“I don’t believe in an interventionist god” sings Nick Cave as the intro to one of his finest songs.
The sheer outrageousness and majesty of his writing hints at what lies in store for readers of “bunny.”
Actually, the tone of this, his finest moment, with its epic scope is closer in tone to the content of “bunny.”
It’s the story of a fundamentalist lothario. All he lives for is “pussy”. He fantasises about Avril Lavigne and Kylie throughout as he makes his way across the south coast of England.
Meanwhile his wife, aware of this, takes her life as their son pads through rooms scattered in coco pops.
Post funeral Bunny takes to the road with Bunny Junior and seeks solace in yet more psexual activity with increasingly unsavoury outcomes. His son, meanwhile, fantasises about his deceased mother and nurses scabrous and mind-numbingly painful eyes.
He is, in short, a misogynist and cares not.
Or does he?
In fact, this foul and bawdy romp, which makes Irvine Welsh read like Enid Blyton is ultimately a tale of remorse and a thing of great beauty.
I wholly recommend it.