John Cleese sat down at his typewriter and started tapping out his life story. Once he hit the required word count he stopped, tried to hastily wrap it all up and then went back to mucking about on Twitter.

Throughout the book Cleese often goes off on tangents. Sometimes they’re amusing anecdotes. Sometimes they’re the opinions of a grumpy old man. Sometimes they’re classes in writing comedy. Some are fun, some aren’t.

And then there’s the frequently bizarre amount of space given to each subject. While Monty Python gets fairly short shrift, his minor part in a musical goes on for quite a long time. It feels like Cleese had little patience for editors or any other input that would have shaped this a bit more.

It would be easy to complain. But this is undoubtedly Cleese’s own voice, when he could have easily tossed this over to a shabby ghost writer. And anyone who has chosen to read this must by now be familiar with Cleese and his obsessions.

The book is a mixed bag, but not an entirely surprising one. If you imagine Cleese talking at you fairly aimlessly about his life until he gets bored then you’ll know what to expect.