The Column
My monthly rant about life, the universe, and everything in it
The Column #8
Release Date:
9th April 2004
Synopsis: The (ir)relevance of the British Book Awards.
The Bunkum Prize
In spite of recent attempts at character assassination by the global media circus, I have always had a certain degree of respect for David Beckham. I see him as a strong role model for young men today, and a decent father figure who refuses to trudge down the same macho tough-guy route that has been the downfall of so many of his peers. Thus far he has avoided the temptations that accompany fame and fortune, namely excessive drinking and drug abuse, and in every sense he is a professional figure whose dedication to his work is admirable.
Alas there is at least one irresistible temptation for each and every one of us; even David Beckham is flawed in his own way. If Posh Spice is Mary Magdelene to his Jesus Christ, then it figures that unlimited money for David replaces the 'chance of a peaceful life' that so nearly tempted Jesus. It seems Beckham cannot resist the opportunity to earn money by endorsing numerous products and brands, and worse still releasing an endless stream of books bearing his name, most of which I suspect he has never read, let alone contributed to. Whether Beckham is to wholly to blame for any of this is uncertain, however one thing I am certain of is that he is nobody's Tolkein.
This makes it all the more surprising that his work was recently nominated in the Best Book category at this year's British Book Awards. The awards featured a number of talented authors such as JK Rowling and Monica Ali, along with other work by the likes of Paul Burrell and Shane Richie. The British Book Awards are the self declared ' Oscars of the book trade '. From this bold statement one can only presume that the awards ceremony is a shameless exhibition of self-indulgence, involving heavy back patting and a round of overflowing champagne flutes in the name of cultural excess and exorbitant salaries?
Beckham's latest autobiography, entitled My Side (a cunning title that works on two levels, firstly as a play on football terminology, and secondly as an acute variation from his previous endeavours, entitled My Story and My Life respectively), was nominated for Best Book, however it finished amongst the runners up in this section. Luckily Beckham didn't walk away empty handed though, as he won a special award for the fastest selling autobiography of all time. Not bad given that it is only his third attempt. After the awards show, it is alleged that the following comments were offered by an admirer from an unnamed tabloid.
"David, congratulations for allowing someone to ghost write a book about you. Talk us through it in your own words please. Or alternatively perhaps you could just smile nicely while we write a few words on your behalf? Please pass on our congratulations to your PR machine for making your life headline news. As you may know, most of your autobiography has already been unintentionally serialised on the front pages of every newspaper over the last eight or so years anyway, but for those needing a reminder/summary, it is perfection. So much has happened in the three years since your last book that it amazes me you have found the time to sit down and translate it to the printed word."
Elsewhere at the same awards, Martin Johnson (a member of the England rugby squad that recently won the World Cup) won the Sports Book of the Year for his autobiography. I wonder would this have happened if England had finished fourth at the World Cup? It begs the question - Is the award for the book itself, or just further celebration of the events that have occurred in the life of the author/subject lately? Events which merely make the content slightly more appealing to all the pseudo rugby fans who have emerged from the societal scrum in the last five months.
On a final note, and to add further credibility to the ceremony, one of the awards was presented by Jordan , the cosmetically well-endowed model, and star of reality television. You know you have made it in the literary world when society grants your wish to fill Peter Andre's shoes for five minutes. Oh cruel fate, why do you mock us?