Back in the 1980s, you couldn’t open a paper without seeing Jeffrey Archer. He was accused of this, lambasted for that, and hosted phenomenally popular parties in his swanky Thames-side apartment. And he wrote books, dozens of them, the kind of books which attached themselves to the top of the best seller lists as if with superglue (he has, his obituaries said this week, sold over 300 million books, which is a lot more than I have, and I’ve written nearly as many).
But what did they consist of? I bought one once (Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less) and I enjoyed it, but not so much that I needed to read another.
