Guido has a good bit:
“Oddly, the person I feel sorriest for isn’t Brand himself – although he certainly comes across as a rather pitiable figure, projecting his own brokenness on to the world around him – but Johann Hari. Drummed out of Fleet Street for plagiarism, the former Independent columnist has washed up as “my mate Johann, who’s been doing research for this book”. For a genuinely talented polemicist, it would have been a humbling experience to have to treat this sub-undergraduate dross as the scintillating wisdom of a philosopher-king.”
But I think these two are better:
Brand does grandly proclaim that its new democratic-empowered managers could carry on making cars, but only as long as they didn’t export any. After all, the Germans and that make their own, don’t they? You feel like grabbing him by the shiny lapels and shouting: “Adam Smith! David Ricardo!”, and hoping he doesn’t get them confused with the West Ham midfield.
In the end, this book is a huge wasted opportunity. The breaking point for me – apart from the two passages suggesting 9/11 was an inside job – came when, after hundreds of pages of egocentric meandering, Brand lists his conclusions so far: “We have shown that…” he grandly and repeatedly intones. But you haven’t shown, Russell. You’ve told. And you’ve done a really, really bad job of it.
In short, it’s shite.