Psychosomatic Crabs

WARNING: CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE Description"Psychosomatic Crabs" is not only Arthur J. Rock's first novel, but also his finest - by his own admission: an ill-conceived collection of ill-advised words which you would be a fool to consider anything more than a massive drunken mistake. Based in part on an absurd reading of his own revoltingly uneventful life, Mr. Rock furnishes us with the sad tale of a grim character named Jack Twain and his all but fatal addiction to solitary madness and Internet pornography - not sad boo-hoo, you understand, but sad pathetic. Twain, apparently, is computer speak, an acronym: Terminal Without An Interesting Name. Jack, speaks for itself. In a nutshell this book is the story of a miserable, nearly nameless freak-show with the sexual equivalence of the screaming abdabs . . . We join the depressing action just as Jack has finally decided to renounce his sticky-handed ways and perhaps take up some form of alternative exercise, maybe politics, or knitting. Sitting on a much abused sofa he ponders the past and tries hard not to flick his switch again - his abandoned laptop weeping in a corner, crying out for attention.As we read on we discover much that we wish we had left unread, and slowly gather that knickers play a crucial role; knickers and Dettol, and a self-loathing equaled only by the most repugnant of Roman Emperors. Were it not for Mr. Rock's inadvertently humourous honesty and his, at times, painful inability to moderate his warped sense of cruelty and impropriety, this book would be an absolute car-crash. As it is, "Psychosomatic Crabs" is more a multi-vehicular apocalypse; as close as it is advisable to get to the inmost workings of a forty-year old pervert with dubious notions about personal hygiene and the meaning of it all. Cut with a healthy dose of compulsive idiocy and tragic stupidity, not to mention the baby wipes, you will soon find yourself drawn into a world where the screen is all that exists, where the perfect configuration of pixels is the only concern.I'd like to say that this book is an absolute pile of Geneva Convention, but given the fact that following my first reading of this pestilent little tome I found that I had literally soiled myself with mirth, I will say only this: read this book at your peril; and if your peril is unavailable, try an accommodating aunt's house, or failing that a small cafe, or anywhere they serve tea on a tray, what do I care, can't you see I'm busy! . . . But I digress; purchase your copy now and fortify your disgust. About the AuthorArthur J. Rock was born on the steps of a Hertfordshire police station during the disappointing autumn of 1970, of that we can be reasonably certain; a hastily scribbled note from his mother, apologizing for the fact, mentions as much (it also mentions snake handling equipment and a small can of mace); a police report - compiled by PC Janine Nymbleton-Snide, holder of the coveted Golden Groin award; presented in honour of her deeply felt services in the field - highlighting the discovery of a terrible stain, confirms the blessed event. As luck would have it, little is known of Arthur's formative years beyond the highly-strung ravings of a toothless, clean-shaven crone, who claims to have "raised" the child as her own, as penance for an evil thought; when interviewed on a recent hospital radio phone-in she talked much of her evil thoughts. Information regarding Arthur's twenty's is hardly more illuminating: a caution for possession of weapons grade plutonium, international condemnation over a Disneyland streaking incident, the removal of a scrotal cyst, and a string of noisy evictions from a succession of low-rent abodes, is as much as my stomach can handle . . . And as for Arthur's thirties? . . . Well, I guess some things are just best left to the dementia of time . . . Currently Arthur lives at a top secret testing facility in the heart of Middle-England, where he is taking part in an ext