Few things bring Lost in Showbiz as much pleasure as a truly great celebrity autobiography. There are two clear leaders in this field, both of which were brought to LiS's attention by the great Danny Baker. The first is Sing Lofty: Thoughts of a Gemini, the self-published and quite alarmingly bitter memoir of the late Don Estelle in which the diminutive star of It Ain't Half Hot Mum describes all pop music as being the work of "sex-crazed degenerates" and offers his indispensible thoughts on the conflict that inspired his most famous TV role: "You know, it's a fact that a lot of wonderful people were killed in the second world war, on both sides."

The second is Ed "Stewpot" Stewart's Out of the Stewpot, perhaps the crowning achievement of John Blake Publishing, managing even to tower above a list that includes Ultimate Hard Bastards, Scottish Hard Bastards, Kate Kray's Naughty Bastards and Psychic Pets ("do animals possess an innate psychic ability that permits them to see into the future?"). It's hard to pick a highlight, although the incident in which the former Crackerjack presenter is trapped in a boarding school dormitory by some schoolgirls ("the pupils had just reached puberty and we had to be rescued by staff") is perhaps pipped by his fairly thought-provoking description of his first date with his future wife, when he was 34. "I arrived at 7pm and was greeted at the door by what I can only describe as a 13-year-old apparition! She was simply stunning."

Which brings us, by a very circuitous route of course, to R Kelly. Imagine LiS's delight when it discovered that the controversial R&B polymath had finally put pen to paper and published his memoirs. Its enthusiasm couldn't even be dented by the news that he had chosen to call the book Soulacoaster, thus missing what appeared to be a golden opportunity to title his autobiography R Story, R Tune or indeed R's Soul. But far be it from LiS to criticise: it has long been a fan of Kelly's way with words. Ever since hearing his 2005 masterpiece Sex Weed, it too has chosen to refer to its amorata's vagina as her "sticky icky", a decision that proved to be quite the talking point at the NCT antenatal class. It holds that it's a unique literary facility indeed that enables a man to pose the romantic question found on his single Rock Star: "How many times can you come before I poke you to death?" How spectacular is a book written by this man going to be?

The answer is: really quite spectacular indeed. "Sometimes I feel like music has made love to me," he writes. "I feel that I am pregnant by music, and it is the father and mother of my child." His trademark humility is very much in evidence, nowhere more so than in the story of the middle-school teacher, who without hearing him sing or even speak allegedly announced: "The spirit of God is on you, son. You are going to be famous. You are going to write songs for Michael Jackson, you are going to travel the world. You are anointed." Alas, when her prophecy comes true, Kelly takes against the late King Of Pop's pet monkey. "In my mind, I called Bubbles 'Trouble'. The chimp made me nervous."

Alas, the memoir is perhaps a little more circumspect than you might expect from the author of I Like the Crotch on You, Sex Planet and Bangin' the Headboard. There's curiously no mention whatsoever of Aaliyah, whom Kelly is alleged to have married when the late singer was 15, only for his bride's parents to immediately have the marriage annulled. He dismisses lawsuits brought against him involving allegations of sex with underage girls as "nuisance claims", a word LiS can only hope he used when the allegations that led to his 2008 child pornography trial – and subsequent acquittal on all charges – first came to light. "You've been accused of videotaping yourself urinating on a 14-year-old girl." "Oh, really? What a nuisance."

Nevertheless, LiS cries, let us not dwell on what isn't in Soulacoaster: let us instead concentrate on what is. Let us celebrate its description of a very moral man who is not be confused in any way with his onstage persona of a man whose brain exists merely as a life support system for his testicles. In one amazing sequence, he is tempted to stray from his then-girlfriend when three women offer to have sex with him simultaneously in a hotel room. Happily, he becomes stuck in a lift en route to the foursome, a mechanical failure he is quick to claim as an act of God. "Thank you, Lord!" he cries. "Thank you, Jesus!"

Let us note with interest that when his then-wife was giving birth to his children, R Kelly wisely chose to eschew the grim surroundings of the delivery room, sullied as they are with the whole messy and aesthetically displeasing business of "having a baby", in favour of visiting McDonald's. This too was a decision God apparently had a hand in, the Almighty being keen for R Kelly to avoid the distressing sight of a woman pushing a baby out of her sticky icky: "The Lord and I have agreed that I'm supposed to head to the hospital … after everyone's all cleaned up."

What a man! What a book! Roll over Ed "Stewpot" Stewart and tell the late Don Estelle the news! There's a new champ in town!