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After my recent essay on alcohol consumption, my day spent shadowing a substance misuse nurse, the seemingly daily media barrage of ignoramuses shooting their load over the Alcohol (Minimum Pricing) (Scotland) Bill, and my own modifications of my drinking habits, I thought this would be an interesting and drily amusing read.
Unfortunately, Burroughs lost my sympathy/empathy/interest/whatever quite soon into the book; how his longsuffering work colleagues put up with his crap for so long, and his month-long rehab break from work seemed almost an act of benevolence, in order to save their irreplaceable advertising genius (spot the sarcasm), seemed incomprehensible to me. This guy really is a million miles from some of the poor souls hooked up to Pabrinex I have met in my brief nursing career so far. Yeah, yeah, he had a f***ed up childhood, blah, blah, etc... But really, Augusten Burroughs is such a p***k that I'm not surprised he felt he had to drink to oblivion, just to get away from himself.
The reason for its popularity completely escapes me, hackneyed, repetitive, and uninspired as it is, and I will not read anything else by him. After feeling similarly about James Frey, I feel I should go back and re-read Caroline Knapp's memoir, as I remember really enjoying it about fifteen years ago - what made it so different to similar books I've read and hated since?
One positive though. The paper it was printed on was lovely and thick, so I got through it a lot quicker than I'd feared.
Unfortunately, Burroughs lost my sympathy/empathy/interest/whatever quite soon into the book; how his longsuffering work colleagues put up with his crap for so long, and his month-long rehab break from work seemed almost an act of benevolence, in order to save their irreplaceable advertising genius (spot the sarcasm), seemed incomprehensible to me. This guy really is a million miles from some of the poor souls hooked up to Pabrinex I have met in my brief nursing career so far. Yeah, yeah, he had a f***ed up childhood, blah, blah, etc... But really, Augusten Burroughs is such a p***k that I'm not surprised he felt he had to drink to oblivion, just to get away from himself.
The reason for its popularity completely escapes me, hackneyed, repetitive, and uninspired as it is, and I will not read anything else by him. After feeling similarly about James Frey, I feel I should go back and re-read Caroline Knapp's memoir, as I remember really enjoying it about fifteen years ago - what made it so different to similar books I've read and hated since?
One positive though. The paper it was printed on was lovely and thick, so I got through it a lot quicker than I'd feared.