Sir Sean Connery's book is out. The official hoo-ha is Monday night at the Edinburgh Book Festival - yeah, one of the many events that sold out within fifty-three seconds of tickets going on sale - but the book's out in full regalia. It's a gorgeous book (seriously - it's beautiful) with 312 pages of text and color photos, and I'm sure a copy will make its way to our SNP household, but today at Waterstones, whilst thumbing through one of the fifty or so copies stacked on a table, the folks had other things to say.
"Bastard." - random man in his 50s with a copy of "Jamie at Home" in his other hand
"What a load of rubbish." - agitated woman in her 50s with a stack of Jilly Cooper and 3-for-2 romances in her arms
"He's a bit up himself, innin-ee?" - agitated woman (above)'s companion, pulling a tartan shopping trolley
You just can't win. You're a national icon. You don your kilt whenever possible, bringing attention to your small country. You loathe the English like any good Scotsman. You've launched a zillion vocal imitators, most men in their 20s trying to pull. You're the best James Bond ever, for god's sake. And random folk in the Inverness Waterstones don't even give you any love. Even at £4 off the £20 price.
On a lighter note, Michael "The Grouper" Phelps has a book deal. Note to self: win 8 medals = book deal. And here I thought I had to actually try to write something.