My idea of rewriting the life of the sainted Bard has already met a few glitches. The Kindle, at 99p, looks fine, and the paperback, costing a hardly extortionate \u00a34.25, looks even better. But on the Amazon page, I failed to point out it is a comedy – featuring Will Shakespeare as a lowly junior reporter on Ye Globe! <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I’ve already had some letters saying that he was not like that at all! Judging from his later writing he was not a hapless drunken hack, but the greatest playwright of all time, despite the odd fact that he couldn’t even spell his own name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I called Anne Hathaway Anne Hathadose as well, which didn’t help at all. Some people thought it bordered on the rude, though God knows how they would have survived Elizabeth England. Hathaway, Hathadose, Shagsper, Shaksper, Shaxpur, who gave a flying fart?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I could say that the pace of modern publishing is no great help, but I doubt that it would get me off the hook. When I recall that my first book – Albeson and the Germans – did not fall into my hot little hands until a year or more after Andre Deutsch bought it, and ‘Shakespeare – the Truth’ was turned around in three to four weeks from finishing typing to having it in paperback and<\/em> in Kindle version, it’s mind-boggling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It’s madly efficient, but it also means days off from writing are a thing of the past. I finished the first Covid Caper (Shakespeare) about a month ago, and I’ve already had to start his second adventure as an intrepid reporter on Ye Daily Globe. Momentum is the name of the game, so there’ll be at least one more (non Shakespeare) book before Will goes to Scotland to clash with bloody King Macbeth. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I can’t tell you too much about Scotch on the Rocks yet, except that it’s equally mad. And after that, I’ve got more adventures for poor Will.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Enough of whining. Here’s a bit of Chapter 2 of the first book, in which young Bill meets King Lear – and gets a very sore arse. Driving a motorbike, you see. He always was a great one for anachronisms was our William…<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chapter 2\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n A married man, Will Shagsper quickly learned, had to have a trade. No good at gloving, as Mr H told everyone in the neighbourhood, not good at anything at all if you asked his wife \u2013 within the sheets or out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018He\u2019s like an octopus that\u2019s lost an arm or two,\u2019 she told her best friend, Gossip Gertrude. \u2018How many does an octopus have anyway?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Just the none, but good long legs,\u2019 said Gertrude. \u2018And their eggs! Would feed an army an ostrich egg would. Oh, octopus. What\u2019s one of those when it\u2019s at home?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I suppose we could ask Will,\u2019 said Anne, resentfully, patting her growing belly. \u2018If he knows nothing else he knows things no other bugger knows nothing about, Gertrude.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n And rude Gert smirked, \u2018Like putting things in holes. Babies don\u2019t grow on trees do they?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018He thinks they do,\u2019 said Anne. \u2018First time I gave him a hand in bed he thought that I was milking him to feed the baby! He\u2019s a jackanapes.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Gross,\u2019 said Gertie. \u2018But you\u2019re Mrs Shagsper now, ain\u2019t you? Your salad days are over, duck.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Don\u2019t call me duck, it\u2019s low.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018We\u2019re in the Midlands, though, get used to it. You\u2019re Mrs S that\u2019s all there is about it. Sorry.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018You bloody will be, duck. I\u2019m Hathaway, and that\u2019s an end to it.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018But you\u2019re married to him! Ain\u2019t <\/em>you?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Yeah, okay, alright, I must admit it. But a Shagsper I will never be, my friend. Shagsper. Shagsper! <\/em>What sort of effin name is that?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018But\u2014\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018And he hasn\u2019t got a job, and he hasn\u2019t got no prospects, and he\u2019s almost young enough to be my bleedin\u2019 son<\/em>. If it hadn\u2019t been for them three witches I wouldn\u2019t have touched him with a ten foot pole.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Three witches? What three witches?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018That week in Scotland on the charabang. I got pissed one night and I met them at the crossroads. They said they\u2019d tell me fortune for a groat.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Bloody Ada, you were<\/em> drunk, weren\u2019t you? What did they say?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u2018I asked them where the lads hung out, up Scotland way. Where I could get a crafty peep behind the sporran. They went on and on and on.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n