Jonathan Flynn is a lying, cheating, incompetent, sanctimonious, self-obsessed, tedious, foul-mouthed, smelly pain in the behind. His son Nick is the first to tell you so. For six years, between 1984 and 1990, Nick Flynn worked at the Pine Street Inn, the largest homeless shelter in Boston; one evening, two decades after Jonathan walked out on his family, this vodka-sodden louse turns up at the door, begging for a bed.
Another Bullshit Night in Suck City is a remarkable memoir: uneasy, evocative, sometimes funny (and in a few parts fictionalised), it is Nick Flynn’s attempt to make sense of his deluded and blasted father, and, if not to escape, then at least to quarantine the fear that his father’s verminous character might also be his own. Intrigued by blood connection, Flynn is nervous about genetic inheritance. But he clearly quite enjoys the dysfunction cred he gets either way.
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