THE BYNG'S SPEECH

So yes, obviously I did go to the BAFTAs this year again. No speech by Orion's Peter Roach but still worth attending. Seeing as we are in such good shape with The King’s Speech, I wanted to show my support for King and Country, so I sidled up to Colin Firth (we go WAY back) on the red carpet to see how he was coping with the expectations of a nation. He said he was a bit worried that everyone thought it would be a forgone conclusion. ‘Listen, Firth,’ I said, ‘You’ve been riding off the success of a wet shirt for too long now – look at Portman. She’s raising her game with all that dancing. Listen to Miss Daisy Frost - bring Uncle Oscar home and get those abdominals stirring – a dance movie next? ’ He bit his lip nervously, nodding. Let’s just hope this invaluable advice sinks in.

There are of course many mysteries in publishing – and I’m not talking about why Nigel Newton and Lloyd Grossman haven’t ever been spotted together. The big one recently has been the contents of Catherine Eccles forthcoming ‘The Secret Of Publishing’ e-book. I HAD to know the answer. I rang all the usual loose tongues, but no dice. Eccles wouldn’t send out any review copies or do any press – she would only tell me it was a one word answer. Frost? Maybe not. Baffled, I sought help. Self-faciliitating media node Damian Horner speculated the word might be 'freemium' (and then invoiced me £250), Lord Maclehose Of Sweden said it was quite obviously 'Steig' and I called everyone at Faber but they never got back to me. I was about to tweet for answers when the phone rang - it was Lord Byng of Hype who wanted to meet urgently for lunch.

Jamie needed my help on World Byng Night for his megabash in Trafalgar Square. I protested until he told me I had been suggested by Stephen Fry - a bit like being told God has suggested you might want to build a cathedral, so I accepted. My brief: go A list. My calls to Obama, Heaney, Harper Lee and Pynchon did not render the results I was after.

They’re ALL busy? Things did not improve when ChloeMonster rushed in to say Kathy Lette had phoned 15 times to volunteer her services. ‘Chloe, things are quite THAT bad yet.’ I said coldly, ‘But maybe dig out Geri Halliwell’s number to be on the safe side.’ By the end of the day I had a maybe from a self-published sci-fi poet, a probably from an octogenarian erotic fiction writer from Rhyll and a definite from  Martina Cole. Maybe the Eccles word was ‘desperate’ but I texted her and she just replied ‘not even close’.

Despondent I hurried over to Ishiguro’s annual fancy dress. Ish looked dreamy as Annette Benning and I slipped an eyepatch on and went as Jeff Bridges in True Grit. Watching the Oscars live, the room went wild when Colin stepped up to claim Best Actor. ‘I have to warn you', he said - clutching the award, ' that I am experiencing stirrings somewhere in the upper abdominals that are threatening to form themselves into dance moves,'. Good boy! I sighed to myself and send him a little text - 'Firth, you’re welcome. love Daisy'.

Apparently Colin has been talking about me at the Vanity Fair after party – I know this the next morning my blackberry suddenly went nuts with RSVPs to Jamie’s party – all of a sudden: Obama TICK, Heaney TICK, Harper Lee TICK, Rowling TICK. Even Steig said he might pop in. As I was sitting there it struck me like a Harry Potter bolt of lighting – the Secret Of Publishing word wasn’t ‘passion’or ‘originality’ – it was something much more mudane than that – the Secret of Publishing was of course ‘Celebrity’.

I rang Jamie with the good news and he had one more favour to ask - as publishing goes to war he knows his crie de coeur has the potential to go down in history. He wants me to write him a speech and coach him

to victory. Hang on - The Byng's Speech? I wonder if Colin can get me Geoffrey Rush’s phone number…..?