Product Description Set in the long hot summer of 2002,Tourism is a filthy, unflinching and politically incorrect take on modern Britain by an extraordinary young Sikh writer.Bhupinder 'Puppy' Singh Johal — handsome, rakish and spiritually disenfranchised — has left behind the immigrant neighbourhood of Southall to mix with the elite of metropolitan London society. Sexually ambitious, he is intent on living life to the full, regardless of the consequences. When sloaney rich-girl Sophie falls for him, he grabs the chance to escape his past and pursue the woman of his dreams, the voluptuous sophisticate Sarupa, who happens to be engaged to Sophie’s cousin.Using whatever and whoever he can, Puppy explores the grit and glamour of a city seething with the possibilities and politics of money, race and sex: an incendiary cocktail that explodes, changing him and those closest to him forever... Review “The best debut I have ever read.”—Julie Burchill“Tolerant, funny and real, [the narrator] ducks and dives hedonistically, lazily, gunning out x-ray observations about masculinity, models and ‘the magic of miscegenation’ that would have had Oscar Wilde licking his lips.”—Vogue About the Author Nirpal Singh Dhaliwal is thirty-one years old. A freelance journalist, he writes for The Times, the Guardian and the Evening Standard. He is married to the journalist Liz Jones, and currently lives in Hackney. He studied English and American literature at Nottingham University before starting a career in broadcasting with the BBC, which he left in 2000 to become a full-time writer.Tourism is his first novel. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. September 2003EYES HALF CLOSED, pretending I'm asleep, I watch her. She moves lazily; every few steps she stops, kicks up a spray of Italian sand, then glances around to see if anyone's looking. She gets closer. I sit up and look at her body, which is petite, slim, with fine legs and a lovely chest. She pays me no attention and lies on her sunbed, several feet away from mine. Rolling onto her stomach, she unfastens her bikini and spreads the straps out either side. I've been waiting to see her topless, without luck. But her swimsuit shows her nipples, jutting beautifully whenever she steps out of the water. I think of them in my mouth, between my teeth.When I first saw her, some days ago, I thought she was eighteen. My estimation has since fluctuated between fourteen and twenty; like a hologram, she switches shape according to the light. Sometimes she's the perfect ingénue, unsure of her wonderful new body; other times she's so assured, flirting with the lifeguard, playing with her hair, amused as he hangs on her every word.We tried talking this morning. We smiled, we nodded, we said 'Buongiorno' and then we floundered, unable to bridge the gap between her English and my Italian, gawping in silence like imbeciles instead. Saving the moment, she offered me her bottle of water. I took a swig and gave it back. Looking at me, she held it to her lips then, not quite accidentally, let it spill onto her chin and into her cleavage. I said nothing as she sat there open-mouthed, her gaze darting between my face and her breasts - shining like polished apples - as if it were the most amazing event. She got up, said 'Ciao', then walked away, waving and disappearing into the phalanx of beach tents. She returned an hour or so later with her companion, and subsequently ignored me.He's as curious as she is. He's old, well over fifty, and he's with her almost whenever she's here. I don't think he's her father - there's no great affection between them. Their conversations sound perfunctory, to the point. She sunbathes and occasionally swims; he keeps himself chalk-white under their tent, quietly watching the world through huge Versace sunglasses, sipping daiquiris and smoking Gauloises with merciless contempt for his body. His hair is immaculately c