Vibrant and exhilarating urban fantasy: there's an undercurrent of sheer joy to Matthew Swift's quest for the shadow that hunts him. Kate Griffin has the sorcerer's gift of seeing life in overlooked places. I'll never feel the same way about pigeons and automatic telephone menus again! And, I'm looking forward to reading the sequel, 'The Midnight Mayor'.

I ducked. I can respect a formidable magical talent when I meet it, and Old Madam Dorie, the grey bag lady who smelt of curry powder and car fumes, had it in spades. She exuded skilful manipulation of primal force just like her bags gave off the smell of mould, and if she'd said hop, I would have hopped. She, like my gran, had the look of a woman who talked to the pigeons, and in the city no one sees more than the pigeons.
I ducked, which is why the bullet from the sniper's rifle shattered the skull of the horse-faced man, who'd just been standing, rather than mine.

Is Odell Deefus an innocent come to Callisto, Kansas, or a very smart operator? Those of you who've seen Elvis Presley in 'Follow That Dream' may have some idea of his type of American hero, but the religious maniacs, crooked cops, dope pushers and even members of the US security services who meet him just can't make up their minds. A very funny, very dark novel.

We watched another sitcom but Lorraine didn't laugh. I started to think maybe I'm getting ahead of myself with this in regard to romance, I mean, she only got told this morning her aunt's been murdered and the one that did it is her psycho brother, who it turns out is also a Muslim terrorist. So I can understand her being upset, especially since Dean was mixed up with her and Donnie D smuggling drugs into the prison etcetera but at least that part has already been worked out okay thanks to me.

This is a very bleak and violent view of life, but one I could recognise enough to disturb me greatly. There is much hysterical humour in the book which adds to the general feeling of grimness, despite (or because of?) the beauty of the Mississippi swamplands. Not a book I enjoyed, but one which will stay with me for a very long time.

He rammed the stiletto into Frank Booth's left side. This was the side of the liver, he thought he recalled from a movie. The liver brought quick death. He did not expect it to go in so smoothly. Booth, he thought, was suddenly a cadaver, promptly delivered out of the night. Wet ghoul. Mortimer was up to the hilt in him. He heard the song 'Mack the Knife' in his head. European-like, a jazz killing, so here it was. Or leaving him bad-off wounded.
Booth ... withdrew the knife from his side and then rammed it right back to its owner, his fingers slipping on the blood of the hilt. His mind was on his own nameless grief, but he was not destroyed.

From sado-masochism to ethnic minority identity crisis; Elvis impersonator on the run to the harsh reality of an abortion clinic – this bizarre grouping just doesn’t do this novel justice. Here we have three characters all in need of relationships which will free them from their bonds, and the fast pace never lets you doubt they will achieve it, however extreme the form that might take.

Imperial Mini Cabs was little more than a bombed out Chinese take-away: the receptionist sat behind a singed counter taking bookings and giving fares. Behind her a door led into a makeshift kitchen complete with kettle, toaster, fridge, sink and wooden table. Angel had been back in London just one week, but he’d already managed to find work. The morning after his mother had almost caught his dad, Asma and him watching porn – the very morning after he’d arrived, in fact – he had found himself at Imperial, signing up for shifts that ran from 4pm to 4am four days a week. His approach to the job was functional – a way of getting out of the house and beyond the eye of suspicion. At the same time, he hustled for another job. To keep his voice well-oiled, he sang while waiting for fares, and if they didn’t mind, while taking them as well. It was during a particularly inspired rendition of ‘Love Me Tender’ that Angel met Carla.

Hilarious and very confusing. I had to start again after the first two chapters but it is definitely worth persevering - you will never read anything as bizarre or with a neater turn of phrase.

Suicide is a permanent solution to an ever-replenishing series of temporary problems, but Mike Abblatia was concerned only with the immediate one concerning his business. Every day, cars were stolen from the garage where he worked. Now he walked across Jericho Bridge away from Accomplice, the only town capable of being complicated by laziness. Some believed property was theft and others believed they were renting. But while they led a life of Sundays, Abblatia had been living an extra day between Thursday and Friday, growing a little older than his years.

This funny book could be described as a load of nonsense - but it's very entertaining nonsense about a human organ transplanting service operating under the guise of a missionary station. Expect great dialogue and interesting characters including a talking fruit bat wearing designer sunglasses. However, be warned, it’s very unpolitically correct and you might not be too happy if you are Japanese or a native of Micronesia.

Tucker Case awoke to find himself hanging from a breadfruit tree by a coconut fiber rope. He was suspended facedown about six feet above the sand in some sort of harness, his hands and feet tied together in front of him. He lifted his head and strained to look around. He could see a white sand beach fringed with coconut palms, a coconut husk fire, a palm frond hut, a path of white coral gravel that led into a jungle. Completing the panorama was the grinning brown face of a ancient native.

The native reached up with a claw like hand and pinched Tucker's cheek.

Tucker screamed.

'Yum' the native said.

At first I struggled, but after a while I realised that it was supposed to be amusing and a bit further on I tuned into the humour - very dark but very funny. The story of the repository gang's hurricane heist to try and recover a sacred relic stolen from an order of nuns is hilarious. Along the way I also learned a lot about hurricanes and New Orleans.

He left our family - my mother, my three older sisters and me - when I was four years old and didn't re-enter my life until almost a decade later when my mother, against her better judgement, allowed me to spend a summer in New Orleans where my father hustled a living with his half brother, James Joseph Pelikan. When I told my mother yesterday that Dad had called from a hospice and wanted me to come visit him before he died, she said it's probably a trick, he's not dying for real, he wants money, don't give him any, don't go see him, don't give him the satisfaction.
That single summer ... stretched into three years, from when I was thirteen until just before I turned sixteen, years that broke my mother's heart and programmed me for life.

Fast, funny, violent, impeccably anti-capitalist; in short THE book for anyone who has ever fantasized about killing their boss - though you'll find it easier to read if you're IT literate.

His listener was sitting with his back to Vadim, the naked back of his head pulled down into his shoulders. Vadim released his grip on the handles of the bundle, adjusted his grasp on the shot-gun and pulled back the breech (the ejected shell-case emitted an audio signal from an adjacent reality).

'By the way.' - the long snout of the shot-gun took aim at the twitching skin of its own accord - ' ... money is just a load of garbage.

Is someone murdering transvestites in Istanbul? And does anyone care? Darkly funny, dangerous, exciting and different, the book was so good I could even cope with the computer speak - yes the heroine is a techie as well as a transvestite and business woman.

I loathe German porn. It's the epitome of bad taste; the most repulsive sex imaginable - crooked, straight, wet and dry. It seems calculated to put people off sex for good. There's never a single beautiful woman, handsome man or presentable boy in German films. Not to mention that the soles of the feet of the performers are invariably filthy. It's just disgusting.

This book made me laugh, Chris the bank robber might appear to be incompetent but the banks still get robbed and the money rolls in. His story is full of unexpected twists and surprising perceptions, the light and easy style belies the violence and bleakness of the life Chris describes.

I checked the gun before I got out of the car to see that it was loaded and was more than a little surprised to find that it was. Gavin had obviously forgotten about my lapse in concentration last time out and entrusted me with a clip of live ammunition (assuming that it was live of course). This boosted my confidence no end and made me feel like part of the crew for real. I was determined to repay that trust by not shooting myself or any other part of the gang by accident for the next ten minutes.

This book has a psychopath as the main character, sex - gay and straight, child abuse and violence aplenty but it made me laugh all the way through.

The revolver is hidden beneath a mound of dirty knickers in her suitcase and Jackie can feel its steely presence urging her to follow through with the scheme. She knows where Chip lives; she has been there in her mind.
At first Jackie thought only of killing Aiden - that conniving little queer who turned Chip into a pervert and made him leave her sister.

If Carl Hiaasen and James Ellroy were to jointly update 'Of Mice and Men' this stylish, violently funny and completely unpredictable 'noir' could well be the result. And I guarantee you'll find Benny and Gus completely engrossing - love them or loathe them.

Gus shook his head and drank. 'They don't take these details into account when they make up our so-called laws, Benny .... You didn't know I was a philosopher too. My master's Mr F Nietzsche, the Kraut. He invented a lot of this shit. He's the second-greatest Outlaw of all time.'
'Who's the first?'
'Jesus Christ. I'm a Catholic from way back.'
'Jesus Christ?'
'He was the original Outlaw, and he hated the rich, and he fucked up their shit, which is why they had to kill him. A man who makes up his own rules is too dangerous to keep around. Same deal with Satan, who if you ask me always got a bad rap.'

Good news is that this is a page-turning spy romp. Bad news is it comes to an end. Good news is that it's a happy ending. Bad news is that to believe that it is a happy ending means that you are nuts. Good news is that the author might write another novel. Bad news is that means he won't write Spooks.

Steadman's increasing interest in the lower forms of British eighteenth-century life had bled into his daily work. His lectures were sprinkled with whispers of murders and mayhem, of perversions and hints of the occult, of untoward happenings in dark corners and of guts spilling from the hanging gardens of Newgate. Thus seasoned, his lectures were often standing room only.

Chick lit in bovver boots! Three women friends try ineptly to sort out their lives and their men. Slapstick, but asks a serious question: why are some men verbally and physically aggressive to the women they claim to love? And why do said women put up with it?

She gathered up armfuls of rubbish and threw it all under her duvet: a cat tray, some pudding, a heap of dirty knickers, a cheap bottle of wine with the top not quite on, some leftover pizza and a home colonic irrigation kit. Just as the duvet floated over this bizarre collection of goods, there was a knock at the door.

Our hapless hero Finn, seduced by tales of buried treasure, is dragged into a nightmare adventure around the back alleys of Cairo, in pursuit of his friend Farouk. Like Finn, you will find yourself mesmerised and just as unable to sleep until you have heard all the story of Skinhead Said and what he found beneath his cellar. With characters are so memorable and well-realised the reader is soon mentally casting the movie version.

'I don't know what I have to do to get through to you,' said Finn in a low voice trying to contain his frustration, 'There is just one thing I want. Not food, not your niece, not any woman, just one thing: Said. That's all I want: Skinhead Said.'
Farouk paused a fraction before answering gravely, 'Listen, my brother. I do not judge, it is only for Allah to judge. And it is true, they say, Skinhead fucked a dog one time ... but not a man, never a man. Anyway it is not possible.'
'I DON'T WANT HIM!' Finn shouted, slamming his hands onto the table and standing up. 'I want his story! I want to find out what he discovered under his house!'