Commenting on the slew of resorts that constitute seaside Britain is like reviewing a haggard prostitute. Even in their heyday they only had a veneer of vitality and respectability. The reality then was one of sleaze and grubby needful passions. Theroux is grumpy; well yes, what other authentic response is there. There is nothing here to celebrate, no future, no present, no past the seaside towns of Britain allude to nothing more than Limbo. The elderly congregate here to turn their backs on life and the land and stare mournfully at the oceanic infinity, waiting for the call to passage. How can the decaying piers, the souvenir tat, tattoo parlours, rollercoaster and gibbering video games be other than grotesques.

This was a delightful read. I would recommend it for any Anglophile. I loved the fact that I recognized several of the stops on Theroux's route. Especially Newcastle, Northern Ireland. A favorite. ( )

The first half is, as another reviewer said, "unenjoyably grumpy" as he finds nothing to love in southern English beach culture. However he hits his stride in northern Ireland, Wales and Scotland. I would really love to know where the cover photo is from.

Theroux begins to be unenjoyably grumpy in this one.

Whereas I loved "Riding the Iron Rooster," in this book I only heard Theroux going around the British coast, whingeing about this and that. ( )