OK, so that's a slight exaggeration. Actually, it's a complete sodding lie, but I thought it'd be catchier than 'Sunday Times Runs Article On Bearded Idiot (But Only In Scotland)'. Yup, if you bought a copy of the Scottish Sunday Times this morning and can wrestle your way though the small rainforest's worth of supplements and magazines, you'll find an interview / article with me in the 'Ecosse' section. There's even a photo of me resting on some poor sod's grave -- one of those old fashioned ones where the person who erected the headstone gets top billing and the poor deceased has to take second place with a smaller typeface.
Not a bad article, even though one does need a Sherpa, compass and both hands to find it -- I bought the paper this morning and went in search of ME! It's the newsprint equivalent of ego-surfing and tried the book section, the Scottish paper bit and eventually started trolling through the supplements, looking for my bearded face -- but one bit makes my blood boil! No, it's not the tiny spoiler, it's the bit that goes:
Writing has come relatively late in life for MacBride, although how late is hard to say... Early Forties is a best guess.
Cheeky bastard! Cheeky, rotten stinker who stinks and is made of stink and when he moves stink comes out! Early forties my arse: I've been ill! I'm not a day over (harrumphing coughing noises)! Doesn't he know I celebrated a 31st birthday last year?
Still, it's nice to get the coverage, and aside from that woeful, libellous misuse of journalistic privilege (Early Forties!), it's a good article. And the photo doesn't make me look like a horses arse either. Which is a nice change.
The other bit, which is more surreal than anything else is their bestseller list. Not the one in the paper this week -- that one covers the four weeks ending 22 April 2006 -- but the one for the last week in April they email out to all the publishers, letting them know whom is kicking who's arse. In that one I'm number eight on the Hardback Fiction list. Ah yes, Sunday Times Bestseller Boy, that's me: you may kiss the hem of my robe, as soon as I go out and buy one. And if it wasn't for that pesky Doctor Who bloke, I'd be number FIVE (there are three of them above me)! And by an extension of that same logic if it wasn't for Robert Goddard, Marian Keyes, Jodi Picoult, and some Patterson bloke I've never heard of, I'd be number one! Then all would fear me and great would be my REIGN OF TERROR!
And while I'm on the big train, speeding away from reality town, I'd like an open topped sports car, a nose that works again, and a big bag of jelly babies. And maybe some dancing girls. I have simple tastes.
Where was I? Yes, so, there you go. By the time the list gets printed next Sunday something will have changed and I'll have been knocked off the charts by something else, but for one brief shining moment I can bask in the light of my own beardy ego. Bwahahahahahaha!
Just don't tell HarperCollins I'm basking, OK? I'm already one week late with book three. To the grindstone!