Utter Bull: A Pretentious Slop-Fest in Bovine Disguise

Another recommendation, and with it, a request for critique. I must admit, I found this one a real struggle. In my ongoing endeavour to step beyond my literary comfort zone and explore more contemporary works, I occasionally find myself questioning the wisdom of my choices – this being one of those unfortunate instances. Having endured what I can only describe as a thoroughly unpleasant reading experience, I’m left pondering whether modern fiction truly holds the gems I hope to uncover.

I know there is brilliant writing out there, and I remain eager to discover it – ideally something with a touch of wholesomeness amidst the artistry. In the meantime, I still welcome recommendations, for it’s the quest itself that keeps me going. That said, here is my critique of the book in question, and I shan’t hold back in conveying exactly how I feel about it.

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Cows, by Matthew Stokoe. Where to begin? This isn’t a novel so much as a deranged endurance test – an unholy hybrid of juvenile shock tactics and pretentious misery porn. Reading it felt like being shoved face-first into a pile of rotting offal while someone whispered, “This is art. Appreciate it.” Spoiler: I didn’t.

Let’s talk about the story, if you can call it that. Steven, our so-called protagonist, is a milksop of a man who exists solely to be crushed under the heel of his sadistic, grotesquely abusive mother. She’s less of a character and more of a pantomime villain turned up to eleven – so cartoonishly depraved that I half expected her to twirl a moustache while cackling about her evil plans. Steven, meanwhile, is a gormless lump of misery who does little except mope, suffer, and eventually get a job at a slaughterhouse.

Now, a slaughterhouse could have been an intriguing setting. It’s ripe with potential for exploring moral ambiguity, the dehumanising effects of industry, or even some philosophical musing on humanity’s relationship with animals. But no, this is Cows, where subtlety is dragged behind a shed and shot in the head. Instead, the slaughterhouse becomes little more than a stage for Stokoe to indulge in increasingly gratuitous and juvenile displays of depravity.

And then there are the cows. Yes, the titular cows, who are anthropomorphised into some sort of bizarre cult, complete with mind-bogglingly graphic rituals. I can only assume these scenes are supposed to be metaphorical – though what they’re a metaphor for, I couldn’t begin to tell you. Humanity’s cruelty? Society’s decay? Stokoe’s own unresolved issues with dairy products? Whatever the case, it’s impossible to take seriously. The sheer absurdity of these moments undermines any attempt at profundity, leaving me snorting with incredulous laughter rather than feeling shocked.

Speaking of shock, that’s the only tool Stokoe seems to have in his arsenal. The prose is a relentless barrage of grotesque imagery, as though he’s convinced that piling on ever-more revolting details will elevate his work to high art. It doesn’t. Instead, it feels like being cornered at a party by an overenthusiastic teenager eager to share his ‘edgy’ thoughts about life while you silently pray for the sweet release of death: the prose is the literary equivalent of a 14-year-old on Tumblr scribbling down ‘deep’ thoughts after binge-watching Quentin Tarantino films. Stokoe seems to believe that throwing in as many graphic, stomach-turning details as possible will make him seem daring and unflinching. Instead, it reeks of desperation. This isn’t bold, transgressive art; it’s just a grown man trying to outgross the rest of us, like a child gleefully smearing poo on the wall and demanding to be called a genius – a bit like the modern and post-modern art movement.

What really grates, though, is the pretension. Stokoe clearly thinks he’s doing something profound here, dragging us through the muck to reveal some greater truth about the human condition. In reality, he’s just rolling around in filth for the sake of it, mistaking excess for bravery and vulgarity for insight. There’s no depth here, no clever commentary – just a lot of self-indulgent nastiness dressed up as transgression.

By the time I staggered to the end, I wasn’t shocked or horrified or enlightened – I was bored. There’s only so much relentless misery and over-the-top grotesquery a person can take before it becomes numbing. Worse still, there’s no payoff, no sense that any of it was worth enduring. Stokoe wants us to believe he’s staring into the abyss, but all I see is a man flinging cow dung at the wall and hoping it sticks.

Cows is a failure – not because it’s disgusting, but because it’s empty. It mistakes excess for depth, shock for substance, and misery for meaning. If you’re looking for a book that will leave you questioning your life choices – not in a profound way, but in a “Why on earth did I bother with this?” way – then by all means, give it a go. Otherwise, save yourself the time and find something with an actual soul. Even a pamphlet on cow digestion would have more insight.

In summary, Cows is an exercise in excess with no purpose, a grimy little book that revels in its own grotesqueness while whispering, “Aren’t I clever?” No, Mr. Stokoe, you’re not. You’ve written a novel that’s equal parts absurd and insufferable – a masterclass in how not to do transgressive fiction. If you’re in the mood for self-indulgent shock tactics, by all means, pick it up. Otherwise, give it a wide berth, unless you fancy your next existential crisis being accompanied by the scent of metaphorical cow dung.