David Hogarth’s book is a memoir about growing up in Blackpool. As I live in a northwest seaside town I thought this might be interesting. He appears to be a similar age to me too. The story of his younger days concentrates mostly on his home life, rather than life in Blackpool itself in the 1960s and 70s. He grew up in a loving and stable family and was a mischievous child, with many scrapes, mostly harmless, although he glosses over the one when him and a friend threw fireworks into a room full of scouts! His description of a family holiday to Spain tells the reader he was not raised in a poor family and has lots of detail that will bring back memories for others who were lucky enough to do this. This is a nostalgic book and as I read the tumble of 'jokes' I wondered if he had written it as therapy for himself or for just his family to read. There are glimpses, but little detail, of how his mum dying was something he struggled to get over and he lost his sense of purpose and it seems writing helped, along with a belief in spiritualism. There wasn't enough detail about these things and more would have made the book stronger.
It is an easy enough read in a conversational style but flits around from the past to the present somewhat confusingly at times. This technique can be pulled off but was difficult to follow in the way it was put together. There is a huge gap in David's life from leaving high school to returning to Blackpool as his mother became ill and filling in some of the gaps here could have helped this reader engage with the book too. ( )

Not sure about this book. The back cover blurb calls it ‘the history of a young boy growing up in the seaside town of Blackpool during the 1960s’. I think if it had stuck to that it would have made a better read. But it veered off into philosophical and spiritual views about his mother, some of which laid uncomfortably within the book, as well as snippets of a less-interesting later life.

Hogarth mentions that he signed up to The Novelry. With plans from £1600 to £3500, I hope he feels he got his monies’ worth. However, clearly no-one has proof-read his book before publication. Apart from continuity issues, changes to improve the readability by moving sections around or removing sections, there was what seems to be the norm for new books these days, namely grammar and punctuation problems in abundance. These seemed to get worse as the book progressed, or maybe I was getting less tolerant of them by that time!

With these issues and some sections reading as if they were written for Hogarth’s own amusement rather than for outside readers, it made me feel that this was a self-funded, self-published book with no expectation of selling (m)any.

I think with removing all the errors in grammar and punctuation, some of the spiritual comments, maybe replacing with more history of that younger time, the book would be more satisfying.

David Hogarth’s memoir about growing up in a loving family in Blackpool during the 1960s paints an impressively evocative picture of the era which defined his childhood. Although he reflects on the many things he found either confusing or challenging in his life (concerns most readers are likely to find recognisable), as his family life was stable and, essentially, trauma-free, this is not a ‘misery memoir’ but is, instead, a nostalgic look back at the various events which shaped him. He always felt confident in the unwavering love he experienced in his family, particularly in his relationship with his mother and so when she died it’s perhaps not surprising that he lost his sense of purpose in life and struggled to re-engage with interests which had previously been important to him. His account of how he managed to emerge from this period of depression includes some references to ‘messages from beyond’ and Spiritualism which helped him to deal with his feelings of loss and fine a way to move forward. It became clear that these experiences proved crucial to his emotional wellbeing and enabled him to feel that the legacy of his mother’s loving, accepting relationship would always be a part of him and help him to face up to life’s challenges. As a non-believer I was more inclined to believe that it was the solid emotional foundations built during his secure and loving childhood which enabled him to emerge from his ‘slough of despond’.
Although in many ways the conversational nature of the author’s writing-style made this an easy book to read, I have to admit that I found the almost unrelenting stream of puerile jokes so irritating that, had I not agreed to write a review of it, I wouldn’t have finished it ... and although I’m against any form of corporal punishment, I did find myself, like his mother, wanting to ‘box his ears’ and tell him to ‘stop acting daft’! Some judicious editing could have removed some of these irritations and made this a more enjoyable read … and enabled me to give it a higher star-rating! ( )

I received a copy of this book through Early Reviewers.

This short memoir of childhood by a man born in the northern English seaside resort of Blackpool in 1959 aroused a number of feelings in me. It is written in a conversational style which is easy to read and is fairly engaging. The book looks in a sometimes moving and open way about the ups and downs of lower middle class family life and relationships with parents, especially the author's mother. I also found a lot in it to be nostalgic about, given that I am only a few years older than the author and although brought up in a different and more rural part of England, had a childhood surrounded by many of the same things and types of event, household and otherwise.

So I enjoyed the book to that extent, and am glad to have read it. It is let down by insufficient editorial control. The author is a self-confessed joker, but the volume of bad or puerile jokes in the text becomes wearing. A blue pencil should have been wielded by someone. Also the author has some strange obsessions, eg with Nazism, and also claims a precocity in some things which seems somewhat unlikely. Towards the end it becomes a little miscellaneous, and some Spiritualism starts to creep in, although not very obstrusively.

However, if you find this kind of book interesting, it is still well worth reading. ( )

This is a memoir written about a wee lad growing up in Blackpool in the 1950s and 60s. It is clearly written as a love letter to his late mother and as such it is clear that they had a fantastic relationship and he was very much loved. My main problem with the book was the lack of editing. A good editor could probably have made this a good book. It was spoiled by the oversaturation of juvenile puns repeating endlessly page after page. By the end of the first chapter, let alone the book, they had my teeth on edge. So good attempt but it needs someone to look at it and stop it being so self indulgent . ( )