Willy de Wit has been one of the most prominent names in New Zealand comedy since Funny Business had every 1980s schoolkid singing Norman the Mormon. He went on to host shows on Radio Hauraki for more than a decade. And then meth happened. And then a stroke. And then, somewhat miraculously, this book.

Despite the title, this is not a memoir of addiction. Much of the book is a glorious romp through a career that spanned decades, rubbed shoulders with greats and passed out in parking lots with its trousers around its ankles. It’s a hilarious love letter to childhood pamphlet runs, bad gigs and the insane, inane freedom of youthful creativity that’s been given a microphone and no boundaries. De Wit writes about it all with the intellectual’s stunned respect for pure chaos and the comedian’s faultless eye for hilarity.

In fact, tales of terrible gigs may become your new favourite literary genre. Every performer has their horror stories but de Wit tells his with such cinematic clarity and self-deprecating glee that the schadenfreude is delicious. The stroke may not have killed him but how did he not die of shame in that bar in Waitangi where no one bought any tickets but the show still went on to a Japanese family of four? Or when he found himself inexplicably opening for Cliff Richard’s former band The Shadows in 1980s Dunedin? ‘A small portion of them start a tentative “Boo.”’ If you’re not already at full sympathetic cringe, soon comes the innocently hopeful, ‘I still have my heavy metal strip routine to do; it never fails.’ Oh no.

The anecdotes are told so deftly that you don’t notice the craft underneath – a skill honed during years on stage and in writers huddles, years of getting the gag just right. Just when you think the story has amused you all it can, there’s an absolute gift of a punchline. You’ll laugh out loud, or you might cry.

The book juxtaposes a chronological memoir of de Wit’s career told in hilarious and/or harrowing anecdotes with interspersed moments from his stroke and recovery, dreamlike impressions from his confused mind, barely alive. Boats and rose petals and the cast of It Ain’t Half Hot Mum wandering through his consciousness, benignly creepy and passively terrifying.

As his consciousness awakens, de Wit enters the long, torturous process of recovery. He only occasionally allows us into his grief at what is lost and the agonising self-blame of having squandered it. He bravely addresses the vulnerability of being disabled and the predators that comfortably ensconce themselves in places where people are helpless. Casual unkindness is one thing but serious assaults happen to de Wit and others. Formal complaints are made but nothing is done. It’s a sad indictment of our care facilities and will hopefully spark serious inquiry.

Typed with one finger over several years, Drink, Smoke, Snort, Stroke takes a big risk by being honest. Meth is not a glamour drug and the encounters with meth-addicted sex workers, police raids, spent fortunes and dodgy dealers are laid out like a mea culpa. He doesn’t enjoy them and although he still has an eye for the ridiculous, de Wit doesn’t linger over them as he does with the riotous recklessness of his youth. He’s clear: this is how bad things can get; don’t be me.

It’s tragic that de Wit suffered the stroke, not to mention the despair and addiction that went before it and the suffering that came after. The silver lining is this book which would not otherwise exist: in turns beautiful, nostalgic, crass, hilarious and important.

Reviewed by Ruth Spencer