Following the hardback launch last year, the book is out now in paperback, which is of course the celeb memoir's natural form - fitting as it does so much easier into into that tote for the beach this summer. "So who the hell is gonna be interested?" I hear some of you sneer at the back. Plenty, of course. Like Shakira's hips, tabloid circulation figures don't lie, and there's a pretty good reason why Price and her pneumatic boobs float their way to the front page of our best-selling nationals with still-remarkable regularity. People, or certainly enough of them, can't get enough of the Pricey.
And, if you're one of those interested in all things KP, there really is no better way of taking a few steps in her pink stilettos than keeping up with her autobiographies. For all the claims that her ITV2/Living shows are where you get the "real Katie", we all know that when it comes to telly the editor is king. Here though the tone captured by Farnworth is so much like Price's interviews in print/on screen/on radio that it's a genuine achievement. As you turn the pages it's impossible not to hear her voice in your head, yelping the stream-of-consciousness thoughts, rants and the rest.
And as consciousness it really does stream. To call the writing style "conversational" is to understate how much it feels just like sitting opposite Price as she knocks back the shots and spills out her take on her last few, eventful, years. As with any tipsy conversation, there's the odd diversion - be it her genuinely affecting feelings for her disabled son Harvey, or the rants at the press/Pete/the press/ex-mates/the press. There's tastelessness ("... what I ate for breakfast! Two hunky male dancers actually... ha-ha! Just kidding!"), prudishness ("put it this way, we definitely consummated our marriage in style!") and icky medical insight ("it looked horrific - swollen and purple and blue!"). There's revelations ("bizarrely began his assault by licking each of us"), dramatic irony ("Not me and Pete, we were unbreakable, weren't we?") and more unintentional eyebrow-raisers ("Let's hope my marriage to Alex lasts longer than Angelina and Billy Bob's...").
Sure, there's plenty of contradictions, endless self-justification and a certain chippiness, but were any of us to spool out an unreconstructed recap of our own lives to an awaiting dictaphone, it'd probably end up reading much the same. That's the major selling point of You Only Live Once and Pricey's other books. For a girl who's stuck in the artifice of the "reality" bubble, it's intriguing to get such an unfettered, guileless snapshot of her mind. These 300-odd pages should really be called Katie: Unedited.
You Only Live Once is out now in paperback via Arrow Books.