I've always been a huge admirer of Boy George. Brave, stylish, opinionated and skilful enough to reinvent himself a few times. Yet this time you can't help but think that he's hit his own low, Alan Partridge moment. The first two chapters are none other than tacky self-celebratory huff-and-puff-and-what-a-chore-being-a-celebrity-is. "I'm a celebrity this, i'm a celebrity that". The foreword itself, by his co-author, is actually hilarious. You'd almost expect the book to climax with some orgasmic "of course i'm not Jesus, i'm only Boy George". Particularly ridiculous is how confused and contradictory Boy George seems this time. "I don't care about money". Two lines later: "I hate DJing for gay clubs, coz they don't like to pay you". While he's busy lashing out against everything and everyone (and i mean everyone) he's ever come across in his entire life, he even finds time to slag off poor old Peter Tatchell (someone who's probably done more for gay rights in this country than anyone else, chip-on-his-shoulders George should remember) alleging that the guy cares about human rights simply as a cover-up for being a frustrated embittered unhappy human being. Basically, according to Boy George, a happy night out and a shag for Peter Tatchell would do and he'd stop bothering us all with those petty boring things, human rights in Zimbabwe, gay people stoned to death in Jamaica, etc. That's the lowest point of the book, and i guarantee contenders were there aplenty. Oh and you also find out that Boy George really has it in for George Michael. In a catty, obsessed, bitchy fashion. The issue of how George Michael came out seems to bother him particularly. You'd think Boy George loses sleep over it. Except that after two entire chapters about the subject he'd conclude, "i don't really care about it". Maybe a return to the charts could do him some good?