Before we get started, two facts need establishing so we know where we stand. Mike Gatting was captain of Middlesex, not Essex. And it was 'Little Johnny Jewel', not 'Little Jimmy Jewel'. Mere memory lapses? Bad proof-reading? Or simply red herrings? You decide. Things like this matter though, that's not up for debate. I feel sure Bill Drummond would agree with me there. Right then, on with the business at hand.

I felt confident as I opened this book that I knew precisely what would follow. That is, the subject matter; sundry tales of unequivocal (ab)normality, musings on high art, scurrilous gossip, cosmic insight, stultifying trivia and plain tomfoolery, all delivered in a unique manner I find all but impossible to encapsulate in words but which seeps out of the pages throughout. Nowhere is this curious tone more clearly illustrated than in the following excerpt:

'The Bunnymen were now one of the greatest live bands ever. This fact is based totally on my own prejudices. Seeing as I hardly ever saw any other bands play live I had nothing to judge my prejudices by. I just compared them to the memory of the bands I saw live as a teenager. Using that marker, the Bunnymen were now better than the Stones, the Doors, the Who, Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin, but not quite as good as the Keef Hartley Band, the first rock band I ever saw'.

This book deals with making soup in Belfast, why the author didn't join Killing Joke, Robbie Williams, ordinance survey maps, the mystery of the M25, rickshaws in Calcutta, the conflict in Bosnia, going round the Friars shopping centre in Aylesbury, the ultimate Elvis Presley lookalike, whether or not one should paint watercolours, the song of the blackcap, the scariness of electricity pylons, the art of Richard Long, why nationalism does/doesn't matter, the true identity of William Butterworth, being on the bus (in the strictly non-Keseyan sense of the phrase, you understand), the Residents, elderflower wine, the Fabian Society and the careers of such household names of contemporary popular music as Kristina Bruuk, Gormenghast and The Fuckers.

Don't be fooled though.

Just because I can amass this list doesn't mean I've finished reading the book yet. Of course I haven't. Doubtless I will by the time this review's over; after all, I've got another week till my deadline expires. Even then I may not manage to digest every single word. You know how it is. Well anyway, this is a dip-in book if ever there was one. It's a collection of musings. Each section (calling them chapters is misleading, implying a linear structure to the book that just isn’t there) deals with a topic that Bill Drummond cares to ruminate upon. You can clearly visualize him stroking either his beard or where his beard would be if he had one as he thinks on't. The other thing you should know is that this is a bit like someone's private diary deliberately left around for other folk to read. There's that sense of fun about it, you know that he knows that you know, etc etc. And there is that sense of very deliberate disclosure, the inkling that maybe you're being told what you want to hear, that is one of the reasons this book is so consistently entertaining. Which isn't to say that it's all a sham and a con perpetrated by the author upon an unsuspecting clientele. (Which is pretty much the way many view(ed) Mr. Drummond's past exploits with Zoo Records, the Justified Ancients Of Mu Mu, the KLF and the K Foundation.)

And yes, dear reader, of course hallowed names such as Peter de Freitas, Jimmy Cautry, Ian Broudie, Mick Houghton, Will Sergeant, David Ian William Miguel Balfe, Joseph Mallord William Turner, Roger Eagle, Ian MacCulloch, Gimpo, Paul Simpson, Mark Manning, Les Pattinson, old uncle Julian Cobbley and all are in there somewhere, doing or saying something (ir)relevant, or (ir)reverent, or both.

Drummond's take on all these shenanigans is as self-contradictory and ambiguous as you might imagine. He isn't exactly at pains to distance himself from his musical past, but you never get a straight answer to the begged question. Which is probably just as well. Those of you who know about this sort of thing will doubtless recall that on his Fried Julian Cope did a song called "Bill Drummond Said" only for Drummond to retort "Julian Cope is dead" on his The Man. Now I'd like to suggest that everybody's grown up a bit since then so we'll have no more of that. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth and that's what makes those sections dealing with Echo And The Bunnymen and The Teardrop Explodes so colossally entertaining. There isn't any real bitchiness, just shiteloads of unproven speculation and unheard hearsay for those who would find themselves in that particular bag. Believe what you like, these would all appear to be cartoon characters in any case.

This book has two sections I would especially commend. One of them is about Tammy Wynette, more specifically about her collaboration with the KLF on "Justified And Ancient" and how and why it came about. Allow me to give the game away in part here. 'Why' was because Tammy Wynette in many ways epitomised the pure antithesis of the KLF', or rather their approach to making music. It was both the ultimate challenge and the impossible dream for Drummond to work with her, and for that reason once the idea had occurred to him it had to be carried out. This section (along with the one on the art of Richard Long and the one I'm coming to next) gives away as much about the real Bill Drummond as any other part of this book. Savour in particular his musings on the pop / (im)mortality interface on hearing of Tammy's death via Radio 4:

'People can never get enough of dead rock'n'roll stars. Writers want to write about them, movie-makers make movies about them and record companies want to repackage them. I'm sick of the whole thing; all those dead rock'n'roll stars should be taken out and shot. Except for the ones who died young and pretty - they should be forced to live untilthey lose their looks, talent, cool and credibility.'

The other is about Drummond's chance meeting with Peter Green on a plane coming back from Germany. His smug musings at the beginning of the section, firstly on the German translation of The Manual and then on the archetypal roadie seated near him, his regression back to faltering, impressionable adolescent upon recognising Green, his quoting of the lyrics from 'Man Of The World' (complete with authentic Drummond deflatory humour), his holier-than-thou reaction to Green's enjoyment of the magazine Loaded - all this is chronicled in what makes up for me the outstanding section of the book in trite yet meticulous fashion, sparing no-one, especially not himself. The fact that he seems to end up caring more about the fact that the German version of The Manual has been published incomplete more than Green's ongoing fate trashes all vestiges of sentimentality and perversely makes for a truly moving end to the section, detailed in a superb closing paragraph:

'As my fellow passengers and I make our way to baggage reclaim, I notice the hunched and shuffling figure of Peter Green up ahead of me. I have a habit of looking for meaning in the random incidents that present themselves to us as we stumble through life, hoping to discover some poignant wisdom that will be of use in the remaining days. But not today. Today I feel nothing.'

Rather a fine bit of writing, if I'm not mistaken. And I'm not. Peter Green was one of the few genuinely tragic self-destructs of rock'n'roll. Unlike the Barretts, Lees and Eriksons of this world (and, lest we forget, the Copes) he didn't spend years playing lysergic Russsian roulette with his mind. He only took it once. Once was enough. More than enough. More than any other piece of writing about the man I've come across, Bill Drummond somehow cuts through all the traditional embellishments of first-person singular narrative prose (his own self-pity in particular) and delivers a realistic picture of how the mighty are fallen, all the more remarkable for the fact that this was probably never his intention. It almost happens by accident; a mixture of grotesque humour, pretentious reflection and genuine sensitivity and pathos that makes for a moving eulogy to a boyhood hero. Not bad at all for someone who allegedly doesn't really mean it, maaaaaan.

As it turns out, this book isn't what I expected at all. Sure, I guessed the subject matter okay; something about 'sundry tales of unequivocal (ab)normality, musings on high art, scurrilous gossip, cosmic insight, stultifying trivia and plain tomfoolery', if you'll permit me to quote myself briefly. On the money there alright; what I hadn't bargained for was what a good book it is. I don't mean a good read; I knew it'd be that. What I mean to say is, it's somehow a 'worthy' book, a 'proper' book, not an attempt at a work of literature (thank Christ) but certainly not the sort of thing that most people would imagine the merry prankster responsible for (here we go, all together now) such 'events' as the creation of the dead sheep/Extreme Noise Terror interface, the 'controversy' over the Turner Prize, the burning of a million 'quid' and the resurrection of the artistic career of Glenn Hughes to be capable of. How to square such a character with the individual who writes with such obviously genuine affection of the flora and fauna of Britain throughout, to cite another unexpected facet found herein, is part of the contradiction that one becomes involved in whilst considering this book.

Between 1000 and 2000 words, Graham said; a quick use of the Word Count facility reveals it's nearly time for me to shut up. I've nearly read all of it now; still a few sections only glossed over, though. That's reviewers for you; they should stick to what they're paid (!) for; saying whether or not to fork out hard earned readies. Fair play. Here goes then. This book is worth your precious time. It may not claim to say something like 'this is what the KLF are about' or reveal whether or not Copey'n'Mac are speaking again. You may not believe a word of it, especially the bits about the m*ll**n qu*d. I for one could not give the original flying fuck. But here's my two penn'orth. This book is almost certainly going to end up being one of the best books published this year, unless you happen to have different tastes from me. If you don't want to buy it then read it in a shop or petition your local library, if there still is one. Most important of all, make sure you read it all. I know I will, one day.

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