Bad publicity

Whatever calamitous infelicities David Beckham did or did not email to his publicist, few will doubt that he has lived to rue the day. Nevertheless, I’ll bet teeth that he is pointing his ruing in the wrong direction: that he is tormented by the moment he pressed ‘send’ — but not similarly kicking himself for hiring a publicist in the first place. It will be left to thee and me to wonder what was the point. When you are already richer than God, you are one of the sporting legends of your generation and your face would be recognised by a yeti in the wastes of Siberia — why might you ever want to fork out gazillions to a man who describes himself as ‘managing David Beckham’s global communications strategy’, which translates as ‘making him even more famous’?

The stricken footballer is not alone. Practitioners of these dark arts are now a sine qua non for everyone from the wannabe to the more established twinkles in the galaxy. One editor of a magazine that specialises in entertainment and celebrities estimates that 85 per cent of those who grace his pages dance to the tune of their personal publicist. He is incredulous when I promise him that it was not always so; that it is, in fact, a very recent phenomenon.

Twenty years ago, at the behest of the Sunday Times, I went to interview Carrie Fisher, armed only with her home address and telephone number, in case I got lost. I found her in her garden, pushing her daughter Billie on a swing. I then joined them for Billie’s bedtime songs before Fisher and I sat on the floor by a big log fire, drank far too much wine and talked until midnight. Just before I toppled into a taxi, we agreed which bits I would not print.