As if things weren’t bad enough, now David Cameron has a book out.
I can’t imagine how tedious a book it is, presumably part misplaced-smugness, part retrospective justification for his actions – arguably the only time when it might get insightful is when Brexit kicks off, but of course that happens after he’s already sodded off so presumably the book ends just when things might be in danger of getting interesting.
Not only that, it would seem he can’t even be trusted to keep his mouth shut and has been happy to blab all about supposedly confidential discussions. The minute I saw the headline, of his revealing details of private conversations between him and the Queen, I thought he’d get into trouble for it. (I’m pleased to say that very shortly after, he did.)
Maybe I’m being too hard on him; or maybe a man who, to be frank, was happy to hold a referendum regardless of any damage it might do, not out of any principle but simply to make sure he won an election, deserves not to be especially well-regarded. To make it worse, the moment it all blows up in his face he is able to swan off entirely scot-free, with no recriminations and not even an offer to help sort out the mess he’s left behind. Through gritted teeth, let me say that the final insult is that not only has he got away with it, he’s also secured a no doubt six-figure book deal out of it.
Curiously enough, another book came out the exact same day, another autobiography. Unlike Cameron’s, though, I’d actually like to read Christopher Eccleston’s book – although I suspect it would be hard to convince anybody that I’m not just interested in the Doctor Who stuff.
That’s not to say there isn’t still a fascination in discovering, or deciphering, just what happened, just what went wrong in 2004 that he left Doctor Who after just one year. You could draw the parallel that he too left just as things were getting interesting – but in Chris Eccleston’s case he left things in a healthier state than he’d found them, and since then has shown nothing but tact, discretion and dignity.
The tantalising hints and tidbits that have emerged over the years suggest a falling-out, artistic or personal or both, from which the production team’s relationships never really recovered; with the situation then being made worse by the BBC’s extraordinarily clumsy response when the news broke that Eccleston had already left the show, after only one of his thirteen episodes had aired.
I feel weirdly conflicted whenever I hear Christopher Eccleston talk, even obliquely, about that time. There’s an understandable frustration and resentment on his part at being, in effect, cold-shouldered and hung out to dry by the Beeb, even as his performance was giving them a hit show. I love Doctor Who, the BBC too for that matter, but that affection makes me feel disloyal to a man who inspires loyalty. No, not loyalty exactly – it’s more that in every interview I’ve seen or read of him, he comes across as a man of high standards, of fierce and unbending integrity. And with that comes, somehow, the implicit challenge to try and match up.
An insightful friend, years ago, wrote on a forum that he thought Christopher Eccleston might be like Patrick Troughton – in that, it wouldn’t be until a whole generation later that he would begin to realise how much he meant to us. Now he’s emerged from the silence which has surrounded his time as the Doctor; and at last, it seems, he is becoming aware of, and coming to terms with, the great regard and fondness in which he is still held.
Mind you, I don’t think the book is about Doctor Who as such, it’s much more his life story, his struggles and demons and relationships. Not like Cameron, not looking to justify his actions or put a good spin on his legacy; but to say, plainly and truthfully, here I am, this is me, I don’t always find it easy.
He really does sound like one of the good guys.
Fantastic, even.
Andrew Curnow's Ramblings 