A mind-blowing future history of humanity, beginning in the present day and ending in the year 200,000,000. You think cramming for a test on the War Of 1812 is hard? Try writing 200,000,000 years of cheat notes on your arm. This book is an unsung literary sci-fi gem, but not for long, because I wrote a song about it: Gimmie a bouncy C! Hello? Where’s that guy I hired to play the piano? What do you mean he doesn’t work on Sundays? Fuckin’ pianists union. Dense, long-winded, but recommended.

On a scale of Toronto mayors ranging from Rob Ford to David Miller, this book is: Mel Lastman. 

Last one in existence please put the chairs up.

After a ‘plague cloud’ 86’s humanity, the last (and most boring) man on Earth traverses the globe waxing philosophical about life, art, architecture, love, and the best brand of wax for waxing philosophical (I prefer Lemon-Scented Heideggerian Pledge, myself). The cover of this book claims it’s a ‘towering masterpiece’, but they must’ve been thinking of the World Trade Centre, because it’s a smouldering disaster of story.

On a scale of clouds ranging from Cumulus to Cirrus, this book is: Cumulonimbus. 

This book was an inside job.

The Earth drifts through a cloud of poisonous ether, kind of a galactic SBD, and the entire planet becomes a giant, stifling Dutch oven. And not the good kind that children from the Netherlands gather ‘round for fresh-baked stroopwafles, either. Beneath the pall of this worldwide air biscuit, a small group of survivours who have smelt it attempt to figure out who dealt it. Did God cut one? Did Fate have chilli for dinner and forget to crack a window? And will whatever malicious cosmic force supplied it ultimately deny it? A thought-provoking novella about life, humanity and really bad gas.

On a scale air quality index ratings ranging from Good to Hazardous, this book is: Unhealthy For Sensitive Groups.

Toxic trousers sold separately.

The last man on earth is holed up in his house trying to survive against his former friends and neighbors, who are now vampires. The worst thing about having neighbors who are vampires is that, after they bite you, they borrow your lawnmower and never return it. Plus, their vampire kids invite their vampire friends over and have a big vampire party where they blare Vampire Weekend all weekend. Back to the book: read it and see why I Am Legend is I-am-legendary. Recommended.

On a scale of things that suck ranging from leeches to the Dyson vacuum cleaner, this book is: the film adaptation of this book.

No fair! You were Legend last time!

Jolly Old England is completely de-jollified when a food shortage causes the Brits to descend rapidly into crazed barbarism. And who can blame them? Without kippers, kidney pies and toads-in-holes, I’d go off my chump, too, old boy. This book is basically like The Road, except with no happy ending to reaffirm your faith in humankind (yuck!). Like a British weather forecast, it’s dreary, miserable and grey, and shows no sign of letting up. Highly recommended.

On a scale of grasses ranging from Bermuda to Fountain, this book is: Creeping Red Fescue.

On the bright side, there's less to mow.

Australia. In the wake of a nuclear war, a small group of survivours struggle through the challenges of daily life, grimly secure in the inevitability of their  imminent deaths. Together, they form a sad, poignant and inspiring tableau of life at the end of the nuclear age. I’m speaking, of course, about The Road Warrior. I love that movie. I think that’s where Nevil Shute got the idea for this book. A good case for banning the bomb.

On a scale of radiation sickness ranging from mild nausea to immediate death, this book is: sterility and some bleeding.

Shute:The Ayatollah Of Arms Control-a.