This is the great Irish novel the 21st Century has been waiting for: a visionary, post-metamodernist slice through the times that have lived us. A racing, drug-fuelled vision of underground London as it was, is and will always be. The Goddess Lens artfully twists and melds forms, from folk-horror and sci-fi to noir. The novel’s unforgettable images roll to a soundtrack of Nico, house music and Irish Republican chants. There is nothing else like it.

Pascal O’Loughlin reimagines the 2020 pandemic as a glint in the eye of an ancient Goddess. He replaces mandatory facemasks with Goddess Lenses, and everyone wants a pair. Gay lovers meet in the pages of zines and plants speak from the corners of bedrooms. In virtual reality there’s no need to concern yourself with a sneeze, but watch out for the sublime green jelly.

The Goddess Lens is the strangest and boldest work of queer art since Fassbinder’s Querelle. The greatest horror story about writer’s block since The Shining. The Goddess Lens is the greatest.