When a writer’s prose flows as smoothly as a pint of ‘SmoothFlow’ beer, you can’t but be a bit irritated with the man. Writing for the rest of us is like breaking rocks. But for Fergal Keane whole paragraphs come perfectly poured with a head of cream. He talks as well as he writes and his gift is somehow unfair and unnatural. So it’s a tribute to the strength of this book and his genius for storytelling that my jealousy was outgunned by my enjoyment.