Whether in its lucid moments or those that seemed more like drunken companions to Jabberwocky, the collection felt a good 75% of the time like a lot of bullyish anger against mortality and obsession with seed and thighs. ( )

One of my big disappointments. After "A Child's Christmas in Wales" I thought I would relish his poems. I didn't. Perhaps I should revisit him again, but then again, why endure such boredom? I found myself continually on the verge of falling asleep. It may be me: I anticipated a damp day tramping on the moor, my Harris tweed glistening with dew and beside me, the burr-clogged coat of my retriever. I dream of a warm hut, a spot of tea, and a good Turkish blend in my pipe... ( )