Imagine if Withnail had gone hunting Bigfoot. That's basically what you've got in this book. Three complete berks - an oversized Renfaire escapee, a Goth with self-control issues, and a hyperkinetic reporter - traipse up and down the UK for six weeks, powered by lager and their own imaginations.
It's not that the subject material is the problem. On the contrary, that's why I bought the book. No, the issue is that author Redfern and his friends display all the scientific rigor of a group of six year olds in an abandoned candy store. For example, early on they're invited to stay at the house of a doctor who might have seen something odd back in the 1940s. He warns them not to go down the back stairs to the basement - an entirely sensible recommendation, as opening your home to strangers should only go so far. Needless to say, our intrepid monster hunters convince themselves in the middle of the night that their host is keeping a cannabalistic devolved wildman in the cellar, then sneak down in best Scooby-Shaggy-and-Fred fashion to the cellar just in time to scare themselves witless. When, the next day, their host asks them to leave abruptly, they take it as a sign of conspiracy, rather than the fact that he just might have been annoyed at their burrowing in his basement.
And so it goes. No chasm is wide enough to keep these lunatics from leaping to the conclusion on the other side, no activity immature or foolish enough for them to turn down. When invited to explore the tunnels of an abandoned military base, they immediately start banging on closed doors with chair legs to try to summon the giant worm who supposedly dwells nearby. Losing track of time during a long conversation immediately becomes evidence of a curse. The litany of goofball behavior goes on and on.
Finally, we drag ourselves to the weary conclusion. Redfern's big surprise is that yes, these monsters do exist, and that they're psychic parasites. So far, so John Keel, but wait, there's more! Despite noting that these supposed creatures are pure evil and truly monstrous, he takes the British government to task for the heinous crime of trying to keep people from letting them "in". Mr. Redfern apparently has confused himself with a protagonist from an H.P. Lovecraft story, and I fully expect that in his next book we'll be reading about three-lobed burning eyes, Great Cthulhu and the Shoggoth on the Roof.
Mind you, the book is quite frequently funny. Redfern claims to have written the book as deliberately humorous as an antidote to the psychic critters (shades of Steven R. Donaldson, if that's the case), but much of the hilarity is unintentional. Monster hunters fall down in the woods, dress up like Batman to summon sea serpents, muddle their myths, and generally act like bit players in a supernatural Benny Hill skit, and that's where the humor is. If you buy it, expect nothing but a good laugh.