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Jaded, nasty men living nihilistic lives in dark European cities, recounting their unenjoyable-sounding sex with women they disdain, has been a theme in cutting-edge fiction. The vaguely Houellebecqian opening to Martin Kongstad's first novel slips easily into this vein, but Kongstad has too much to say to persist with it; he laughs at it. Breathtakingly explicit, Am I Cold is a satire crammed with repugnant personalities. It's hard to understand how Martin Aitken has managed such a rapid-fire, acid-tongued translation, a tall order in the context of a Danish bacchanal of art, design and drunken dinners. Offensive and funny, it is oddly beautiful on friendship. A sacked restaurant critic is our narrator as he eschews monogamy and the "good" life in Copenhagen as the crash of 2008 looms; the sum is so much greater than its parts.
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