He Died with a Felafel in His Hand

Well written, witty, absurd and relentlessly quirky. Loads of 90s references, this is a total cult classic.

He Died With a Falafel in His Hand tells of the horrors of share housing. It’s a very compelling account of why standards do and should matter, especially when it comes to housemates.

My favourite housemate hands down has to be Neal the albino moon tanner. His philosophy of sleeping 20 hours a day to avoid hassle spoke to me on a deep level.

A book for anyone thinking of leaving their parent's house in favour of shared housing, to ready them for the horrors they might experience.

If you feel like you a bit odd, give this a read and you’ll find out that you aren’t really.

This book is definitely in my top-5 favourites, and would perhaps vie for top spot. John Birmingham, in his sometimes convoluted but always entertaining prose, has captured a number of moments beautifully: share-housing in your late teens and 20s; a particular social milieu of the late 1980s and early 1990s; and inner city Brisbane and its student life as it then was (as well as chunks of Sydney and Melbourne).

As one who was there, albeit sometimes on the fringe, for all of these monents, the book has a real resonance for me. It certainly let me see the funny side of my own 11 years of share-housing, which was nowhere near as bohemian, chaotic, or on the fringes of the law. Quite possibly no-one has had as chaotic an experience. But I show more only had to turn to Felafel to glimpse the darker side.

The book is a connected narrative held together, not by chronology (although it is book-ended by the deceased felafel muncher), but by successively-narrated experiences. Along with Birmingham’s main text, he has included text boxes of experiences collected from friends, hilarious in themselves. And, despite another reviewer, the fake lifestyle ads work for me. I have seen the live adaptation and the film. Neither caught the superior chaotic zaniness of the book.

Curiously, as a narrator, Birmingham maintains a detached involvement in all that transpires. He is there as a participant, gives us a glimpse into some of his inner workings, but is never too introspective. There is an almost naïve enthusiasm about all that transpires. That is a good thing. He does more introspection in the Tasmanian Babes Fiasco, and it doesn’t work.

I bought it when it was first published in 1994, and laughed out loud several times during my first reading. Birmingham is not for everyone, especially the easily shocked. His style reflects Hemmingway, Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson, among others. If your sense of humour is reasonably robust, you should love this book. show less

I read "He died with a felafel in his hand" over twenty years ago and found its reminiscing of dodgy shared houses hilarious, partly as I too was a poor student living in a dodgy shared house.

Then, “Felafel” appeared to be the book I should have written (I tried to count all the flatmates I have had in my time but gave up when it got into three figures); “Felafel” had a story about fridge pissing, I could top that with a flatmate going one step further in a way that I probably shouldn't describe on a family-friendly site like LibraryThing.

Looking back at it now, as a reader who no longer has to share a place with a bloke known as "The Phantom Shitter", I don't find it quite as funny or identify with it so much but I'm still glad show more for its existence. show less

Everyone who starts to read it wants to steal it so I have had to put a note in the front that if they do they will die the same death. You can tell when someone is reading it because they snigger and twitch and snort indignantly while exclaiming "What a bunch of degenerates!" and things like that; however, the continue to read. This book made it to the US and into my house, where it now abides. The five is for funny. The book itself is inexcusable.

The classic collection of tales of shared housing - when you are young and haven't properly made the acquaintance of reason and good common sense (or indeed hygiene), and yet still have the resilience to carry on through regardless of the circumstances that would paralyse or kill the older selves we eventually become. It's always amusing to read about the indiscretions of others. It's Birmingham's talent (or seen another way - his personal misfortune) to tell so many stories so colorfully that more than one or two (or several) bring back memories from our own lives. This has - apparently - been made into a film which was a minor hit.

I can certainly recommend the book, if your inclined to revisit those years. But as a gift to a young show more person about to leave home for the first time? Well perhaps not, not if you are a parent wanting to see them gone, but after reading this you might change your mind about letting them go. show less

I saw the film a few months ago, and I had heard that the book was much more entertaining. It was. I am grateful that never in my flat sharing experience did I encounter anyone even resistering on the scale of looniness described here. I sniggered loudly at sevreal stories.

I found the magazine-style insets annoying and distracting.

A humourous account of John Birminghams share house years. I am a little sceptical of the veracity of some of the accounts recorded in the book. Dare I suggest that a little poetic liscence was used to enhance the humourous aspects of the book?