POMPEY.

Meades sets about his kitchen sink story of a dysfunctional family with a verve and talent unsurpassed in anything else i've read. It is, to be blunt, an awe inspiring piece of prose. Spanning some 40 years in the lives of it's protaganists, Meades travels from back street abortionists to glorious redemtion as he narrates the story of the 'Firework makers' children; The offspring of one Guy Vallender part owner with his brother in a fireworks business based in the eponymous city of the title. However, do not be mislead into thinking that this is one for the beach or that it is some kind of weighty rags-to-riches tome. It is a book that demands to be read and re-read many times. It has more invention in language and style; more ideas, scenes and plot that can comfortably be discussed here. Every page and chapter is a literary joy. But... It will leave you, as Meades himself points out, needing to wash your hands once you finish it. For a while it will sit on your bookshelf like a leper, untouchable until you can steal yourself for another dip into the murk. It is not a dirty novel and filth is undoubtedtly the wrong word, too. It simply reeks of the unspeakable, the unimaginable, the unsayable. The Vallender's family secrets are like those of every family, just more so and more indescribably so. Comical, convoluted and breathtaking and not for the faint of heart... Adjectives have not yet been invented to do justice to this novel. Perhaps i might suggest Meadesian? Wonderful.