With its dystopian, au courant theme – a world, two centuries from now, ruled by the ladies, the guys separately penned and groomed as ignorant breeding stock, punishment for 20th-century crimes of capitalism and warmongering – Martina Devlin's new novel, About Sisterland, conjures up images of Joan Burton's whip-wielding great-great-granddaughter, in futuristic neon, lashing the lardy backsides off recalcitrant males, cheered on by exuberant Amazonians. Sadly, no. The story centres on one (beautiful) sister, Constance, who mates and rather likes it, and it clunks along with its "twosers", "ovupens", "baby fusions" and "meets". I hate to be so mean about it, as I love Devlin's columns and radio work (not to mention her seven other books), but this reads as a terrific concept whose execution is not (quite) up to the job.
