I bought a copy for 10p at the Oxfam shop. I returned to my space age bachelor pad, switched on my lava lamp, reclined on my La-Z-Boy (late 1970s Magic Fingers model), mixed a bright puce cocktail made out of three parts flamingos and ten parts vermouth with amusing parasols stuffed in the tall tall glass, then I threw on that cd where some genius put modern beats to Gregorian chants, and with my ultramarine-dyed and topiaried poodle named Gregoire gazing raptly up at me I read up to page 100 and stopped. 
 Hmm, I thought, this damn book really is the Encyclopedia of Show Biz Cliches, and the Bible of Looksism (if you ain't got looks, you ism worth bothering about). I set down Valley of the Dolls and hopped off the La-Z-Boy. I waded through the knee-deep shagpile to my phone - amusingly I still only use landlines. I flipped through my Little Black Book. Elizabeth? No, not tonight. Jasmine? Hmmm.... could be. Cassandra? Leona? Bethany? 
 In the end I called them all and they all came round and at three in the morning I died of pure pleasure. This is my ghost typing these words. I'm happy to report to all you bachelors out there that there are bikinis after death, and Lambourghinis, in case you were worrying about that. 
 I never finished that damn book when I was there on Planet Earth. I figured life was too short for Valley of the Dolls. Now I think death is too.