by Stanley Price (Sandycove £14.99, 208pp)
When, in days gone by, and in the , I encountered Olivia de Havilland in Paris, in a vintage car museum, or Maureen Lipman up the Amazon, such sacred beasts went on to be my friends, who never seemed to mind if I was rude or indiscreet about them in print. even let me share her foot spa.
A time there was when the appeal of journalism was meeting celebrities on their own. Stanley Price, who died in 2019, in his 88th year, was another old-school hack who was fortunate to be working at a time without the interventions or encumbrances of the minders and lawyers insisting upon signed-in-triplicate confidentiality agreements, which today make everyone of Z-list status and above tediously cautious and controlling.
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