Evelyn Waugh once said you could write anything you liked about a man as long as you made him attractive to women. Jeremy Scott doesn't succeed in making himself attractive to anyone in this book. And if he can't, who can?
The only interesting stories in this autobiography concern his sociopathic, explorer father. And the one that probably sold the book to its publisher in the first place, namely how Scott fed Ted Heath and Willie Whitelaw speed-coated canapes to win the Tory Party account.
So what can we learn from this story of the rise and fall of a man who dropped out of the London media scene to live in France with Peter Mayle, but who didn't make any money out of chronicling the lifestyle?
His early life in remote Scotland is entertaining. Throwing grenades to provide food for his aristocratic, but hungry, family seems to have provided the training Scott needed to win clients who later came to him for ads.
Drugs and drink took their toll and he then seems to have committed slow suicide before being saved, spiritually at least, by the teachings of Marcus Aurelius.
What was the point? This seems to be his conclusion and sadly, it is the reader's too.