"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.
Robert Rankin is one of the masters of weird fiction, he was weird fictioning before anyone had heard of China Mieville and introduced them to the sub-genre. Rankin’s stuff doesn’t come much weirder than this, a novel mostly of tall tales that purport to be a biography of the family Rankin.
From an ancestor who died at Little Bighorn when he went to moan about how much noise they were making to other ancestors who died in tall tales such as the on who ate a motorbike to prove some obscure law of reality related to chaos theory.
The shaggy dog stories basically make up the majority of the plot and the story develops later on. The shaggy dogs aren’t so much shaggy dogs as they are careful (yet daft) interweaving. For many people, this will be understandably off-putting. Rankin’s work can be daft but until you’ve read this, you’ve seen nothing yet. If it isn’t those already mentioned shaggy dog stories, it’s daft poems that almost rhyme and are more outlandish than the narrative.
I can’t even explain what it was about. It’s all over the place and though it works, it’s more than a little frustrating to try to explain it and make it appealing. So, the plot, what there is of it, is wacky and out there. The only real drawback of this book is that it is all over the place but basically it is about Robert (it’s an autobiography) being approached by a secret government organisation who want me to sit in a room and come up with ideas. This, presumably, was because of his weird family history. That’s it, the wackier the better. And then he meets Barry The Talking Sprout. It’s a kind of a family companion, a guardian angel if you like, and it knows all of his family history.
Whenever I read Rankin’s earlier work it very quickly reminds me why I always preferred his newer stuff. Sorry Robert, you’re a lovely guy and a good laugh when you’re flogging your books at collector’s fairs, but this one was a little too weird for my tastes. Readers of his also know that he strays very close to breaking the PC barrier, but it’s all in good fun and not designed to offend anyone. Tales of social awkwardness leading to some disastrous encounters with attractive women, to putting one’s foot in it as a matter of course, this is Rankin at his wackiest and most outrageous.
Det här var nog det mest brittiska jag läst i hela mitt liv. På ett oerhört tillfredsställande sätt. Hela boken är sådär härligt knastertorr, så torr att det dammar om den nästan, men lyckas samtidigt vara fullkomligt absurt skitkorkad, fylld med en bisarr fascination med brysselkål och metahumor. En udda blandning av typ Monty Python och the Young Ones. Som på papper i alla fall är fantastiskt bra. Visst blir man inte besviken heller, egentligen, när man läser den. Rankins berättar rappt och underhållande en spretande och inte alltid jättesammanhängande historia om några medlemmar ur en familj med fokus på en son som visar sig vara en slags förkroppsligad kaosteori. I samband med detta introduceras några fler ur familjen, några som bara nämns i förbifarten och vissa som figurerar lite här och var i boken. Utöver dessa finns det flera andra som jag förstått är återkommande karaktärer, då jag egentligen hoppade in lite mitt i en serie.
Jag kan inte alls minnas ärligt talat hur jag först kom i kontakt med Rankin. Jag minns att jag såg honom när jag letat SF-Masterworks tidiagare, då de delar förlag, men inte alls vad som fick mig att faktiskt köpa. Inget jag ångrar i alla fall. Förmodligen perfekt för att rensa smaklökarna, för att missbruka frasen helt, mellan tyngre grejer.
I always use this book to illustrate just how off the wall Rankin's writing is. Purportedly his autobiography, he gets run over by a bus and killed halfway through. That really ought to give the reader some some of idea that this is not entirely serious.
Telling the "stories" of various family members then moving onto his own life this is less a coherent novel with a plot than the literary equivalent of an episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus; a series of sketches with some recurring characters and ideas which don't behave according any of the accepted standards of story telling.
The result is an absolute hoot as a stream of consciousness experience, especially as Rankin re-uses his well-tested recurring gags. However it is by no means his best work; the lack of a plot means that the book just sort of ends and it does rely a little too much on knowing nods to previous works.
Not a bad read, and certainly worth a go if you like something that's unusual and bursting with odd ideas but there are better Rankin books to read.
Rankin expands his fictional author’s biographies into an entire fictional autobiography, which also extends to his family. Sprouts appear quite frequently in the story, including Barry the Holy Guardian Sprout, who this time is in Rankin’s own head. While there are a lot of tangents, much of the plot revolves around chaos theory, and how the author discovers he can make major changes through seemingly random actions. I wish being obsessive-compulsive really worked like that! Anyway, it isn’t one of Rankin’s more memorable novels, but it’s pretty funny. In addition to Barry, there are guest appearances by several of his other recurring characters. And yes, the title’s reference to a Captain Beefheart album is acknowledged.
Easily the worst Robert Rankin book I've read. It has its moments, but mostly it's a series of unconnected vignettes that feel like leftovers from his much better novels, glued together with a character who has more than a touch of Gary Stu. Read the Brentford Trilogy or "A Dog Named Demolition" instead.
Bizarre tale like most of Robert Rankin’s books, but funny and entertaining. I had to write down a few things in order to keep track of all the characters, enjoyed it nevertheless!
Quite bizarrely surreal, even by Robert Rankin's own standards.
A fun diversion, though, especially as read by Robert himself in the audiobook edition - although it does have a slightly home-cooked feel, with a few slip-ups and re-takes not edited out of the recording.
Weird, ridiculous and hilarious, this rambling memoir is surreal and nonsensical and all the better for it. Total genius and utter madness at the same time
It could just be me but I couldn't help but feel this book was Jasper Fford but only for cool people. Basicly what I am saying is dis book not my thing.
I liked the humor, I mean who can’t imagine an uncle that ate a motorbike? However, I struggled keeping track of who was who and who wasn’t mad. I’m not mad, am I?
The hopefully fictional memoirs of the Rankin family, involving far too many sprouts, a sporran which must be related to The Luggage, and generous helpings of utter insanity.
I have no idea what this was supposed to be about, but it was rather fun.
In the vourse of it, the protagonist recognises that he is reponsible for averting all kinds of evil stuff happening, gets mostly killed several times, frozen, thawed, and abducted by giant, intelligent sprouts (I might have hallucinated that last one...)
I'm sorry. I tried. My son loves Robert Rankin, and he gave me a couple of the books because he was sure I would love them too.
I don't. I can see the humour, it just doesn't make me laugh. It's a lack in me, just the same as the fact that my husband can't see the joke in Terry Pratchett is a lack in him. Personally I love Mr P's books.
So, you either get the joke in Robert Rankin or you don't. If you do, no doubt you will love this book. I just don't.
This one is unusual even for Rankin. It's written as an autobiography of "The Chosen One". It's off the wall Rankin and it starts pretty strong. But the payoff isn't really there. If you're already a Rankin fan it's well worth a read. But it's far from his best work.
Picked up in Denmark when I was 17 because I dug the Captain Beefheart reference (and that entire sentence makes me sound cooler than I ever was). I blame it for a lot of things.