I think I have fallen victim to a cunning and captious new publishing ploy to get 
hopelessly vain creatures like me, who love seeing their names in print, to buy books. Let me explain.
Back in mid-April sometime I was reading a review by Lynn Barber of Piers Morgan’s new autobiography – the second in about three years – when my eye rested on my own name. My stomach did a nervous flutter. How on earth did this get here? “One day Piers receives a phone call from Rachel Johnson (sister of Boris),” writes Lynn, “who tells him she is writing an article called “Does size matter?” They chat about it for a while, and then, blow me – what snakes these journalists are – she has the nerve to print his self-description: “Slightly above average, and with a skilled and energetic technique, will keep any woman happy.”
Naturally, the entire British press puts out a call for readers who might have views on this subject and the Independent finds one, Sally, who recalls that she named him “Mr Floppy”. Poor Piers is distraught. “This is a bloody nightmare. ‘Mr Floppy’ – Christ Almighty, there’s no way back from this.”
So then I knew. The Mr Floppy story was out, because Piers had put it in his book.
Fast forward two weeks, to present day. Last week, I had dinner with Piers in Los Angeles, where he greeted me at the entrance to the Cut, the new Wolfgang Puck restaurant in the Beverley Wilshire, with the words, “My book’s just gone to Number One in the UK. Just had a call from my agent. Hello, Rachel, how are you, lovely to see you!”
It wasn’t till we were half way through our $58 New York T-bones that he asked.
Have you seen, I’ve put you in the book, he said, as I chewed and gnawed through prime chargrilled flesh, and shoved in french fries.
I pretended I hadn’t seen the Lynn Barber review.
“It’s all there, your emails to me, my emails to you, everything,” he said, watching me.
I squeaked in alarm.
“Don’t worry, you come out rather well.”
“Can I have a copy, do you have one in your hotel room?” I asked. “I gave it to someone,” he said. “Is it out here?” I asked (ie in the US), thinking I could read it on the plane home. Suddenly, I just had to read it.
“No fear!” He said. “I’m not that stupid, darling! Noone would talk to me again after the things I’ve put in about LA.” He gestured to the sommelier, and ordered another $100 bottle of pinot noir.
So I had to wait until I got back home. I went to Daunts’ and decided that rather than shell out £17.99, I would look up my name in the index, read the relevant numbered pages, and then regretfully replace the swaggering tome on the shelf, a bookbuying technique known as the Washington Speed Read.
There was one copy in Daunts, which I grabbed. I turned to the back. Instead of an index, there was an annoying “cast of characters” and even more annoyingly, no page references.
But what was most annoying of all was I wasn’t in it! I looked several times. Under Rachel there was Rachel Stevens and Rachel Flintoff. Under Johnson there was Ulrika and Boris. There was a photograph of Boris and Piers, even, at my book launch, but no mention of me or the book I had been launching in the caption!
I had been expunged as too unimportant to merit inclusion despite my starring role in Floppygate! So there was nothing for it. I had to shell out. I went home, and dove in, and scoured the pages, but still couldn’t find my name.
I sent him a cross email.
“Still can’t find me after hours of pleasurable investigation of your diary..I can find however find boris Johnson ulrika Jonsson Rachel Royce Rachel Stevens and the pool attendant at the wilshire. I know where I standSent using BlackBerry® from Orange
—–Original Message—–From: Piers Morgan <Date: Mon, 30 Apr 2007 17:01:55 To:Rachel Johnson <>Subject: Re: Try January 2006. And you’ll get inserted by the paperback, have no fearof that. x
Of course, I found the Mr Floppy saga, and I also found a nice bit about my book launch, so my ego is stroked. But still, I have to wonder. Presumably, the cast of characters at the back, listed without page numbers, is designed to deter Washington Speed Readers from simply reading the entries about themselves, and not buying the book.
Am I the only punter vain and self-regarding enough to have fallen for it?
As the book is – as Piers himself told me – Number One on the Sunday Times Bestseller list, I have to reconcile myself with the thought that thousands of others have bought the book without being in the annoying “cast of characters” either.
And I can reconcile myself with the knowledge that Piers won’t be cross about me putting this in Coffee House, because he put all my private emails to him in a book, which I discovered by reading a Lynn Barber review.
Pretty scary, huh?
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