If you’re a female celebrity memoirist — and especially if you happen to be white, hot, blonde, and possessed of a net worth in the tens of millions — you are expected to make a privilege disclaimer: to marinate in identity-based guilt right there on the page. Apologetic passages are so ubiquitous in women’s narrative nonfiction that it’s easy to skim right past them. So, I was several chapters into Paris Hilton’s new memoir before I realised what was peculiar about it.