Revenge

Years ago, when I published my first novel, FORMULA ONE, THE TIMES of London offered up a review. It quoted the first half of a paragraph to demonstrate that my book was the typical wooo haaa juvenile crap you'd expect from a novel about motor racing.

"Here's to all the bright and hopeful boys and girls who cling to the racetrack fences, their fingers gripping the steel mesh. They dream that one day t hey too will be strapped into the wild beasts with wheels, put their foot down, pedal to the metal, and accelerate into the winner's circle, where the pop stars are and the private jet waits patiently on the tarmac, and the beautiful people beg to come near, to touch the brave heros and give them wealth and fame and glory and all the soft open thighs that they can stand."

If that were all there was in that paragraph then the disdain of THE TIMES would be understandable. Deserved, even. But that was only the first half of the paragraph, the set up.

Here's the second half, the half they didn't quote:

"And here's to all those same hopeful, tense and tight lipped children, pushing their broken second hand Formula Fords back to the pits, on their way to the glorious prizes of Formula One. For they shall be scattered like the leaves at the side of the road."

I rest my case. I no longer subscribe to THE TIMES.

In any case FORMULA ONE sold out in two weeks. And it took the publisher six months to print another copy. Which, of course, was too late.

So here's to all the bright and hopeful boys and girls who dream of being novelists, etc.