I don’t think Tony Blair has written the version of his memoirs that I want to read

I don’t care about Tony Blair’s book.

I don’t care about Tony Blair’s book. I’m sorry, but I just don’t. Unless I really think about it, it’s frankly quite hard to remember who the man was. He’s just become this pious lurking bit-part character in tedious books by other people that I’ve forced myself to read. As though they all lived in houses with attics suffering chronic infestations of Sir Cliff Richard.

Didn’t Cherie write a book already? I can’t quite remember; I suppose she must have done. Everybody else did. Now I think of it, there was some story about her forgetting to pack her ‘contraceptive equipment’ on a visit to Balmoral, wasn’t there? That must have been her own book, unless Carole Caplin wrote one, too. It can hardly have been in David Blunkett’s. Although I didn’t read that one. I don’t think anybody did.

What do we learn from these books? I mean, properly learn — learn so we remember it years later, without having to use Google? Precious little.