Let me begin this review with an admission. I am slightly wary of autobiographies. I — and this probably holds true of the reader as well — grew up conditioned to revere the printed word, especially in a book. As a student, I was a sucker for autobiographies, especially if it contained a good rags-to-riches narrative. But one day came the realisation that autobiographies can lie. Let me cite one example to make my point. When I read Lance Armstrong’s It’s Not About the Bike, I believed every word of it. How can you not love the saga of an