I was disappointed with this, although a quick easy enough read with some laughs (Gatting's scathing comments on where Emburey's blisters might be and Healy's sledging to name two).
Now, I appreciate sporting autobiographies should never be held up for literary worth, and one must expect the odd untruth and narcissistic tendency. All part of the entertainment, and who are we to judge what we would say in their place.
But as a wonderful journalist now, not just relating to cricket, and covering for me that most halcyon period in all our sporting memories, my tweenie youth, I expected more from this than a 2 star "ok" rating which I felt was fair.
The narcissism where every opposition collapse seemed to be the result of his captaincy, and not Caddick or Tufnell exploiting wearing pitches as they could when in the zone grated. As did the literally relentless sniping of Hussein's success as captain. Even to the extent that Hussein was "lucky" Vaughan replaced him in a key match, or from saying he was lucky to play the lambs of New Zealand first up, just as we read a whole chapter of how superb a captain Atherton was to have beaten them, just dulled the brain. Many more examples.
As did the continual, relentless protestations that records meant nothing to him, as he lets fly of more esoteric achievements such as "proudly breaking the record of most runs scored at Trent Bridge", "11th on the all time Test runs". Calling Stewart "comprehensive schooled" when he was not, and apparently dismissing Pocketgate as drying hands when we ALL saw more than that on the screen, we saw rubbing substance into a seam and a guilty look m'lud. All this led one to question a few ever reminiscences.
And I do respect people wanting to protect privacy, but when there is so little information on family, on Isabelle, on his children (when he is happy enough to talk about bunking up in batchelor flats) one is left with little idea of the man behind the cricket which elevates such biographies.
Maybe a bit harsh, but that is what we do to our childhood favourites. Apologies Mr Atherton.