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Mark E. Smith never says goodbye. Many who’ve met The Fall’s singer tell the same story of a friendly conversation concluding when Smith abruptly wanders off. If that’s a hint to the man’s lack of sentimentality, further evidence abounds in the opening chapter of this autobiography, which heaps scorn on band members who departed The Fall in 2006. After skewering guitarist Ben Pritchard, Smith shifts focus: “The other daft cunt, Steve Trafford [bass], was one of Ben’s mates…” The sheer contempt here catches you off-guard, and sets the tone for a book that’s both shocking and hilarious.

Egocentric and resolutely future-focused, Smith was never going to provide a balanced, in-depth account of his personal or career history. What Renegade offers instead are tilted, highly caricatured recollections of select episodes, interspersed with cultural commentary and homespun philosophy. There are fascinating insights into Smith’s likes and dislikes. Among the former, we find ex-footballer Malcolm Allison, the film Dead Man’s Shoes, author Arthur Machen, and speed (which apparently helps Smith sleep). Inevitably the dislikes are more numerous, and include travel bores, people from south Manchester, graphic designers, England’s football team, Brighton, and the various sacred cows of the indie nation.

Of Rough Trade Records, Smith observes: “They reminded me of kids at school who suddenly get into things…” Such acidic gems of description can be found in almost every paragraph of Renegade. At one point, the Football Association is labelled “a randy cult souped up on good wine, expensive fruit and nice clean sausages”. Elsewhere a gnomic, biblical tone prevails. In a rumination on TV series Rising Damp, Smith writes: “Pale-minded liberals have moaned the subtleties out of it, as is their wont. Rigsby wasn’t all that bad.”

When he gets round to The Fall, Smith proves a predictably unreliable narrator. Occasionally he resorts to cracking absurd jokes. Recalling an Australian tour, he writes: “Karl Burns missed the first few gigs because he’d lost his passport. A dog with a squint had eaten it…” Yet it’s sometimes harder to separate mere mischief-making from outright confusion (or even delusion). Does Smith really believe that someone spiked his lager with “voodoo gunge” for disrespecting John Peel on Newsnight?

In 1998, Smith ended up in US-court-ordered alcohol and anger-management treatment, following violent intra-band acrimony in New York. Renegade’s version of events defies any credibility: Smith reckons that by the time bail came through, police had stripped him and were about to sail him to Rikers Island. During a subsequent wander around the Big Apple, he apparently spotted a structural flaw in the twin towers…

Renegade is a ceaselessly entertaining read. Some credit must go to ghostwriter Austin Collings, whose witty chapter titles add a literary flourish. Inevitably the book concludes not with a goodbye, but with a cryptic promise that “the White Angel will re-form in your midst in the near future”. Let’s hope Smith’s future imaginings prove as pleasing as Renegade’s.

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