I wanted to like it. I knew I wouldn't. I was persuaded to give it a go and... I don't think I can't finish it.
It's a book written by a man about men for men. An absolute celebration of brilliant, spoiled, entitled men having a marvellous time, and occasionally a woman is either decorative and admired, or poor, stout, and utilitarian. I'm also struggling with the cheerful allusons to Oscar and his 'friendships' with poor, young teenage rent boys.
Not for me.