Most of the time, I try and avoid saying anything bad or mean on here. I’d find it hard to slag someone’s work off to their face, so it’s not something I want to do online. However, I do make one exception – celebrity books.

Not all celebrity books obviously, because some stars are just sickeningly talented, and if they want to make a foray into prose that’s a-ok with me. But not many of them fall into that category, so there’s generally plenty for me to be gnashing my teeth over. The latest offender is an upcoming offering from P. Diddy.

It’s a book about women’s bums, apparently. Pitched as something for your coffee table, he plans to collect pictures of ladies’ backsides and treat us to a few anecdotes and memories – whether the memories are about the bums or just about his life in general, I haven’t quite managed to figure out.

This makes me very sad.

I mean, I like bums. I might even like a book about bums, in the right hands. Somehow I suspect this book will not make me feel good about bums. Which is a shame, because I like the idea of feeling good about bums in general.