Wh Smith

Celebrity memoirs: Black eyes and Rohypnol in the latest crop of

Sometimes I envy the other contributors to these pages. They get to salute the heroes in their field, to bestow garlands upon the best and the finest that the bookshops of England can offer – and to acquire an armful of volumes that would grace the shelves of any reading person. I'm more like the Dynorod man. I roll up a sleeve, dip an arm into the slimy feculence of the celeb memoir business and yank out the ghost-written, self-indulgent, self-aggrandising effluvia of a ghastly gang of cash-randy showbiz egotists. I'd give it up – tell the editor to stuff it and give the gig to Marina Warner – if only I didn't like doing it so very much.