To adapt Gore Vidal, whenever a colleague succeeds in writing a book a little
something in me dies. How do they do it? How do they hold down a job and a
life and have the creative energy to produce books? For years my shelves
have been filling with unread books by people I work with, who get up very
early in the morning, or stay up very late at night, to toil on their own
projects. Now I've actually had to read some of them.
“Bit of a poisoned chalice this one,” Richard Whitehead, the deputy editor of
Books, said as he dumped 17 volumes on my desk and aked for a round-up of
works by Times writers.
The world of book reviewing is full of people writing about books written by
people they know. At least this time you are clear about that. I shall be as
transparent as possible.
So let's start with one that I had read even before I was given this
assignment, Agent Zigzag (Bloomsbury, £7.99/offer £7.59) by Ben
Macintyre (old friend, regular lunching partner, married to my son's
godmother). A cracker of a Second World War double-agent yarn. But no need
to take my word for it, it's on the short-list for the Costa Book Awards and
Tom Hanks is planning a film. Anyway, enough about Macintyre, he has had far
too much publicity already.
Giles Whittell's Spitfire Women of World War II (HarperPress, £20/£18)
is another on which I received regular updates over lunch during its
creation. Annoyingly, this account of the women who flew the planes is
impeccably researched and written, and surprisingly absorbing, given that
I've never been able to get excited about these legendary aircraft and had
heard the stories several times before from the author's mouth.
Storm & Conquest by Stephen Taylor (Faber, £20/£18), who used to
knock my copy into shape in the days when we both worked for the foreign
desk, is an elegant reconstruction of a forgotten episode of history: the
unlikely-sounding destruction of the British fleet by the French in the
Indian Ocean, a few years after Nelson's triumph at Trafalgar.
A Voyage Round John Mortimer (Viking, £25/£22.50) by Valerie Grove (my
children inherited, third hand, books that once belonged to her kids, but I
don't know if she knows that) is the comprehensive authorised biography of
the indefatigable lawyer and author, rich in anecdote.
I have only glimpsed Simon Barnes in the distance as he leaves the office for
somewhere more exciting, but his “Wild Notebook” is my favourite bit of
Saturday escapism, and if you agree you will want to make sure that somebody
sticks How to be Wild (Short Books, £14.99/£13.49) into the big
hiking sock you'll hang by the fireplace on Christmas Eve.
In Why the Lion Grew its Mane (Papadakis, £20/£18), Lewis Smith, our
science and environment reporter, has produced a lavishly illustrated
miscellany of recent scientific discoveries. In characteristically clear
style he explains all sorts of amazing stuff, so that even scientific
halfwits like me can follow.
I have never met Brian Clarke, nor do I have any interest in angling. So I was
taken aback, while flicking through our fishing correspondent's slab of a
book On Fishing (Collins, £20/£22.50) to find myself hooked by lines
such as: “In 59 percent of matings, the female trout fakes her orgasm.”
Fish play only a minor part in Should I Flush My Goldfish Down the Loo?
(Hodder, £9.99/£9) by Joe Joseph, a collection of his witty Modern Morals
column in Times2. I tried to catch him out in the canteen by asking what I
should write about it. “It wouldn't be ethical for me to say,” he replied.
But then added: “Just write something that we can put on the paperback. Then
you can have your name on the back of the book.”
Other compendiums to dip into include Mission Accomplished (JR Books,
£12.99/£11.69) a feast of ill-advised bons mots that politicians must now
wish they had never uttered, co-compiled by Matthew Parris (we had lunch
once ten years ago). Jonathan Pugh (old friend, attended his book launch)
provides plenty of chortles in The Best of Pugh (Virgin, £5.99/5.69),
his pocket cartoons from The Times. Our style guru Lucia Van der Post (whom
I have a vague recollection of talking to once at a Christmas party while
drunk) has distilled her considerable knowldege of glamour and good living
into Things I Wish My Mother Had Told Me (John Murray, £16.99/£15.29).
Shopping While Drunk (John Murray, £12.99/£11.69) is an often amusing A
to Z of aspects of modern life that the four authors, including Times Online
journalist Michael Moran, secretly admire. The Great Big Glorious Book
for Girls (Viking, £18.99/ £15.99), co-authored by Sarah Vine (sits on
the other side of the filing cabinets from me, generous in sharing treats)
is for sisters who felt hard done by when their brothers got The
Dangerous Book for Boys and is exactly what it says it is.
Some fiction: Seizure (Faber, £10.99/£9.89) by Erica Wagner (literary
editor of this newspaper, kind enough to give me occasional work) is a dark,
shocking, intensely lyrical first novel about a man and woman who inhabit a
dream-like world and slowly unravel the truth about how they are connected.
David Wilson, an assistant night editor, has, damn him, produced an
enjoyable, funny, touching novel. And I'm not just saying that because This
Age We're Living In (Black Swan, £6.99/£6.64) is about what I know: a
grumpy newspaper lifestyle columnist.
The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy (out in Arrow paperback next month,
£6.99/£6.64) by Fiona Neill (had a cup of tea at her house once when meeting
mutual friends) is a novelisation of her funny, shrewdly observed Magazine
columns on the pitfalls of motherhood.
I met Alan Coren a few times at Times parties and his son Giles is a mate with
whom I catch up about once a year. But the main interest I must declare
regarding Alan is that colleagues rumbled a few years ago that my secret
fantasy was to be as funny as him. 69 for 1 (JR Books,
£12.99/£11.69), published shortly before his death this year, pained me
because I realised that I would never write a book as witty as this.
Nevertheless, I am determined to write a book. Any book. Just so I can be
included in this round-up next year, and don't have to do it myself.
