From tracking down as many of his namesakes as there are cards in a pack, to following the advice of horoscopes with reckless abandon, comedian Dave Gorman has the knack of turning drunken, seemingly harebrained germs of ideas, into hit documentaries. The award-winning America Unchained is the product of one such scheme to attempt a coast-to-coast road trip solely patronising &lsquomom-and-pop&rsquo motels, petrol stations and eateries. The adventure &mdash equal parts Jack Kerouac and Naomi Klein &mdash was inspired by the misery and monotony Gorman experienced when he toured America with his previous documentary show. Which made Gorman resolve to do it all over again.

The book chronicles Gorman&rsquos six-week journey across 15 states, from California to Georgia, its rhythm determined by emergency fuel stops and the vagaries of an ancient Ford Torino. He and his film&rsquos directors check into a variety of motels. They hurtle down treacherous mountain roads, cruise into dazzling sunsets, get hit for tequila shots by tobacco-chewing roughnecks in seedy bars, and linger, misty-eyed and lyrical, in the faded relics of small-town America cosy little stores, where every customer is an old friend, and old-fashioned ice cream shops around whose pewter-and-brass soda fountains three generations of couples romanced each other. They also acquaint themselves with the more forbidding side in the American south batty, bigoted old biddies full of &ldquoold-fashioned hate-y kind of love&rdquo, mean cops and gun-toting Eminem clones.

Gorman&rsquos a charming, garrulous travel companion veering off accounts of landscapes and people into insightful observations and entertaining historical asides. He also excels in droll depictions of the morbid &ldquoThey say cats have nine lives. That would explain why this one looked like he&rsquod been hit by 10 cars.&rdquo

Unfortunately, midway in the journey, Gorman becomes a travel companion you wish you had some respite from. The assault of puns, cutesy footnotes, pointless conversations (&lsquoYou stupid, stupid, stupid cock.&rsquo &lsquoI&rsquom sorry.&rsquo &lsquoWhat are you&rsquo &lsquoI&rsquom a stupid, stupid, stupid cock.&rsquo) and self-indulgent &ldquometa&rdquo sidetracks into email exchanges with his editor make Gorman&rsquos exhilaration at reaching his journey&rsquos end paralleled by that of the reader.