Christ.
What a fucking waste of time.
I don't know what I was expecting - but it sure wasn't a vapid, vindictive, ex-wifely attack on David Bowie and his lifestyle.
What was I expecting? Tender interesting personal moments away from the sex-drugs-rockandroll of the time period. Interesting snippets of life. What it was like when they had their first child, moments of difficulty adjusting to fame, beautiful anecdotes about his artistry and sense of style...
But all I got out of this novel was that a jealous Angie Bowie just wants to sing "MEMEMEMEMEMEME" from the rooftops.
While full of sex and conquests from both Angie and David, it comes across as bitchy, sardonic and very jealous. I don't understand where there would be such a need to take so much credit for his costuming, David Bowie the brand, and general comments about getting his conquests before he had a chance.
While the snippets of other stars of the period are mildy interesting, there was nothing that made me want to talk about David Bowie or his lifestyle like other Biographies have made me do.
The only interesting thing to note was that she found David in bed with Mick Jagger, certain butnever 100% sure they'd slept together.
I guess after being banned from discussing their relationship as part of the divorce settlement, I can imagine the freedom to suddenly speak must have been huge - but this book is a jumbled mess, with mized chornology - going forwards and backwards, with no idea how a: confusing and b: annoying this is to the reader.
Quite happy to hand this one back to the friend I borrowed it off.
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