So I finished the Alex James book. I didn't throw it out the window when Keith Allen made his unwelcome appearance and I trawled my way through Alex's flying lessons, his falling in love with the lovely lady he made his wife, his buying his very big house in the country and his soppiness at the birth of his beautiful children. Where was the cheese, Alex? I expected cheese.
And in just over a day (extremely unusual for me) I have read Vic Reeves' Me:Moir, the story of the first twenty years of his life. I liked Vic before and I like him even more now, though I am jealous, once again, of reading about somebody who grew up with friends who wanted to form a band.
Finally in my trilogy of three autobiographies, it's George Melly's, as recommended by Arabella. Yes, I'm keeping the least flamboyant, most conventional character 'til last. Come on, George. Don't let me down.
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