It never should have been a novel. In shaping the protagonist, Oliver Tate, author Joe Dunthorne has no doubt created a popular comedic character; yet, in its current format, Submarine is the literary equivalent of teaching your grandma how to suck eggs.

Even in the first few paragraphs, it is impossible not to make comparison with Sue Townsend’s Adrian Mole. Yes, it’s twenty years on, but Mole’s reincarnation is perpetually geeky, his heterosexuality remains ‘a point of discussion’, and his overdeveloped lexicon still causes him to feel misunderstood in a world unsympathetic to teenage angst. It seems fitting that Richard Ayoade (of The IT Crowd, The Mighty Boosh and Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace fame) is intending to make Submarine into a film. If anyone can transform Oliver Tate into a cult-chic anti-hero, it’s him.

Despite Dunthorne acknowledging the Adrian Mole comparison several times throughout the book, it still begs the question – why bother with a novel that will only be compared to Townsend’s predecessor, when you’ve (hypothetically) got a perfectly good Brit flick waiting in the wings? I remain befuddled.

Submarine charts Tate’s seminal teenage year as he advances from a mere virginal boy approaching 15 to a mature experienced man of 16. Or so he thinks. Dunthorne covers all the bases as far as rites of passage are concerned: first kiss, first awkward sexual experience, and most importantly for Oliver, first realisation that parents are people too; and fallible at that. 

Dunthorne accurately portrays the perceived importance of self-image and over-emphasises the power of the rumour mill to make or break a teenager’s reputation. At school, popularity is everything, as Oliver states, ‘You must be willing to transform any facet of your personality to fit in’.

After stealing her diary and pushing her in the pond, Oliver takes pity on the school fatty, Zoe Preece, drafting a self-help guide entitled ‘How to Fit In With People You Don’t Like Even When You are an Endomorph’. Unfortunately, Oliver’s plan backfires when Jordana Bevan gets hold of the manual and threatens to publicly display it around the school unless Oliver complies with her demands. The first of which is to confess his undying love for Jordana is his diary (which she then publicly displays around the school – coincidence?)  Oliver feels used, his first kisses tainted with the need for self-preservation. But Jordana rightly points out, ‘What are you complaining about?...This is conclusive proof that you’ve actually snogged a girl’.

As the days pass, the pair develop an odd affection for one another. The telltale revelation in Jordana and Oliver’s relationship is his obsession with power and control, even in the most absurd situations. For example, ‘Her spit is thicker than mine. I do not want to be in an unequal relationship’.  Oliver is affronted by the way in which the romance was initiated - he feels manipulated and as a result, he reclaims the dominant role of puppet master - determined to make Jordana feel lowly and subservient for no apparent reason. Later in the novel, when Jordana’s mum is in hospital, she emails Oliver hoping for some words of comfort and he cruelly uses her email as a comprehension exercise.

The overriding tone of the piece is neediness. It strikes me that the recipient of the email is the one in a position of power in the relationship. Perhaps he is thinking of the phrase: ‘Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen’.

Oliver’s arrogance grates even more because really he is completely inept. From the very beginning I am left wondering why Jordana is even interested in him. Firstly, he is a terrible kisser.

’You snog like a dentist.’
‘That’s my style.’
‘What – the drill?’

It seems that his only skill is in his writing; the diary entries are the only form of romance Jordana gets – and most of these are simply overzealous attempts to get in her pants. It’s a shame she can’t see through compliments like ‘she has legs like a Top Shop mannequin’.

After their first sexual experience, which naturally he thinks is earth-shattering; Oliver is left to question just how perfect he is. ‘Since we had sex – and with such results – I am drawn to ask the question: when will we do it again? Is there any point? Could we possibly hope to improve?’

The possibility of Jordana’s dissatisfaction never enters Oliver’s thought process. At times, like this one, I had to stop myself from throwing the book at the wall and screaming expletives – but it’s because Dunthorne has hit the nail on the head. Most teenage boys believe they are born sex gods and it is the girls who have to suffer. Perhaps I am being too cynical, but ultimately Oliver annoys me because he evokes memories of every teenage boy I had feelings for: selfish, clueless and incredibly infuriating. I’m sure Oliver’s outlook would stir up the opposite reaction in most men – probably raucous laughter and an encouraging pat on the back – but his brand of screwed up logic simply breeds more ineligible bachelors. Dunthorne speaks the painful truth, though I wish it weren’t so.

As his relationship hurtles towards perfection, Oliver begins interfering in his parents’ love life.  His mother, Jill, is visited by former boyfriend, Graham, who has recently decided to move back to Swansea causing a rift in the Tate household. Oliver employs various tactics in order to save his parents’ marriage, saucy love notes, feng shui in the bedroom, stalking his mother on her trips away with Graham – clearly he’s concerned but it seems like he’s taking a bit of an unhealthy interest. Teenagers are supposed to be repulsed by the thought of their parents being intimate, not actively encouraging it. Oliver, on the other hand, takes pains to chart frequency, duration and accompanying sound effects, as if preparing for some absurd science project. I am not sure how relevant this creepy subplot is in its entirety. Apparently Dunthorne has used it as a vehicle to chart Oliver’s ruin; but for me it’s just a step too far into weird territory.

It is not long before Jordana realises how poorly she is being treated, and dumps Oliver. Cosmic order is restored and he finally gets his comeuppance – allowing all the female readers to breathe a sigh of relief. After such a blow to his ego, the only way Oliver can possibly make himself feel better is to look down on someone inferior. He targets the fat loser, Zoe Preece, a year after she was forced to move schools. He finds out she is a sound and lighting technician for a local theatre group and visits their current performance. Oliver assumes that Zoe will still be a festering lump and that her peers, ‘probably keep her out of sight in the control booth, hooked up to a gravy drip’. When Oliver is confronted, inevitably, with the new slim, happy Zoe, his self-important ideology falls to pieces.

Zoe was supposed to be the proof that a victim always stays a victim, that there is no such thing as self-help. Unhappy people have a role in society – and that is to make the rest of us feel better.

Oliver continually uses other people’s shortcomings to emphasise his own prowess and finally he is made to look the fool. Not only is Zoe confident in her own skin, Oliver actually fancies her, which annoys him so much that he wants to ‘punch her in the ovaries’. Charming.

The novel’s conclusion reinforces the belief that, even if your family are mental, they’re the best friends you’ll ever have. A suitable moral, but in this case its truth is overshadowed by the fact that Oliver has a personality that only a mother could love. I dread to think why the book was called Submarine in the first place - because Oliver is no better than pond scum?

Overall, I don’t think Submarine is a bad book. For one thing it is an incredibly accurate description of teenage life in the late 1990s and it is extremely well-written. However, as a result of the subject matter, it is not surprising that the book evokes a bitter concoction of fondness, embarrassment and rage. Perhaps my judgement is clouded - if I met Oliver when I was 16, I would probably feel strangely attracted to him and want to strangle him in equal measures. This seems to be Dunthorne’s desired effect – a lovable rogue. I simply think it will translate better to the screen. I eagerly await the film.