Spare me the celebrity Christmas memoir

Is there anything more dispiriting at this time of year than the dreaded ‘celebrity’ memoir – the publishing industry’s annual two-fingered salute to all us starving mid-list authors?

Last week I managed to weave my way through a heaving Waterstones, eventually arriving at one of those vast tables groaning with needy ‘personalities’; there they all were, present and correct in their neat hierarchical piles (the higher the advance the bigger the stack).

This year’s roll call of vaguely familiar faces has been much the same as any other year. The garish covers all feature the usual cut-and-paste mug shots of bland variety artists in various stages of eyebrow-raised, what-am-I-like hilarity (I’m gurning back at you Michael McIntyre and Bob Mortimer); or worse, the feel-my-pain gaze of a ‘star’ yearning to share their ‘truth’.

So desperate are publishers for the next sleb blockbuster, they will throw money at any old media lackey in the hope that it sticks; if the celeb in question has survived a messy divorce or life threatening illness so much the better.