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Stuart does not like the manuscript.
Two years’ worth of interviews and literary effort to write a biography of this annoying man who now sits squeezed into my armchair, his ugly mug pushed forward in objection.
‘What’s the matter with it?’
‘It’s bollocks boring.’
Put briefly, his objection is this: I drone on.
‘I don’t mean to be rude. I know you put a lot of work in,’ Stuart offers. He’s after a bestseller ‘like what Tom Clancy writes.’
‘But you are not an assassin trying to frazzle the president with anthrax bombs,’ I point out. You are an ex-homeless, ex-junkie psychopath, I do not add.
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