I blogged a little while back about giving up on the Booker Prize and instead my next book would be Stephen King's new book, Lisey's Story. I was looking forward to it a lot, because after some time off the boil, Cell had signalled a return to form. Well that'll teach me because Lisey's Story S U C K S. It's laboured, it's tiresome, it's structurally all over the fucking place. Most damagingly of all, the internal language of the central relationship and indeed the relationship itself is maddeningly irritating. I am hating every page of it to the point that I just ordered two new books off Amazon (Rupert Everett's memoir Red Carpets & Other Banana Skins and the apparently wonderful Special Topics In Calamity Physics) and when they arrive, Stephen King's latest effort is going in the trash. Shame.