As an avid reader of biographies I looked forward to an entertaining holiday read from this book. I have read Hunter's columns across the years in various publications, and I thought that this might be an entertaining read, bearing his track record in mind. This book was very disappointing. I felt had, done-over. Hunter is the master of creating 500 or even 1000 words out of anything, he prides himself on it - even going to the unnecessary extreme of frying his newborn child's placenta with onions in order to file copy. I felt that this book was an exercise in filing copy. Career-wise, Hunter was the right man in the right place, and this comes through in spades. Hunter is a cold, cold man, he missed his Mother's death and even her funeral as he was too busy. He is mean spirited towards his father, a man who became an embarrassing cripple for the career obsessed Hunter. He admires and respects socialism and communist affiliation as badge of sophistication, yet he and his family join the mega-rich of the sixties in luxurious tax exile, this naturally comes complete with self-justification. But Hunter's biggest hang-ups and mega-obsessions are social-class and his wife. His wife comes across as a particularly cold fish. She can do no wrong in Hunter's eyes, her family included; uxorious in the extreme, his adulation of her made me want to throw up. She's rather Stalinist in her approach and viewpoint. Further on Hunter wrings his hands in despair over the fact that his daughter applies for a council flat in London. Back to working class from upper-middle class in three generations, he opines. Poor Hunter, his daughter's payback was the refusal of Hunter to visit her while in post-rape crisis after a particularly brutal attack. His sister converts to lesbianism, leaving her husband adrift, and he's simply worried about the press getting hold of the story and the effect on his position. His other sister's husband succumbs to the same illness that killed his father, but he wasn't an embarrassment to Hunter as he was a "professional". Hunter comes across as an altogether awful man, and here he has penned an awful book - I felt used, he was milking copy out of the detritus of his life simply because he could do so, I felt tainted by it. Please stick to footballer's biographies Hunter, at least they do what they say on the tin. Reader, avoid ruining you holiday by simply refusing to take this rancid tripe with you!