God, I hated this. I wanted to give up when I was halfway through, but some sick sense of perseverance compelled me to finish it.

I picked this up originally because I rather like travelogues; I didn't realize that Theroux is famous for the grim, bitter unhappiness of his travel writing (Theroux's theory is that "a lot of travel is misery and delay").

The problem is that Theroux never manages to make this misery and delay interesting. It's just tedious -- a hundred pages in, and you may be wondering why this grey misanthrope even gets out of bed in the morning but you're still not interested in his martyred quest around the British coastline. It doesn't help that Theroux is painfully repetitious. He has a handful of observations and conclusions that he will carelessly reuse again and again. God, those nuclear power stations suck! God, those railway enthusiasts suck! God, those Skinheads suck! Et cetera. The repetition of these points doesn't build to any greater theme or purpose: it's as if Theroux just didn't re-read his manuscript and hadn't realized that he'd used the exact same phrasing against the exact same target five times before.

God, I hated this. ( )

Delightfully ascerbic, and a time capsule of early '80s Britain—further removed from us than Theroux was from the Second World War that features in so many of the stories of the people he met, during his three-month clockwise journey of the coastal UK. I was recommended this by the podcast Backlisted, in which Andy Miller read the book's tour de force: a two page profile of the stereotypical British seaside town ("The muddy part of the shore was called the Flats, the marshy part the Levels, the stony part the Shingles, the pebbly part The Reach, and something a mile away was always called The Crumbles. The Manor, once very grand, was now a childrens' home. Every Easter two gangs from London fought on Marine Parade…") which ends with "It was raining." ( )

Grumpy but entertaining. ( )

Paul Theroux is often a stunning writer but always an unpleasant person, at least in my view. This account of a journey around the coast of Great Britain is hampered by his misanthropic view of the elderly, the people of England, and the state, circa 1982, of Britain's railways and seaside resorts. He does examine some aspects of the people and places he visits minutely, like the railroad buffs whom he despises. Skip this unless you are a Theroux fan. ( )

Far too melancholic, picking out the worst features in the places visited before finding any positives ... if at all.
One of the rare occasions I didn't want to make the time to complete a book. ( )