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Awards

Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize : Shortlist 2008

Desmond Elliott Prize : Longlist 2008

Synopsis

Meet Oliver Tate, 15. Convinced that his father is depressed ("Depression comes in bouts. Like boxing. Dad is in the blue corner") and his mother is having an affair with her capoeira teacher, "a hippy-looking twonk", he embarks on a hilariously misguided campaign to bring the family back together. Meanwhile, he is also trying to lose his virginity - before he turns sixteeen - to his pyromaniac girlfriend Jordana. Will Oliver succeed in either aim? Submerge yourself in Submarine and find out...

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Reviews

Critic Review:

'A brilliant first novel by a young man of ferocious comic talent'
The Times

'Transplants The Catcher in the Rye to south Wales . . . Dunthorne can make you laugh like you did during double physics on a wet Wednesday afternoon'
Observer

'Dunthorne captures the mores of Britain today better than novelists twice his age. He is sure to write books that declare more than their vocabulary'
New Statesman

More

A Valentine's Day Poem By Joe Dunthorne

Future Dating

Sat along rotating pine benches,

we wear scrolling badges that display:

Name; Favourite thing; Emotional state.

I am Joe; Money; Anxious

as Porcia; Old buildings; Extraordinary

swivels into view with art deco

cheekbones, sky-rise posture.

She speaks in intricate structures

with witty stucco asides

and is either marriage material

or a one-off demolition-snog

in a room full of Lego.

I give her green as she dioramas

into Karen; Knitting; Distracted:

her chopsticks clicking

as though making a scarf

from her udon noodles;

our three minutes pass in excruciating

knit one purl one chit chat.

She sucks up her tongue

and draws a frowning emoticon

in the air, before swishing away

as George; The Nineties; Superior

slides over, saying she likes my retro avatar

and it turns out we both still use Mozilla

“Keepin’ it old skool!”

– High five –

“LOL!”

then our three minutes are gone

and I’m thumping green

as Sylvia; Firearms; Impatient

appears: shotgun eyes, fingers twitching,

white gunk at the corners of her mouth.

I smell her feet from under the table:

fragrance of murderer’s glove

and I’m pressing red and red

as Kate; Imperfections; Unclear

pulls up with semi-translucent hair.

I compliment her body, her lips,

the infinite detail of her eyes

but she says she can take no credit.

Then she’s screaming, quietly,

that her battery’s about to die

as she starts to fizz like an unearthed plug.

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