"'...a vain, self-regarding, shallow-thinking viper.' Does that mean she didn't like my book?"

Apparently the authors of celebrity memoirs don't so much have editors any more as enablers:

"Do they know, these people, how the polite publishers and serialisation buyers crow and giggle as they lay out blurbs and headlines? Do they know with what superhuman effort such grown-ups refrain from pointing out how bad the writers make themselves look? One tiny example: Mrs Blair relates a conversation with Princess Margaret. She introduces the minister Chris Smith and his partner. The Princess, confused, says: “Partner for what?” And instead of saying “his life partner” Cherie says: “For sex, Ma'am!” Crass, homophobic. If I introduced her as Mr Blair's sexual resource, how would she like it?"

(Mrs. Blair's version: "She stalked off. She knew exactly what kind of partner I meant. She was just trying to catch me out.")

And speaking of sexual resources:

"Stories are buffed up and given royal icing: Mrs Blair claims Leo was conceived because it was embarrassing to pack contraceptive “equipment” for Balmoral, where servants unpack your sponge bag. Well, I can confide to any confused males that there is no known “equipment” too large to go in a handbag. Which servants don't touch. But hell, it's a good story. And the memoirs must be served quick and hot, before poor Mr Brown implodes and everyone's baying for pictures of little Milibands."

-Libby Purves reviews Cherie Blair's memoir in The Times