work. I thought it was quite enjoyable.
For me it took some time for the story to get really rolling. It was almost a bit of a story collection, since not all the adventures actually felt connected, not even near the end when the plot was explained. The word “and” was used too much, especially at the beginning of sentences. I did however have some really good laughs, even though some of the jokes are getting old (Rankin has a tendency to re-use them).
For me it took some time for the story to get really rolling. It was almost a bit of a story collection, since not all the adventures actually felt connected, not even near the end when the plot was explained. The word “and” was used too much, especially at the beginning of sentences. I did however have some really good laughs, even though some of the jokes are getting old (Rankin has a tendency to re-use them).
February 18, 2023
Look. This is Rankin. You get what you get. Some of the jokes don't age well but the mix of running gags, homage, puns, metajokes, and so on.
This one starts out with the premise of a case book like Sherlock Holmes. That lasts until it stops and devolves or evolves into an almost madcap adventure. Jules Verne, Agatha Christie and so many others come to mind in terms of ripoffs.
It does eventually all come together in a satisfying running through tunnels at a fast pace kind of way. I wonder how much of this influenced Fforde? I do enjoy that type of meta and self referential humour.
This one starts out with the premise of a case book like Sherlock Holmes. That lasts until it stops and devolves or evolves into an almost madcap adventure. Jules Verne, Agatha Christie and so many others come to mind in terms of ripoffs.
It does eventually all come together in a satisfying running through tunnels at a fast pace kind of way. I wonder how much of this influenced Fforde? I do enjoy that type of meta and self referential humour.
April 16, 2021
I have enjoyed Robert Rankin since the 1990s and went through a period of buying all his books in hardback as soon as they came out. There is much to love in so many of his books, and I appreciated much about this - having lived in Brighton for four years the city's starring role was a delight - but this is not Rankin at his best. It's overlong and, I hate to say it, a shade self-indulgent. It is also now offensively out of date in its references to some incidental Native American characters.
April 17, 2024
Don’t bother (1 star)
I started listening to the 2008 dramatized audio version of Rankin’s 2005 book, which features grand high magus Hugo Rune and his assistant Rizla, trying to solve the mystery of the Brighton Zodiac.
I shouldn’t have bothered, because it takes cheap shots against Christians and Jesus, has sexual innuendo and gay propaganda, and other moral issues. It’s supposed to be a humorous story, but I didn’t find anything funny here.
I started listening to the 2008 dramatized audio version of Rankin’s 2005 book, which features grand high magus Hugo Rune and his assistant Rizla, trying to solve the mystery of the Brighton Zodiac.
I shouldn’t have bothered, because it takes cheap shots against Christians and Jesus, has sexual innuendo and gay propaganda, and other moral issues. It’s supposed to be a humorous story, but I didn’t find anything funny here.
September 21, 2021
The radio adaption is fun, funny, and crazy, with much absurdity and amusement, in fact, it may be a bit too jam-packed with things and a bit unfocused, like I have found some other Robert Rankin-related works. Very entertaining and imaginative though, I laughed out loud several times, and great performances from the main cast, including David Warner, Jason Isaacs, and Andy Serkis.
July 5, 2018
I bailed at about the halfway point on this one as it was just too silly. I feel a little bad about that but not that bad. It was amusing. The writing made me laugh out loud sometimes but after a while nothing seemed to be adding up to much and the joking style style got a bit predictable.
December 16, 2020
Silly with chuckles. The best thing about this Audible production is the full cast. While there are some funny lines, this farcical narrative gets tiring quickly. I almost made it to the end, but then thought, why bother. Fortunately I got this on sale.
Read
August 4, 2019Classic Rankin, featuring the labours of the inimitable Hugo Rune, and the boy Rizla - and also an appearance from the archetypal private eye, Lazlo Woodbine.
September 3, 2023
Robert Rankin, always a joy to read.
September 3, 2024
Too nonsensical for me to enjoy.
August 19, 2025
I listened to the BBC Radio version. Awesome!
December 11, 2020
Admittedly I read them in the wrong order, but this doesn't seem as good as the other Hugo Rune books. Mind you, the Foredown Man chapter is a horror worthy of Edgar Allen Poe.
April 6, 2013
A nameless protagonist takes his sweetheart to Brighton for an intended dirty weekend. He pays for the trip, the hotel, her food and drink and is feeling quite incensed when she chooses to dump him the moment a group of neer-do-wells come along to interrupt their non-date. Our unnamed protagonist (who has actually forgotten his name) ends up being thrown off of Brighton pier while his "date" laughs and applauds his apparent death - so she didn't think it went that well then?
Our protagonist is saved from death and brought back to life by regular Rankin hero Hugo Rune who, after much frustration at the protagonist's amnesia, decides to call him Rizla and offers him a job as a sidekick in his freelance detective business. We all know that Hugo Rune is not the bees kness that he thinks he is, or that he tries to convince others that he is, so the pair go about eating and drinking for free and other such shenanigans.
Hugo Rune tells Rizla a bizarre tale of a device like a television, called the Chronovision, that allows the viewer to watch any events in the past. We know it works and it was even endorsed by the Vatican when the Pope watched the crucifixion. Now it is a race against time to stop his nemesis Count Otto Black from getting his hands on it and using it to rule the world. In the middle of all this is the mysterious Brighton zodiac (the titular Brightonomicon) and Rune's attempts to decipher it.
Rankin is very much an acquired taste. Some say that you have to be in the right mood to read one of his books and this is certainly true of The Brightonomicon. Depending on which of his books you read you will see Rankin as a twisted literary genius or a complete basketcase. In most cases, the two are not mutually exclusive though. Having met the man on several occasions and shared a few jokes with him, I find him friendly, funny and interesting. The very first book of his I bought (Hollow Chocolate Bunnies) I bought from him personally at a collector's fair and he said I was welcome to sell the signed copy the same day on ebay because currently bids with £5 over what he was charging!
I am a reluctant fan by now. Some of his books I absolutely adore; with others I was glad to have finished though that division tends to be a chronological divide (love the later stuff, not keen on his earlier work). This is an exception in being a later work that I really did not get on with. The laughs are few (the only one that made me laugh is the tale of the pub whose theme changes every thirty minutes). Many jokes are reused from this book and some of his others; I'm afraid I found this a little too madcap for my liking. I get what he was trying to do in parodying the Kingston Zodiac and the Glastonbury Zodiac with some nods to the Necromonicon but it didn't really work for me, possibly because I am not especially familiar with the sources he was parodying.
Our protagonist is saved from death and brought back to life by regular Rankin hero Hugo Rune who, after much frustration at the protagonist's amnesia, decides to call him Rizla and offers him a job as a sidekick in his freelance detective business. We all know that Hugo Rune is not the bees kness that he thinks he is, or that he tries to convince others that he is, so the pair go about eating and drinking for free and other such shenanigans.
Hugo Rune tells Rizla a bizarre tale of a device like a television, called the Chronovision, that allows the viewer to watch any events in the past. We know it works and it was even endorsed by the Vatican when the Pope watched the crucifixion. Now it is a race against time to stop his nemesis Count Otto Black from getting his hands on it and using it to rule the world. In the middle of all this is the mysterious Brighton zodiac (the titular Brightonomicon) and Rune's attempts to decipher it.
Rankin is very much an acquired taste. Some say that you have to be in the right mood to read one of his books and this is certainly true of The Brightonomicon. Depending on which of his books you read you will see Rankin as a twisted literary genius or a complete basketcase. In most cases, the two are not mutually exclusive though. Having met the man on several occasions and shared a few jokes with him, I find him friendly, funny and interesting. The very first book of his I bought (Hollow Chocolate Bunnies) I bought from him personally at a collector's fair and he said I was welcome to sell the signed copy the same day on ebay because currently bids with £5 over what he was charging!
I am a reluctant fan by now. Some of his books I absolutely adore; with others I was glad to have finished though that division tends to be a chronological divide (love the later stuff, not keen on his earlier work). This is an exception in being a later work that I really did not get on with. The laughs are few (the only one that made me laugh is the tale of the pub whose theme changes every thirty minutes). Many jokes are reused from this book and some of his others; I'm afraid I found this a little too madcap for my liking. I get what he was trying to do in parodying the Kingston Zodiac and the Glastonbury Zodiac with some nods to the Necromonicon but it didn't really work for me, possibly because I am not especially familiar with the sources he was parodying.
August 12, 2016
Mr Hugo Rune had a way about him, something that signalled him as being above the everyday and the everyman. He was an enigma, a riddle wrapped around an enigma and tied with a string of surprising circumstances, He appeared to inhabit his own separate universe, where normal laws - and I do not mean those of he legal persuasion - did not apply. Who he was and what he was, I know not to this day.
But he was certainly someone.
As well as the zodiac in the stars, there are also zodiacs in the landscape such as the Glastonbury zodiac and the Kingston zodiac, and according to Hugo Rune (the Lad Himself, the Logos of the Aeon, the Guru's Guru, the author of the Book of Ultimate Truths and the Reinventor of the Ocarina) there is also a Brighton zodiac hidden in the street plan. In 1960s Brighton, a Brentford teenager on this first 'dirty weekend' away is thrown off the end of the pier by a gang of Mods and is rescued from drowning by Hugo Rune. On regaining consciousness he finds that he has lost his memory, and the teenager, now known as Rizla, is persuaded to stay on in Brighton as Rune's amanuensis. But is Hugo Run a mystical detective trying to save the world, by solving 12 cases each linked to one of the signs of the Brighton zodiac, or merely a conman who never pays his rent, taxi fares or bar bills if he can possibly help it.
'Well,' I said, 'I am really sorry that I did not do more than flick through your book. Although I do remember reading about how hedgehogs inhabit the Aquasphere, where rain comes from, where they float about, held aloft by the natural helium inside them, but sometimes get punctured during overexuberant rutting and plunge to Earth. Which is why you see them splattered onto country roads.' And then I yawned, and fell asleep.
This is one of my least favourite Robert Rankin books, as I found Hugo Rune too unlikeable to want to read about, and the story got quite tedious in places. Maybe it would have appealed more if I had ever been to Brighton.
But he was certainly someone.
As well as the zodiac in the stars, there are also zodiacs in the landscape such as the Glastonbury zodiac and the Kingston zodiac, and according to Hugo Rune (the Lad Himself, the Logos of the Aeon, the Guru's Guru, the author of the Book of Ultimate Truths and the Reinventor of the Ocarina) there is also a Brighton zodiac hidden in the street plan. In 1960s Brighton, a Brentford teenager on this first 'dirty weekend' away is thrown off the end of the pier by a gang of Mods and is rescued from drowning by Hugo Rune. On regaining consciousness he finds that he has lost his memory, and the teenager, now known as Rizla, is persuaded to stay on in Brighton as Rune's amanuensis. But is Hugo Run a mystical detective trying to save the world, by solving 12 cases each linked to one of the signs of the Brighton zodiac, or merely a conman who never pays his rent, taxi fares or bar bills if he can possibly help it.
'Well,' I said, 'I am really sorry that I did not do more than flick through your book. Although I do remember reading about how hedgehogs inhabit the Aquasphere, where rain comes from, where they float about, held aloft by the natural helium inside them, but sometimes get punctured during overexuberant rutting and plunge to Earth. Which is why you see them splattered onto country roads.' And then I yawned, and fell asleep.
This is one of my least favourite Robert Rankin books, as I found Hugo Rune too unlikeable to want to read about, and the story got quite tedious in places. Maybe it would have appealed more if I had ever been to Brighton.
December 14, 2015
Robert Rankin’s anti-anti-hero Hugo Rune returns for this, the third book in an unofficial trilogy. Unofficial as this is simply the third book on the trot to star the Lad Himself; official in the sense that Rankin planned it that way. On the other hand, it is heavily tied into Rankin’s mythos of pub-shuffling occultists. And when we interviewed him last month he said it was part of a trilogy, but then he told us not to mention it. So let’s drop it already.
This is yet another slice of far-fetched fiction in the Rankin tradition. Okay, so he’s only one man, but he’s been writing so long it could arguably be called a tradition. The story concerns “Rizla” (actually one of Rankin’s regulars who is temporarily suffering from amnesia) who teams up with Hugo Rune as he can’t er, remember anything. Together they attempt to solve the mysteries of the Brightonomicon, the zodiacal signs wrought into the very fabric of Brighton in the book, creatively doodled on the A-Z street map in real life by Rankin. They must do this to protect the Chronovision, a TV that transcends time, in order to prevent certain catastrophe. During the course of this 1960s Holmesian parody, cabbies are clubbed, pirates engaged, devilish doctors confronted, and Victorian mechanical monsters mashed. And all for sixpence (allowing for inflation).
Rankin reckons this is the best book he’s ever written. He also reckons that people who like what he likes are the only people who’ll get it. He’s right on both counts, at least to some degree. If you are a Sprout aficionado, you’ll lap this up. Oh, it is laugh out loud funny, but Rankin is not Pratchett – you can’t read ’em in any old order. If you’ve not sampled his stuff before, either start with his first book, The Antipope, or try his very funny standalone The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse. There’s so much in-japery here, it may be difficult for newbies.
This is yet another slice of far-fetched fiction in the Rankin tradition. Okay, so he’s only one man, but he’s been writing so long it could arguably be called a tradition. The story concerns “Rizla” (actually one of Rankin’s regulars who is temporarily suffering from amnesia) who teams up with Hugo Rune as he can’t er, remember anything. Together they attempt to solve the mysteries of the Brightonomicon, the zodiacal signs wrought into the very fabric of Brighton in the book, creatively doodled on the A-Z street map in real life by Rankin. They must do this to protect the Chronovision, a TV that transcends time, in order to prevent certain catastrophe. During the course of this 1960s Holmesian parody, cabbies are clubbed, pirates engaged, devilish doctors confronted, and Victorian mechanical monsters mashed. And all for sixpence (allowing for inflation).
Rankin reckons this is the best book he’s ever written. He also reckons that people who like what he likes are the only people who’ll get it. He’s right on both counts, at least to some degree. If you are a Sprout aficionado, you’ll lap this up. Oh, it is laugh out loud funny, but Rankin is not Pratchett – you can’t read ’em in any old order. If you’ve not sampled his stuff before, either start with his first book, The Antipope, or try his very funny standalone The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse. There’s so much in-japery here, it may be difficult for newbies.
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