"Congratulations on the baby," said the journalist. "You must be very pleased." "Whaddya mean?" demanded the veteran star. "That I'm too old to have a baby? Get outta here"
New York City is somewhere I've never been, but I'm finally about to go. In a couple of weeks, I'll be hitting the Big A for the US publication of my new novel, a comic romance set in the south of France. My American editors have been diligent in excising all Briticisms: I've had to suggest US-friendly alternatives to everything from PG Tips to the Renault Saxo, Esther Rantzen to Hooray Henries and - most surprisingly of all, given his vast and blinding celebrity - David Beckham. Interestingly, the book's references to Posh Spice were not axed or queried; her much-derided Stateside fame offensive evidently got through to someone.
Publishing a book means touring the bookstores, doing signings. And like most authors, I've been trying to make the most of this opportunity to ingratiate myself with Britain's influential bookshop managers. But not every author sees it that way; stories abound of egomaniac writers who require special cosseting, such as the provision of particular brands of champagne, before they'll so much as unscrew their Mont Blancs. The best stories of this sort come from Scotland: for example, the author who sent his PR assistant out to get sushi (in the middle of the Highlands); and the hot-tempered scribe who, asked to sign a pile of his oeuvre, whipped out his penis and urinated all over it, bawling: "There's mae fuckin' signature." Another tale concerns a Glasgow bookshop whose flyers, ostensibly promoting a raw, edgy Scottish writer called Laura Hird, somehow got misprinted; Glaswegian book-lovers were duly urged to attend a reading by the happening Caledonian author Thora Hird.
A hapless hack who came to interview me about my book told me how he had once been sent to interview a very famous American singer he greatly admired. Alas, the singer seemed considerably less thrilled to meet him and spent the interview watching an American football game on satellite and answering in sulky monotones. Despite being disillusioned and angry, the journalist produced his autograph book and asked for a signature. The famous singer snatched it and scribbled in a sloppy, near-illegible hand: "Thank you for a pointless interview." The hack's composure snapped. He told the singer exactly what he thought of him, saying that he had always admired him but that, frankly, the autograph was the last straw. "What you talkin' about?" the singer demanded. "You ain't readin' it properly. I wrote 'Thank you for a painless interview'."
Or had he? I know first-hand how difficult the stars can be. I once did a stint as a celebrity editor, and I regularly sent journalists out to interview the famous. Not always with great success, such as when I despatched a hack to meet a legendary sixtysomething Hollywood tough-guy actor. "Congratulations on the baby," said my writer (the actor's girlfriend had recently given birth). "You must be very pleased." The interviewee's face flushed with fury. "Whaddya mean, I must be goddam pleased? Whaddya sayin', that I'm too old to have a baby or something? Get outta here, you goddam little punk." End of interview.
Our star-obsessed society has the occasional antidote. My friend recently suspected that a pair of robins had hatched a chick in her window box. Not long afterwards, a tiny, bald bird was seen struggling between the window box and the window frame, and a few days later my friend found it had fallen into the yard below. She rushed downstairs to find the tiny creature had broken its leg. My friend began ringing various bird charities, but none of them seemed interested. Until someone advised her to "ring Steve". To her surprise, Steve answered and said he'd be round later if he could. He duly appeared that evening, saying that he was supposed to be going out with his girlfriend and she was going to kill him, but if it was a bird in need . . . "Well, that'll have to come off," he remarked, looking at the bird's broken limb. "But that's OK. It'll be fine. It'll just be a one-legged robin." And off he went into the night, carrying the robin in its box.
Wendy Holden's Azur Like It is published by Headline (£12.99)
Correction to last week's diary, page 37
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
