The hundred day fortune 9 June 1973 At the end of most journalistic rainbows stands Freddie Forsyth, hugging a large pot of gold. A pot spilling over almost without effort. It’s a remarkable tale; one which (apart from confirming that there is a Father Christmas) tells you a lot about modern publishing and the demise of hoary, leather-bound gents making genteel fortunes between trips to the Reform Club. Operatively our story begins in January 1970. Forsyth, ex-Eastern Daily Press cub reporter, ex-RAF pilot, ex-Reuter man in Paris and Berlin, acrimonious ex-BBC correspondent in Biafra, was also becoming an ex-freelance. No...