Spoiler alert: Conrad Black and Henry Kissinger are on speaking terms again. Or, as Black puts it in his overwrought and self-indulgent memoir/600-page revenge fantasy, they “settled back into the frequent telephone and dinner conversations of historic and international affairs of olden times.” What a relief.

Only devout Black completists will find anything of value in this book, although there are moments of great unintentional humour, especially when Black describes aspects of his lifestyle and friendships with other wealthy and/or influential people. The yuks commence on the third page when Black begins a lengthy and over-the-top description of the library in his London home by noting that he has, not unlike another fallen (albeit fictional) media star, Ron Burgundy, “shelves of leather-bound first editions.” No mention as to whether said library was redolent of rich mahogany.

Black, however, shares more in common with Sideshow Bob, the disgruntled and imprisoned sidekick from The Simpsons, which Black describes somewhat redundantly as an “animated cartoon television series.” The book is filled with bilious attacks against those Black blames for his predicament, as well as erstwhile friends and acquaintances who distanced themselves from him during his trial. For example, Richard Breeden, one of the people who led the investigation into Hollinger International (and, I suppose, the Bart Simpson to Black’s Sideshow Bob), is described as having “piscine eyes and porcine ears.”

The way Black uses this book to catalogue the many slights, real or perceived, against him is off-putting. Were it not for his facility with the English language, Black’s vitriol (and vague declarations of an impending comeback) wouldn’t be out of place on the blog of a jilted teenage lover.

Much has been made of Black’s sudden appreciation of the plight of the American prisoner, but if this book has any lasting value, it will not be due to the softening of a turn-of-the-century neo-conservative. Instead, it should be taken as a monument to the excesses and entitlements of our current gilded age – a time when someone like Black can, without any apparent irony, quote Elton John, not exactly known as a paragon of restraint, calling Black’s wooded 11-acre Toronto estate “necessary for [your] sanity.”