Meanwhile, now that I'm here - and I admit I don't come here very often, mainly because I spend so much time writing books instead of writing a blog - what can I tell you?

First I just finished writing Children of the Lamp Book Five. It's called The Eye of the Forest and it will be published at Christmas. At least it will if you live in the USA or the UK, Australia, Canada. If you live in a foreign language country then your guess is as good as mine right now. The books are translated into almost forty different languages which makes it a little hard for me to keep abreast of which book we're publishing in this country or that country.

How many books will there be? Well, unlike JK Rowling, I'm really not quite sure. I can tell you that there will be at least seven. Because that's how many I have agreed to write. But it could be more.

The movie: as many of you will know, the film rights were bought by Dreamworks, which is a company owned - in part - by the great Mr Stephen Spielberg. I haven't met him but I did get to peek in his office the last time I was there. And I once parked in his space by accident. Anyway, there are screenwriters toiling away on the script as you read this. And it may be that their script will find enough favor with the bosses to justify spending the huge amount of money it takes to make a movie these days. Only time will tell.

Did I tell you that I published a new book for children which is nothing at all to do with Children of the Lamp? It's called One Small Step and it was published by Simon&Schuster in the summer. It's set in 1968 and it's about a boy who learns to fly military jets. A lot of other stuff, too. Some dumb critic in Thickville, Arizona thought it was too mature for the average twelve year old but this is nonsense. Goodness, I used to be twelve myself and so there's no one can tell me that a lot of twelve year old boys aren't exactly like the boy in that book. In fact, if you want to know what I was like when I was twelve you should read the book.

Summer is now over. Although I'm not sure it ever started, the weather was so bad here. My kids are about to go back to school. We started the summer with a trip to Rome. Then we went to Cornwall where we have a summer house. My daughter went on pony camp and loved it. My sons seemed to spend most of their time in bed. I also went to Edinburgh in Scotland, for a day or two. Edinburgh was where I was born. Then we went to Amsterdam and now we are back in London. I'm going to Oslo in September, and Cuba in October.

So now you know pretty much everything. If I was a bit more technically-minded I might attach a few pics here but right now I'm struggling just to remember the passwords that enable me to work my own blog. Yes, I know that's pathetic. But that's the way it is.

Pip! Pip!
PBKerr

Meanwhile, now that I'm here - and I admit I don't come here very often, mainly because I spend so much time writing books instead of writing a blog - what can I tell you?

First I just finished writing Children of the Lamp Book Five. It's called The Eye of the Forest and it will be published at Christmas. At least it will if you live in the USA or the UK, Australia, Canada. If you live in a foreign language country then your guess is as good as mine right now. The books are translated into almost forty different languages which makes it a little hard for me to keep abreast of which book we're publishing in this country or that country.

How many books will there be? Well, unlike JK Rowling, I'm really not quite sure. I can tell you that there will be at least seven. Because that's how many I have agreed to write. But it could be more.

The movie: as many of you will know, the film rights were bought by Dreamworks, which is a company owned - in part - by the great Mr Stephen Spielberg. I haven't met him but I did get to peek in his office the last time I was there. And I once parked in his space by accident. Anyway, there are screenwriters toiling away on the script as you read this. And it may be that their script will find enough favor with the bosses to justify spending the huge amount of money it takes to make a movie these days. Only time will tell.

Did I tell you that I published a new book for children which is nothing at all to do with Children of the Lamp? It's called One Small Step and it was published by Simon&Schuster in the summer. It's set in 1968 and it's about a boy who learns to fly military jets. A lot of other stuff, too. Some dumb critic in Thickville, Arizona thought it was too mature for the average twelve year old but this is nonsense. Goodness, I used to be twelve myself and so there's no one can tell me that a lot of twelve year old boys aren't exactly like the boy in that book. In fact, if you want to know what I was like when I was twelve you should read the book.

Summer is now over. Although I'm not sure it ever started, the weather was so bad here. My kids are about to go back to school. We started the summer with a trip to Rome. Then we went to Cornwall where we have a summer house. My daughter went on pony camp and loved it. My sons seemed to spend most of their time in bed. I also went to Edinburgh in Scotland, for a day or two. Edinburgh was where I was born. Then we went to Amsterdam and now we are back in London. I'm going to Oslo in September, and Cuba in October.

So now you know pretty much everything. If I was a bit more technically-minded I might attach a few pics here but right now I'm struggling just to remember the passwords that enable me to work my own blog. Yes, I know that's pathetic. But that's the way it is.

Pip! Pip!
PBKerr

I've had lots of interesting conversations with Dreamworks about the movie. There's a nice lady there called Nina Jacobson whose kids love the books. Anyway it looks like a script of Book One is finally underway. So if you want to be in the movie you'd better email her. I don't have her email I'm afraid. But do not forget my kids and her kids will have priority when it comes to casting. (Just kidding) I'd welcome any suggestions for casting the main parts. That means who do you think ought to play Nimrod and Mister Groanin and Mister Rakshasas, and Iblis. Stuff like that.

Meanwhile I turn 51 on February 22nd. Boo hoo. Doesn't seem like five minutes since I was going to school. I've turned into my Dad!!! Be warned. It happens to us all. There's a story by Franz Kafka called Metamorphosis about a young man who turns into a cockroach. Overnight. I guess that's more shocking. But here's the thing. When you're 15 - the obsverse of 51, kind of - you think you have an eternity of time ahead of you. Well guess what? You don't. Thus the Latin axiom, Carpe Diem. Seize the Day. In other words find youself an ambition. Decide what you want to do with your life. I did. And look at me. Yeah......I'm 51.

My mother was a Brodie. The Brodies are one of the oldest clans in Scotland. They are Picts. They lived on the north side of the Roman wall built to keep the Scots out of Roman territory. The Picts are a dark swarthy lot. True Scots. Not like the red-haired freckled Jonny come lately Scots who are descended from Vikings. Alexander Brodie was King of Scotland in about 500 AD. I say all this because when I was at school, I used to get a bit of racism thrown my way because I was dark skinned. This might strike you all as incredible but I know what it is to be called the N word. But that's the Scots for you. A funny lot.

We were a religious family. My family were Baptists. Often we went to church three times on a Sunday. Morning service, sunday school in the afternoon, and then evening service. On Sundays we lived in the place. A lot of the people who went to that church are still my friends. They have good hearts. But I no longer believe what they believe.

When I left school I read Law at university. Twice. I did a postgraduate degree in Jurisprudence. Which is Philosophy of Law.Then I became a copywriter in an ad agency. I wasn't much good at it. I spent a lot of time staring out of my office window or simply writing novels.

I got my first book published in 1989, by which time I was 33 years old. Given that I had started writing when I was about ten, this only goes to show that I wrote stories and books pretty solidly for twenty three years with no success at all. Never made a penny. I always say that these days I get paid to do my hobby. Which is true happiness, let me tell you.

Today I live in Wimbledon. I have three children. I play the piano and the guitar. Take lots of photographs of almost anything, and have two motorbikes. I got to Cornwall a lot. I also write thrillers and detective stories for adults as Philip Kerr. Check 'em out on Amazon.com when you're a bit older.

First of all let me explain my absence from this blog. I was finishing Book Four. Didn't I say? This series started out as a trilogy and then it sort of turned into a quintet, and maybe there will be more than that, who knows? I never could understand why J.K.Rowling stated there would be exactly seven books. Not that I'm criticising her for a moment. But from where I sit I really have no idea where and how the story of the Children of the Lamp will end. That's what makes it interesting to me. I don't think I could carry on writing if I already knew the end like JKR does with Harry P. But then all authors are different. Anyway, like I was saying when I interrupted myself, I didn't blog on this website for almost three months because I was hard at work finishing the fourth book in the series. It will be published in September 2007. Book 3, The Cobra King of Kathmandu is just coming out if you live in the USA. If you live elsewhere in the world you probably know it's out already.

I was saying something about me not knowing what's going to happen in the end. That might strike you as surprising, an author not knowing how a series will turn out. But sometimes the process of writing feels almost magical. It's like the hand holding the pen has a life of it's own. I catch sight of it sometimes, scribbling away and think to myself, hmm, well it seems to know what it's doing, best let it alone. Books quickly take on a life of their own, you see. It's never a good idea to force them in a direction they don't want to go.

As always if you want me to correspond with you, it's best to email me direct rather than leave a post on this blog. I'm more conscientious answering my emails than I am editing blogs AS I'M SURE YOU ALL HAVE NOTICED. My email address is pbk@pbkerr.com.

All of us find ourselves in a bewildering world. We want to make sense of what we see around us and to ask: what is the nature of the universe? What is our place in it and where did it and we come from? Why is it the way it is? To try to answer these questions we adopt a world picture or philosophy. Here is mine. I don’t say that it will work for everyone. But it certainly worked for me.

Expect an early death - it will keep you busier. Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. No man has learned anything rightly, until he believes that every day might be his last.

We are all of us aware that the earth revolves, but in practice we don’t perceive it. Because the ground upon which one treads seems not to move, then one can live life undisturbed. So it is with Time. But thirty years ago I left this school and, standing here now, I’ve just realized how far in fact the earth has turned under my feet. Those years seem to have passed in the blinking of an eye. And so they will for you, too, boys. Just like me. When the poet Andrew Marvell referred to “Time's winged chariot hurrying near” it was only because a winged chariot was just about the fastest thing he could think of. Very likely he’d have chosen a different metaphor – such as a rocket engine, or a particle accelerator if he’d been writing today.

Right now, the boys who are here tonight are 11, 12 or 13 years old. And you probably think you have – to quote Louis Armstrong, in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service - all the time in the world. But honestly boys, you will be amazed just how quickly time will pass. And standing here I am in awe of time as much as Albert Einstein or Stephen Hawking. Seriously. The last time I was here I weighed just 11 stone, for Pete’s sake. (That’s 69 kilos for everyone below the age of 30). And now I weigh more like 15 stone. That’s really depressing. I often think that Doctor Who wouldn’t rush forward in time with such alacrity if, with every thirty years, he put on fifty six pounds.
x
So, time passes very quickly. Which makes it all the more important, boys, that you get yourself an ambition. That you decide what to do with your life. And then pursue that ambition. Every man dies. But not every man really lives. Because as you grow older, you'll find the only things you regret are the things you didn't do. So: be ambitious with your life. Be ambitious. Most people go through life never really focused on what they want to do with their lives. But it’s actually terribly important that you do have an ambition. An ambition is like a road map for where you’re going. More so than O and A levels. Or a degree. Don’t get me wrong. Those are important. But they’re only a means to an end. The road map is what matters. Without the road map of ambition, life is just a series of day trips and not a proper journey at all.

So decide what you want to do. And that’s you deciding. Not what your father and mother deciding for you. But what you want to do. And make it happen. I did.

Now the whole point of an event like this is to encourage boys like you to work hard at school so that they don’t have to become van drivers and builders. Don’t get me wrong I’ve got nothing against builders. In fact I’ve got a lot of respect for builders. It’s a difficult, sometimes complicated job. Which makes you wonder why builders are allowed to do it, really. And if you think that’s a bit unfair then answer me this: why do builders have see-through lunch boxes? So that they can tell if they’re coming home, or going to work.

Now I wasn’t a particularly diligent schoolboy when I was here. For a long time my grades were average. Especially in maths. I was pretty hopeless at chemistry, too. And French, for that matter. Physics, too, if I’m being honest. But that didn’t matter because there was sport. Sport. And it was a tremendous pity that I wasn’t much good at that either. Unlike the school bully. As matter of fact I walked into Northampton town centre this afternoon, and the first person I saw was the guy who used to bully me when I was at school here. A bloke called Archibald. You know the type. Shaved at playtime with the sharpened lid of geometry set. Nose like a bag of potatoes. Home made tattoos. Could throw a javelin from one end of the school changing rooms to the other. Used to drive to school in an armoured car. As a bully his particular sadistic thing was to hit you with a cricket bat…. when you were playing football.
The masters were no good at dealing with it, of course. They never are, right? They used to say, why are you hitting Kerr with that cricket bat, Archibald? And he’d say, I don’t know sir. Actually he’s a builder now, I believe. And so the masters would say, okay off you go and change, Archibald. And then they’d take it out on me. Come on Kerr, get up off the floor. You’re wasting everyone’s time. But sir, I think my leg’s broken. That’s typical of you Kerr. Always trying to get yourself off games. No sir really I think it really is broken. Look, at this piece of bone sticking out of my thigh. And the red stuff, sir. That’s blood. Oh, all right then. You’d better play in goal.

I was no good at football. Not much good at cricket either. The cricket was always very good at this school. Very popular game in Northamptonshire, cricket. Goodness knows why. When I lived here a man called Colin Milburn was Northampton’s best cricketer. And he wore an eyepatch. Which probably explains a lot about Northamptonshire cricket. I expect you probably know the Ashes start tomorrow. And I confess I’m a little worried England are going to lose. However I think I’ve figured out a way to fix England’s woeful inability to score runs when they’re needed. You see the problem starts here in schools. We should never have let boys have pads and gloves and then helmets. And boxes. No, no. We should just them send them out to bat in a pair of shorts. Bare legs. Bare hands and bare heads. I bet you, they’d soon learn to hit the ball then. I’m a little bit amazed that the sports masters haven’t already thought of that one.

Anyway picture me aged about thirteen. With a broken leg and long hair. Everyone had long hair back then. And my hair was longer than most, in what was then called an Affro. It was so thick and bushy my parents used to have to send my sister into my hair with a machete to come and get me out to do my homework. Not that I was much interested in homework. I really wasn’t much interested in anything very much except girls, and reading, and girls, and music. And girls.

Now when I was writing this, I was thinking, I bet they won’t believe me. I bet they’ll think I’m putting it on. Not the bit about liking girls. At least I hope not. No, I mean the bit about not being much cop at school work. You’re thinking, Why would they ask someone to come and present the prizes who was a complete gibbon when he was at school? I bet he’s lying. So I dug out my old school report and randomly chose just a few of the less flattering things that were said about me. This is the Summer term 1970. Number of boys in form: 31. Chemistry. Place 30th. “He has a lot of work to catch up on and must be prepared to work much harder.” Said Mister Jones. Physics: Place 29th. “I feel he could try harder.” French. Place 14th. “Could try harder.” Geography. Place 21st. “He is easily distracted and must make a greater effort.” Said another Mister Jones. Every master was called Jones in my day, it saved the headmaster getting confused I think: who’s taking Physics? Mister Jones. French? Mister Jones. Maths? That must be Mr. Jones. Rugby? Jones.

But the fact is I did try harder. Although only just hard enough, if I’m honest. Hard enough to get to University, anyway, and do a couple of law degrees. Not that I had any intention of becoming a lawyer, mind. At least not by the time I finished university. Because I always knew what I wanted to do. I always wanted to be a writer. Right from the moment I could read.

I’d written my first story when I was about ten. And I was thirty three before finally I got something published. Which means it took twenty three years for me to achieve my ambition and become a full time writer. I mention that because in life, it’s important to realise something else. Nobody ever hands you anything on a plate. You have to work for it. You have to make it happen yourself. And if you want something badly enough, you have to keep trying. That’s why your teachers make you do stuff again and again. Because in life it’s important to recognise when what you’ve done isn’t quite good enough and to try again and work at making something exactly right.

Many people die with their music still in them. Why is this so? Too often it is because they are always getting ready to live. Before they know it, time runs out. Life is always walking up to us and saying, "Come on in, the living's fine," and what do we do? Back off and take its picture. So don’t back off. Learn from your mistakes. Cherish your failures. They will be useful to you. Keep going. Never give up.

I expect a lot of you will be going on holiday tomorrow. Or on Saturday morning. And I have a piece of advice for you whether you’re someone who’d like to be a writer or not. Take a book with you. Read more. In fact read more whether or not you’re going on holiday. Read if you’re going to just stay at home. Because there’s certainly nothing on TV. You know, I’ve stopped buying a TV licence. Every year I just spend the money on a couple of books about cookery and gardening.

I keep telling my son how well off he is being at school because he doesn’t have to watch daytime TV. Ready Steady Cook. Have you ever watched that? What have you brought in for us to cook with? I have brought in an onion and a dead hedgehog. And a half eaten Kit-Kat. Thanks a lot. And what do you do for a living? I’m a builder.

Read books. Here’s a true story. I wrote a book specifically for my eldest son William who spends his whole life texting and watching TV. I figured that if I had written it then I could blackmail him into reading at least one book in his lifetime. And he read it and he said, yeah it’s not bad. Not bad at all. But you know what? I’m not sure the little swine read it at all. Anyway the book got published and we were all round at a friend’s house for lunch, and this very pretty girl of about thirteen came up to me and said, “You wrote Children of the Lamp,didn’t you? I just love that book. It’s one of my absolute favourites.” And all the time she was saying this I could see William out of the corner of my eye, and I could read what was written on his face. He was thinking: “She’s nice, She’s very nice.” And do you know he went straight home and re-read the book immediately.

Author’s message: Books make you more attractive to the opposite sex. Any fool can talk about what happened on Eastenders last night. But it’s not everyone who can talk about Lord of the Flies by William Golding. Or 1984 by George Orwell. Books make you more interesting as a person. Just look at me. How many builders get asked to present the prizes at their old school.

Which is the reason I felt obliged to share my dismal school report with you all. So that you would know that if I can do it – be adjudged successful enough to get asked to come and present the prizes to you lot - then all of you can do it as well.

A few of you are probably wondering what it’s like being a writer. You probably imagine me wearing a silk dressing gown with a cigarette holder, getting drunk a lot and staring at flowers and stuff. It’s true, there are Downing Street parties and occasional trips to Hollywood. And I suppose I have met lots of famous people. Last year they even let me park in Stephen Spielberg’s parking spot when I visited Dreamworks’ studios on the Universal Studio lot. And there have been many meetings with movie stars – all of whom, I may say are very small. Seriously, they’re all of them quite short. Not short of money. Just short of stature. Not mentioning any names of course. Whenever I meet a short movie star I always say to myself, I bet you would give all the millions of dollars you made in Mission Impossible just to be as tall as me, you little short…... Whoops!

But most of the time I just stay at home and write. I’m often asked, don’t you get lonely? And I say, fat yes. Lonely no. Getting fat is a real occupational hazard for a writer. I only have to look at a sandwich and I put on weight. Usually because I’m eating a Danish pastry at the time. That’s the hazard of working at home. The place is full of food. Crisps. Cakes. Biscuits. Comfort food for the kids. And I do, I find that it’s a real comfort to eat it. But it’s dangerous being a writer you know. It is. Insurance companies all say that most accidents occur in the home. It’s true. About two years ago I had to go to hospital and have myself pumped full of antibiotics because I’d been leaning on my elbow while writing something. My elbow had become infected. It’s a dangerous job being at home all day.

Which makes it all the more enjoyable to get out and come and speak to you tonight. And a great honour of course. Because being a writer who lives in London means I never go anywhere. Mostly I don’t do very much except stay at home and write books. Someone could phone me up and say, Hey Phil, Charles Dickens is doing a reading at the Festival Hall, do you wanna come? And I’d say, no, thanks. You can never park round there. Or Mozart is playing the piano at the Wigmore Hall. Nah. The seats aren’t very comfortable. John Lennon is at Pizza on the Park. Don’t like pizza.

I bet some of you who were coming here tonight probably wondered if you should bother. Especially all the ones whose sons didn’t win a prize. Which is most of you, right? Especially the ones at the back. That’s where my parents used to sit in the hope of some anonymity. At the back. That’s when they came at all. I swear I never won a prize for anything until my last year at this school when I won the Stopford Sackville English Prize. Come to think of it they didn’t come then either. They only reason they came of course is because they didn’t have to hire a baby sitter. Stopford Sackville. It has a real ring to it, doesn’t it? Sounds like a proper prize. I’m glad I won that instead of the Jones prize for English.

My parents were pretty strict sort of people. Education and religion were important to them. And manners. Bad language was not tolerated. I must say I agree with that. There are words I hate my own children using. You know the words I mean. The word ‘why’ springs to mind. Children don’t know how to use that word responsibly. They’re merciless with that word. What are doing, Dad? I’m working. Why? Because we need to make money? Why? That’s the hardest thing about being a parent. Because you’re expected to know everything, and you realise that you’re actually a bit of a moron. Even the stuff I’m supposed to know, I don’t really know. Dad how does a car work? Um…. Well you put the petrol in the hole, right? And, er…go and look it up in the encyclopedia.

Which leads me to another very important message boys. And it’s about your parents. More particularly it’s about your fathers. My father is no longer alive so I find this particular quotation by Mark Twain especially poignant. Because my Dad and I didn’t always get along. Mostly it was because he didn’t like my hair. I think there were a lot of other reasons as well but you can sum them all up in one phrase. I was a little sod. I was. I was horrible. Just like all of you boys out there. You’re dreadful, really you are. You don’t wash enough, you won’t have your haircut, you won’t answer when you’re spoken to, you won’t stop hitting your little brother, you’re awful. And what’s worse you think it’s all your parents’ fault. That they don’t understand you. That they don’t know what it’s like being you. So here’s the quotation. And I don’t know one man for whom this doesn’t mean something. Here’s what Twain said: he said: "When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years."

You see that’s the other thing about getting older. You start turning into your old man. You hear him in the things you say. These days, I’m my father all the time. So remember what I said about time’s winged chariot and try and understand, if you will, how your father isn’t really much different from you. He’s just read more books – unless he’s a builder of course – and had more lunch. Which explains his larger stomach. And don’t ever think that your stomach won’t ever be the same size as his when you’re older, because it will be. I can guarantee that, too.

It only remains for me to congratulate all the boys who won a prize. And to thank Mister Edwards for having the courage to invite me here to be with you tonight. I’ve enjoyed it immensely. Almost as much as I enjoyed being here as a schoolboy myself. Which reminds me that I’d also like to thank all of the teachers who had the dubious pleasure of teaching me. Especially Mister Jones for history. And especially Mister D.A.F. Hickling who took me for English. Fama semper vivat.

You know people often say that schooldays are the happiest days of your life. They’re not of course. It’s just that the older you get it seems such a wonderful to thing to be a boy with all your years and choices before you. Live them wisely. But most importantly live them well.