At its best, the book is nicely paced, with an engaging cast of drunkards and neurotics thrown together in Citigroup’s London trading room.

Stevenson’s book is about himself. No one else gets a real name... which is legally sensible because he portrays almost everyone he meets with an acidic, all-consuming loathing.

At some point you expect Stevenson to inject some self-reflection into the narrative.

All this is described in demotic, fast-paced prose, with some witty asides, that sounds exactly like the speaking voice of someone from Stevenson’s milieu. If it’s all his own work it’s remarkably natural writing.

Incisive and often humorous.