Its funny and convenient that on the cusp of an assignment where I must right a paper on the worst book that I have read that I actually have a candidate for that spot whose stench is as fresh in my mind as it is ever going to get, because Noughties by Ben Masters is really, really bad. It is easily the worst book I have read since Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and I can’t imagine any book being worse reading experience this year. I was actually groaning out loud at the clichés, horrible attempts at being cool, and how just plain boring this book was when it wasn’t assaulting me with how bad it was. It has that perfect mixture of being really pretentious, but failing so hard you can’t see anybody actually taking this guy seriously. The loose plot concerns Elliot Lamb as he drinks away the night before he graduates from Oxford with his equally unlikable friends. He keeps getting texts from his ex-girlfriend Lucy, as well as finding a potential mate in the person he got pregnant while still with her. Yeah, this guy is a major tool, the kind whose ability to quote Wordsworth on cue gives him a sense of entitlement he really just pulled out of his ass. But this guy isn’t the only problem with this book. When we aren’t listening to his inane babbling, we are stuck hearing about his night out, filled with British slang that felt like someone who liked Snatch too much wrote it. From the horribly lame “secret” that is revealed towards the end, and its equally horrible ending, this is a dreadful reading experience I would not wish on anyone. I can’t stand pretentious literary types anyway, and when they write books that get published, it angers me, but also gives me incentive, because anyone with a modicum of talent without a God complex can write better than this.