Well I've given you enough time to answer, but none came. That's fine, I'm content with my own company, one has to be on this site.
He's a comedy writer most famous here in the UK for the 'Reggie Perrin" TV series. It was purchased by the US, but they messed it up and it failed over there. It is of course also a series of novels and dvds. (ignore the Martin Clunes remake though)
'A Bit of a Do' is my favourite TV series - also available of course in book form and dvd.
But it is probably too British for most of you over there.
I have seen that some of you confess to having read 'Cupid's Dart.' It's not his best by a long shot, it's OK but don't judge him on this.
My favourite books are the Henry Pratt series, the first of which is "Second to the Last in the Sack Race.' Brilliantly written tales of Henry's life.
'Going Gently' is reviewed as his best, but I haven't read it yet. I would be delighted to hear from any of you who have.
I've just finished David's autobiography ' I Didn't Get Were I Am Today' which is absolutely fantastic! Laugh out loud funny, self-deprecating and so good you don't wish to skip a single word.
Here's his latest blog -
do me a favour and read this at least. Then you can tell me what you think. It's good to talk, or so we get told.
Quote from
David Nobbs - Blog
My worst speaking engagement - 23/10/2009
Well hello there, Nobbbloggers all
In my last Nobbblog I promised - or should that be threatened? - to tell you about the worst speaking engagement I ever endured. And here it is.
It was at Whitemoor High Security Prison, in Cambridgeshire. An inmate wrote to me, telling me that there were five great fans of mine in the prison, and they were all members of 'The Wednesday Club', which discussed the arts for three hours every Wednesday.
Five fans! Flattery will get a writer anywhere.
Three hours! If you've read the last Nobbblog you will know that I recently did 405 minutes to the same people, but in 45 minute sessions. Three hours. I was daunted even before I arrived. I was then by no means as accomplished or as confident a public speaker as I have since become.
Susan drove me down to Cambridgeshire. I know the county well, having been to the University, of which, every time it was mentioned, the much-mourned Peter Tinniswood used to say, 'Wasn't that where you did difficult sums, Dave?' The wind blows without interruption all the way from the Urals over the flatlands of Northern Europe to Kings College Chapel and Ely Cathedral. And Whitemoor High Security Prison.
I had been told to arrive half an hour early. 'for security purposes'. I was greeted with friendly smiles, told to relax, told to undress, stood there shivering while my body was sesrched for hidden weapons, told to relax, shivered in a relaxed sort of way, put my clothes back on, doing up the buttons with shaking hands, and relaxed my way, escored by a warder who told me to relax, up stairs, along corridors and into a room where about fourteen members of staff were relaxing before their afternoon duties.
At two o clock, the time for my talk to begin, I was told to wait a few minutes longer, as at two o clock the sex offenders were moved to their afternoon tasks, and the rest of the prisoners weren't allowed to move till the sex offenders were safely out of the way, lest they tear them limb from limb. 'Just sit here and relax.' By this time I was as relaxed as a cobra.
Then it was time to go. I found myself in a small room with sixteen large prisoners and one small female warder. Goodness knows what would have happened if there'd been a riot over the literary merits of Iam McEwan.
One of the prisoners approached me and said that he was the fan who had written to me. Sadly, he told me, the other four fans had been moved to other prisons and had been replaced by four Cypriots. My heart would have sunk then, had it not sunk so far already.
The warder introduced me, I stood, and began. Now I usually start my talks with a reference to the first really proud moment of my career, when I had my very first word in print as a professional writer. It was in the Sheffield Star, the evening paper on which I began my career. It was 'thives'. 'Thives who broke into the home of Mrs Emily Braithwaite stole....' Yes, my career began with a misprint. And. as I suddenly realised, my talk was beginning with a crime. Couldn't start with that one, not in a prison.
Well, I stumbled on, leaving out a story the tag of which was, 'No, but I could murder a pint' and several other incidents which it seemed tactless to tell to prisoners. Somehow, I got through an hour and a bit, which was longer than I'd ever spoken non-stop before, but which still left well over an hour and a half for questions.
Things got worse with the questions.
Often the first question will be 'Do you use a computer?' or 'Do you write every day?' or 'Do you have a daily routine for your writing?' In the prison the first question was a little more demanding. It was 'Why did they make such a bad film out of that very good book, 'The Bonfire of the Vanities?' When I admitted that I hadn't read the book or seen the film, I could feel my credibility slipping out of the ends of my fingers. I waffled a bit about other films based on books, but I knew, and they knew, that I hadn't answered the question.
Never mind. It was a difficult question. The next question would be easier.
The next question was, 'Which Cypriot novelists do you admire?'
I should have blustered. I should have invented an author. I should have said, with comviction, 'Stelios Thianopolos'. When they said, 'Never heard of him', I should have said, 'Really? You should hunt him out. He's a giant of the interior monologue'. By the time they found that he didn't exist, I would be far away.
But I didn't. I said, 'I'm afraid I haven't read any Cypriot novelists.' I was dying on my feet. I could see that, mysteriously, even the non-Cypriots thought I should have read some Cypriot novelists.
The third question was put in an Ealing Comedy petty crook voice, laden with menace.
'Have you ever met Prunella Scales?'
'Yes, I have. She's a lovely lady.'
'I know she is. That's why I'm going to marry her.'
'I think her husband, Timothy West, might have something to say about that.'
'I've got plans to deal with him.'
I can't remember what came next, but it wasn't any better. I limped on through that grey winter afternoon, the light slowly fading, my voice slowly fading. One man, his voice as fruity as a Christmas cake, told me that he had also been in 'the media' 'I once trod the boards with Mike and Bernie Winters.' I longed to ask him, 'What did you do, to have to give all that glory and glamour up, to end up here?' I so longed to know. But that was the question I was not permitted to ask. I was with sixteen people who had fascinating life stories, and I couldn't ask them anything about why they were in prison. Very frustrating, for a novelist.
Somehow I got through the rest of that withering winter afternoon. I can't remember how.
Susan was waiting for me. She had been to see Ely Cathedral. She drove off, and we stopped off at the first place we came to. It was a Little Chef.
I'll tell you how bad the afternoon had been. I enjoyed the Little Chef.
