As well as giving a specific account of every single time he's scored some smack, this disgusting memoir also details:
the singular, pitbull-infested charm of the FRP ('Flat Roofed Pub')
the curious French habit of injecting everyone in the arse rather than the arm
why, by the time he got to Cambridge, he really, really needed a drink
the pain of being denied a childhood birthday party at McDonalds
the satisfaction of writing jokes about suicide
how doing quite a lot of walking around London helps with his sciatica
trying to pretend he isn't a total **** at Robert Webb's wedding
that he has fallen in love at LOT, but rarely done anything about it
why it would be worse to bump into Michael Palin than Hitler on holiday
that he's not David Mitchell the novelist. Despite what David Miliband might think
