If Twitter were to die tomorrow, I wouldn't mind. In fact, I would only have one regret, and that is not being able to open John Niven's account once in a while and see his eloquent (I'm using the word loosely) commentary during Wimbledon as well as his gallant (again, loosely) tweets about Trump. Get bent, too. Interestingly, he did actually disappear from Twitter a short while ago (something to do with the Scottish language, I presume) to then rise again, very much unlike Phoenix, from the abusive ashes of social network.
Having said that, this side of his personality would not nearly be able to account for my love for John Niven the writer. Ever since the dizzying riot that was Kill Your Friends (the film was not good - sorry, John), which is one of those books you are bound to finish sooner rather than later, I've always checked letter 'N' in whatever bookstore I have visited. Admittedly, it has not been a perfect record for me. The Amateurs, for instance, never quite clicked, but I'm willing to blame it on golf. However, The Sunshine Cruise Company was gripping to the point where you could spend the whole day on the beautiful beach without ever stepping into the water. Two years prior to that, Straight White Male was a masterpiece that made me laugh and cry in equal measure. For me, still, his greatest achievement. John Niven is masterful at designing the sort of plot you have always (secretly or not) wished to explore. His dialogues are visual and fast-paced. His language is no-nonsense but a certain turn of the phrase will send you into fits. Speaking of which - not this time.
Somehow (and that's a big 'somehow' in this particular case), humour does not seem to be John Niven's primary concern here. Of course, there are pages that will test your limits (that diet description, for example), but overall No Good Deed is only deceptively a light read. The book it reminded me of (which is not accidental - there are obvious allusions) is Martin Amis's infamous The Information, a novel I'm very much fond of, not least because it features some of the best opening lines in postmodern literature. Both books deal with competitive friendships, and make you think of those famous words from a Morrissey song title. "We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful".
The plot is irreproachable. One day, a prominent restaurant critic, happily married with three beautiful children, walks through the streets of London thinking of his forthcoming review when he encounters a homeless man who happens to be his old college friend he used to envy. Willing to help, he invites him to his place, and it pretty much flies from there... Like I say, the plot is blistering, with just the kind of juxtaposition to keep you up during the night. And John Niven does not disappoint, not with that usual blend of heartbreak and violence.
Having read this book a while ago now, over a couple of days in Italy, I can't stop thinking about the ending and how Niven chose to go for the inevitable rather than wilfully beautiful. But then he found beauty in the inevitable, which, come to think of it, could be the whole point of art.
