They don't write books like this any more - or so I thought. Those of you as old and full of tears as myself will remember the story comics of the Forties and Fifties - Hotspur, Rover, Wizard - and the type of simplistic, crash bang wallop prose and plots used in them. Well, if you're feeling nostalgic for such Boy's Own artlessness, this book will suit you right down to blows landing "with aching power", an oriental villain listening to a Mozart violin and piano sonata, faceless big business being stymied by the little man, and an ending so saccharine as to make you feel you've fallen into a sugar mill.
And it's one of the noisiest tomes I've ever read, its onomatopoeic reverberations serving to leave me with a thumping headache.
