Yes, his novels are very funny, and well written.
This, what one hoped would be the third gut buster novel, is a nice work, highs and lows, not as funny as the novels, but when is life?
With his life work behind him, perhaps Mr. Everett will re-write that third novel he talkes about in this book.
Cheers.

Mr. Everett perfectly sums up his book on page 181: "I had met many stars". This tale of a minor actor cavorting with the rich and famous reads like a modern update of Vile Bodies, but recounted, incoherently, by Agatha Runcible herself, and sorely lacking the asides of a sarcastically observing Waugh. Everett's brushes with the stars are too evanescent to give him much to tell. They put in brief appearances, like hazy spectres that evaporate before the author has been able to get anywhere beyond telling us how "fascinating", "extraordinary" and/or "mesmerizing" they were. The reader is also painfully aware that these stars all appear in Mr. Everett's biography, but that he is not very likely to appear in many of theirs. Actually, Everett himself is quite aware of that, too. There are, indeed, a few attempts at self-mockery (most notably on the final page), but they fail to ring true. One hardly needs a PhD in psychology to see that at heart, the author is very much impressed by all his glamorous contacts - why else would he have covered an exorbitant 400+ pages telling us about them?
Yet, one also gains the impression that Mr. Everett doesn't actually care much about any of the people he talks about. That's why his attempts at tragedy utterly fail (lots of AIDS-deaths, obviously). It is very hard to feel moved by the death of a person one was introduced to a few pages before, or another who has at best appeared intermittently for a few paragraphs now and then, but never came off the paper as a real person. Everett rushes from one inane anecdote to the next, clubbing, boozing, snorting and f***ing, and seems to have a new "best friend" every second week, who to the reader will remain just another meaningless name. It does not help that, say, the brutal death by decapitation of a crew member or the breaking up of an 8 year relationship are treated in the same casual and cursory manner as Elizabeth Taylor's jewellery or Madonna's handling of Sean Penn's genitals. Even when he describes the 9/11 attacks, which he witnessed from only a few blocks away, the only thing Everett can come up with is a repeat of the hackneyed phrase that it all looked like a scene from a Hollywood movie. Maybe the real tragedy is that all this is the result of a vapid, hedonistic lifestyle where the only emotional attachment of some meaning and durability is to a dog.

I was quite surprised to find that Mr. Everett has published several novels, because this book does not demonstrate any special literary gifts. The writing is covered in thick layers of affectation and camp. The author goes out of his way to be amusing, resulting in lots of ridiculous metaphor ("He had the manner of a deranged army officer's wife at a tea party" - what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?). On the other hand, the grandiloquent phrase "in those days", of which Everett is very fond, I did find hilarious. As if we were dealing with an octogenarian reminiscing about the war, rather than a man in his mid forties talking about the 1980s.

It might all have been worthwhile in spite of all this if only there were some grit in the book. But if you expect any incisive observations of character, or even just some juicy gossip: forget it. Everybody, no matter how weird or deranged, turns out to be nice, interesting, talented, wonderful and whatnot. The few things there are that might be considered slightly revealing you will have probably read years ago on some tabloid front page. Desperate to spice things up, Mr. Everett gratuitously employs occasional four-letter references to male genitalia, and completely random sexual innuendo ("It blew my new career out of the water and turned my pubic hair white overnight"). All, needless to say, to no avail. I find it hard to imagine how this disjointed ramble, that lacks any narrative or psychological structure, could hold anyone's attention through such an excessive number of pages. By page 250 I found myself scanning the text diagonally - I was simply bored stiff by all the pointless drivel. My one comfort is that Amazon UK was just about giving this book away for free, but even for free it'll take up space on your shelf better used for something else.

After reading this book I became convinced that CNN should have a camera crew prowling every city Rupert Everett visits. Political correspondents should be called `Rupert Chasers', and old retirees longing for a well-earned rest should be prepared to high-tail it at once whenever Mr. Everett is rumored to be near. Life, in all its queasy uncertainty indeed, seems to respond to his presence.

The red carpet is just one of many banana skins Rupert slips on here. One might say he's slipped through a life that would have broken a weaker man - or at least pointedly ignored a less handsome man.

The ringside seat he's been offered, however, isn't free for any Adonis to occupy. I imagine a highly discerning sensibility must have informed the decisions he took from the options life presented: a sensibility that comes through in the prose, and is clearly a deep part of both the man today, as well as the boy who watched `Mary Poppins.'