Almost Completely Baxter

Glen Baxter

We – and you – had been parted from GB’s surreal humour for far too long. Thanks, no doubt, to his massed ranks of ukulele-playing cowboys who threatened his publishers with polenta, or worse, our thirst has (for now) been slaked. There’s a nice introduction too: “…I found myself alone in a vast room. Colonel Baxter had disappeared, leaving only the scent of cordite and Earl Grey tea lingering in the air. I grasped the sides of the bath chair before I lost consciousness…”. Beware: GB is liable to make one dribble with laughter. And blurt. Happy Christmas.

New York Review of Books