About 10 years ago, I wrote a spectacularly unpopular and misunderstood book, entitled (rather immodestly) Boulting’s Velosaurus. Of all the books I’ve written, this venture into light-hearted comedy was by some distance the least successful thing I have ever put my name to.
The schtick of the book, I thought, was simple enough: People of a certain age might remember ; possibly Britain’s most treasured Christmas gift of last resort during