Talk about catholic tastes, that's quite a pantheon you've got going on there "A,B&E", "Not In My Name" and "52FF" (flash fiction anthology) all available on Amazon Kindle

"How a psychopath makes sweet love. I can get you ringside. Royal box even."

Ghost written sportsman's biog (after all the thrills and highs of his sporting career are long behind him and already told elsewhere). Scratches chin. Hmm, this really isn't very good.

Quelle surprise ! "A,B&E", "Not In My Name" and "52FF" (flash fiction anthology) all available on Amazon Kindle

"How a psychopath makes sweet love. I can get you ringside. Royal box even."

Isn't he about to make a comeback on TV? Perhaps he will produce a further volume. Definitely be one to avoid. I've learnt my lesson...

lines from the word lab

Can't argue with your assessment of the Cascarino book - it was a huge anticlimax in the end, although the bits in italics were quite interesting, when he's describing how he actually felt during a particular game; the sections where his confidence is rock bottom.

Haven't read any of the others you've mentioned, but I've read a Gazza one, a Terry Butcher one (a Xmas present from in-laws), and they're all basically charity shop fodder.

The first Jimmy Greaves one is pretty good though. lines from the word lab

On a recent holiday, I picked up two of those paperbacks that other tourists leave behind and read them on the beach. And a pair of doozies they were, too. The first was Angels and Demons, which featured a supposedly Harvard-educated expert spending days solving clues that anyone who had been on a morning tour of Rome could have figured out in five minutes. But the second was even worse, and is my nomination for the worst book I've ever finished reading (the ones I didn't complete don't really count, as there is a possiblity they got better - A Dance to the Music of Time would get my vote as a book I found impossible to complete, but it is so long I can hardly be alone on that score): Ladykiller by Martina Cole. It is impossibly, excruciatingly, embarrassingly bad. It features policemen investigating a series of murders who have no knowledge of procedures, a female Inspector who sleeps with the gangster father of one of the victims, a lame cast of Cockney characters including tart-with-a-heart prostitutes, Irish Londoners who prove their Irishness by drinking Bushmills in every other scene, and a killer whose childhood memories include forced colonic irrigation by his mother as his siblings held him down (which, to be honest, was a quite a good sroryline). But what was really bad was the writing: every third page, a character was 'incredulous'. Every second page, someone's 'heart fell into his/her boots'. I wish I could remember all the crimes against writing committed in that book, but I had to drink a lot of Croatian brandy to expunge it from my brain. Compared to Ms Cole, Dan Brown is a literary giant.