Oh dear. This is unquestionably the worst-written book I can remember reading, even allowing for my only foray into modern chick lit (a Sophie Kinsella).
Connolly has written a biography of PG Wodehouse, and a reviewer in The Times likened this book to one of PGW's (I can only assume the reviewer had never read any PGW), but there are no wonderful Wodehousian metaphors and I couldn't detect any similarity of characterisation or plotting.
I only got to page twenty something as I was keener to get out a blue pencil and rewrite and correct it than actually to read the story, so I never reach any of the (allegedly) really funny sections.
I rarely give up on a book and have certainly never given up on one after so few pages, but it was too dire to waste any more time; I read for pleasure, not to get cross!
Casual and even incoherent language can work in direct speech and even, if done skilfully, in narrative, but the rambling, impossibly punctuated sentences with surplus words in a random order is continuous and infuriating.