Christopher Howse is one of those writers I have always considered up there with Craig Brown when it comes to the briliantly funny skewering of vapid celeb culture, so what a guilty delight to read his review of Pippa's book in the Telegraph today.
Three choice extracts:
Pippa Middleton has “always loved to write”, indeed it is a “passion”, so it is sad that she has had to wait until the age of 29, four years older than Keats at his death, to achieve publication.
The globally recognised bottom hardly gets a look-in, making a half-hearted entrance on page 163, and exiting with another plate of canapés on page 164.
What is the point of this thick, colourful book, except as a sort of cultural tea bag for the American market? Who will rely on its recipes for cooking a turkey, a Victoria sandwich or a leg of lamb?