'Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins', Rupert Everett

It’s celebrity (auto)biography time of year. I don’t usually go in for that sort of thing, but Rupert Everett was doing the round of the chat shows (or at least the ones on Channel 4, the only terrestrial UK channel I get with my hot-wired Sky box) and his repartee was sufficiently sparkling that I thought I would give it a bash. His autobiography was mostly marketed on the basis of two things. Firstly, that he wrote it himself (rather than having a ghostwriter). Secondly, that it contains celebrity gossip, including lots about Madonna, not-so-subtly alluded to over taupe sofas on morning TV. On both these points it was pretty mediocre. Everett is OK at writing but nothing special, and may well have benefited from a more involved editor. On the celebrity gossip though... well, maybe I’m all gossiped out, but it wasn’t really anything new. Particularly on Madonna – he clearly likes her a lot, so didn’t say anything remotely surprising or interesting. If like me you’re a secret shameful semi-follower of this prurient sort of thing, you’d be better off to check out ‘The Insider: The Private Diaries of a Scandalous Decade’ by Piers Morgan or 'But Enough About Me: From Eighties Geek to Rock 'n' Roll Chic - Adventures in Celebsville' by Jancee Dunn which are much more interesting, or subscribe to Popbitch.

I found Everett’s general life narrative much more interesting, in fact. He has had a wildly eventful time of it, living in various places around the world, seemingly on a whim, and getting into various irresponsible escapades. For someone as logical and considered as I it’s somewhat cathartic to watch someone else flail around erratically. His life, in fact, has been rather like a novel – The Great Gatsby, Brideshead Revisited, or something like that. That upper class type who goes from riches to poverty and back but ends up recreating a terribly privileged life wherever he lands. And now he’ll have lots of money thanks to his book. Smart guy.