Robin Ince’s Bad Book Club is a funny and interesting tour through some of the books you will never find in Waterstones, hidden as they are inside charity and secondhand shops. Robin Ince has made a habit of collecting these books – the more esoteric or eccentric, the better – and reading them so that we don’t have to. Taking us into a world of ‘celebrity’ autobiographies (with those on the lower end of the fame scale and yet high on ego providing the more entertaining entries), specialist animal care books, pick-up tips for men, women’s secret fantasies, pseudo-science, New Age claptrap, and many more, Ince is always entertaining – I spent quite a large part of time reading chunks aloud to my boyfriend (who no doubt would have preferred to have just watched the football instead).
Funnily enough, I have actually read some of the books talked about within, thanks to a combination of living in a part of the country which seems to think that dreamcatchers and crystals are the answer to all of life’s ills, and the editors picks my dad was sent in the 80s when he constantly forgot to cancel his postal book club memberships. I’ve also been the beneficiary of lots of the strangest books my friends can find (they’re always asking me to take one for the team and read them for them, which is how I’ve found myself reading things like dinosaur erotica and self-help books for young Victorian ladies), but I’ve much preferred reading about Robin Ince reading them than I did in experiencing them for myself.
Bad Book Club is perfect for uber-bookworms and lovers of cosy chuckles.