Although I understand that his involvement in music was always going to be at the forefront of his recollections, it is somewhat disappointing that the author chooses to ignore his TV work completely.
Am I the only person who wanted to read about his work on "Men Behaving Badly" and the 'inside gossip' about his on-screen relationship with Martin Clunes? Is mine a lone voice in pining for the grubby details of the "Bob The Builder" years and his more recent triumph in "Waterloo Road"?
It's obvious that Mr Morrissey feels that this part of his life can be swept under the carpet, even when legions of his fans will be, understandably, baying for nugget after nugget about Michael Elphick's toilet habits or the truth about Lesley Ash's hip replacement.
My expectations for this tome lie crushed like a small vole beneath the wheels of a velocipede (the field vole, of course, as opposed to the water vole - arvicola amphibious - which would never stray from it's natural environs) or the fingers of a gulag-bound dissident 'neath a four-pound lump-hammer during the iron grip of Stalin's years.
What began as an auspicious day filled with literary hope now hovers above me, grey and drear, like a weekend in Hull. My joy is gone - heaven knows, I'm miserable now.