First published in 1973 and amazingly never out of print, Doreen Irvine's autobiography is unbelievable: as in, not believable. It starts off as a prototype of the then-unknown misery memoir (as an evacuee relocated to Uxbridge, she had no bed, just a pile of dirty coats; no curtains, just sacks doubling as blackout curtains; drunken, abusive binman father), but quickly degenerates into schlocky nonsense as she goes from hooker to junkie to prison to Satanist to Queen of Black Witches. (The book conflates Satanism, voodoo and witchcraft; voodoo dolls are referred to as "witchcraft dolls" and Doreen herself is the mistress of "the chief Satanist".) Luckily, a chance visit to a church is enough for her to convert to Christianity and, apparently, have 47 demons driven out of her. Surely this is grossly inefficient overstaffing: 47 demons to one woman? You're telling me there were 46 of you and you still radioed for backup?
Anyway. The book must be allegorical, or at least wildly exaggerated; taken literally, it's an offensively nonsensical jumble of confused quasi-religious iconography, outright lies and downright cobblers. Irvine's apparent motivation for writing the memoir is to warn people that Satanism/witchcraft is on the rise. No wonder that's the case, however, as according to her own text, becoming a witch means you're endowed with cool powers like invisibility, telekinetic powers and levitation, as well as the bisexual orgies on Dartmoor that are cliché in these texts. As a Christian, she mysteriously recovers from brain damage, exorcises children and apparently gains the power to convert people with merely a sentence, but, well, these new tricks lack the razzmatazz of her dark magic.
You're left with the impression that poor Doreen might be (or might have been) highly impressionable, whimsically turning in the direction of whoever has the most charismatic voice at the time, but I was reminded most strongly of repellent autolieography 'Go Ask Alice' and the equally fraudulent JT Leroy's 'The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things', served up with a large slice of ham from a Hammer horror movie. Twelve months ago, I read Erich von Daniken's equally preposterous 'The Gold of the Gods': spring is the season for reading dross.