I'd like to nominate Lance Armstrong for his autobiography. If a ghost writer was involved, they should be ashamed; if one wasn't, they should have been.
While there is no doubting his talent and how remarkable his triumph over cancer is, the book reads as hackneyed, clichéd and liberally peppered with Hollywood style excess.
Some of the photos are particularly heavy-handed (not to mention soft focus), as if the lumpen prose wasn't sure to hammer home the Disney storyline.
A nine year old's "what I did on my holidays" report at the start of term has more sense of narrative, as if the unedited transcripts of his conversations with a proper biographer had been published.
Liberal doses of PG Wodehouse were required to restore some semblance of calm; fortunately I read the free CC copy that is doing the rounds, so I'm only out of pocket for the postage it cost to send the book on: I have invoiced Mr Armstrong.