It’s popcorn fiction of the worst kind, with cliche ridden dreadful writing and less than one dimensional characters. The prose style is taken directly from the sub-editors desk at The Sun. Don’t even get me started on the enormous number of simple factual errors in the text, not least the screamingly obvious fact that Mr Brown has never set foot outside the continental United States. At the end I just wanted to know where I could get those three hours of my life back.
The best thing about it is the whole grail theory, which of course we know Mr Brown borrowed from another book. This comment from a book store assistant in Melbourne pretty much sums up my opinion of the thing.
I feel better now, and if anyone mentions this steaming pile of alleged literature again I can just point them at this page and save my blood pressure.