Anna Baddeley

As a new series of Desert Island Discs gets underway, we investigate the least talked about but most fascinating aspect of the show: the castaway’s book choice… This March, in the most momentous archival unveiling since Glasnost, the entire back catalogue of the world’s longest-running factual radio programme, BBC Radio 4’s Desert Island Discs, went online. Searchable and sortable, it’s a dangerously addictive resource, especially if you’re the sort of weirdo who’s been carrying around a mental list of eight songs, a book and a luxury since childhood. Helpfully, the BBC has compiled a list of castaways’ top tunes: Ode to Joy, Land of Hope and Glory, and other drearily predictable fare.

A few weeks ago it looked like this column might have to be rechristened Feather Duster Jobs of the Month. The High Court judgment that The Telegraph pay £65,000 in damages over a “spiteful” book review would, we panicked, lead to a climate of fear on Grub Street, with literary editors terrified to publish anything but the most simpering eulogies. We needn’t have worried. James Lasdun on House of Holes by Nicholson Baker (Guardian) “… a completely ridiculous book, whether you read it as camp parody or straight smut. The real story here is why the cleverly observant author of works such as The Mezzanine and Room Temperature has chosen to publish something at once so daft and so half-hearted.

Which books are making the critics lose their cool? We’ve rounded up the best bad reviews: Mary Beard (Guardian) on Rome by Robert Hughes “The first half of the book, especially the three chapters dealing with the early history of Rome, from Romulus to the end of pagan antiquity, is little short of a disgrace — to both author and publisher. It is riddled with errors and misunderstandings that will mislead the innocent and infuriate the specialist.” Matthew Syed (The Times) on Ghost Milk by Iain Sinclair “Psychogeography, it would seem, at least in the hands of Sinclair, is not merely obscure, but impenetrable.

Book reviewers are, on the whole, a polite bunch, and rarely say what they really think. Instead they use a clever code, whereby “her most experimental novel yet” means “an utter mess”, “exhaustive and scholarly” = “I fell asleep”, “draws heavily on previous studies” = “the scoundrel has copied and pasted his entire book”, and so on.      Occasionally, however, a critic will lose it, and bludgeon their victim so violently they can only be identified by dental records.

The only time in the last decade I’ve bought something other than wrapping paper from Waterstone’s was when last winter’s snow prevented my Amazon order showing up in time for Christmas. Two hardbacks cost me a whopping £22 more than I had paid online. Short of forking out £50,000 for a super-injunction I can’t imagine a less satisfying transaction. Last Friday’s news that the chain has been bought by one of Russia’s poorer oligarchs was greeted rapturously by the book industry; its new managing director James Daunt (founder of the upmarket book chain) hailed as a messiah with excellent taste in bookshelves.

If the Observer was hoping to reignite the debate on the future of cultural criticism they couldn’t have found a soggier squib than American academic Neal Gabler’s unenlightening essay. Professional criticism, thinks Gabler, is dead. According to him, reviewers, or “cultural commissars”, used to be able to control what we “ordinary folk” read, watched and listened to “through a process close to cultural brainwashing”. Now we ignore them, consulting blogs and Twitter instead. Gabler sees this as a revolution against cultural elitism. Several things annoy me about his doomladen, US-centric prognosis: 1.