I’m going to start this by making it clear that I am a fan of Jodie Marsh. Back in the old days, I guess I lazily bought into the tabloid caricature of her, but as she’s matured I’ve been impressed with her anti-bullying campaigning, staunch vegetarianism, charity work and focus to achieve what she has in body building. And I love a tattoo. So I am most certainly not a hater.
And therein lies the problem with this book. It was written in 2006, and for the most part charts her conquest-littered path through the early 2000s London club scene. Which is fine (and good on her, she had a go on a fair few hot celebs), but sadly much of it reinforces those stereotypes. This twenty-something Jodie may be the same woman as the one who has recently made an excellent TV show about bullying, but if that’s the case it’s certainly an immature and less worldly-wise version.
I wasn’t expecting Tolstoy, so I’m not going to moan about the quality of the writing. Jodie’s exuberance and energy do come through in the (often) stream-of-consciousness prose. There’s also no question that she’s been through the mill – she suffered victimisation at school, a friend was murdered, and she’s made some rum old choices when it comes to blokes. She tells it all with a naïve charm, being as frank about her failures and disappointments as she is about her successes.
If you’re looking for a quality autobiography about a significant historical figure, this isn’t the book for you. However, if you want a giggle while finding out about the trials and tribulations of a product of our celebrity and reality TV-obsessed age, then give it a whirl. I’m looking forward to the next instalment. Go on girl.