At first, this book was irritating. Gibson seemed to be trying just a little too hard to remind the reader that it was set in the not-too distant future. Like, he abbreviates the word ‘claustrophobic’ to ‘claustro’ and passes it off as not-too-distant-future language; this is the linguistic equivilant of a one-piece silver jumpsuit. Even the font seemed obnoxious: Futura. Using Futura in a book about the future breaks an ironclad rule of design: never print a book in a font named after the subject matter (I have yet to receive any interest in my biography of insane Bavarian type cutter Zapf Dingbat). But, by the end, I had to admit it had grown on me: (to the tune of the ‘By Mennen’ jingle) ‘Bill GIB-son!’

On a scale of cocktails ranging from the Rob Roy to the Pink lady, this book is a: Gibson.

Did you get those font jokes or am I wasting my time here?