Diana’s ghost cannot rest in July as Sunday Times fashion writer Colin McDowell publishes Diana Style, full of the pics we have seen all these years but freshly burnished by Colin’s brittly prose.
August shakes with the arrival of Genesis: Revelations and Marianne Faithfull updates her memoirs, probably freshened with tales of her scary encounter with cancer this year.
Shakespeare’s missus Anne Hathaway may yet turn in her grave as Germaine Greer is expected to give her the unsynthesised manifold treatment. I do hope that the good doctor will manage to produce at least one readable sentence and not subject her fans to highly allusive academese: we know you’re clever ducky.
Top Gear's Richard Hammond will bore us to death with his autobiography in September – I thought his memory had gone since the smash up. Funny how it’s come back at the sight of a publisher’s advance.
Possibly in October the Queen Mother gets written up by William Shawcross, though I’ve heard he’s finding it hard going. Quite what more there is to say about this dull woman with bad teeth I haven’t a clue.
And sometime before Christmas ’07 we have Sophie Dahl’s warts ‘n’ all account of her mother Tessa – drinks, drugs, sad fucks – delightful.
Books you won’t see next year include Woody Allen’s bio – still holding out for millions, the creep. But I do hope Alec Baldwin’s life story comes out: he’s threatening to reveal all about his bitter divorce from Kim Basinger.
Books I’d vote not to be written include Calum Best's bio – though a TV doc about his sex life would be most interesting. All they’d have to do is put an endoscopic camera on his cock for some interesting internal shots of Z-list tarts. Macauley Culkin also can put away his pen. A 23-year-old has no life to recollect aside from masturbation and depression.