I like Crouch, I had a flick through his autobiography once which is called, fittingly, Walking Tall. He says nice things about Villa, makes knowing comments towards his looks being for an er, 'acquired taste' and generally seems a happy boy who's grateful for his lovely life. I'd rank it just below the literary treasure that is Totally Frank, the moving story of Francis Lampard, Jnr., and the defiant, tough as nails My Defense by Cashley Cole. All jesting aside, I don't like football autobiographies, even if they're characters from the days when football was played professionally by chronic alcoholics and fat, sideburn clad smokers. In fact, they're worse because they're always so depressing, which makes for an honest read, but one that's hard on the stomach. Paul McGrath's book is a good example. I love the guy and appreciate the candidness he brings but to read account after account of his woes is bordering on torture.