There have been many tributes paid to the late Stanley Kubrick, the brilliant but controversial film director. To date, some 2,345 articles have been published by people who worked with Kubrick, the reclusive and temperamental film director. Most of these have concentrated on how difficult but (nevertheless) rewarding it was to collaborate with the eccentric and moody film director. A few have preferred to concentrate on how tough but inspiring it was to work with the driven but demanding film director.

Unfortunately, some begrudging little tales of Kubrick's alleged ingratitude, selfishness, crass behaviour and sheer self-obsession have also emerged. The author Brian Aldiss wrote for example of how he sold Kubrick a short story for filming, and was then asked to write the screenplay: "The first thing we had to do was establish a contract, which proved extraordinarily difficult."

The deal was that if the movie was made, and had the original story title, and carried a writing credit for Kubrick and Aldiss, then Aldiss would get £2 million. But if the credit read "additional material by" anyone else, then Aldiss would get nothing. Aldiss was also forbidden to leave the country while working with Kubrick.

Aldiss signed. "Why did I sign it? For the excitement of working with Kubrick." In the end, Aldiss got nothing for all his time and work: while "employed", he had written the equivalent of three novels for the brilliant (but temperamental) director. The film was never made. Aldiss was sacked for "breaking his contract" - he had visited Florida while Kubrick had turned his attention to something else for a couple of weeks.

Like the film critic Alexander Walker, many people seem to have been employed by Kubrick only once, "unpaid and briefly".

I know how they must feel. I myself recall working back in the 1950s with the hugely talented but demanding film director Sidney Rubric. It was every writer's dream to work with Sidney and when the call came, I did not hesitate.

Sidney came straight to the point: he wanted to buy and film my story, The Cockerel Fore-warned. I agreed instantly, but there was just one catch, I pointed out, nervous of upsetting the famous but temperamental director: I had never written any such story.

"Then write it," said Sidney. So I did. Three months later I met the unpredictable genius for lunch at his house. He invited me to cook it, and I did. We ate in silence, and a little later talked in silence.

Tentatively, I brought up the topic of The Cockerel Forewarned, and handed him my 5,000-word manuscript. He slowly tore up the pages, sprinkled them over his creme brulee and ate the lot.

Afterwards he told me he had not enjoyed a script so much for ages. But when was I going to write for him? I said I could start straight away, but he asked me to postpone it until I had done the washing-up. We did not meet again for some time. I had got lost trying to find the bathroom in Sidney's enormous mansion, and ended up having an intense five-month relationship with the famous director's Urdu tutor, Tokya Mushk, in a small suite on the third floor.

When I got back to the living room, Sidney was looking at reels of 1930s advertising on a big screen hung in front of the fireplace. It was clear he had not noticed that I ever left the room. By now I realised this was the kind of scenario apt to unfold in the house of a highly individual film director of such cerebral intensity. I cannot put into words how exciting it all was.

Sidney now sat down beside me to draw up our contract. For a generous fee of $4 million, I was to sign an agreement to write nothing for anybody, including Sidney, "until Man becomes Word". If I published so much as a comma I would not get a cent. Also, I had to agree to stay within a triangle bounded by Roundstone, Faughnaloosey and Trim, drink only gin, and visit a female murderer's grave every time the moon was full.

Why did I sign, when I knew the relationship would be frustrating, the demands impossible, the financial rewards non-existent? For the excitement of working with Sidney Rubric, greatest of all the driven, brilliant but temperamental directors of genius.