And you know I like her a lot. I love her style, I love her clothes, I love her attitude, most of the time, with a few exceptions, and mostly I love that she seems to have distanced herself from Hollywood Ebola Paris Hilton.

But goddamn, the writing, the books, it’s for sh-t.

I have a copy on my desk, browsed through it a couple of weeks ago while on a call with my ma. Needless to say, and this won’t be news to you, it takes about 5 minutes, less, for the fontrum to set in. Any twat can write a book these days. Especially when editors are letting through sh-t like this:

“It felt incredibly loud and hot in the club. The pulsing bass lines could be physically felt in every pair of panties...”

For real. And there’s more:

“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” she whispered, catching her breath as Jackson slipped his hands inside her shirt, pulling her close and undoing her shirt buttons with his teeth. Cool night air made her nipples harden as he pulled her shirt open, and then his warm mouth covered them, making her moan gently.

From Priceless by Nicole Richie.

And she’s promoting it at book signings and on talk shows in New York. Various outfits, of course.

But you know who else is coming out with a book?

That Snooki creature has just signed a publishing deal. It’ll be called “A Shore Thing”. About a girl on the boardwalk trying to hook up for life. Or something. So that thing with the hair on that show, well she’s going to be an author.

An author.

A word that used to carry with it some gravitas.

I used to think that if you ever wrote a book, it would be something you’d have busted your ass for. And something that could hold up – not necessarily a masterpiece, but not a f-cking joke either. Some spend years writing, only to be rejected, and their material is good. Very good. And then along comes a drunken troll who can barely spell, and suddenly it’s their life’s dream made a mockery.

I hate people.

Photos from Wenn.com and Jackson Lee/Splashnewsonline.com