Afternoon:
10°c
Just before the Man Booker Prize was awarded last year, an enterprising journalist revealed that the entire shortlist of six had sold fewer copies than Crystal, the second novel issued under the name of Katie Price, the inflatable better known as Jordan. Her book had shifted 159,407 units in just three months, comfortably seeing off the Booker total of 120,770 (nearly all Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach, anyway). Literary fiction is a goner, pundits glumly concluded.
Last week, Katie Price, still only 29, issued her third autobiography, Jordan: Pushed to the Limit. It went straight to the top of the hardback non-fiction list (until she is deposed by Delia).
It's never been any kind of hindrance to Price's flourishing literary career that she has not actually written any of her books. No more should she be expected personally to manufacture her lingerie or perfume ranges. Discussing her own life as represented in her autobiography, on Woman's Hour, she remarked: "I don't know if they've mentioned it in the book, but ..." On the other hand, she talks with great earnestness about how much effort she puts into her "signings", where she unquestionably does perform acts of writing.
In previous books, Price has explicitly thanked Rebecca Farnham, her able ghostwriter, for her help. This time - though Farnham has been at work again - there's a stiff little legal disclaimer instead: "This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollections of Katie Price. In some cases places, date sequences or the detail of events may have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such minor respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this book are true."
Curious. Her publishers, a branch of Random House, seem to have become just a little bit embarrassed by the textual status of their prize moneyspinner. They shouldn't be. Katie Price is showing their whole trade the way to go. She understands the marketing of celebrity better than they do, with their old-fashioned ideas. Her books are the continuation of gossip columns by other means. Or, to put it another way, literature aspiring to the condition of reality TV.
As it happens, her latest memoir is a bit dull, a saga of medical mishaps (postnatal depression, a miscarriage, her son Harvey's accidents) and marital rows (she's generally stressed, gutted and shattered). But never mind, in her fourth volume of memoirs she promises to go back to sex. There are many more novels on the way, too, as well as clothing ranges, kids' toys, films and other merchandise - "And who knows, perhaps one day my image will be on a stamp!" she exclaims. Let's just hope it's one big enough to be signed.
