Harold was such a good sport...
IHAVE a website that I rarely look at these days but it still occasionally produces a response. After two years of absence, I looked at it again when I was notified that the renewal fee is due, and found a recent message about a piece I wrote 10 years ago that gave me an unlikely brush with the fame of Harold Robbins.
It was about the difficulties I faced as an unknown author trying to promote a book. It was, I said, like banging your head on a brick wall.
Nice when you stop. I’ve done local radio interviews and book signings, and publishers have promoted my work with giveaways in national newspapers: send in your name and address and the first so many drawn wins a copy.
I didn’t mind this when it was The Daily Mail or Goodreads but one was in The Sunday Sport when it had front page stories such as Adolf Hitler Was A Woman and content unsuitable for family reading. There I was on an inside page: my book Matilda’s Game, alongside rude and daft stories and adverts for adult phone lines and blue movies. Not exactly what I had hoped for in the hunt for a best seller, but the cutting remains a wonderful piece of memorabilia. I also attended road shows where a publishing house would hire a conference room in a hotel and invite book buyers from the region for a soiree with a free bar and finger food.
The first of those I did was with old friend and brilliant writer, the late Deric Longden, who was such a raconteur he made the whole thing look easy. After all the guests had gone, I got drunk with Deric and my fiction editor.
Harold Robbins, on the other hand, got drunk before his road show. He was touring the UK doing Press conferences and book signings and the journos congregated in a private room at a WHSmith store in Manchester to wait for the great man’s arrival. He was late and gave the impression he was not happy doing morning Press conferences. He didn’t seem to be happy doing mornings. He was about five six in height, wore a cowboy hat and dark glasses, apologised for his tardiness and intimated he had spent the previous evening with an old friend called Jim Beam.
When he asked one of his
Hpromotion team if the reporters had been offered a drink he was told tea and coffee were available. This upset him. He insisted alcohol be provided before he proceeded and so it was. I don’t think he realised that what was provided was only sherry.
Robbins was brilliant, even with a hangover. He was amusing and gracious but he took no prisoners.
He wrote 25 best sellers and sold more than 750 million copies and never doubted his own ability: “No one can compare with what I’ve done. I’m the world’s best writer in basic English. Everybody understands what I write – except maybe the critics.”
Robbins died in 1997 but my reminiscence in 2011 brought a message from his widow, Jann. “Great blog. Love the story about Harold. I would like to link it to my website and Facebook. Any objection?”
Sadly, the link did not bring me increased sales, fame or fortune. But I can console myself with one unique achievement. Harold may have had a yacht, mansion and socialised with the Rat Pack but he never had a give away in The Sunday Sport.
THOSE daft signs created a few smiles. Brian Horton adds a few more. I heard of a gardening firm called Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men and a mate of mine, who’s a decorator and a musician, has Luther Van Gloss on his van. And apparently, there’s a drive-laying firm in Hastings called William the Concreter!”