Rik Mayall's non-awaited autobiography delivers one of the worst books I have ever read. Mayall is almost certainly the laziest writer ever to complete a volume. A biographer needs some degree of scholarship to complete such a work, whether working from memory, documentation or interview, and this biographer clearly hasn't bothered, in spite of the advantages conferred by writing about himself.

Imagine Rik Mayall's generic character, chaotic and puerile, making up a life story for himself while being unable to resist relating smutty gag after gag, suggestive and without substance. Even the photographs are presented at random, devoid of helpful captions.

For me, this book was a Christmas present from my wife. I looked forward to reading it. I gave up long before the end. It's rubbish. It isn't even funny rubbish.

The author's excuse for all this is a life-threatening brain injury received when crashing his quad bike. Not good enough. Ozzy Osbourne could do better.

As ever, Rik needs someone else to do the writing.