The Prescott Chronicles

When assessing his generals, Napoleon always asked “Is he lucky?” My mother, who shared a number of characteristics with Napoleon (she too was short and sarcastic), always told me “It's better to be born lucky than rich.”
And, by golly, she was right.
Looking back on my career as a writer of other people's books, it's breathtaking to see just how lucky I have been.
For example, O.J. Simpson never contacted me to help him with his book, “How I Dunnit.” Bill Clinton insisted on doing it his way without my aid, although I think it shows.
And what's his name from Big Brother, Pete someone or other, had Andrew Crofts volunteer for the job of putting his life on paper and, in so doing, found it be infinitely more interesting than the programme..
With Wayne Rooney, my luck peaked out and someone else got the job. Just as well I wasn't asked since I know nothing of soccer.
And now to my great relief I find that, once more, I have dodged the bullet. John Prescott has picked on poor old Hunter Davies to share in his £300,000 advance for his memoirs.
Hunter Davies is a jolly good writer, he did an excellent one on The Beatles, and I wish him well. I could have done with a share of the 300,000 but I'm afraid the temptation to turn it into a comedy book would have been irresistible.
So my luck seems to be holding and the only small cloud, no bigger than a writer's hand, on the horizon is the news that Tony Blair is discussing his forthcoming biography with his publishers next month.
So I'm just going to keep my head down and hope that he hires Alastair Campbell to do the job. That would serve them both right.