Hoping to capitalise on the curious phenomenon of adults openly and proudly reading Harry Potter on their trains, this revival of a 1976 trilogy is a case of clear-as-a-bell bandwaggoning. It's fair game. The stories race along, propelled by dynamic violence and fruity colloquialisms; they have street cred in spades.

Michael de Larrabeiti is almost reverential in his brilliant evocations of south London, its ripe smells and flavours, the bigness of spirit and depth of dirt of its low-lifers, tramps and bag-ladies (the one in the story is called 'The Queen Mum'), circus folk and costermongers. His imagery is idiosyncratic, 'blue eyes flashing, like police beacons revolving,' he litters his pages with explosive expletives, stopping short of the most overplayed and he makes sure no decent upright citizen gets a look in or a plaudit. He outdoes Roald Dahl in the unrelieved nastiness of adults.

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