I swear, this book is about as bad as "The Giggler Treatment." Unlike The Giggler Treatment though, this books jokes aren't as sick. Also, it didn't focus at around 8 seconds of time. Those are the only good comments I have to say about that book. The rest of the book was about moronic talking lizards, a few fat and ugly reindeer, and a talking dog that somehow pees in a toilet. The dog somehow learns how to fly, and the rest is history. The book was so pointless, that I threw it down before I even got to the end of it. I also hated the way Roddy Doyle messed around with the chapters. I mean he wrote Chapter6 about 5 times and he did the same with about every other chapter. It's like come on, like this is funny. This book definately deserves one star out of 5. Don't read this book.

When my children and I found out that the Giggler Treatment had a sequel we ordered it immediately only to be very disappointed. Rover Saves Christmas just didn't measure up. We read the Giggler Treatment in one sitting--it was so funny my kids wouldn't let me put it down--it took us over two weeks to get through this one--rare in this house, and my five year old lost interest altogether. My seven year old found it mildly amusing, but it is not worth the hard cover price.

I just finished reading this book aloud with my 7- and 8-year-olds. They were rolling on the bed laughing from the beginning. Although some of the jokes took some explaining (They had no idea why cacti lining the streets of Dublin was a joke), they revelled in the humor, the ads and the aging Chapter 6. The divergent plot would certainly challenge the straight-laced "See Dick run" reader, but today's multi-tasking, cartoon-watching, video-game-playing kids should follow along just fine. We've just ordered "The Giggler Treatment" and can't wait to read that one together as well!

This ensemble tale by 15 writers is quite good for the continuity of the tale it manages to maintain, and I would suggest this is a testament to the skill with which some of these authors write. The continuity of skill is not as unerringly high and this is partly because they tried to force certain marquee names in to bits of writing they have not shared with the public in the past, and in at least one author's case, it is good that he has not.

No one does a better job than Roddy Doyle who opens this 15 chapter book and sets a high water mark that the balance of fourteen must either match, approach or miss miserably. Having this particular writer lead off, in hindsight, may have been an error, for the best the reader could hope for was that others would keep up, or keep quite close. And when they did not the chapters are jarringly poor.

The book is worth the read not because the story is unique and clever, it is neither. The story is one you have read variations on before, and as it progresses it runs out of the cleverness it does manage, and only barely at times, and consistently and without pause begins a slow slide to the end. The irony is that the end of the tale, which can be most charitably described as not only raunchy, but just plain poor in its execution, was done by an author that probably had the least claim to be here. Frank McCourt wrote his original memoir that has a firm spot in literary history, its sequel was a shadow of the original, and this chapter numbered 15 will hopefully soon be forgotten. It is true he has sold a mountain of books, but doing it many times is a feat he has yet to prove. Playing anchor, batting clean up, was not the appropriate spot for him here.

A good tale requires more than a pair of marquee names as bookends; it requires two solid sides, not one. The best rationale for reading this book is for the gems of writers you will find in between the two men I have named. This is a case where the whole is much less than the sum of its parts, an interesting exercise, but one not tightly controlled or edited. So enjoy the quality and discard the balance, what is left is much shorter than the 15 chapters but you are sure to find several new authors you will follow with great satisfaction.

Yeats Is Dead! is the collaboration of 15 Irish writers all contributing a chapter to what must be one of the strangest mysteries ever (if you can call it a mystery). Wherever outcomes would seem predictable, the next writer reverses the tide of the story. Chapter 2 mentions none of the characters that Chapter 1 does, for example, and whenever a character is being built up they seem to be killed off by the next writer. One point where its a ridiculous turnaround is chapter 11-12. Chapter 11 ends:

"Paschal Greer was all out of options. So he did what he should have done many weeks ago. He stepped, forwards, took Grainne O'Kelly in his arms and kissed her. Now there was no more need for words."

And Chapter 12 reverses it totally:

"Well, now. Flip it now. That's just the last straw, thought Sergeant Greer as Inspector O'Kelly punched him bang in the kisser just as he was about to slip the tongue in."

The book is full of mirth and its set-up allows to make what would otherwise be a less good book into a great one. 4 stars.

Fifteen Irish writers take their turn (one chapter each) at ratcheting up the silliness while developing a story centered on the discovery of James Joyce's final unpublished work. Organized crime, organized crime fighters, and Irish society in general take on a generous helping of ribbing while each author does his or her best to out do the previous. What is funny is how many of the authors take what was written before and then throw in a bizarre twist. Or just simply kill off a character nurtured and developed by a previous writer. One poor soul about halfway through makes some attempt at stabilizing the story, only to be completely blown out of the water by the next. And yet at the same time, a couple of gags presented near the beginning of the book find their way into every chapter up to the end.

All in all it is a very fun collection of work, and edifying as well in the sense that the reader may find a new author or two to try out after putting this one down. Because of the nature of this type of work, naturally the writing styles and quality vary greatly from one chapter to the next. This fact in itself will disturb the reader that attempts to take the novel too seriously. Although why this feat is even attempted when you are reading about a ginger haired young Irishman who likes to speak in American ghetto slang is beyond me.

Sorry to say this makes two disappointing ones in a row for the otherwise terrific Roddy Doyle.Here he essentially transcribes and edits his parents' memoirs. I couldn't help thinking what a great present this book is for his family. By the same token, this oral history doesn't contain a story that will knock the reader out. This criticism comes in spite of the facts that I can't help liking his parents and it was presented coherently. Predictably, the author's family background pales significantly to his characters'. That I should have counted on.
Alternately, Kevin Kearns' often hilarious oral history series on pre-WWII inner-Dublin is definitely worthwhile.

I swear, this book was HORIBLE. All the jokes that were supposed to be funny weren't, and all the characters were really moronic. Also, the book took place within.... maby 3 seconds of time. The whole book was about these mangy little catlike animals the shoved dog poop under peoples shoes. The part the dog played in it was completely discusting. The thing would take a dump, and these little animals would come and shove it under someones shoe. This book is an insult to dog lovers everywhere. This book sucks. Don't read it.