Richard Phillips's Blog, page 5

37) My name is Richard, and I am a reunionaholic.

There you are, I’ve said it. I’ve admitted it. I’m owning it. And they say that’s half the battle don’t they?

The more I think about it, the more I realise I’m quite seriously ill with reunionaholism. (I’m not just weak-willed or easily led because we all know by  now that addictions are really illnesses.) It inhabits every part of my life.

For instance, whenever I’m asked for an answer to the question, ‘What is your book about?’ by someone who clearly doesn’t give a toss and is only asking out of politeness, my stock one line answer is that it’s about a lost love. But I have just realised for the first time that it is every bit as much  about the possibility of reunion.

You could say that whenever we reminisce,  we are having a kind of mental reunion, and, starting with the title, reminiscing and its consequences are  what ‘A Polaroid of Peggy’ is all about. And, in the first chapter and the last, it goes beyond that: there are specific references to school reunions.  As I imagine is the case with most novels, fictitious events are to some degree modelled on real ones,  and the setting for the school reunion in my book was not so different from the annual reunion of the Old Boys of Brighton, Hove  and Sussex Grammar School, the 149th of which I went to last Saturday.

I am not quite sure why I go.  You’ll notice I don’t say ‘went.’ My addiction is ongoing. I’ll probably be going next year too, and the year after that, and the year after that, until one fateful day etc.

It certainly isn’t for the food. Catering for a hundred  – about that many usually turn up – can’t be that easy, especially since B,H and S Grammar  School was turned into a sixth form college a few decades ago so anyone who goes is either an old duffer with chewing issues or well on the way to being one.

You get a starter - soup or prawn cocktail - and a pudding - apple pie and watery custard or one strawberry cut into a hundred pieces and cream - brought to you by a jolly waitress, and a cold buffet for your ‘main’ which you have to collect yourself.

Presumably they reckon that if they made you get up for all three courses, they’d risk fatalities. Not that it would bother the other attendees. Whenever someone dropped a plate in the old school canteen – head cook: Deadeye Doris - there was a deafening cheer. The same thing would probably happen if old Chalky White,1934-39, suddenly pegged it whilst  queuing up. Even now, only having to make one trip, the stress could easily do it. It’s not easy trying to choose between  the quinoa and beetroot salad and the broccoli and feta, especially since they didn’t even have broccoli in your day much less feta. As for quinoa – “Quinn, Noah? I remember him. Got some prize for R.I. Went off sailing with a lot of animals, didn’t he?”

And after the cheering we’d probably all just trample over the body. One faculty that age definitely doesn’t diminish is your value-for-money drive. Just because old thingummy who was sitting  next to you five minutes ago has gone to the Sixth Form Common Room in the sky doesn’t mean you can waste time. You’ve got to pile your plate up to the ceiling,  dodder back to your table without  one of your umpteen chicken thighs dropping off, gobble it all down, lick the plate clean, then get back up again for seconds.

And you’ve got a lot of drinking to do. One of the reasons the organising committee don’t bother to get Hester Blumenthal down to do the cooking is that they’d rather spend the money on drink. Never mind if the chicken is only a couple of generations down from the couple that sailed with dear old Noah Quinn. Who cares so long as every table has a plentiful supply of Aldi’s best?

Before we ate, our honorary something or other, ex-MP Ivan Lawrence,  pulled his old school cap - c.1944 – out of his pocket and briefly modelled it before instructing us we all had to haul ourselves up by our zimmer frames to mumble grace before the God whom, at moments like these ,I only wish I could believe in.  Because then I could ardently pray that He might deliver us from the speech that by tradition, comes as soon as lunch is over.  It is, again by tradition, always delivered by an Old Boy you’ve never heard of but who, we are assured by Ivan,  has some dubious claim to achievement in his chosen field,  and who, with one or two very rare exceptions, seems to have a particular gift for endlessly droning on and on.  

This year’s turn regaled us with all the thrills of working for the British Council for 40 years. In truth it wasn’t all bad, because it provided a convenient interlude for a nap which most of us need at our time of life. And, compared with some of the speeches we’ve been been subjected to,  it was really quite exciting. The highpoint was the bit where he found himself in a hotel in Alexandria sitting at the next table to a fellow who looked quite like T.E.Lawrence and asked him to pass the salt. (Or did I dream that during my snooze?)

Not much more to report really, apart from a series of small unscripted interruptions that will certainly guarantee this year’s  reunion its place in history. Every so often a fairly well upholstered and very well lubricated chap called, I believe, Tony Gillot leaped to his feet to bellow across the school hall –  the very  same one we used to file into for assembly  and in which we were now eating – the latest England cricket score.

“Oshtrailyer  undred ‘n fiffy two for shix!!!” and then about ten minutes later, “Nuvver wicket. Undred and shixty eight for sheven!”  And sho it went on. Ivan seemed a tad disquieted but there’s nothing a mob of schoolboys – of whatever age – likes better than a spot of subversion.

“Go on Tony, you tell ‘em” urged the rest of us albeit silently. It felt almost as though, whilst egging him on, we were only waiting for  the moment when some figure of authority in a black gown would grab Gilott by the ear and drag him off to the headmaster’s study.

Oops, almost forgot. There was one other thing. The affair always concludes with everyone hauling themselves to their feet one last time for the singing of the school song.

‘Absque Labore Nihil,

In work, in play, in life.

In rivalry of nations,

In boyhood’s friendly strife.

The race goes to the eager,

The laggard falls behind,

And ever to the bravest,

Do fortunes’ smiles prove kind.’

Absurd lyrics. Manifestly untrue. Absque labore nihil – without work nothing. Really? What about winning the lottery? Or being born the son of an oligarch or a minor royal? And what exactly is a laggard? Well me, obviously, because I don’t think  barely passing five ‘O’ levels and then skedaddling as soon I could puts me in the front rank of high achievers school-wise. In fact, I think I can honestly say that the only thing that I really learned when I was there – really learned as in having not forgotten – are those words, the chorus of the school song.

Did I sing them – if sing is the right word – with pride? Not exactly. With a bit of embarrassment, yes, and with a little self-consciousness,  but amongst that, I have to admit, a dash of fond affection too. With nostalgia I suppose - the fond, foggy remembrance not just of a bygone age, but of my bygone age.

Like I said, I am a reunionaholic. And not a recovering one either. This Thursday I am having lunch with a woman I used to work  with about 30 years ago - then a girl! - and whom I will be meeting for the first time since.  And I recently had an e-mail about the next annual JWT reunion, JWT standing for J.Walter Thompson the advertising agency I used to work for. I always go to those.

There was a sketch in ‘Beyond The Fringe’  (more nostalgia, more reuniting with the past) when Peter Cook and Dudley Moore and  the rest assemble on the top of a mountain to await the end of the earth, and when the appointed hour comes and goes without armageddon, they all wander off saying to each other, “Same time, next year then.” 

It’s pretty much like that with me and the Brighton, Hove and Sussex Old Grammarian’s lunch. Doesn’t make a lot of sense but it’s just what you do.

Your correspondent shows the Greek Prime Minister where he is...

Your correspondent shows the Greek Prime Minister where he is going wrong tie-wise.

36) If Alexis Tsipras reads my book, Greece’s problems might be solved.

When Alexis Tsipras flies into Brussels for a friendly chat  with his old muckers in the Eurozone why does he never wear a tie?

I doubt the answer is because of a nasty rash on his neck. I would say that it is more likely that his lack of tie is a clear symbol that he is young and modern and cool. Ipso facto, the others, who - apart from Mrs. Merkel - all wear ties, are not.

So how do people who are being told  that they are old fashioned and uncool, react to receiving this message? Are they more likely to say, “Gosh, Alexis, thanks for telling me, here’s another hundred billion”? Or are they more likely to say, “Fuck you”? 

Clearly the lack of tie isn’t the only thing that gets up their Euronoses, but it symbolises the Syriza attitude: we’re not like you. We don’t play, won’t play, your game. As the Greeks are the ones on their knees and the chaps with ties are the ones holding the baseball bats, one might think this is an odd tactic.

However I am not suggesting that  Alexis  should suddenly put on a tie and catch the first plane to Brussels. He would just be sending  the equally clear message, that he has given in. That might please the Troika but he could kiss goodbye to hero status on the radical left.  Instead of being the next Che Guevara, he’d be the new Ramsay MacDonald.

So how can he square this circle? He needs to read. Not the Marxist theory that all those academics who suddenly find themseves running Greece set so much store by. Nothing about the evils of capitalism and the restructuring of the banking system. Nothing about game theory which, we are told, is the speciality of Yanis Varafoukis, his crash-helmeted Finance Minister. (Now that is worth wearing, given the way things are going.) 

No, what Alexis needs to do is  go to Amazon.com and purchase a copy of my acclaimed novel, ‘A Polaroid of Peggy’. That’s £7,99 for the paperback version or £3,99 for the e-book. Equalling  11,19  and 5,60 Euros. Or, say, a couple of mill and a mill in new Drachmas.

Not only will he get a terrific read - life affirming, uplifting, hilarious  - and goodness knows he could do with a shot of all of that – to take his mind off things on all those  flights to Brussels, but he will, in chapter 14, learn how to solve his tie problem.

That is when the hero of my story, Andrew Williams, not just a dedicated follower of fashion but a true trendsetter – not dissimilar, you may think, from his creator – decides to break all the rules and wear two ties. (See pic of yours truly modelling  this fascinating look.)  My suggestion  to Alexis would be that he should follow Andrew’s example and  pitch up like this at his next meeting with the Euro suits.

Think about it: On the one hand, it is a clear break with his tieless past. It says to Herr Schauble – who, I have to say, I keep confusing with Dr.Strangelove – that Alexis respects the old conventions.  Doubly so.  But he also says  to his own supporters,  I am still not like them. They want me to be the kind of guy who  wears a tie, so I wear two ties. The club rules may be that I must wear a tie to get in but where does it say I may not wear two?  It achieves the seemingly impossible feat of being both conventional and subversive.

Look, I am not saying it would be the complete game changer that would cause peace to suddenly break out. But, if nothing else,  it just might get a smile out of Mrs.Merkel, which would, in turn, effect a thaw in the chilly atmosphere, and who knows where that might lead?

Got to be worth a try hasn’t it Alexis? If the worst comes to the worst, you could hardly be deeper in the shit than you are now. And if it works, Greece might be saved, the Euro might be saved, and I would be the most famous  writer in Greece since Homer.

So, say Oxi to Oxi tie Alexis, say Nai to  Dio.

My Auntie Sheila in her skating prime

My Auntie Sheila in her skating prime

35) Skating around a vital marketing matter.

‘Who is your book for?’

That’s the question I was asked by Ben, the social marketing whizz  to whom I am paying  serious bitcoins  so that he can work  his magic  and  Twitter and Facebook  ‘A Polaroid of Peggy’ to the top of the New York Times best seller list.

And he wasn’t the first. Katie, of ReadMedia, my book publicist – yes, my book publicist – do you possess one? – you’re nobody if you don’t – asked me the very same question.

Perhaps they should have asked ‘For whom is your book?’ I’m not entirely sure. I should probably ask Michael Gove.  But, whichever, the point is, that’s the question they asked.

And why wouldn’t they? It’s the first question any marketing pro of any kind asks about anything. Who’s it for? What’s your target market? And as I’m an old advertising lag myself, if anyone should have been prepared with a sensible answer, it was yours truly.  In the unlikely event of anyone being stupid or senile enough to ask me for my professional advice, that’s certainly the first question I would ask of them.

Funny thing is, until now, it’s a question I have been very reluctant to answer. In a sense,  because I really don’t know. Or rather, because the only truthful answer  is… um…. me.  And that is hardly  going to improve its sales prospects.

All writing purists will tell you that you should write for yourself.  That is the  only path to artistic integrity. But marketing people don’t give a shit about artistic integrity and nor should they. You hire them to flog things and earn you money and artistic integrity won’t put food on your table.

But I honestly never gave a thought to who might like my book. I had just sort of unconsciously – and yes, I suppose, a little arrogantly -  assumed that there would  be enough people around to like the way I do things to read it and enjoy it. But I had absolutely no idea how you identify and find these people.  

I mean I know my Mother would have said nice things about it and definitely ordered several copies. But regrettably she hasn’t been in the business  of buying books since well before Kindle was even a gleam in the eye of who(m)ever invented it. Not unless Kindle is available wherever she is, if she is anywhere, along with the seventy two virgins. And when that is the best you can hope for,  you really  have to seek professional help.

That’s why you become someone who  can lay claim to ‘my publicity consultant’ and ‘my social networking guy’. Don’t get me wrong; that, in itself, is rather nice and, you can’t help feeling, quite impressive when you drop these little nuggets into conversation at cocktail parties. But  if that’s all you get out of it, my this and my that are a bloody expensive luxury. They may be yours but they are not a tradable commodity. No-one is going to pay you anything for them. You’d be better off spending the money on buying old football programmes because at least that might lead to you being  on Antiques Roadshow and being  told to insure your priceless collection for not less than a couple of million. Whereas if you turn up at Antiques Roadshow with  nothing more to lay before the experts than your book publicist and your social networking guy, Fiona Bruce is very quickly going to have you escorted off the premises.

So what I’m saying is, it only makes sense to try to give  your people a bit of help.

Believe me, I have tried. I’ve analysed my story to see who it might appeal to . It’s basically about a rather smug and shallow ad guy whose marriage is quietly disappearing down the plughole. Then everything kicks off when his wife discovers an ancient dog-eared picture of an old flame of his, about whom he starts to obsess with consequences. Oh, and the action alternates between New York in 1979 when the old flame was a new flame and London in 1999 when the old photo turns up.  Without giving away the best bits – for the sake of argument, let’s assume there are some - that’s about it really.

So, who is going to identify with that?

Well, in order to properly comprehend the situation in which the protagonist finds himself perhaps you have to be old enough to have regrets, and then again not too few to mention.  Maybe we should also factor in the fact that, as I’ve said, the protagonist’s working life is – surprise, surprise – in advertising. The first rule, they always tell you, is to write about what you know, so what else would I write about? And, of course, although there are plenty of women in A Polaroid of Peggy, you have to remember that it is written from the chap’s point of view.

So, adding all that together, the who for whom my book is written would, I suppose, be an adman or ex adman who has lived long enough to have regrets. That is to say, someone like – me.

Back to square one, it seems. At least it seemed so until last Thursday when I went to see my Auntie Sheila in Brighton. My Auntie Sheila turned 90 a few months ago.

Sheila used to be a professional ice skater and on Thursday suddenly went rummaging in the back of a cupboard to produce an extraordinary collection of old programmes from her career in the chorus of a  series of ice shows in the forties and fifties.

Shows like ‘Puss in Boots on Ice’ at the Stoll Theatre in London in 1945.  And ‘Cinderella on Ice’ at Wembley in 1948.  And ‘Jack And The Beanstalk on Ice’ at Nottingham  in 1952. Or was it ‘Puss and the Beanstalk on Ice’ in Glasgow in  1954? I have to admit that I can’t quite remember all the finer details, not that they  really matter.  The point is that there before me lay a whole world from another time and Sheila’s place in it.

I mention all this not because it had any particular bearing on my search for a target market but to set the scene for what eventually  did. (And also because it gives me an excuse to show a photo of Sheila in her skating prime.) Anyway, having presented me with all this stuff about the skating, Sheila told me that I was the first and only person she had ever shown it to. I was stunned and rather moved.

An even more amazing revelation then followed. Sheila told me she was three-quarters of the way through ‘A Polaroid of Peggy’. I had given her a copy a couple of weeks before but more out of courtesy than any expectation she would read it. Sheila is no fool, far from it, in fact, in some ways,  very possibly the wisest person I have ever known, but I can never remember catching her with a book in her hand. I was stunned and rather moved for a second time.

Then, a few days later, I had dinner with my old friend Mike from Johannesburg who was in town on business for a day or two, as he is every couple of months. As we tucked into dessert - the world’s finest cheesecake – Honey & Co, 25a, Warren St, W1 just off Tott.Ct.Rd. – he told me that the copy I had given to him on his last visit,  had been passed on to his mother. Mike’s mother, Gladys, is 97 and a bit.

Gladys, Mike said, had read ‘A Polaroid of Peggy’ from cover to cover, and reported back that she had enjoyed  it.

First Sheila, now Gladys. So you see, target market wise, a pattern is emerging.

Clearly market research shows that ‘A Polaroid of Peggy’ is for women, 90 plus.

Let’s see what my book publicist and my social marketing guy, can do with that.

A ‘commercial’ for a Polaroid of Peggy

A ‘commercial’ for a Polaroid of Peggy

34) Five,four,three,two,one -

Houston, we have lift-off.  Yes, my debut novel ,‘A Polaroid of Peggy’,  has been officially launched. But  will it take  a giant  step for mankind like Apollo 11 or, will it  succumb  to ‘pogo oscillations’? (Which, according to Wikipedia, is what caused  Apollo 6’s mission to end in ignominious failure.)

Given the gazillions of books that are published, and the tiny number that ever get noticed, you wouldn’t bet against a bad case of pogo oscillations.

See what  I’m doing?  Getting my retaliation in first. If ‘A Polaroid of Peggy’ does end up plunging back to earth in flames the fault will not be mine but the publishers and the writers of all that other worthless shit with which  my book – clearly a work of unalloyed genius - is forced to compete for attention.

So the launch could very well be the highpoint.  In which case, whatever else happens – or more probably doesn’t - Peggy and I will always have Queens Park.

Last Thursday, June 11th, on one of the rare warm evenings in this weirdly up and down summer, enough people turned up to fill Queens Park  Books to just this side of bursting, and it all went more or less swimmingly.  The non-drivers and the less than tea-totallers  each downed a flute or three of a perfectly gluggable prosecco, the abstemious suffered orange juice,  and  all happily munched on a nice variety of cheesy comestibles.

They paid polite attention when Leroy de Suede, Chairman  and CEO of my publishers, Small & Greene, making a very rare public appearance,  introduced my esteemed celebrity guest, Maureen Lipman and me to the audience.

They listened respectfully while  Maureen and I read a few short passages and they even made a reasonably good fist of seeming to like what they heard. They indulged me while I showed three little commercials I’ve made courtesy of the incredibly resourceful Hackney brothers – budget £32.49p - see above – and graciously indulged me by asking me to sign copies of my book. Best of all, they actually bought the books they asked me to sign.

In case you’re wondering what the point of these commercials is –  not really three separate films but one visual with three different sound tracks – it is to try and whet the appetite of media people.

Books don’t usually come with commercials so I’m hoping that the fact that mine does might provoke a little curiosity and get it off the slush pile and into the press or onto the radio. Wildly optimistic? Probably, but I am quite certain that if you want your books to do more than gather dust, publicity is almost everything. There might be  the odd work of such supreme quality that it ignites interest without author or publisher doing anything to promote  it, but it would be a very rare bird indeed. Without some kind of media visibility, the average book – and the better than average book too – has the life expectancy of a dodo with a deathwish.

I must say that I derived the most enormous pleasure from making these little films. Once, in the dim and distant past, I used to do this kind of thing for a living and I’d almost forgotten how satisfying it is. It’s hard to explain to people who’ve never ‘done’ advertising what joy there can be in making a commercial. It’s like painting a miniature – not that I’ve ever painted  a miniature so I’ve no real idea if that’s true, but what I mean  is that a commercial is a very small, superficially simple  thing but, because of that, it is one in which every minute detail counts; a tiny thing which you refine and polish endlessly, not least because you often have a disproportionately large amount of money – your client’s money! – to spend on it.

In this case the client was, of course, the publisher, but Leroy de Suede flatly refused to foot the bill,  so the only money involved was the £32.49 I referred to earlier,  which I spent myself on  buying the rights to use  the music. Fortunately we did have the goodwill and self sacrifice  and technical prowess of the aforementioned Hackney Bros.  I am ashamed to say that  de Suede took advantage of them shamelessly but they were not alone. He exploited me just as ruthlessly, insisting that I both read the voice-over  and hold the camera for the opening shot, normally a job for a specialist hands artist.

You may wonder if it is wise for a first time writer to make such unflattering comments about his publisher. But, whatever else he is,  Mr. de Suede is not a petty man and he would never object to anything I wrote or said, not least because we are quite remarkably like minded. Besides, as someone  may or may not have once said, a writer must always speak the truth, even when writing fiction.

Sid Fiz, optician to the stars, builds a display of reading...

Sid Fiz, optician to the stars, builds a display of reading glasses around new international literary sensation.

33) Poop. A true story.

Q: Who on earth would have this e-mail address: apoopsales@……? (As a token nod to security, I won’t fill in the something.com that comes after the @.)

A: No-one has,  at least not at the something.com in question. I know this because an e-mail I sent addressed to apoopsales@…. bounced back on account of there being no such address.

So, next Q: Why in heaven’s name would I be sending an e-mail to apoopsales@………?

Go on, let your imagination run wild. Hint: If you’re already gagging, you’re on the wrong track.

No, to get to the right A, you have to start here:  the title of my soon to be published book, as you must surely know by now,  is ‘A Polaroid of Peggy’.

It’s quite long when you have to write it repeatedly. So, for brevity’s sake, when referring to it in correspondence, or labelling computer files, I use  the acronym ‘apop’. And for accounting convenience I decided to set up a special e-mail account where all invoices etc are to be sent, the name of which is apopsales@……..

Now, as it so happens, one or two such items had been sent to me at my regular e-mail address before I set up apopsales@…. so, naturally, I decided to forward them.

But when I looked at the apopsales@… inbox my forwarded e-mail hadn’t arrived. And when I checked back at my regular e-mail address, I found an item in my inbox which, to prove I am not making this up, I have cut and pasted here:

Delivery to the following recipient failed  permanently:
                                     apoopsales@………

Yes, an accidental extra tap on the O key. Or was it a Freudian slip? (You know where Freud says everything begins.)

Whatever,  I sincerely hope it doesn’t prove to be an omen.

Not that I really believe in omens. Which is just as well because, if I did,  I’d be, well…. to put it politely….. pooping myself. I am just four days away from  the ‘launch’ of my book at an ‘event’ at Queens Park Books, and I am beginning to get very nervous indeed.

Have I invited too many people? Will there be room to breathe? Will there be a lot of no shows? In which case, will there be too few people and acres of empty space and lots of unpopped champagne  bottles - alright, prosecco if you want to be pernickety  – and boxes and boxes of unopened packets of Iceland cheese straws. (Just kidding – we’re getting them  from Lidl. And there’ll be more than Cheese Straws - Polish Sausage and Beetroot vol-au-vents for a start.)

Then there’s the little introductory speech I plan to make. It seemed mildly amusing when I first thought of what i would say, but now when I practise in front of the bathroom mirror….. well, put it this way: not a lot of point in   leaving  pauses for uproarious audience laughter.

And what do I wear? What should a writer wear? Something slightly Bohemian? Or perhaps a writer should look like someone who doesn’t give a damn about clothes but has obviously made a special effort for this one occasion. A corduroy  jacket and a knitted tie might do the trick. Except that I own neither a corduroy jacket nor a knitted tie. And besides, I have put on about three tons this year, so the only thing I can wear is as an XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXL shirt that covers my ballooning gut, and the drawstring trousers that I bought in Urban Outfitters in New York a few months ago, and which I have worn nearly every day since. I have been on the lookout on e-bay for one of Demis Roussos’ old kaftans  but no luck so far, and anyway I’d probably need two sewn together. Tragically, my beloved  Oscar Boateng suits are no more than historical curiosities these days.

Not that appearance should matter at all. Will my book be read  – surely that’s what I should be worrying about? I’m going to look  a right  Berkeley Hunt if I make all this fuss and nothing happens. I have lashed out good money on a specialist book publicist lady and a chap who’s  supposed to be a whizz at social networking sales. I have shamelessly importuned every relative, friend, casual acquaintance, and sometimes complete strangers to read my book – supplied free but on the strict understanding  they will buy one after launch day. And I didn’t stop there. I have insisted that that they then post a review of my book – provided  they say it’s a work of unparalled genius – and  press all their connections to do the same.

I have called every person I have ever known who might have a connection to the media to beg them for some sort of publicity. (And in so doing probably annoyed my publicity lady intensely as I am sure she would much prefer that I stopped interfering. Fat chance.) So far there’s been an article in The Jewish Chronicle and I have been interviewed by the Willesden and Brent Chronicle. (And Kim Kardashian thinks she’s good at getting in the public eye!)

I have persuaded my old mate Graham in  Australia, who’s learned Photoshop in his dotage, to design me a poster. (Anybody closer has already done me so many favours they would have flatly refused to do it.) And then, after Graham had sent me the PDF,  I got someone else – no name here for obvious reasons – to use their office copier to knock me off a 100  free A3 copies.  After that, more naked huckstering - not literally, though I certainly would if it got me a sale or two  - this time leaning on the  good shopkeepers of Queens Park to put the posters in their windows. Amazingly a few have even agreed, notably  Sid the optician, who has also arranged a novel display of reading glasses around my book. Or maybe that should be a bookish display of reading glasses around my novel. (Can’t remember if it was his idea or mine, but I think I’ll claim it. Why break the habit of a lifetime?)  

I have crudely exploited the goodwill of my daughter’s former boyfriend, Justin, inveigling him into designing my website. And, because he is so amenable,  I also managed to persuade him and his equally obliging brother Tristan to help me make a little commercial for Youtube and other internetty purposes. (Watch this space, as Patrick Moore didn’t quite say.)

In short, I have chucked everything at this. I have, as they say in sporting parlance, left nothing out there.  Or, if I have,  I won’t have by the time we reach 6.30pm on Thursday evening. Because you can bet that for the next 91 hours and 54 minutes – the exact minutage between the time that I write and 6.30pm on Thursday evening, I shall be trying my level best to think of every  possible angle that I might have missed.  

So be warned. If I haven’t bent your ear already, if I haven’t badgered you senseless to read, order, and review my book or if I haven’t previously discovered that your second cousin twice removed is a half-sister to the doorman’s uncle at Radio Merthyr Tydfil, then you’ll be hearing from me soon.

The logical choice to replace Sepp. A traditionalist and...

The logical choice to replace Sepp. A traditionalist and revolutionary in one.