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The final, dying squeak of the nonentity memoir
on 26 April 2012
I suppose Nick Hornby kicked off the idea that the subject of an autobiography need not be that interesting, provided he is interested in something. Hornby also has the advantage that he can write; to the extent that you don't really need to be interested in football or Arsenal, let alone Hornby himself, to find Fever Pitch an intriguing picture of an obsession.
Nick Griffiths' Arsenal equivalent is Doctor Who, but it doesn't really seem to be an obsession; more something he quite likes, his enthusiasm ebbing and flowing. And later he gets a chance to interview a lot of the people involved in the show, which is nice. But to pad it out, we learn about his fondness for the Canadian prog band Rush, his lousy A-level results, his desire to build a fruit machine. He just writes these things down and hopes we care, without any real attempt at self-analysis, or any desire to make himself or his hobbies or his relationships or his work really matter to us.
Moreover, deprived of the editorial support of the Radio Times (his regular employer), there are rather more clunky errors than one might hope for. So we've got an uninteresting person who is a bit interested in something, but hasn't got the talent to write about it. He claims to loathe Adric (the whining, spoddy companion to the Fifth Doctor) but that's who he most reminds me of. And as his final credits run, there will be no music.