How Macca’s autograph cost me a fortune
Asurvey of the priciest autographs in the world has shown a James Dean signature is the most expensive at £18,000. As his name consists of only nine letters, this adds up to a princely £2,000 per letter.
Next comes the autograph of the Kung Fu actor Bruce Lee at £11,000, just ahead of Admiral Lord Nelson at £10,500. Among the live and kicking, Fidel Castro tops the charts at £3,750, with sir Paul McCartney second at £2,500.
This last bit of news came as a particular blow to me. Aged 16, I spotted Paul McCartney in the audience at a pop concert in which his brother Mike was playing.
I asked him to add his name to a signed photograph of roxy Music that I had managed to get the night before. Paul was very obliging. ‘ And me, too — Paul McCartney,’ he wrote.
Alas, in my ramshackle 20s, I somehow lost that precious photograph. Were I to find it tomorrow, would I really want to sell it? I suspect not.
Autograph hunting is a strange occupation, at once predatory and reverential. There is always a group of autograph hunters — the collective term must surely be ‘ a squiggle’ — gathered outside the main BBC building.
I remember, years ago, feeling very pleased with myself when one of them approached me with a pen and pad and asked for my autograph. It was only when I looked back after signing his pad that I noticed this collector showing my autograph to his mates with a baffled expression, all of them trying to work out who on earth I was.
The professional autograph collector is part fan, part undertaker: he knows full well that his piece of paper will only achieve its full market value once the autographer has dropped dead.
Neil Armstrong’s autograph was once worth £550. Then in 2012 he died and the value shot up to £8,500. George Harrison’s was worth £195 in 2000. Today, it is worth £3,500.
The very last autograph signed by President Kennedy before he was assassinated was sold in 2009 for $39,000, six times as much as an ordinary one.
Oddly enough, some JFK autographs were signed after he died: by 1963, the White House had acquired a machine that could reproduce his signature automatically and, by some oversight, the machine was left running for some time after his assassination.
small wonder, then, if some stars find autograph hunters more of a menace than a boon.
The child actress shirley Temple stopped believing in santa Claus when he asked her for an autograph.
Others refuse to co- operate. ‘I hate to bother you . . .’ said a female fan as she approached Barbra streisand in a restaurant for her autograph.
‘ Then why do you?’ barked Barbra. ‘ If you really hated to bother me, then you wouldn’t. Why don’t you just admit that you’re bothering me and you don’t care?’
Our very own Arthur Lowe, Captain Main war in gin Dad’s Army, was similarly dismissive and refused to sign autographs.
He hated to be confused with the character who made him famous. ‘ The public are so stupid,’ he once complained.
On the other hand, if you are hard up, but still famous (a more widespread condition than you might think), then charging for an autograph can help with the housekeeping.
The second man on the Moon, Buzz Aldrin, was paid very little for his efforts as an astronaut: on top of his basic captain’s salary of $17,000 a year, he was paid just $8 a day for being away from base, minus deductions for accommodation. But he now makes quite a reasonable living from celebrity appearances and can charge $250 for an autograph.
SINCE the murder of John Lennon by Mark Chapman, the autograph collector has suffered from a poor public image. At best, he is seen as an anorak, at worst an assassin. It might be worth reviving one tale that shows, as hobbies go, it can be innocent and joyful.
After Winston Churchill had announced the surrender of Germany on May 8, 1945, the House of Commons went wild, rising to their feet and waving their Order papers.
Then, as Churchill was leaving the Palace of Westminster, a little boy rushed forward with an autograph book. ‘Please, sir,’ he said. ‘ May I have your autograph?’ ‘Winston took along time getting out his glasses and wiping them,’ wrote the diarist Harold Nicolson, who was there to witness it. ‘Then he ruffled the little boy’s hair and gave him back his beastly album. “That will remind you of a glorious day ,” he said, and t he crowd clapped loud er than before.’ How much would this particular autograph be worth if ever it were to surface? My own suspicion is that it would knock James Dean’s into a cocked hat.