Just Me, by Sheila Hancock
My Word is My Bond, by Roger Moore
Me Cheeta, by Cheeta
Everyone knows what the Hollywood autobiography is like. It contains the assurance that the author has been made to feel exceptionally ‘humble’ exactly at those points where someone ordinary might expect to feel smug and triumphant — a knighthood, or an Oscar. (‘The citation specified it was for my work for charity, which was particularly humbling.’)
It contains the parting expression that the hero or heroine is really overwhelmed by the feeling of good luck. (‘How blessed am I to have experienced such love … I am a very lucky, lucky woman.’) And, for some reason no one has ever successfully explained to me, it almost always has to contain an anecdote in which the late Rex Harrison has behaved extraordinarily badly.
Here are two from the books under consideration, and, for good luck, a third from a recent volume in the same vein:
On this particular evening, as I finished my speech, Rex released a veritable machine-gun volley of pent-up wind … even the first few rows of the audience heard it.
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