Katie Price: Nothing to Hide – this amazing biography is as fascinating and boring as its title | Television

‘Boops,” he said Katie Pricewithout words. I always wanted a child’s job. Price, 48, rests her small, wrinkled hands on the tops of her pink sweatshirt, the latest result of glandular imbalance. She said: “I didn’t want normal. “I wanted fake.” And it happened. Now, 17 or so years later, here she is, rocking on a beige sofa as she talks about surgeries (“pain!”), unsatisfied desire, break-ups, burning strings, ex-husbands still surrounded by everything else that has made her one of Britain’s longest-running soap operas. Every self-made drama takes us, speechless, to the stage. the next one.

Katie Price’s new four-part series: Nothing to Hide (Wednesday, 9pm, Sky Documentaries) promises several mountains of its own. Here, it’s confusing, it’s a “revealing picture” that “will make headlines”. Oh God, we think, as Price’s eyebrows disappear behind some artificial fog (the woman comes out like a furnace). Not anymore. We’ve read countless memoirs, endured countless “tell-all” articles and been bullied by “only” tabloids. Could there really be anything left to know about a woman who, we are told, has “sold every part of her life”? The answer is yes, actually, and, surprisingly, it’s as fun and boring as its title.

Produced by Louis Theroux’s Mindhouse, the first episode of Katie Price: Nothing to Hide (the only episode available to watch, alas) is a difficult and difficult story of the first 23 years of the former glamour. Supporters include long-suffering mother Amy, doting stepfather Paul and wisecracking brother Dan (“Hell of evil”). There’s a lot of puffiness in the cheeks and the air is as irritated as if he’s retired, as if they’ve all spent the morning trapped by a little kid who’s been painting his face because he ignored the weather forecast. Our fault, really. They should have seen it coming. It is what it is. “I feel that somewhere inside there is a sweet little girl,” sighs Amy. I wish they would come out every now and then.

The tree, naturally, receives all this. After all, interest, interest is his life, his raison d’être, his bread and butter.

“I know I’ve hurt people a lot,” he yells through teeth the color of golf balls. But this is a thing with me. I am what I am. He seems to be incredibly aware of his faults and unable to do anything about them. Check out the timeless images of Price as a slow-moving agent of chaos, traversing the last three decades of popular culture as the bronzed Mr Blobby.

Here he is on a furious horse to promote his eighth book. Here they have a group of speechless men, each with a strangely awkward chest, as if someone (Price, perhaps) had squeezed their legs like tubes of toothpaste and all the meat had been forced to their feet. To such people, the only Dane “At the time I was known as a common man” Bowers just looked at me (“He was the love of my life!”).

The hubris, sometimes, is absolutely amazing: look at my norks, you Strong, and depressed! And yet the directness with which Price addresses everything from Page 3 to his lifelong lack (“I look in men for what my real father lacked. Which is a man’s love and a hug”) makes you want to wrap him in a cartoon blanket and hand him a cup of Ribena. What he has achieved in the last few decades without just sitting down one day and suddenly turning it on, is amazing.

We see him searching his garage full of things. Here is a crushed pile of children’s bicycles; there is a box titled “Operations AND EXES”. They find a yellow mountain of mags for Jordan’s era boys. “Bad,” she says of her beautiful 21-year-old son. “Too bad.” Just the picture of him as a small child evokes kindness. “That’s the one,” she says, putting on a blouse and curly curls. “Smooth eyes. Innocent.” He sighs. “I didn’t know what was coming.”