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There are many stereotypes about the English, from binge-drinking to our love of leylandii hedges, our patience in queues to a penchant for dogging. But are any of them actually true? In his new book, The English: A Field Guide, noveilst and Sunday Times writer Matt Rudd investigates all these stereotypes and more to see if we live up to our reputation. Writing exclusively for Foyles, he reveals his preliminary findings.

As you will know and as I have just found out, the word stereotype comes from the Greek στερεός meaning "solid" and the equally Greek τύπος meaning "impression". It was first used, rather pretentiously, who'd have guessed, by a French printer, Firmin Didot, to describe a duplicate printing plate. So, a firm impression, knocked out again and again. Voilà.

When attempting an anthropological study of a nation, you want to be wary of στερεόςτύποςs. They have a tendency to sneak in. For example, we're barely one paragraph into this blog and I've already managed to give the impression that all French people are pretentious. Which is, of course, a very unfair stereotype.

That's the trouble. They're insidious. Along they creep, hand in glove with preconception and cliché, trying to spoil you're otherwise entirely honorable field guide. So, as I began my journey into the lives of the English, I decided to tackle the στερεόςτύποςs head on. Two years ago, I listed as many as I could think of. They included...

• The couch potato (eg the ready-meal-eating, television-addicted slob)
• The corner-cutting event chef
• The grumpy commuter
• The hedge warrior
• The tail-gating Audi driver (probably a salesman on his way to a sordid affair in a motel on the side of the M1)
• In sport, the unsore loser
• In queues, the polite and the orderly
• In the pub, the binge-drinking, alcoholic yob/tart
• And in the bedroom, the prude. With special thanks to Ronnie Corbett. And that film

From there, all I had to do was confront the στερεόςτύποςs head on. There would be no sneaking in this book. In Chapter One, the Sofa, I found myself in the first ever DFS store up in Carcroft accusing a man who turned out to have a wooden leg of being lazy. In Chapter Two, the Kitchen, I came face to face with a woman whose main purpose in life was to advocate the use of microwaves. In Chapter Three, the Garden, I rang the doorbell of a naturist locked in a hedge war with no way of knowing what state of undress he might be in when he answered. In Chapter Four, I had to smile at a hundred grumpy commuters and ask how they were feeling... out of ten. And so on, right through the στερεόςτύπος of our lives.

And of course, in almost every case, they didn't stand up to scrutiny. The English, it turns out, are far subtler, more nuanced, less tabloid-terrible than entrenched impression would have you believe.

Except for the Audi drivers.

And almost everything that happened in the Shops chapter.

And, yes, maybe a couple of things that popped up, as it were, in the Bedroom.

And now, here we are, all written, all printed and all ready to go. And the highlight of the whole endeavour? My very own window in the magnificent Foyles bookshop. The finest minds at HarperCollins and Foyles have been concentrating very, very hard on coming up with a 'live' display that will capture the essence of the English. Someone mentioned some deckchairs. Someone else mentioned a pair of Speedos. They wouldn't be doing a στερεόςτύπος, would they? Wait for the photographic evidence... here in an update as soon as I have it....

You'll be able to see the window display for Matt's book at our Charing Cross Road branch 20th May-2nd June.

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Baz Luhrman's new adptation of The Great Gatsby has brought the Jazz Age back into vogue. Janette Cross, from our Charing Cross Road branch, recommends the perfect novel for anyone in love with the era of Art Deco, flapper dresses, speakeasies and Bix Biederbecke.

I've always liked the 1920s. Even as a child the world of speakeasies, gangsters, flappers and silent movie stars seduced me. Convinced that I had been born out of my era, I longed to roll my stockings, dance the Charleston and smoke cigarettes through decorative holders of ludicrous length. Imagine my delight at being cast as Tallulah in the school production of Bugsy Malone. Move over Jodie Foster, there's a new child star in town and she's from Wigan. Now imagine how I felt on learning that the headmaster, Mr Snowden (Big Trev to the pupils), on learning about the climatic custard pie fight, had cancelled the production on the grounds of Health and Safety (yes, we had that in the 1970s too!). I was dismayed to say the least, especially as this was not the first time my hopes of stardom had been dashed. After two weeks of rehearsal Big Trev pulled the plug on our production of Oh! What a Lovely War!, citing bad language as the reason. I never did get to say 'Oooh, it gives me the willies' to a packed theatre, though I did get to be a bride of Dracula six months later so it wasn't all bad.

But I digress.

So what is it that makes the 1920s, and, in particular, America in the 1920s so attractive? And why is this particular decade almost 100 years ago still so alluring in a world which seems so radically different? For me the 20s were about change. Seismic changes to society and morals and the way people lived their lives, how they behaved, how they dressed. It was a time of danger and excitement. And the beautiful and the wealthy had fun. Boy, did they have fun.

With the release of Baz Luhrman's 3D version of The Great Gatsby (one of the most perfect novels ever written, in my humble opinion), the world will once again fall in love with the 20s. The rails at Topshop will be filled with fringed flapper dresses, teenage girls will affect flowing headscarves and achingly hip young men will sport trilbies and spats.

All of this makes the timing of Suzanne Rindell's debut novel,The Other Typist, all the more fortuitous. Set in 1920s New York, it tells the story of Rose Baker, a quiet, restrained woman who works as a typist in a police precinct. Her life is dull and old-fashioned until the arrival of the other typist. Odalie is everything Rose is not. She bobs her hair, smokes cigarettes, flirts outrageously with the men of the precinct and oozes self-confidence. But is Odalie everything she seems to be? And, perhaps more to the point, is Rose?

I read this book knowing very little about it (other than that it was set in my beloved 1920s) and I suggest you do the same. Sometimes it is better to discover things for oneself. Suffice to say, it has that most delicious thing, the unreliable narrator, and a plot that keeps you guessing until the very last page (and beyond). I didn't want to stop reading, hungry to know what happened next - this is probably the only time that I have ever wanted my bus journey to and from work to be longer. If you've ever travelled on the 176, then you'll know what I mean.

I could confuse you further by saying it made me think of The Great Gatsby (which I immediately re-read), and the films Single White Female and Fight Club.

Read this book. I think it is really, really good. Or perhaps more fittingly... hot diggety, I think it's the cat's meow.

• Read the first chapter from The Other Typist and our exclusive interview with Suzanne Rindell, in which she talks about the unreliable narrators and the appeal of 1920s New York
• See a selection of our favourite books from and about the Jazz Age

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In the late 1880s, a series of headless and limbless torsos was recovered from the Thames. Remains were also found in what, ironically, was to become the headquarters of Scotland Yard. Despite newspaper speculation about the involvement of Jack the Ripper, the police soon realised that these killings were the work of someone else.

In Mayhem, the debut novel from screenwriter Sarah Pinborough (right), Police Surgeon Dr Thomas Bond begin his search in the opium dens by the docks, where a mysterious stranger in a long black coat seems to be the key to tracking down the killer.

Here Sarah reveals some of the shocking true facts about the Thames Torso Murders and a serial killer more savage than the figure we most closely associate with Victorian London's dark and violent underworld.

There is something deliciously dark - if you'll excuse the phrase given that I'm referring to the death of several women - about the Thames Torso Murders. You'll be forgiven if you haven't heard of them. Most people haven't. If thinking of a series of brutal murders in London of the 1880s then nearly all of us would immediately think of Jack the Ripper, who terrorised the streets of Whitechapel for nearly three months, took the lives of at least five women and went down in history as London's most notorious uncaught serial killer.

There is an irony that in an era when the term 'serial killer' had yet to be coined London was in fact courting the attention of two such individuals. Where Jack was claiming glory with his graphic displays in the streets, the Thames Torso Killer was working more quietly. Part of the delicious darkness that appeals to me is that he seemed less concerned with fame than the Ripper. He was colder - there were no spur of the moment killings on the streets. I suspect that the Thames Torso Killer was a planner. And like Jack, he slipped away without detection.

So, what can I tell you about this killer to whet your appetites before you see what I've done with him in Mayhem? Here's a short fact file about the other serial killer working in London's late-1880s:

• The killings became known as 'The Thames Torso Murders' because he disposed of the bodies of his victims by cutting them up and throwing body parts wrapped in parcels into the Thames.
  
  
• He wasn't without flamboyance. One female torso was discovered wrapped in newspaper in the vault of the Scotland Yard building as it was being constructed. A journalist's terrier then uncovered an arm and a leg in the same location - after police bloodhounds had failed to discover anything on a search.
  
  
• Apart from with the last body found in 1901, none of the victims' (of which there were at least five) heads were recovered. In the one case where the head was found with the torso it had been boiled beyond any recognition. It's unknown whether he kept the heads
  as souvenirs or simply to help avoid capture.
  
  
• He was active for longer than Jack the Ripper. His most likely first victim was found on the steps of a church in Paris in November 1886. His last victim was found in London in 1901.
  
  
• Only one of his victims was ever identified. A young woman called Elizabeth Jackson who'd fallen on hard times. She was seven months pregnant at the time of her death and when her body was finally pieced together it was only an item of her clothing that led to her being identified.
  
  
• Not only did he murder and dismember these women, he also removed some of the internal and external parts, such as their uteruses and breasts.
  

So, there you have it. The Thames Torso murderer might not have been as headline grabbing as Jack - no doubt because there were no murder locations or victim's identities, but there was a cold methodology in his work that I find fascinating. Jack may never have been caught, but he certainly has an identity. The Thames Torso Killer, however, slipped silently into the sidelines of history... and I can't help but wonder if he's laughing at us from the shadows.