BOOKS
TAKING a brief break from his narcissistic swandive into heroin addiction one hazy mid-’90s night, Brett Anderson formed a mean-spirited imaginary “blokes’ band” with his friends. Bruiser’s putative hits (“Kisses for My Missus”, “Santa Ain’t A Wanker”) sardonically mimicked the Britpop school of Blur and Oasis, who had piggybacked to glory on the back of Suede’s impoverished bohemianism. As Anderson puts it in , the second volume of his memoirs, “bands who waved flags and dropped their aitches and painted a social tourist’s cartoon
