As London approaches economic meltdown in Henry Sutton’s Get Me Out of Here (2010), not only does poor little City Boy, Matt Freeman, have a cash flow problem, he must also deal with bad weather, traffic jams, ignorant people richer than he is, ignorant people poorer than he is, immigrants, public transport, shoddy workmanship, crappy customer service, and, not least of all, women. Sales assistants, waitresses, current and ex-girlfriends all earn his derisive ire, with his mother and former fiancee being particular objects of contempt. Naturally, despite his hot-shot deals with the North Koreans having yet to mature, Freeman feels he deserves to soothe himself with the very best: hip restaurants, antique watches, Prada jackets, Tumi luggage and Church’s shoes (brands my husband and I admire, which gave me pause for thought), and an apartment that, though not quite in the Barbican, does boast the same peeping-Tom-perfected architecture.
Get Me Out of Here barrels along in Freeman’s whiny, lacerating, self-delusional schpeel, and Sutton skewers our addiction to consumerism. His coal-black humor wasn’t smart enough to keep me going to the end, (and I couldn’t decide whether attempts to justify Freeman’s behavior using pop-psychology were genuine or satirical, though I hope it was the latter). No, what kept me going was a desire to see this snobby Anglo-psycho and greedy little w****r reap his just rewards.