Jack the Ripper's Secret Confession

I've read a lot of books--about true crime, and about Jack the Ripper. This book is hands down the worst piece of trash I have ever read. I don't know why I bothered to finish it, except that I think I was hoping it would improve, that the authors, David Monaghan and Nigel Cawthorne, would eventually provide some sort of substantial proof that the man who penned the anonymous "My Secret Life" was also Jack the Ripper. There is no such proof, because the author, Walter, wasn't Jack the Ripper. He was a sick, twisted man who raped and mistreated women, but he never bragged about being violent and murdering anyone, and in an autobiography as lengthy as this one (eleven volumes, I think) why wouldn't he? He certainly has no shame about telling us about the other horrible things he's done. I really am stunned the authors even got a publisher to accept this garbage. For instance, one of their "proofs" that Walter was Jack was that he mentions grapes in his autobiography, and one of the Ripper's victims was last seen with a man who was eating grapes. Oh my god, this is called a *coincidence*, not evidence. Good grief. Flimsy would be an exaggeration.