Aged thirty, at a treatment centre in the west of England, A.A. Gill lay in the last-chance saloon, in the dark of a dormitory with six strangers. His dark yet laugh-out-loud memoir charts the year between the end of his marriage and the end of drinking, on April 1st. Or perhaps it was not a year - it might be only six months or eighteen. None of this is hand-on-Bible fact. The one charity of drink is that it strips away memory. So this book is an attempt to resurrect the boat that was going the other way, and its cargo, its log of how he got here. Being A.A. Gill, this is no faith-infused tale of redemption. It isn't an account of a debauched drink-and-drug hell; there will be no lessons to learn; or handy hints or golden rules. But it is a brilliant, funny, and wise book by our greatest journalist.