Saturday, 24 September 2016

Pick up your FREE copy now

"Wonderful images and thought-provoking scenes." Bramwell Tovey, composer & broadcaster 

"The strength of the author's voice held me captivated long after turning the last page. With the wit of JK Rowling, Alex Pearl has definitely earned his place in the young adult fiction hall of fame." Lisa McCombs, Readers' Favorite 

"A delightful fairy story that deals sensitively and compellingly with modern-day issues like homelessness, single mums and abusive parents." George Layton, author and screenwriter

"What an entrancing story. A real flight of fancy which will engage children in the plot and, at the same time, increase their understanding of real human relationships."


#free #Kindle #books #freebies #offers #bargains

Sunday, 7 August 2016

Laughter - it's a serious business

I have long held the view that clients who possess a sense of humour and are keen to run amusing advertising campaigns are those most likely to succeed in this world. It' a simple philosophy, but as a general rule, I think the principle stands up fairly well. You only have to look at some of the best loved and effective advertising campaigns to acknowledge this.

Iconic poster for the beer that refreshes those other parts.
Volkswagen and Heineken are two particularly good examples. Back in 1978, the copywriter Terry Lovelock was tasked by his agency, Collett Dickenson Pearce to create a campaign for the Dutch brewer, Heineken. His brief revolved around one word: refreshment. For weeks Lovelock and his Art Director tried to come up with something they liked, but weren't getting very far. Eventually, at the eleventh hour and as an act of sheer desperation, Lovelock decided to seek inspiration in Marrakesh. Luckily for him, the change of scene; the sunshine; the spicy cuisine (or possibly a few hallucinatory substances) did the trick, and on waking up in his hotel room at 3am, he wrote those immortal words: 'Heineken refreshes the parts other beers cannot reach.'  Frank Lowe the agency's chairman liked it and presented the idea in the form of two TV scripts to Anthony Simmonds-Gooding, the most senior client at Whitbread, while the pair flew to Leningrad (now St Petersberg) to view an exhibition at the Hermitage.  Simmonds-Gooding bought the concept at 20,000 feet and the campaign ran for 22 years, cementing Heineken's position in the market and creating one of advertising history's best loved campaigns.

Twenty years before Terry Lovelock wracked his brains in Marrakesh, Bill Bernbach's New York agency Doyle Dane Bernbach found itself with a tricky brief to sell a strange looking car that had been designed by the Nazis in Germany. Bernbach defied all advertising conventions at that time by deciding to adopt self-deprecating humour to convey the car's chief characteristics: its size and less than perfect looks, while extolling its winning virtues: reliability and thrift. With consummate wit, one of its early commercials featured a funeral cortege and the the voice of the deceased reading his last will and testament. 90% of the script is devoted to the old man berating in the most amusing terms his nearest and dearest for their extravagant lifestyles, while we see them coast past in a long cortege of large saloons. Finally, we get to see the old man's nephew driving a VW Beetle, and the old man wearily signs off: "And to my nephew Harold who oft-times said, "a penny saved is a penny earned," and who also oft-times said, "Gee, Uncle Max, it sure pays to own a Volkswagen", I leave my entire fortune of one hundred million dollars." The commercial makes you chuckle and is absolutely timeless.

Press ad for the VW Beetle.
Of course, it's no coincidence that these two hugely successful brands have relied on wit to sell. It is without any doubt one of the most potent tools that the marketing industry has at its disposal. Yet, it never ceases to amaze me that so many clients shun anything remotely amusing, firmly believing that humour denigrates a brand; and somehow makes it frivolous. The consensus seems to be that if you want to be taken seriously, you have to be seen to behave seriously. And the result is that most advertising is simply dull and instantly forgettable.

In a rather round-about kind of way, this brings me to the subject I wanted to talk about in the first place: a project of one of my own clients. Sofia Fenichell is an impressive businesswoman. She started out, funnily enough, as an executive at Doyle Dayne Bernbach, and then moved into the higher echelons of investment banking and hedge fund management, before starting her own businesses. Her latest venture, which I have had the pleasure of helping her with is a fascinating project that blends science with, you've guessed it, humour. In short, she and her business partners, have come up with Mrs Wordsmith - an ingenious way to improve the vocabulary of primary school children. Mrs Wordsmith comes in the form of a beautifully produced monthly package that is delivered directly to your door. Inside are a series of placemats that have been lovingly designed with amusing narratives and inventive word games. And all the words and stories have been illustrated by the brilliant team of artists behind the DreamWorks movies Madagascar and Hotel Transylvania. As one of the lead writers on the project, I've really enjoyed the collaborative process of working with the DreamWorks team. Sofia and her business partners, who include the neuroscientist Dr Lesley Sand, understand the importance of humour when communicating to young kids. And it's why they approached DreamWorks in the first place. Sofia was very clear about this. "If the illustrations weren't going to be funny, the whole thing wasn't going to work," she told me when I had my first meeting with her. But she needn't worry on this score, as the illustrations are, as you'd expect, wonderfully irreverent and humorous.

One of countless illustrations by DreamWorks for Mrs Wordsmith.
The entire concept has in fact been based on masses of research into how young children learn a wider and richer vocabulary. And how a wide vocabulary at a young age will help children to confidently master all subjects at school including maths. Research has also shown that certain rich words that aren't on the primary school curriculum are usually learnt at home; particularly if families sit around the dinner table and engage in conversation. So Mrs Wordsmith employs placemats to be used at mealtimes in ten minute bursts every day. Repeating words in different contexts through the use of amusing illustrations and stories is, according to Dr Sand, the key to success. Instilling a love and understanding of words early on also develops a love for reading.

Surprisingly, there is no other paper based programme quite like it on the market. Kumon is the only other system out there. It's been around for years, but is very dry, humourless, and is based solely on learning by rote.

To date, the educational establishment have been raving about Mrs Wordsmith. It does precisely what every school wants every parent to do at home with their kids - but with minimum effort.

By being irreverent, amusing and mischievous, Mrs Wordsmith is certainly going to appeal to kids. And it'll only be a matter of time before it makes its mark. Indeed, in ten years from now, I suspect it will become a household name. Embrace humour wisely, and sooner or later you'll be laughing all the way to the bank.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds

Wednesday, 27 April 2016

The magician with chutzpah

h-armstrong-roberts-hands-of-magician-performing-magic-trick-pulling-rabbit-out-of-top-hat.jpg (366×488)

Chutzpah, if you didn't already realize, is a Yiddish word that has found its way into the Oxford English Dictionary. The writer Leo Rosten defines it as a word meaning the ultimate in gall, brazen nerve and effrontery. And by way of definition, claims that it is the quality enshrined in a man who, having murdered his mother and father, throws himself on the mercy of the court because he is an orphan. As it happens, there is someone I have encountered who can claim to possess this trait in spades. Allow me to elaborate.

Many years ago when our kids were considerably shorter than us, we were faced with organising a 12th birthday party for our son. In the past we'd had the usual parties in the garden or in school halls and the like, but this particular year we'd thought we'd arrange a a cricket match for the boys as our son at that time was particularly keen on the game. The weather, however, conspired against us on the day and the cricket was going to be a non-starter. In retrospect, there can be fewer more regrettable situations to find oneself in than having 16 boisterous and highly excitable twelve-year-old male birthday guests on your hands with no birthday activities or venue for them to do them in.

My wife, ever resourceful, had a brainwave. "I know. I'll call Lee. Her son Julius is a member of the Magic Circle. We'll get him to do some magic tricks in the house; I'll sort out tea; and you can organize a quiz." Two hours later, 15-year-old Julius shows up with his box of tricks and sets up, while I attempt without much luck to interest our excitable guests in my history quiz. Tea consisting of sandwiches, endless packets of crisps, lots of fizzy drinks and, of course, the obligatory birthday cake, comes as a saving grace. I'm frankly exhausted by it all. But the energy levels of the assembled throng, having fed on copious quantities of fizzy drinks is now at an all-time high and one boy in particular by the name of Daniel takes a great deal of delight in winding up everyone around him.

By the time we let them onto our magician, things are at fever pitch. But thankfully, Julius has a certain way of handling his audience.

"Ok guys. Would you mind shutting up now please. I'm going to show you some pretty cool stuff. But if you don't shut up right now I'm not going to show you anything, Ok?" And with this, the crowd calms down and Julius launches into a pretty impressive magic trick involving a pencil and a deck of cards. The boys seem captivated. The tricks continue. Coins magically disappear and reappear in strange places; a £5 note is torn in half and is then restored to its former glory; interlinked metal rings are magically pulled apart. Everything seems to be going swimmingly, until, that is, Daniel can no longer contain himself. "That's rubbish. That's not magic," he declares raucously, and for a moment the spell over the boys is broken and there are giggles and guffaws. But before things get out of hand, Julius takes control of the situation. He quite literally leaps into his audience and gets Daniel in a stranglehold and then pins him up against our wall and twists his arm behind his back. "Ok. If I hear another peep out of you I'll break your arm. Do you hear?" Daniel goes white and doesn't say a word. Julius returns to his magic table and the show continues without a hitch.

His approach, though unconventional, is very effective. But I can't help feeling responsible for Daniel and become very concerned that his parents might want to sue us for any physical and emotional harm to their son. So once all the kids have finally dispersed with their party bags and the detritus created by 16 small people is shovelled into several black bin liners, I get onto the phone to Daniel's mother. I spend what feels like several minutes apologising for the unfortunate incident involving strangleholds and bent arms and express my hope that Daniel wasn't traumatised. "Oh don't worry about that Mr Pearl. We're used to it. It's always happening to Daniel. Thank you for the party." I put the phone down with a certain relief.

I have since learnt that Julius went on to perfect his magic while doing his A levels. On one occasion at school, he apparently tore up his homework in front of his teacher and then made it magically reappear in one piece on the teacher's desk.

Now, while at university his magic has reached new heights. Julius Dein has performed for Google, Nelson Mandela, Arsenal FC, and several prestigious events attended by the likes of Russel Brand, Simon Cowell, Alan Sugar and Stephen Hawking, to name just a few.

His mother is desperately worried that he won't achieve his degree in politics with all his extra curricular activities. But if I were her, I wouldn't worry. This young man will obviously stop at nothing to hold the undivided attention of his audience, and seems destined for great things. And though he no longer resorts to strangleholds, the chutzpah is certainly in evidence. You can take a look at some of his antics here.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds

Wednesday, 20 April 2016

The day Sir Robin Day cut my hair

p01h0knf.jpg (640×360)
At the age of around six I very clearly remember being taken to The Savoy Saloon barber's shop in the Cranbrook Road, Gants Hill by my mother and having my hair cut by none other than Sir Robin Day. You remember him don't you? He was the darling of political interviews, used to chair Question Time in the days before David Dimblebee, and would always sport a bow tie. It took some considerable time for me to work out that the chap in question who never did utter anything particularly witty or ask any probing questions regarding the government's economic policy while snipping away with his scissors, wasn't actually the real McCoy moonlighting in a barber's shop in the suburban backwaters of Essex. He did, however, sport a bow tie and could easily have passed for Mr Day's younger brother. This said, that feeling of being in awe and dumbstruck is one I still feel whenever inadvertently rubbing shoulders with someone who not only looks like someone we all know, but actually is that very same person.

e1afa45e-4dd3-4f05-86e7-772d29ca88b0-2060x1236.jpeg (2060×1236)The first time I remember seeing a genuinely well known face in public was when I started secondary school and began to use the London Underground. On this particular occasion I can remember taking my seat on the Northern Line opposite none other than the Right Honourable Dennis Healey in a light coloured raincoat reading The Times. The strange thing was that everybody in the carriage simply pretended that they hadn't recognised him - myself included. Such is the British reserve that it takes someone either half drunk or not all there to have the Dutch courage or sheer audacity to introduce themselves and intrude on the well-known person's privacy. It's a sad indictment of our times that senior politicians can no longer be spied on public transport for the obvious security risks. Indeed, many are now shadowed by a bodyguard or ten.

Dustin Hoffman 06.jpg (1499×1000)Then there was the time when I worked in the fashionable King's Road and saw Dustin Hoffman brazenly stride down the street in a t-shirt and jeans. (It was the year he made 'Tootsie' and was no doubt promoting the film in London.) No one acknowledged him until a middle-aged lady selling flowers from a flower stall smiled at him, and as a result, he bought a bouquet and kissed her on the cheek. Needless to say, the effect was seismic. Within seconds she was running around like a headless chicken declaring to the entire world that she'd just been kissed by Dustin Hoffman. I've never forgotten that small gesture by this giant Hollywood star who isn't particularly tall by the way.

mw82578.jpg (626×800)For some curious reason, I seem to bump into politicians rather a lot. On one memorable occasion, I was fortunate enough to meet the former Prime Minister, Harold Wilson while dining in, of all places, the Berni Inn Steakhouse in Oxford. I was with a group of friends, one of whom was a very charming lawyer by the name of Nigel who took an active interest in politics and knew that Wilson had just been recovering from illness. On spotting the distinguished figure shuffle through the dimly lit restaurant with his wife, Nigel sprang to his feet. "It's very nice to see you in Oxford, Sir. I do hope you're feeling better now."

Wilson eyed up Nigel and smiled. "I'm feeling much better thank you very much. In fact, I'm just back from giving a talk in America." Nigel, ever the courteous listener enquired how it had gone down. Wilson sensing he had a bit of an audience, turned to all of us and explained that it had all gone down rather well. "But then, it was America," he added with a twinkle in his eye. "I could have said anything and they'd have still given me a standing ovation." And with that, he shuffled off with his wife to a table at the back of the restaurant. He passed away a couple of years later and I remember all the tributes and obituaries, few of which highlighted his obvious sense of mischief. If I'm correct, when standing down as leader and making way for Jim Callaghan, he was asked by a BBC reporter why he'd decided to stand down. "I'm making way for an older man," he quipped and stepped into his parked limousine. Jim Callaghan was indeed the older man.

John_Bercow_Senate_of_Poland_01.JPG (1426×1405)Very recently my brother and I visited our mum at her care home in North London and on entering the communal living area, we both quite literally bumped into Mr John Bercow, the Speaker of the House of Commons. He was apparently settling his own mum into the home, and was very keen to hear how our mum was finding it. We ended up chatting to him at length. He's very charming, personable and down to earth.

rev-richard-coles-emailed1.jpeg (577×665)Most recently, I have found myself sitting very close, by chance, to the lovely Reverend Richard Coles (the UK's funniest man of the cloth, surely). In fact, rather spookily this has happened to me twice. The first time was while travelling on the London Underground (Piccadilly line this time). He sat next to me but I didn't know it was him until he started humming to himself while reading a leaflet designed for the 'Memorial Service for Sir John Tavener.' He was no doubt humming one of the late maestro's compositions. I couldn't tell as the underground train was making too much noise, and I didn't like to ask. No more than a couple of months later, I was in the bar of the Holiday Inn in Regent's Park with a friend, and on leaving, Coles arrived with a friend and sat at the table we had just vacated.

Sadly, I've yet to have my hair cut by one of the media's national treasures. But one can, I suppose, live in hope.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

Wednesday, 3 February 2016

The Russian way of death

On the surface there is little that Grigori Rasputin, the so-called Mad Monk shares in common with the Russian dissident Alexander Litvinenko. Until, that is, you consider the manner of their deaths.

They were both regarded with considerable disdain by the powers that be.

Rasputin had managed to gain the friendship of Nicholas ll (the last Tsar of Russia) and, more importantly, the tsarina Alexandra by apparently healing their son, Alexei Nikolaevich (the heir to the Russian kingdom) from the traumatic effects of hemophilia. This said, his presence in the Royal Court and his influence were a cause of much embarrassment to the ruling class of St Petersburg and senior officials. After all, Rasputin was nothing more than a peasant with foul, uncouth ways. He was soon to become synonymous with power, debauchery and lust - and the increasing unpopularity of the imperial couple.

Over 100 years later, Alexander Litvinenko, the former Russian KGB officer who fled Russia to escape prosecution for his outspoken accusations against both president Vladimir Putin and the Russian secret services, was granted asylum here in the UK. He was clearly viewed as a dangerous traitor by the Russian authorities.

Both figures were seen to pose a threat to the powers of the state, albeit in wholly different ways. Both became the prime targets of very wealthy assassins. In the case of Rasputin, Prince Felix Yusupov, and in Litvinenko's
case, the multimillionaire Andrei Lugovoi. Both men, of course, fell victim to a poisoning plot. Rasputin was poisoned with potasium cyanide powder while over a century later, the KGB chose to use radioactive polonium for poor Litvinenko. And both targets proved to be difficult to poison. According to the findings of the government's recent public enquiry, Litvinenko was poisoned twice; the first attempt didn't work and only made him ill. And as we all know from our history lessons, Rasputin proved to be an extremely difficult bugger to bump off. In his case the initial poisoning attempt didn't work either, and neither, come to that, did a bullet in the head. His assassins had to finally resort to drowning him.

So here we have two very different men; both vilified in equal measure by the Russian authorities; and both the subsequent targets of poisoning plots that initially didn't work. A case of history repeating itself perhaps?

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds

Thursday, 24 December 2015

My scrape with the Serious Fraud Office

I haven't picked up a paintbrush for many years, but there was a time when I used to have occasional exhibitions of large abstract works on glass, which I used to produce fairly prolifically. I'm not entirely clear (no pun intended) as to why I chose to paint on glass. But having experimented with the medium and various paints including household gloss, which I wouldn't recommend, I discovered a water based pigment that actually worked rather well and was easy to handle and manipulate on a glass canvas.

I shan't bore you with any more details about the paintings themselves other than to recount an incident, which I had completely forgotten about, but could easily have formed the basis for one of Franz Kafka's short stories. If memory serves me right, it all started when I had my very first exhibition at the magnificent Burgh House, a Grade I-listed pile situated in the heart of Hampstead.

In retrospect, the show was probably one of my most successful in terms of sales and publicity. And during the private view,  a tall and gaunt figure sidled up to me early on. He looked and sounded just like the fraudster by the name of Lord Melbury who once appeared in Fawlty Towers . "I rather like this piece, old boy," he remarked while gesticulating at one of the very few pieces that had employed household gloss. "Reminds me of the London Underground map," he added with a wry smile. The piece in question was very large, and was a little like an early Jackson Pollock on a white ground. The London Underground would have been one of the last things I'd have likened it to, but I wasn't complaining as this distinctly eccentric character pulled a cheque book from his top pocket and proceeded to write me a cheque. "I don't suppose you could deliver it to my office could you, old boy?" he asked. I was more than happy to oblige and enquired where that might be. "Oh, it's very central. I'm at the Serious Fraud Office."

I later offered to give him and his other half a lift home to their flat in Highgate. On dropping them off, he turned and poked his head back in the car. "Do come in for coffee old boy. I have something I'd like to show you." Thinking this might be a collection of Jackson Pollocks or maps of international underground networks, I turned off the engine and followed them in. On taking my seat, he presented me with a polished walnut box and removed the lid. Inside was some kind of shotgun or rifle broken down into several  parts. I was a little nonplussed, downed my coffee and took my leave.

A couple of weeks later I found myself delivering the painting to the Serious Fraud office on a Saturday. He showed me to his office in this rabbit warren of a building and I proceeded to hammer hooks into a distinctly flimsy partition wall to hang the painting. This completed, the call of nature took hold and I desperately needed to find a gents. What I hadn't quite realised was that the Serious Fraud Office is the last place on earth one should go exploring as certain areas are no go zones that house highly sensitive, confidential files. I was to discover this at my peril as on opening a pair of large double doors, I inadvertently set off alarm bells that quite literally reverberated around the entire building and within seconds several security guards were on the scene. So I had to explain that I wasn't in search of private paperwork so much as a  public convenience. It was,  I hasten to add, not one's finest moment.

The story doesn't end here though.  Some years later I was informed by an acquaintance that the tall eccentric chap who had bought my painting had disappeared off the face of the earth and was wanted by the Metropolitan Police. "What on earth for?"  I enquired.

"Fraud apparently.  I trust that cheque he paid you didn't bounce," he quipped. Strangely enough, it hadn't.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds

Saturday, 21 November 2015

The trials and tribulations of making a short film

There I was in the bar of the Holiday Inn in Welbeck Street with my old partner in crime, John Mac (whose grandfather was the subject of one of my earlier posts - 'Bit of a Ladies' Man'), when the subject turned to my children's book (Sleeping with the Blackbirds), which I'd written some little while back.

John has boundless energy and is always looking to get involved in interesting projects, and it was his suggestion that I try and market the thing. I should explain here that the book was originally written for my kids and published by Penpress to raise money for the homeless charity Centrepoint. But following the publication and the drafting of a commercial participation agreement that released me from any tax liabilities, my wife became seriously ill and the book was put on the back burner and received precious little in the way of marketing.

As it happens, I had already written a script to promote the book that had featured a letter written by the tale's protogonist, 11-year-old schoolboy, Roy Nuttersley that appears at the beginning of the book. As an ungainly young boy who's being tormented by bullies, Roy writes to Amnesty International (only he refers to the charity as Amnesia International) pleading for their help.

I shared my script with John who loved the intrigue of it, but wasn't entirely convinced by all my visual thoughts, which were pretty static. "We just need something more visually dynamic," he said while scratching the top of his head.

In the letter narrated by Roy, we learn that his tormentor, Harry Hodges is the son of a criminal who is in prison, and it was this section of the script that excited John. "We have to find a prison to film in mate. Then we can move away from beautifully lit domestic still lifes and into atmospheric interiors with eery sound effects." I could see exactly where he was coming from and nodded in agreement. This was to be John's first valuable contribution.

His next visual idea concerned the very last scene in which Roy talks about offering his services free of charge for any future publicity. My original visual was a simple newspaper headline taken from the book. But John hated it - quite rightly. I didn't much care for it myself. He gave me one of his funny looks and I could tell he was deep in thought. "Look. It has to end with a dramatic crescendo - a flourish. I know... we can have a load of paparazzi shot against a black background firing off flashes in quick succession followed by a dramatic shot of a newspaper falling onto paving stones in slow motion." The thing with John is that he makes it all seem so easy. But he hadn't quite finished. "And to finish the whole thing, why don't we have a flock of animated blackbirds flying across the screen, forming a black background out of which we could reverse out some nice reviews?"

Most conversations of this nature would probably have just ended here. After all, the logistics of producing a short film like this to John's exacting standards would require a huge effort. But as with everything John throws himself into, he doesn't just do ideas; he carries them through. Within a couple of days he had produced an exquisite black and white storyboard that he had photographed himself and had arranged a meeting with his contacts at Hogarth Worldwide - London's premier post-production house. Needless to say, they loved it and were keen to produce it.

From this moment onwards the project began to take on a life of its own.

I found myself playing the roles of location scout, stylist and casting director, all rolled into one.

First off, we had to find the right voice for our eleven-year-old protagonist Roy Nuttersley. So at John's suggestion I ran an ad on the website Star Now, and set up an audition in the bar area of the Regents Park Holiday Inn. This is a perfect space for voice auditions as it's large, quiet and free. Ten parents answered the ad on behalf of their 11-year-old sons, along with one chap of 40 who was keen to audition for the part himself. Needless to say, we politely declined his offer but arranged to audition all the other candidates. We were very fortunate to have so many young actors to choose from, and by mid-day, we had pencilled two possible candidates, but following lunch this changed with the arrival of Jacob Tofts. His mother deliberately sat at another table so as not to distract her son, and Jacob took a quick look at the script and then proceded to read it with such natural expression and feeling that John and I knew immediately that our quest was over. We'd found Roy Nuttersley. The following week we arranged to record Jacob at one of Hogarth's lovely sound studios. Jacob is not only very talented, but also utterly charming and personable. I have no doubt that this young lad has a very bright future ahead of him.

Finding a prison to film in isn't one of life's easiest tasks. John's initial idea was to use the prison set at Wimbledon Film Studios - the very same set that had been used by TV productions like The Bill. But we soon discovered that the studios had gone into liquidation in 2014 and that the film set had been torn down. So I looked into finding decommissioned prisons that one could hire out. But the trouble here was that these looked too modern for a suburban fantasy, were miles outside London and were also prohibitively expensive to hire. Most locations charge for the day; we only needed to film for a couple of hours. So it was with enormous relief that I stumbled upon Oxford Castle Unlocked, the 1,000 year old site that comprises various historic edifices including a crypt, and yes, a prison - or to be more precise, Prison D-Wing. The gaol was built in the 1800s and remained in use as a high security prison until 1996, and the whole site is now run as a museum. I was on the blower right away and discovered that we could film for an hour before the place opened to the general public. With these facts quickly established it was time to arrange our first recce.

As we thought, the prison with its corridoors, creaky gates and Dickensian cells was absolutely perfect for our purposes. The only problem was that John was going to need a minimum of two hours to set up and shoot at least four sequences, so he took the manager aside and suggested we double the fee if the museum could double the filming time by opening up 2 hours earlier. It worked, and two weeks later we were back, this time with camera, lenses, lighting equipment and a fully kitted out prison guard in the form of one Philip Francis. Phil does a lot of film extra work and looked the part in his prison guard's uniform, which I had managed to secure from Foxtrot custumiers and ebay. While John positioned his camera and lighting for the first shot Phil told me about his previous jobs. Among other things he'd been a gardener and had lovingly tended the late Douglas Adams's garden.

With the central section of the film in the can, we now had to find props and a studio for all the other scenes. My first port of call would be The Stockyard in the less than salubrious NW10; an extraordinary Aladin's Cave of a place. Whatever you need for your film production, you'll find it here, whether it's great big Grecian columns, Norman arches, statues, water mills, petrol pumps, bus stations - you name it. With the constant stream of vast articulated lorries coming and going and carrying off enormouus quantities of props for some far-flung multi-million pound productions, I felt something of a fraud. After all, all I needed was a couple of antique book shelves, some old books and a few fake rubber flagstones. The lovely Reg who's been part of the place man and boy helped us find everything we needed and arranged for a couple of strapping lads to put it all in the back of my old jaloppy of a car. Then I had to spend the best part of a week tracking down all our other props - everything from flooring and tablecloths to camping stoves, teddy bears and kettles - all of which had to look right in camera in black and white. This entailed trawling the internet where possible, but more often than not, traipsing round fabric suppliers, DIY warehouses and specialist shops.

The studio we chose to use was Photofusion in Brixton. It's a good space, and being Brixton, doesn't charge West End prices. It took John three full days to shoot most of our set-ups here, including the paparazzi, one of whom was yours truly minus spectacles.

The opening shot of the clock was shot in John's living room, and the final set-up of the stack of newspapers falling onto the paving slabs was filmed in my garden at night. For authenticity, I mocked up the front page of the fictitious Echo that appears in the book and even went as far as setting the type for the editorial. John was keen to create a rain machine for this scene to add atmosphere, but as luck would have it, the heavens opened for real.  This, however, was very bad news indeed, and caused John to swear and curse profusely, as it meant he'd be unable to use his very expensive tugsten lighting, which would be open to the elements. The alternative was battery operated LED lighting, which was fine until John realised that he'd need some 'fill-in light' to highlight the side of the newspaper stack. After much further swearing and cursing I offered my mobile phone, which has a powerful LED torch. Surprisingly, it worked beautifully. While my son helped operate the Heath Robinson rain machine, I had the unenviable task of dropping the stack of newspapers onto the fake paving stones while being rained on by the rain machine as well as the real thing. I think we did about 30 takes, and my son had a lot of fun soaking his old man in the process.

With everything filmed, it was back to Hogarth to talk about music and sound effects. From my own experience of making commercials, music can often be something of a sticking point, but in this event, we got lucky from the outset. Andy the brilliant young sound engineer at Hogarth played us two tracks that he thought had the right feel. The first one was very good, but the second was absolutely perfect, and John very cleverly suggested building a ticking clock into the rythm section to tie in with our opening scene.

A couple of days later, we were invited by Vee, Hogarth's senior editor to come and have a look at the first rough cut. Seeing this on the big screen for the first time was quite something, and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It worked really well, and little Jacob's voice sang out as clear as a bell, while both music and sound effects added just the right level of atmosphere and intrigue.

The animated blackbirds sequence was the last piece of the jigsaw, and as John rightly said when he had the idea in the first place, it would be "a beautiful and memorable way to finish the film."

It's mind-boggling how much work goes into producing a two minute film. But you know instinctively when it gives you goose bumps after the first viewing that you've done something right, and that all that hard work had been worth it.

View the film here:

Take a look at the website and hear Nigel Havers read an introduction and some extracts here.