March, 1979. Sid Vicious is dead, Margaret Thatcher is very much alive, and Barry has just arrived in London. Twenty years old, Irish and angry, he cons his way into a job at Sellafield, home of Britain's military-grade plutonium. It's the start of a hilarious and hallucinatory coming-of-age tale that ranges from sordid coal-bunker squats to the tea room at the Ritz, via the Parisian Left Bank and the blooming poppy fields of Ireland. Here is a portrait of an artist on acid, amphetamines and PCP, who finds himself working at the heart of Britain's nuclear industry. It pulses with stories and stories within stories, eye-watering, sexy, terrifying and poignant.