Book #87
Here We F**king Go (HWFG) is the much-anticipated follow up to Chris McQueer’s hilarious, award-winning debut short story collection Hings. In HWFG...
Your fave Sammy gets a job and Angie goes to Craig Tara.
Plans are made to kick the f*ck out of Kim Jong-Un.
You’ll find answers to the big questions in life:
What happens when we die?
What does Brexit actually mean?
Why are moths terrifying?
What are ghosts like to live with?
It’s just a load more short stories ‘n that.
hwfg x
Your fave Sammy gets a job and Angie goes to Craig Tara.
Plans are made to kick the f*ck out of Kim Jong-Un.
You’ll find answers to the big questions in life:
What happens when we die?
What does Brexit actually mean?
Why are moths terrifying?
What are ghosts like to live with?
It’s just a load more short stories ‘n that.
hwfg x
I jumped into this with severe anticipation, but also with an unsettling dread that HWFG could never match its predecessor, Hings. I know now it’s impossible to compare the two. Where Hings is a wee wideo looking to have a laugh and a slagging, HWFG is the psycho uncle who’s just oot the jail.
We still get our old favourites, those characters of gold who seem to be moulded out of a range of faces you’d see walking up the main gaff (Angie at Craig Tara is a total masterpiece), and relatable figures who’ve never shown their face before, like big Leaf the smug west-end hipster; yet, there are some stories here just a wee bit more twisted and a shitload darker than in Hings. There’s a tinge of dystopia, a smear of macabre, and a wee taste of what would happen if Charlie Brooker was born in Cranhill.
I got to explore bits of my mind I’d never accessed before. What is my biggest riddy? Would I save that cow from school if I found myself in a life or death situation with her, or would I just continue the rammy? Would I have my armpits stinking of petrol all day for a prize of fifty quid? See that wasp that flew into my da’s gub one time, was it trying to take over his body? Not questions you should ask out loud.
There were a couple of stories in here I’d read before, but it was glorious to read them again, and it felt fitting to give them a home in this grimoire of Glesga.
I just love McQueer’s stuff, and I absolutely loved this. I did read the acknowledgements where he states the pressure and stress of writing this one nearly killed him, but mibbe batter some more out sharpish, eh?