A Cure For Cancer.

                Oh blimey, what was going on inside your head, Mister Moorcock? with the first Jerry Cornelius novel I had a fair idea idea what was going on. anchored by repeated viewings of the Final Programme movie, whether that can be considered a rossetta stone to the arcane literature of Michael Moorcock is probably not even debatable among his core audience. I am but a stupified pilgrim on a winding pathway so it will do for me. And Jon Finch made a fantastic Jerry Cornelius. My grasp on this text could be described as slippery at best. It felt like something linear was unfolding, first on the page and then in the recesses of my brain as I absorbed the text. A bendy sort of narrative and I have been blessed with a bendy sort of brain. I was not always able to figure out who I was tagging behind, it was a packed party in my head, I held on to any friendly arm I could grasp, just stumbling through a jam packed room of beautiful and terrible people.

                 There is no user friendly sound bite that can sum this book up for a casual visitor. it just has to be experienced. With a Michael Moorcock you are just never going to get tha.

                  Are you 'aving a larf?  I should bleedin' coco.

                  The formating of this book would be considered experimental in any age. At times it felt as though Michael Moorcock may have visited his publishers with a manuscript, stopped along the way for a tipple or two, or three, tripped over a friendly Jack Russel in the pub, spilling the pages of the manuscript and allowing it to mix with some annotations intended for his own thinking, and then charmingly handed over the jumbled pages and declared "Make of it what you will , my dears," and so we must.

                 Its the way stories and memories bleed into each other after all. Our lives are an unscipted loose ensemble of events and genres. An apocalyptic thread runs throughout the book, its a stew of disasterism. With so many ingredients Jerry Cornelius becomes the brown sauce that makes it palatable. 

                 As palatable as a pot of apocalyptic pease pottage can be, my dears.