England, my England
It’s not very often that you physically react to literature. Other forms of entertainment often cause a response from the body. Think of horror films that make you scream and jump in terror, euphoric music that causes you to lose your inhibitions and dance and computer games that initiate yells of victory or exasperation. Reading a book generally causes the imagination to explode with wonder, delight, sadness or fear, leaving the physical body inert and unaffected. I gasped, shook my head, roared with laughter, recoiled in disgust and questioned the nature of humanity out loud while reading England, My England.



England, My England is a complex animal. It follows the birth, childhood and teenage years through the years of an individual who is both thoroughly evil yet uncompromising and brutally honest. From his entrance into the world, through the neglect and abuse he suffers as a toddler and his cruel and vicious teenage years, he kills, maims, tortures, mocks and rapes. He doesn’t apologise for what he has done, nor does he care about the suffering he causes to others. He is cold and he is ruthless. This is not to say that he is inhuman, far from it in fact. He encompasses the very worst elements of human nature; those who abuse, those who pray on the weaknesses of others and those who act on their depraved fantasies. He possesses their malice, magnified tenfold, alongside a high intellect and a wicked sense of humour. The protagonist, for his name is never revealed, exists to punish others and fulfil his own sexual desires.



So where does this leave the reader? How can we sympathise with such a monster? Sympathy, or at least a justification for his actions, comes through the abuse and neglect which he suffers, primarily at the hands of his parents and the family cat, which provides some of the funniest and most bizarre moments in the novel. Teachers, nurses and other children all become his enemies, torturing and abusing him with no motive other than the pleasure of seeing others suffer. When vengeance comes it is (usually) deserved, purging the world of another undesirable.



There is a distinct paradox running throughout the book with polar opposites at every turn. The protagonist is a hero, yet he is also the cruellest and most despicable of all. The language used throughout the novel is beautiful, almost poetic, yet interspersed with the crudest terminology English has to offer. The England in which England, My England is set is at once unrecognisable yet an uncomfortable twisted version of reality that rings true on many occasions. Perhaps the most difficult paradox to deal with is the nature of his victims. The majority are the very worst dregs of society: child abusers, wife beaters, bullies, rapists and middle class liberals. But, such is the malice of the main character, even innocents are not spared his wrath. Difficult to accept? Most definitely, but, in England, My England, that is the whole point. The world is a cruel place and innocents do become victims. These fluid and shifting elements will keep you in a constant state of flux, bordering on the line of fiction and the modern world in which we live in and preventing the reader from relaxing.



Perhaps the most distinguishing mark of brilliance to note is the way that England, My England is written. This is a superbly crafted book which makes full and proper use of the English language. The author, King Henry, is a wordsmith of the highest order, using obscure and archaic terms and references that really test the reader’s mettle. It is a refreshing move away from the ‘join the dot’ writing that floods the market, simplified books which pander to the uneducated. It may not be an easy read for some people (and quite right to!) but it’s refreshing to have a challenging book for once!



The first person narrative works splendidly. The reader becomes the main character in the story, feeling the pain and abuse he endures (and he endures a lot…), revelling in his murderous glory and experiencing the grotesque sounds and smells of a world that is dark, dirty and dangerous. As you follow him on his journey, the task of deciphering his thought processes becomes a constant battle. He doesn’t say what you expect him to say, he doesn’t do what you want him to do. As he walks through life meting out violence to others I waited for his redemption, for the point at which he realises the error of his ways and the moral tale is told. I shan’t reveal the end of the book (which has to be read to be believed) but let’s just say that redemption comes in many forms and morality is a matter of opinion.



England, My England is original in the true sense of the word, a satirical take on modern culture and a descent into madness. It is very funny, it is very dark and it will stay with you for a very long time. If, after reading the book (and you must see it through to the end in order to understand it), you are left feeling offended and outraged then you didn’t ‘get it’, and the satire and honesty has been lost on you. It may require a few readings before you extract all of the nuances and subtle witticisms, but each time the journey from start to finish is just as affecting as the last.

Daniel Laverick, News editor, Close Up Film


England, my England
Depending on the type of person you are, England, my England is either a brilliantly executed satirical submachine gun, or simply an exercise in extremity. It certainly raises the question of whether a rating system should be introduced to books, as much of the content is so genuinely disturbing it is outrageous that anyone can buy it. The author acknowledges this, declaring his novel ‘unsuitable for children or retards’ – and therein lies the trump card, the saving grace, and the perhaps even the point of England, my England. Irony. How English is that?

Kirsty Hall