The trouble with writing about people is their friends. Back when woolly mammoths roamed the earth and I was Crossbencher in the Sunday Express, I wrote admiringly about the burgeoning prospects of a young MP. He was of Dutch origin and I suggested that he might become the first Hollander to lead the British Labour party. A friend was drinking in Annie’s Bar in the Commons two days later and overheard another MP congratulate my subject. ‘Nice article about you in Crossbencher, Dick.’ ‘Yes,’ he replied, smiling modestly. ‘Don’t know what I did to deserve that.’ A little later in came another colleague. ‘Oh, Dick, I’m so sorry about that vicious piece about you in the Express.’ ‘Vicious? How do you mean?’ ‘Oh, don’t you see? The whole thing was got up to ruin your chances, pointing out to everybody that you are a foreigner.’ ‘Oh, my God, you’re right, what a sod that man Oakley is…’
I tell the story because broadcaster, author and former professional jockey Brough Scott has just written a brilliantly sensitive, balanced and authoritative book about top trainer Sir Henry Cecil only to have his subject condemn it publicly and refuse all co-operation. Having myself penned two trainers’ biographies and a book on Lambourn’s racing community with portraits of many others, I have total sympathy with Brough. The subjects themselves are usually fine, acknowledging that there have been mistakes and misjudgments in life as well as the successes you are helping them to celebrate.
It is only when their nearest and dearest start looking at the material that the trouble arises: ‘You can’t let him say that about you.’ In one case, I remember working relations were almost sundered because I quoted a diary column cutting, which they had pasted in their family scrapbook.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in