Beats the hell out of Parsons, Hornby et al.* (although it’s really a different genre to any of Bill Drummond’s oeuvre so I wouldn’t dare compare it).
It’s a wonderfully observed autobiography of Smith’s obsession with pop music, and his final realisation that, despite membership of the spectacularly un-remembered and unsuccesful Cleaners from Venus, he’s ultimately a fan, not a musician, and the first, larger, part of the book, is better than the somewhat shorter part at the end, chronicling the slight uplift and subsequent fall into obscurity of the Cleaners.
The chapter in which his mum introduces to him Damon Albarn is priceless.
Ideal holiday reading.
*I was told it’s rude to use et al. when referring to people, as it’s neuter. But Parsons and Hornby bug me sufficiently that I don’t care, although I’m starting to warm to Hornby a bit – some of his articles for Believer magazine aren’t so shabby. He was a total prat on a talk show he did with Clive James, though.