When I left home to start University there were many things I missed. But the combined heartache of all these things was outweighed by the joy I felt at the realisation that no longer would my residence's newspaper of choice be The Sun.

The word newspaper in modern English often gets shortened to just ’paper. This appellation is particularly apt for The Sun since it is undeniably full of paper and just as undeniably devoid of news. Being free of the odious tabloid was liberating. No more would every science article I read start with the phrase “Boffins at the University of…”. No more would the day's biggest news event be commented on by Jo, 19, from Wolverhampton, who was happy to expose both her views on world events and her bosom.

Since I'm a limp-wristed bleeding-hearted hairy-toed liberal the first newspaper I bought for myself was The Guardian. And immediately I started buying it I was in love. Not with the paper itself, whose more liberal stances on every single news story were refreshing at first but soon gave me the impression that if it leaned any more to the left it would fall over. No, the object of my affection was the splenetic Charlie Brooker. His column was often the highlight of each Monday, a day filled with dragging myself through lectures wondering where the weekend had popped off to and when it would be back.

Long after I had a falling out with The Guardian (they compared Boris Johnson to Hitler; I expect Godwin's law to hold in Youtube comments, not in my broadsheet newspaper) and switched allegiances to a different newspaper I would still buy a copy of Monday's Guardian just to read through his often hilarious pieces. The theme was generally self-loathing, although not being a selfish sort of man Charlie Brooker would happily dish out his loathing to anyone or anything else that had irked him that week.

This collection is a combination of Brooker's Monday articles from the G2 supplement that are him just moaning for a page or two and his Screenburn articles that review the week's television. Reading these angry rants once a week usually left me eager for the following week's article, but like some TV shows I worried that reading them all in a row in this collection would rob them of their charm. Thus, despite it being eminently pick-up-able, I practised putting the book down a lot. The individual articles are all rather short, a couple of pages at most. This makes them perfect for filling in those annoying little two minute breaks we have a dozen times a day. A few reviews have called it perfect toilet-time reading, and it is, but I mostly read it while waiting for my creaky old laptop to start up, while waiting for my flatmate to get ready to go out, while waiting in a coffee shop for my friend to arrive, while letting my dinner simmer for five minutes, and many other pauses in my day that wouldn't normally be long enough for any serious reading.

Serious reading is not what this book is about. Charlie Brooker is not a seething cauldron of discontent all the way through, and can be touchingly poignant, as best seen in his tribute to Oliver Postgate. The articles in this collection, though, are witty, acerbic rage through and through, with the arguable exception of the penultimate one—his report from Glastonbury. That's acerbic rage for only half the article.

If you like Charlie Brooker and haven't memorised everything he's ever written then this collection is a great one to dip into. It passed the six-laugh test with flying laugh-flavoured colours and, from a social history perspective, gives a nice overview of the changes in television during the three year period it covers. Charlie Brooker isn't everyone's cup of tea, but if you like your tea with a splash of milk and a teaspoon of relentless pessimistic fury, then you might want to give him a sip. ( )

When I left home to start University there were many things I missed. But the combined heartache of all these things was outweighed by the joy I felt at the realisation that no longer would my residence's newspaper of choice be The Sun.

The word newspaper in modern English often gets shortened to just ’paper. This appellation is particularly apt for The Sun since it is undeniably full of paper and just as undeniably devoid of news. Being free of the odious tabloid was liberating. No more would every science article I read start with the phrase “Boffins at the University of…”. No more would the day's biggest news event be commented on by Jo, 19, from Wolverhampton, who was happy to expose both her views on world events and her bosom.

Since I'm a limp-wristed bleeding-hearted hairy-toed liberal the first newspaper I bought for myself was The Guardian. And immediately I started buying it I was in love. Not with the paper itself, whose more liberal stances on every single news story were refreshing at first but soon gave me the impression that if it leaned any more to the left it would fall over. No, the object of my affection was the splenetic Charlie Brooker. His column was often the highlight of each Monday, a day filled with dragging myself through lectures wondering where the weekend had popped off to and when it would be back.

Long after I had a falling out with The Guardian (they compared Boris Johnson to Hitler; I expect Godwin's law to hold in Youtube comments, not in my broadsheet newspaper) and switched allegiances to a different newspaper I would still buy a copy of Monday's Guardian just to read through his often hilarious pieces. The theme was generally self-loathing, although not being a selfish sort of man Charlie Brooker would happily dish out his loathing to anyone or anything else that had irked him that week.

This collection is a combination of Brooker's Monday articles from the G2 supplement that are him just moaning for a page or two and his Screenburn articles that review the week's television. Reading these angry rants once a week usually left me eager for the following week's article, but like some TV shows I worried that reading them all in a row in this collection would rob them of their charm. Thus, despite it being eminently pick-up-able, I practised putting the book down a lot. The individual articles are all rather short, a couple of pages at most. This makes them perfect for filling in those annoying little two minute breaks we have a dozen times a day. A few reviews have called it perfect toilet-time reading, and it is, but I mostly read it while waiting for my creaky old laptop to start up, while waiting for my flatmate to get ready to go out, while waiting in a coffee shop for my friend to arrive, while letting my dinner simmer for five minutes, and many other pauses in my day that wouldn't normally be long enough for any serious reading.

Serious reading is not what this book is about. Charlie Brooker is not a seething cauldron of discontent all the way through, and can be touchingly poignant, as best seen in his tribute to Oliver Postgate. The articles in this collection, though, are witty, acerbic rage through and through, with the arguable exception of the penultimate one—his report from Glastonbury. That's acerbic rage for only half the article.

If you like Charlie Brooker and haven't memorised everything he's ever written then this collection is a great one to dip into. It passed the six-laugh test with flying laugh-flavoured colours and, from a social history perspective, gives a nice overview of the changes in television during the three year period it covers. Charlie Brooker isn't everyone's cup of tea, but if you like your tea with a splash of milk and a teaspoon of relentless pessimistic fury, then you might want to give him a sip. ( )

I like Charlie Brooker a lot. But I think when reading him its better to read in small doses. Maybe this is a bathroom book, for reading on the loo! I just found it was all a bit relentless and less funny when reading in 1 go. To the point I had to take a break from it. Doesn't change my opinion of Mr Brooker though. ( )

Just excellent, brilliantly funny and biting (and I tend to agree with him). ( )

Charlie's brand of self-deprecating vitriol and faux-anger work very well as short newspaper columns, and even in this format I was made to actually laugh out loud several times, but concatenated into book form his schtick gets old very quickly. His habit of dwelling at length on the denizens of trash reality programs is also extremely tedious if you've never watched any such. Why don't you write more about TV you do like, Charlie? I only paid 99p for this, which is about right. ( )