Masha Gessen is almost over-qualified to write this biography.

In fact, as a journalist, she must’ve been upset to know that the book was nearly off to the printers during the December protests, which have been hurriedly tacked on as an epilogue. It’s an incisive epilogue – which brings the story up-to-date – but it’s hardly what the highly-capable reporter would’ve wanted, having chronicled every detail of post-Soviet Russia for such big names as the New York Times and Vanity Fair.

But the biggest name in Gessen’s roster is the St. Petersburgian hard-man Vladimir Putin.  Once an anonymous bureaucrat, he was plucked from a series of desk jobs by Boris Yeltsin’s dwindling circle of kingmakers known as ‘The Family’.  Putin was reinvented as a credible president, with backstory and personality cult all sewn up – largely thanks to Boris Berezovsky’s ownership of Channel One taking care of all the media coverage needed.

However, the ex-KGB spy had huge influence in Russia’s second city (‘a state within a state’) and it wasn’t long before Putin’s decisive traits consolidated all the power that could be gained following an ousting of Yeltsin.

Gessen’s novelistic approach – although gripping – probably reveals she’s been a little bit too close to the action to pass equal judgement.  Exiled oligarchs get a reprieve for daring to be different, while Vladimir himself can never set a foot right. Speculations on poisonings and childhood parallels aside, this is a thrilling account of what sadly was, with the door left open at the last minute for what might be.

Rob Brydon visited Guildford in December for a book signing.

That’s right, the comic impresario came to a sleepy Home County to promote his life story.  But why am I telling you this?  Well, where he’s been and who he’s met is a crucial part of Small Man In A Book.  Because everyone who has had some sort of prolonged contact with Rob Brydon has gone on to become a star (see: Catherine Tate, Catherine Zeta-Jones, James Corden). I wish I’d gone, now.

I wasn’t expecting much from his autobiography – I thought it’d be like an older, Welsh version of [insert modern moderately-successful young comedian].   But actually, it’s a shining insight into the well-rounded development of a comic actor.

Even the picture pages tell a story – and more importantly, they contribute to it.  All too often in biographies, the pictures section feels like the publisher broke in to the author’s aunt’s house, stole some mantelpiece pictures and then topped those up with a Google Images search.  Not Mr. Brydon – his photo pages are a bit like being squeezed between his mum and his nan on the sofa, forced to look at the best and worst of their baby.  Complete with hilarious captions.
What’s interesting, though, is comedy’s Mr. Nice Guy can’t actually be brutally honest.  This is a shame.  We’re warned in the foreword that we’re not getting the grisly bits of his divorce, and we’re only taken up to the year 2000, so no amorous dedications to his new wife, either. The downside of the time-period is that there’s no Gavin & Stacey stuff.  The upside is we get the trials and tribulations at drama school, and some great anecdotes about his voiceover work. Oh, and no mention of his appearances on every single comedy panel show since.

If you’ve read Martin Amis’ novels, then the density of this critical biography won’t be lost on you.

Amis’ life is structured like most of his works, crammed with excess and disinterest (à la Money), before giving way to post-modern despair and far-reaching instability (see London Fields).

To pose the question of whether Amis is a great writer, as Richard Bradford builds up to (in a chapter entitled unimaginatively ‘Significance: Is He a Great Writer?’), is unfair: Amis’ greatness is neither inherited nor a formula to be tested against winners of the Man Booker Prize.

Investigating pornography under the alias Bruno Holbrook before taking a salaried correspondent post at the New Statesman in the 1970s, Amis was allied with Francis Wheen to document the turbulence of the late 20th century.  It is no wonder that this Gatsby-esque figure is so outspoken and well-informed in his writings on global politics.

His father’s close relationship with Philip Larkin is leant on heavily – perhaps owing to the fact that Bradford has also written acclaimed biographies on both Kingsley Amis and Larkin. Yet Amis’ five lengthy interviews with Bradford form ‘a cabinet of contrasts’ that reflect the polarised opinions of him by the public and the press.

Loved by women and a dedicated family man, aloof and modest all at once, these seemingly incongruous qualities build a fascinating portrait of a man as well as an author, forming a biography cementing itself as a key manual to Martin Amis’ literary canon.

26/5 [1334] I’ve filled up the car, I’ve been food shopping and I’ve had my hair butchered. Time to drive back to RHUL.

26/5 [1546] I went straight to the office. I’m currently begging the printers to not charge me. This is simple, seeing as I haven’t finished (or started) the issue.

27/5 [2006] I’ve been in the office for hours. I’m now watching the Champions League final there on my projector, eating a Pot Noodle and proofing.

28/5 [0045] I’m still in the office, going slowly mad. I bought cake for my Editorial Team, but they still hate me. I can hear them curse me…

28/5 [0458] I would rather be anywhere in the world than the Queen’s Annexe right now.  I haven’t left the desk since 11am on Wednesday. Am I finished? Am I f-

28/5 [1748] I’ve left the office for only the second time since 11am Wednesday to get ready for the Laurel Awards Ceremony. Never mind that deadline…

29/5 [0907] went straight from the Laurels to the Office to slave away again. He’s racking up his 46th hour in here. Cabin fever? Please note:  I’m still in full dinner suit attire.

29/5 [2359] I feel like everything since Tuesday has been one continuous day. The Jack Bauer of journalism?

30/5 [1619] I’ve called in the cavalry and broken out the chocolate fingers.  Any more calls from the printers about bleed areas and I’ll go insane.  At least I’ve changed my clothes.

30/5 [2240] I’m now designing an issue on what feels like the office on the surface of the sun. I’m sweltering. I’ve locked the door and taken off my top. Topless editing:  I mean business.

31/5 [0004]  I’m screaming “Hey! Editor, I’m undeniable! Hey, Doctor, I’m certifiable, oh…”

31/5 [1335] I’m remarkably annoyed that Nick Grimshaw had no idea who Butthole Surfers were.  Radio1 is the only thing telling me what time it is.

31/5 [1418] I have no idea what sort of meat was in my bowl of ravioli and, quite frankly, I don’t care. It’s my first meal for 24hrs.

31/5 [1832] I hope no-one tells me that he’s wasting his life editing an article on bra size surcharges.  Now, where to put that picture of breasts…

31/5 [2353] I’m cutting this, I’m cutting that, I’m still carving out an issue.

1/6 [0121] I’ve just realised I haven’t had dinner. Bit late for that now, I guess. On to exporting EPS! Boot up Adobe Distiller and we’re out of here…

1/6 [0151] I’ve finished the issue, pending a check from my lovely Executive Editor. And they say flattery gets you nowhere. Now for Volunteering Week…

1/6 [0932] I’m up, showered, shaved (he desperately needs new foils) and ready for Volunteering Week.

1/6 [1136] I just saved over The Orbital with the Volunteering Week templates, half an hour before the print deadline. I want to die.

1/6 [1214] I met the deadline. Just. I hope Morton understands his ‘creative time-management’.

On deadline day, I was involved in a joint The Orbital/Insanity session for local school children as part of Volunteering Week, teaching them how we put stuff together in print and on air. I made some funky templates and then saved over the (thank christ, already exported) front page of the publication. Smooth, Mr. Editor, smooth.

On deadline day, due to Volunteering Week/eating, I missed a call from the printers, who rang my Executive Editor, who rang me, a call which I missed, who texted me, which I started to read before the President of the Students’ Union rang me.  Repeat this three times and the system developed that you’d just get the President to ring me to tell me to ring the printers/Executive Editor.  Anyone would think I was ignoring my Executive Editor.  Not true, honest!

Mortons Print, my lovely pre-press/press people, couldn’t get enough of telling me what I’d done wrong.  This image would be cropped, this was the wrong size, did you put the images in CMYK not RGB? (yes!) Did you want the edges to bleed through here, where the spread is just – look, just print the damn thing.  Please.  Efficiency and thoroughness definitely got on my nerves.

I’ve slept for approximately five hours in a week, to almost single-handedly pull off the biggest change The Orbital has seen in almost twenty years.  There’s a lot of almosts in there,  and there’s also a long way to go.  I couldn’t have survived without my equally-insane Editorial Team, who had to endure me barking orders at them, and most notably shouting ‘I wanted to be a journalist, not mayor of crazy town!’, at various intervals.

Although I’d looked at Adobe InDesign CS4 and various PDFs countless times, I can’t tell you the physical and emotional relief when I actually saw the palette, with 3000 copies of my creation sitting outside the SU building on schedule, on time, on Thursday 4th June.

For the curious among you, I’d better mention that the quote on the inside front page of the newspaper is from the first edition of the Yale Daily News…where Rory Gilmore served as editor.

The innovation which we begin by this morning’s issue is justified by the dullness of the time and the demand for news among us.

I now produce a fortnightly newspaper with a monthly magazine supplement.  My life expectancy has drastically shortened.  Roll on, September.  Let’s do it all again.