This is a fairly unstructured, hagiographic view of Goldie's life, as written by himself (about himself). It's not all braggadocio, as he dances over words, describing his 35-year-addiction to drugs, while contributing to basically creating drum 'n' bass in the 1990s.

In interviews and on TV, Goldie is an entertainer. He's a raconteur. It's only natural that his style spills onto the page. Examples:

Someone says, ‘Fuck me! You don’t age.’ ‘Yeah, I know. I’m Benjamin fucking Button. I’m also the Dorian Gray of fucking breakbeat: I keep a very grotesque fucking portrait of me locked away in chains in a fucking room, and every time I bring one EDM motherfucker down to his knees, the picture gets a little bit more beautiful!’

Oh my God, how times are a-changing – for the better in this case. It’s nice to be able to say that in the era of Brexit and Trump. But then again, is Trump that much different to some of the other fuckers who came before him? I’d say not. America’s just saying exactly what it’s been wanting to say for all this time, but now they’re saying it openly, as opposed to saying it under their fucking breath.

Also, his short hate speech to Eric Clapton as a consumer is hilarious:

God bless you, Eric Clapton, but can I have my fucking eighteen grand back, you twat? Because that’s how much it fucking cost me to go to your rehab place in Antigua – all for some fat cunt trying to whip me for his sins because I don’t want to cross the fucking road every time I see a pub. Sorry, sunshine, but that ain’t the fucking modern world right now. And, Eric, you set this place up, so as far as I’m concerned your rehab place should be responsible enough to answer the emails of customers who paid in full and are not too fucking happy with what transpired.

Goldie writes a lot back and forth on bikram yoga, how it's centered his life and how it should be taught throughout the UK. Well, a proponent of yoga isn't a bad thing, but at times Goldie reeks of the same sentiments that a 12-step-reborn person does. No wrong in that, either, it's just that I find his style cramped by it.

However, when he recants stories, they're as though somebody of his demeanour has e-mailed a mate:

Cut to the surgery – quite literally – and my fucking leg looks like an open kebab with two types of sauce: curry and ketchup. They’ve got the leg open, and I’m saying to the surgeons, ‘Can you take pictures of this, because I need to go and speak to my lawyer about it ... the wrong skis and all that?’ They do the business, and it’s settled out of court, and I ultimately end up getting compensated for everything. So that helped, but it wasn’t worth the pain. The divorce was, though.

His writings of finding his current love, his wife, is very heartfelt. It's lovely—interspiced with the laddiness of sex as written by a kind of stereotypical view of women—and sweet.

He doesn't shy from his working-class background:

The reason I chose the name Rufige Kru to release some of my first records under was because that was how I thought you spelt the word ‘roughage’! (Though I knew that wasn’t how you were meant to spell ‘crew’.)

All in all, an easy and lofty read, but I wish the book had been edited more tightly to allow it to flow differently.