Piers Morgan, This Morning, Phil and Holly- The Whole Dog and Pony Show of Selling A Book.

By the time my father reached the age of 94, there was little muscle or fat left on his arse. Living a long time had withered all the plump bits away. His rear end was as comfortable for him to sit on as it would be for us to rest, for long hours, on a charity shop dining room chair with its stuffing knocked out.

Transatlantic flights were the worst for his arse and easy manner because we flew budget airlines renowned for seating arrangements that reminded me of haulage trucks on the road filled with pigs for slaughter. There wasn't much choice for us as Publishers are far from generous to authors lucky enough to get their books about socialism in print.

That my dad was on the extreme end of old age and lived in Canada- seemed filled with more problems than profits for UK-based publishers. Next to bankers, publishers probably live by the most risk-averse business model. It is why most books now leave you as satisfied as a McHappy Meal.

The advances for my dad's books, at first, were mid-level generous but afterwards became low-end begrudged munificence. An acquisitions person with a posh accent told my dad that for Don't Let My Past Be Your Future, "We'd like to give a larger advance. But the sales from your last book weren't as we hoped." The amount of the advance, didn't grind my dad's gears as much as the entitled annunciation of the figure to be granted him. Afterwards, Dad mumbled something about "Toffs, and summer vacations in fucking France."

But the advance was taken. We also agreed, as we had in the past, and hoped it wouldn't be necessary in the future, that our flights, food and accommodations during the times; The World's Oldest Rebel was not being interviewed by the news media or at a book festival were on our dime.

Don't let my Past Be Your Future was my dad's last book tour. It lasted a few weeks in the autumn of 2017. But it felt as physically exhausting and emotionally painful as being cast adrift at sea for months and wondering if you were to be cannibalised so that others might reach the shore alive.

 It is not unusual, especially for B-listed authors. But the publisher hired an outsourced publicist with a very tight budget to coordinate the publicity for Don't Let My Past Be Your Future's launch.

A few days into the tour, the publicist ecstatically rang me and said; we were booked into a Travel Lodge for a speaking event in London, and the room came with breakfast in the morning. I informed her life in prison also came with breakfast in the morning.

 She was effusive with praise for my father. However her job requirements demanded she was effusive to every client. She'd had to praise their genius regardless if their book was about keeping public healthcare public or that Brexit would get the immigrants finally out of England.

The publicist designed a promotional campaign for my dad's book as inspiring as three-minute noodles from the pound shop heated up for your tea with a cigarette lighter and seasoned with ketchup.

The paltry budget wasn't her fault. But lacking imagination or thinking outside of the box was on her. We clashed, we fought and then parted ways over her lobbying for my dad to do an interview with Piers Morgan on GMB.

When I broached the possibility to my dad of him doing an interview with Piers, his response wasn't eloquent. It also shows why he couldn't never have been a Captain Tom to uphold the established order. 

 "I wouldn't want to see that man passing in the fucking street. Why would I go out of my way to talk to him."

Naturally, the publicist and publisher were perplexed at my dad's refusal to appear on GMB. "He will sell many books by being on that program." I shrugged it off and said, "I think most of the people watching Piers are pretty happy my dad's past is becoming their future."

Besides, I said, "now he can do Russel Howard's evening show and connect more with young people, which is what my dad wants to do." For some reason, they didn't think the young bought books.

My dad enjoyed his time on the Russel Howard show because whether it was genuine or just show biz, Russel made my dad feel seen by him. He liked that.

However, a week or so later, when my dad did This Morning, he didn't feel seen or heard. He felt like a chicken being prepped for dinner by a considerate cook at a chain restaurant.

This in no way is to say the show was not professional or that he was treated with ill courtesy by the hosts or the staff. Quite the contrary. My dad was treated with aloof professionalism. There was a decent hotel for us to stay the night before the show and a car to pick us up- to go to the studio in the morning.

In the Green Room a production assistant fitted him and me as I was also a guest on the show with remote microphones. After that, we waited to be called onto the set to do our segment about my dad no longer wearing the poppy for Remembrance Sunday; due to it being hijacked to promote neoliberal warmongering.

There were many guests in the Green Room. They all looked as earnest as wannabe vaudeville acts waiting to try out their routine to a large audience.

My dad's eyes were dry, and he was irritated. I tried to lift his mood by making jokes until a PA came and took us to the couch to talk to Holly and Phil. There were last-minute instructions from a producer to us. Do's and Don'ts, I think.

Looking around a television set during a live production is much like watching a choreographed ballet, as everybody has to dance to the momentum of the program. It's both fascinating and banal because its entire purpose is to sell consumerism and a middle-class conformist lifestyle.

The interview about my dad not wearing a poppy conducted by Phil and Holly was harmless. Although I detected a sense from Phil Schofield that he wasn't in agreement with my dad's anti-war sentiments. Nothing overtly snide but a cold disapproval like an ATM machine when it displays a dispassionate message that you have insufficient funds for your transaction. Schofield certainly didn't ask my dad for a selfie like he did with Boris Johnson. But I think; my dad would have been aghast, if the request had been proffered.

After the interview concluded and we were kindly sent on our way, I asked my dad if he was happy with the interview. "Didn't think much of them. But at least the couch didn't make my arse ache."

A few days later, when we were queuing at Gatwick for our flight to Toronto- a woman walked passed us. She stopped and hesitantly asked my dad. "Are you Harry Leslie Smith?" My dad said, yes.

 "I saw you on This Morning, and I think you are bloody marvellous."

As always, thank you for reading my sub stack posts because I really need your help this month. Your subscriptions to Harry’s Last Stand keep the legacy of Harry Leslie Smith alive and me housed. This month is proving to be real scramble to get next months together. So if you can join with a paid subscription which is just 3.50 a month or a yearly subscription or a gift subscription. I promise the content is good, relevant and thoughtful. Take Care, John