Despite not being posh, he has foppish hair, hangs out with upper-crust blokes called Freddy, goes riding, and has a high-society ex.
He and his elite chums seem to do very little work amidst their endless bedhopping and exist in a fantasy Rutshire-esque version of England full of cute pubs and kindly eccentrics. Oh, and he’s called Tom Hardy, obviously.
All this wouldn’t matter, except that Hoffs has set the book in the present day and interspersed the story with references to Instagram, TikTok and the like.
So it’s slightly jarring to read about a music industry that bears more resemblance to the one in which Hoffs was a star than the one that exists today, not to mention a university lecturer preoccupied by neither culture war issues nor falling pay.
Add to that the low stakes — some minor catastrophes, but no one is truly terrible, not even the mysterious Jonesy — and what you have is pure light froth.
Yes, the prose is occasionally cringe-inducing, but there’s something to be said for an in-the-moment read that is resolutely upbeat, written by someone who really has been there and done that in the rock music world.
If you’re willing to accept the fantasy, then this will keep you more than hooked on a long flight; assuming, that is, you’re not travelling first class with a handsome stranger.