How Katie Price has managed to write four autobiographies is a complete mystery. Maybe she's put lots of drawings in the new one, you know, of horses and Alex and Dane's toe and stuff.

She's also single handedly ruined the colour pink for girls all over England who don't want to grow up to be talentless, fame-hungry chest fairies. Yes, chest fairies is a new term I've come up with for glamour models, it may stink, but I think I'm going to stick with it.

Anyway, enough of me, here's more of Katie. Apparently this is the vacuous tart's idea of a sexy secretary, although from our point of view it looks a lot closer to what you'd get if you combined Barbara Cartland with Dame Edna and then stuffed the whole lot up Paris Hilton's vagina.

I'm personally going to go and buy a copy this evening and read the entire thing from cover to cover in the hope that all the bad things I've ever done and ever will do in my entire life (and I've got some pretty freaky shit lined up for my 50s onwards) should just about balance out after reading this self-indulgent tripe. Thanks karma.