Though I do want to read on, I found this book impacted me the same way as a title by James Galloway or Wayne Edwarde Clarke. Each of these authors have some quality I can't define which screams "unpublishable" yet "compelling" at the same time. They've also all got a lot of sex or sexual exploitation, and each their own bête noire (I believe Galloway had Foxes, Clarke measurements, and Irvine's seems to be implausibly convoluted acronyms).

There were a few things that irritated, a King Harry, for instance, and the Belief that the US was better off with Bush Junior than other presidents which seems strange, but then I'm not American. Also a collection of grammatical slipups, sadly par for the course on Kindle, and a few little things that I didn't bother to note. Still, it kept me reading, for although religion isn't my scene and I didn't see any depth to the characters and in fact I regret buying it somewhat, I also wanted to see where it went and, , in spite of myself, want to read more. Weird, much?