Today, officially and in public, I was declared to be the biographer of Fergie, Duchess of York. It is a small embarrassment (what a terrible job that would be) but frankly I can only blame myself.
In today’s Independent, I’ve written a piece about Fergiegate, pointing up the madness – not to mention the nastiness – that attends press coverage of the royal family. When, years ago, I wrote a book with my friend Willie Donaldson called 101 Things You Didn’t Know About the Royal Love Birds – a spoof parodying tabloid coverage of the wedding of Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson – our invented stories, however wild and silly, were often taken to be the truth.
The same thing happened when Willie and I wrote a book about Eric Cantona inspiring a school of philosophy.
So it continues. In a less than serious opening paragraph to the Independent piece, I referred to myself as a former biographer of fun-loving Fergie, explaining the truth a couple of paragraphs.
Too late. Early this morning, I was awoken by a call from Radio Northern Ireland, asking for an interview about this great issue. As I was signed off, the announcer said, “That was the biographer of the Duchess of York…”
It’s that easy to become an expert in the zany world of celebrity nonsense.
