The previous comments sum this book up perfectly.
I bought a book about Billy Connolly to read about Billy Connolly.
Who cares about Pamela Stephenson's own travels through India?
How she chooses to decorate the interior of her Maltese house?
How she misses Australia so much, especially the food?
The history of the Maltese Knights of Valletta?
How she began her stage career at 5 years old in a ballet production of the teddy bear's picnic?
and wet herself on stage?
How she once had to do a scene that involved taking down someones trousers on TV?
Her experiences feeding sharks in Bora Bora?
Who cares? I dont want to know any of this stuff, but I have to wade through pages of it to get to the good stuff.
She spends pages telling you how she researched transgendered people in Samoa! People who cut their own genitals off. She basically rehashes stuff that she has read in a other book, passing it off as professional research, and you are never going to forget that she is a psychologist because she reminds you of that fact at least once every 2 pages, and on the back cover. At least 30% of this book has nothing whatsoever to do with Billy Connolly.
This book is a vehicle for her, and its such a shame as, the events in Billy Connolly's 60th year sound so interesting. If only she would stick to the point, and realise that being married to an interesting person does not make your life interesting too.