Roger Lewis
As a child of those tank-top times, I have enjoyed two books about the Seventies: Crisis? What Crisis? by Alwyn Turner (Aurum, £8.99) and Francis Wheen’s Strange Days Indeed (Fourth Estate, £18.99 ). Wheen’s portrait of Nixon has a Shakespearean richness — why doesn’t he now write a full-scale, scabrous biography of Tricky Dicky? Of the year’s many autobiographies, the best by far was Byron Rogers’ eccentric, melancholy Me (Aurum, £16.99). Byron almost makes me proud to be Welsh, which is saying something.
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