When Tom Allen’s first memoir, No Shame, was published in 2020, he was 37, permanently single and living at home with his parents in Bromley. Two years on, circumstances have changed. Allen has a boyfriend and a house of his own, minutes away from the family home, but his dad died suddenly at the end of 2021. Too Much is his attempt to face that loss, come to terms with their imperfect relationship and learn how to be an adult now his much-loved role model is gone. Fans of his arch and cutting comedy might be surprised to find that the book is heartfelt, vulnerable and touchingly sincere.
Allen proceeds one snapshot at a time, each chapter opening with an aphorism from his dad. They include: “You can never have too much love”; “If you can’t improve on silence, keep your mouth shut”; “The world takes you at your own valuation”; and the baffling but catchy “It’s cold enough for a handbag”. Familial love glows from the page – not glibly, waving jazz hands, but gently and steadfastly, with each act of kindness and moment of exasperation. They show they care “by bickering senselessly over weatherproof cushions”. Bleeding radiators takes on a poignance that’s almost unbearable. This is the kind of parenting that doesn’t get written about in books.
The idea of “too much” takes on several meanings. “Dad and I were very different and at times I worried I could be too much for him,” Allen begins. “For example, I was brought up to resist any unnecessary dramatics. For my parents, this was an uphill struggle.” Elsewhere, it feels “too much” to ask straight friends to go with him to a gay bar. He worries that “if I started living my life too much, there would be a price to pay”. No favour was ever “too much” for his dad. His loss is “too much to understand”.
There is comedy as well as pathos, much of it focusing on Allen’s conflicting desperation both to fit in and to be special. Occasionally, self-deprecation crosses into self‑flagellation, and some of his analysis is painful to read. He has a perfectionist’s eye (and an obsession with interior design) and is expert at skewering the banality of grief – such as when a funeral home “resembled less a threshold between this life and the next and more a conference suite … the sort of space a local accountancy firm might hold its quarterly meetings”.
There are duff notes, such as an awkward and slightly boring trip to Japan, and some clumsy, repetitive passages that seem hastily written and insufficiently edited: babies “can just see the sadness in my soul … babies can see the bleakness in my soul”. But perhaps that’s inevitable when writing in the eye of a bewildering loss.
The funniest and most memorable chapter recalls Allen’s first trip to a gay sauna (or “thinly disguised sex club”). He makes an immediate faux pas, addressing a near-naked Frenchman as “vous”. Then “judgemental gays” and their “masculine performances” fill him with self-doubt. His mother’s voice pops into his head, “not to stand in moral judgement but to stand in judgement of the decor”. Later, as he sits crestfallen on the train home, his dad texts him: “Are you OK? Let me know what time you’re coming back and I can pick you up from the station.”
Allen seems to have grown up slightly back to front. A fussy little boy who just wanted to be an adult. A thirtysomething living with his folks. A grieving son struggling with manhood now the template has been taken away. Nobody is ever old enough to handle the loss of a parent – but Allen’s response is a mature and tender reflection on a complicated relationship, filled with love.
• Too Much by Tom Allen is published by Hodder Studio (£20). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
