The only reason I finished the book was because I started a game to count how many times Stephen Clarke could objectify women in 380 pages.

The final count is 88 times, each one taking up about a page (even though there are 380 pages, I read it in under a day, probably because I wanted to get it over with. It's a quick yet excruciating read).

That means roughly 25% of this book is spent with Stephen Clarke writing about breasts, cellulite, his penis, and complaining about not getting laid by women who have no character development except mentioning the color of their skin and hair.

A few gems (flip to any page):

" 'Pardonne-moi, mon Englishman,' she said fondly, and left me standing there in the ladies, with yet another useless erection. Lucky hard-ons are biodegradable, I thought, because I was throwing a lot of them away."

" Jean-Marie praising her professional skills, Nicole wanting to rip her bodice open and have him praise her boobs. Or was I being stereotypical?" (Answer: yes)

" The girls shaping their buttocks and massaging their breasts really didn't need to worry, but I wasn't going to tell them to stop."

And my favorite one:

" 'Tell you what, Florence. This weekend, let's go get an AIDS test.' She lifted herself up off the pillow and leaned over to kiss me. After all, these days it's about the most romantic thing a guy can say to a girl."

In comparison, he mentions the Eiffel Tower 5 times and champagne 7 times. Other dominant themes include dog shit and homophobia.

I live in France and am married to a French man, so this book had a lot of potential. Being an expat here should provide a writer with a bounty of material - the administration, the general attitudes, work and family life, food, history - all topics that Clarke touched for about a page or two. Most of this story is poorly-written sexually-repressed drivel showing a lack of imagination, talent, and maturity.

Quelle dommage!