Manchester’s graduated. No longer must we rely on our reputation as a nation of rain-weary, morose bastards. Now we have lap dancing lounges and sex shops a-plenty to act as diversions in our miserable lives. Like it or not, Joe Stretch’s Friction has marker-penned our misgivings onto the indelible world map.
Meet Johnny - the excruciatingly pimply and sexually repressed student; Colin – a psychopath if ever there was one; Rebecca – the Mills and Boon girl gone bad; Steve – a vacant poser of the highest order; Carly – the page three stunna’ if only she applied herself and Justin – a true rebel without a cause. Sound nauseating? Don’t worry: Stretch has the power to make you empathise with each and every one of them. He flaunts a highly-sexed mother who virtually flirts with her salad alongside the ‘unseen lives’ that set a new precedent for experimental sex with equal aplomb. Quite literally, his turns of phrase and descriptions paint virtual rainbows in your brain.
Johnny and Colin aside, Stretch’s characters are the epitome of ‘waste man and waste gash’ slang: Ol’ English boys and girls who boast enough cash, charisma, tanned skin and feathered haircuts to have been so much more and ultimately waste it.
Stretch suitably deconstructs the timeless obsessions of the young, restless and carefree, namely sex, cash and shopping – or the lack thereof. The monotony of our modern lives is well documented, even as I rushed out to consume and, as such, buy the book. So accurately does he pinpoint man’s excesses that it’s disturbing to know that this guy has only spent twenty-six years on the planet.
Written to the beat of indie angst (well he does front-up a band too, you know) Stretch delivers the kind of science-fiction that’s avidly sucked up by a Radiohead generation – sneering, melancholy, sarcastic and cynical. These are digital desires wrapped up for an analogue generation.
In my opinion Stretch’s metallic narrative has only the issue that it moves fairly swiftly to some rather obvious conclusions as its downfall. Still, it’s a fittingly cold and clinical tale (like all good sci-fi should be) that’s set to become a classic text.
I love my city. As a Mancunian you could say I’m biased – and you’d be right.
Meet Johnny - the excruciatingly pimply and sexually repressed student; Colin – a psychopath if ever there was one; Rebecca – the Mills and Boon girl gone bad; Steve – a vacant poser of the highest order; Carly – the page three stunna’ if only she applied herself and Justin – a true rebel without a cause. Sound nauseating? Don’t worry: Stretch has the power to make you empathise with each and every one of them. He flaunts a highly-sexed mother who virtually flirts with her salad alongside the ‘unseen lives’ that set a new precedent for experimental sex with equal aplomb. Quite literally, his turns of phrase and descriptions paint virtual rainbows in your brain.
Johnny and Colin aside, Stretch’s characters are the epitome of ‘waste man and waste gash’ slang: Ol’ English boys and girls who boast enough cash, charisma, tanned skin and feathered haircuts to have been so much more and ultimately waste it.
Stretch suitably deconstructs the timeless obsessions of the young, restless and carefree, namely sex, cash and shopping – or the lack thereof. The monotony of our modern lives is well documented, even as I rushed out to consume and, as such, buy the book. So accurately does he pinpoint man’s excesses that it’s disturbing to know that this guy has only spent twenty-six years on the planet.
Written to the beat of indie angst (well he does front-up a band too, you know) Stretch delivers the kind of science-fiction that’s avidly sucked up by a Radiohead generation – sneering, melancholy, sarcastic and cynical. These are digital desires wrapped up for an analogue generation.
In my opinion Stretch’s metallic narrative has only the issue that it moves fairly swiftly to some rather obvious conclusions as its downfall. Still, it’s a fittingly cold and clinical tale (like all good sci-fi should be) that’s set to become a classic text.
I love my city. As a Mancunian you could say I’m biased – and you’d be right.
