I sat with the hacks in a large circle -- Peregrine Worsthorne was one of them I remember -- and dropped another almighty class clanger. The bloke next to me asked what I was doing there (I was obviously an outsider) and I produced a paperback I'd just had published, which was to be an item in the Sunday Times diary column. You might have thought I'd stood on a table and farted. There was a chill silence, and somebody said, "We don't talk shop in the pub. Put the damn thing away." And after that I was studiously ignored. And me with a northern accent too. The shame.
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