KEEN to avoid being gifted the latest mediocre book by a TV celebrity abusing their fame by way of the written word? Complete the following form and email to the Home Office:
I, the undersigned, hereby declare I do not not wish to receive any of the following in either paper or electronic formats and take full responsibility for receiving drink coasters instead.
Any quintessentially British humorous whodunit
Smash hits such as The Thursday Murder Club, about colourful geriatrics solving a murder in an upmarket retirement home, are innately offensive. Murder is not whimsical in any way and Midsomer Murders has bludgeoned the bucolic village murder to death with the mayoral mace and interred it beneath the duck pond.
Any concept-only Christmas cash-in
There are many variations, but the formula is Christmas + X = book = £££. And thus we get The 12 Cats of Christmas. Almost any ‘X’ variable works – The 12 Panzers of Christmas, The 12 TikToks of Christmas – have been tried. These books are not designed to be read. They may not be designed to be opened, nobody has ever tried.
Any new perspective on a minor literary character
Read a book already? Interested in a sequel from the point of view of a different character? Your answer is irrelevant; you have been bought the book regardless. Act now or receive novels telling the stories of Captain Nemo’s cabin boy, Curley’s wife and the rabid dog shot dead in the street by Atticus Finch.
Any Jamie Oliver books
There are not enough foodstuffs in the world to justify the number of Jamie Oliver books that already exist. And yet more come out each year. The latest was Simply Jamie, not to be confused with Simply Nigella, promising even simpler recipes from a chef known for simple recipes. By the year 2030 they’ll be: ‘Buy bread. Open bag. Eat in Asda carpark.’
Any celebrity-written children’s book
It seems depressingly likely David Walliams writes his books, based on their quality. But McFly’s Tom Fletcher? Natalie Portman? Marcus Rashford? Channing Tatum? Roman Kemp and Vick Hope? Is this not an insult to actual childrens’ authors? There is no reason, financial or otherwise, to publish Leonardo DiCaprio’s The 25-Year-Old Model Who Came to Tea.
Any funny, poignant memoir of suburban childhood
The celebrities have this covered in their insipid early-years chapters. Growing up fancying Linda Carter or Lee Majors in a semi-detached house outside Leatherhead is neither an unusual nor fascinating situation to find yourself in. You did it yourself, or near enough. You do not need ‘Nam-style flashbacks from Andrew Collins’s unremarkable years having a girlfriend at uni.
