Raiders of the Low Forehead

by Stanley Manly

160 pages, Paperback

First published October 1, 1999

Reviews

[Alex Sarll]

Ah, Attack! Books, whose manifesto yelled that '"Subtlety" is found in the dictionary between "shit" and "syphilis".' Very much an artefact of those days at the end of the last millennium when we thought we had it bad with a vague fin de siecle malaise, before history resumed and everything went completely to pieces. Where the battles had been won and the most we had to worry about was stifling consensus, so it was just a jolly jape to poke fun at pieties we all knew everyone bar a few dinosaurs on their last thrash agreed about really. Meaning that, read now, Raiders Of The Low Forehead's determined efforts to be as vile and shocking as possible mainly evoke a longing for such carefree, innocent days. Set in "a rugged Northern wasteland where Gazza is considered an effete intellectual, Elvis would qualify as a health-food freak and Kosovo looks good for a winter break", the only -isms and -phobias it doesn't play with are the ones not in general circulation 24 years ago. Across the top of the front cover it promises FOOD! SEX! VIOLENCE!, and every chapter has one of those three titles, though most combine at least two of the three. The real joke, of course, being that this account of one man's effort to deal with the titular thugs in order to keep getting lots of action from the fetching Sharon Goer is clearly the work of a poet, the tale stuffed with alliteration and internal rhymes as much as gore and grease, and dotted with unheralded steals from ponces like Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Lloyd Cole. Not just the hits, either – I only found out Wordsworth was being referenced after Googling a line I thought might be Lovecraft. Even by Attack! standards, I'm not sure it's their best work; line boss Steven Wells' Tits-Out Teenage Terror Totty summed up the sheer manic punk energy of the project, while Tommy Udo's Vatican Bloodbath was the champ for actual laughs. But now I've read them all* I can't help longing for that fairer, gentler world where harmless provocations like this were still a thing. Werther's Originals for indie dads being, of course, exactly the fate Wells et al would least have wanted for their oeuvre.

*Well, I say that: quick reads though they are, I bailed on Whips & Furs — My Life As A Bon-Vivant, Gambler And Love Rat By Jesus H. Christ after a couple of chapters, because as usual, no matter how many veils of irony and outrage Stewart Home may try to draw over anything, I only ever find his work deeply, deeply boring.

[Michael Kelly]

I'm giving this 5 stars, because its anarchic, filthy, violent humour was right up my street. Some people, whose sense of humour is less embracing of violence, murder, brutality, bodily functions, bestiality, depravity, ghastly secretions and general obnoxiousness might be inclined to award it a star or two less.

The plot is slight: a gang of thugs terrorise a town, beating up and murdering pensioners, police, and pretty much anyone else. The terrible trio had framed Sharon's father and brother for one of their crimes. Our hero Vince, a 7 stone apology, is tasked with demolishing the murderous meatheads and securing the release of Sharon's folks if he is to win her affections.

All of this wrapped up in the aforementioned brutality, filth, smut and bad taste comedy, if you like that sort of thing ... which I do.

But the thing is, this book is BEAUTIFULLY written (it also capitalises names and key words, hence my tribute in the word BEAUTIFULLY). It uses the repetition of words and phrases to hilarious effect, and its tightly packed paragraphs are full of alliteration and rhyme. It is a skillfully written prose-poem and it really needs to be read aloud to savour its full effect. (Yes, I CAN read without moving my lips, but some purple prose deserves to be pronounced prominently.)

I loved it. Your opinion may differ.

As a final note, it is VERY British and I am uncertain how well the humour or the cultural setting may travel.