Nicholas Coleridge

'How's your trashy book going?' my wife asked me. I paused for a moment, reflecting on the memoirs of respected magazine mogul and museum director Nicholas Coleridge and countered, 'What makes you think it's trashy?' She looked at me in disbelief; 'It has a shiny gold cover.' The Glossy Years is not trashy. It is light, amiable and very readable without being trivial. Coleridge is polite and (relatively) discreet about his many high-profile friends and associates; he only actively dishes dirt on established adversaries. A veritable roster of high society parades through the book; everyone is here from royalty to writers, clothing designers to politicians – plus some 'celebrities' whose names are familiar even to me. The secret of Coleridge's success seems to be that he knows everyone and uses his address book with acumen and aplomb; if you were to remove every name dropped in The Glossy Years it would be shorter by at least a third. Coleridge is more modest when it comes to discussing himself; although he offers some genuine insight into his life and career, he skims over many personal adventures that might have warranted much lengthier treatment. Some of my favourite passages in the book deal with his stoical father who never talks about his own hugely successful career because he considers it too boring to merit discussion. Glitzier anecdotes include the episode where the author plays highly competitive bouts of Monopoly with Michael Portillo and Charles Saachi (Saachi always won, 'with hotels on every property on the board') and a nautical tactic employed by Prince Andrew to avoid discussing haute couture with the staff of Vogue. This is a rarefied world, for which Nicholas Coleridge acts as an elegant cicerone ... and is never trashy.… (more)

The greatest challenge in the writing of this novel was surely to make the reader sympathise with a protagonist who is heir to a massive country pile which comes with its own village and - get this - its own private bank. Somehow, by making him a self-effacing type who almost has to pinch himself every now and then ('no, I'm not dreaming, I really do own a bank') this is achieved - though my sympathy for him was vastly reduced by his failure to act decisively at the end of chapter 36.

That aside, this was a nicely paced, soapy read which follows the fortunes of its characters over a gratifyingly long period of time. It was particularly fun when, quite near the end, the characters are involved in planning a large music festival. I was at one while I was reading this which added an interesting dimension. This bit of the plot was an opportunity to have some fun (the planning stages were like something out of 'The Vicar of Dibley') and there were some wildly unlikely scenarios (not least the candles), but it was all good fun. Of all the books I've read by this author, there hasn't been a bad one yet.… (more)

I had such fun reading this book, but my overall impression is tempered by disappointment at the ending. It felt rushed, and reminded me too much of Scooby Doo (which always requires its villain to spill his/her guts in spectacular and forensic fashion in order to explain all the mysteries to the viewer). Oh, and I guessed part of the whodunit, but it was cleverly plotted so that’s not a negative as far as I’m concerned.

At the beginning of the story the author sets up two mysteries to take care of the suspense element of the plot, and then proceeds to write what is almost a handbook on running a multinational publishing company. I suspect a fan of serious thrillers would find it unsatisfactory, but the thriller element was never the main focus for me. What I liked was the insider’s view of the workings of a glossy magazine. I don’t read them, don’t have much interest in them, but for some reason I found all the detail fascinating. As though conscious of leaving information dumps littered about, the author contrived to intersperse a discussion on pagination and photography with someone getting a blow job. Frankly, the blow job was just a distraction, though as an exercise in crude humour it wasn’t bad. I learned so much from this book. For example I now know what “kill fees” are. And the line about “corporate seagulls” (“every year they fly in, shit all over you , and fly out again”) was an absolute classic.… (more)