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Take his opening novella, for example. "We Ate the Chef" starts innocuously enough in Cambridge Circus, but somehow spirals into a Cote d'Azur thriller, climaxing in a particularly ungracious (but utterly appropriate) orgasm. In "Then They Say You're Drunk," Fischer, an adopted South Londoner, explores the quite plausible proposition that Brixton "must have more headcases per square inch than any other place in the world." His portrait of "today's guest nutter" is an alarming bit of urban naturalism:
Walking up to the bus stop, Guy reflected that someone with his trousers around his ankles, trying to eat his shirt, wouldn't normally have troubled him much. It was the size of the shirt eater rather than his activity that was perturbing. Six three and big, big, big; they obviously didn't spare the carbohydrates at the bin. What concerned Guy was that if the shirt eater wanted something to wash down his victuals, and mistook Guy for a can of Tennant's and tugged firmly on his pull tab, Guy couldn't do much about it.Not too strong in the empathy department, is he? Still, among the casual (and comedic) cruelty there's more than a hint of seriousness. It was Jean-Paul Sartre, another cheery type, who defined hell as other people. But Fischer's narrator in "Ice Tonight in the Hearts of Young Visitors" has other ideas: "I assure you if there is a hell, it will be the most solitary of confinements and cold." --Alan Stewart
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