LIBF - JUST ANOTHER MANIC MONDAY.

If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s a queue – we all know this – so turning up to Earl’s Court on Monday to see more people than had turned up to touch the hem of Jamie Byng’s garment on World Book Night, I began to back away, sweating. Momentarily distracted by the sight of Dame Gail Rebuck’s helicopter landing, I bumped into someone next to me, as both our badges fell to the floor. I grabbed mine crossly and breezed through the fast track queue where a puzzled- looking man scanned my pass, eyeing me curiously. ‘Deals to make, chop chop!’ I shouted, snatching my pass back as I headed for the IRC. Elbowing myself passed the men in cord jackets with leather patches (clearly from educational publishers ), intense scrubbed little women (self-help editors?) and fabulously glamorous goddesses (chick-lit - obvs) I got some very odd looks. People smiled, looked down at my badge only to look up again, confused and move away. Maybe yesterday’s column had caused a diplomatic incident? It was only when I got to the ladies room and stood in front of the mirror that I saw my badge identified me as Christopher Little. Which meant that somewhere Chris was unwittingly outing himself as Miss Daisy Frost to the whole of Earl’s Court. Fine by me – as long as he sorts those eyebrows out and gives me all his millions. 

Outside the rights centre, I spied some badly-dressed people holding manuscripts and looking a bit lost. Ever the girl guide I stopped and asked if they needed help. ‘Yes please – we are authors and we want to get agents. What do we do?” Authors at a bookfair? That’s like finding a herd of cows going on a daytrip to an Abattoir.  I slyly suggested that they should just go into the IRC, break into any meeting they like, shove the other person out of the way and sit down. ‘Start at the Wylie table’, I suggested, ‘he is always so friendly and he’ll welcome your eagerness and determination’. They scurried off, all fired up. ‘Andrew – you’re welcome,’ I muttered.

In one corner of the IRC, bedlam had broken out – agent Carole Blake seemed to be talking into six mobile phones, live-tweeting and holding five meetings simultaneously as a team of assistants mopped her brow with a big sponge and kept her intravenous drip of essential nutrients topped up.  At the end of each half hour, five press releases were immediately beamed to Bookbrunch as newsflashes. As I stood there her stories buzzed onto my iPhone - ‘Carole has a client,’ ‘Carole has a coffee’ and ‘Editor publishes book’.  As I was pondering this detailed and selfless contribution, there was a commotion, where I saw the herd of authors being pursued by a furious looking Wylie who was pointing at me and shouting. Time to make myself scarce.

I slipped off to the Charkin/Franklin debate ‘Will Authors Need Publishers In the Future?’ but was diverted from my path by the scent of glamour and stardom drifting from the BAFTA Film Networking Drinks instead. Shouting, ‘Yes, Harvey – I’ll talk to Colin if you want, but I’m not promising. We want Kidman for the project too, but Diaz will do,’ into my phone, the red rope was lifted and I got stuck straight in. The more I reduced my book pitches, the more excited the film types became, especially with my sensitive 1000 page coming of age dystopic novel set in a Kentucky call centre, or, ‘Catcher In the Rye meets Shrek’ which almost started a bidding war. I then chatted at length to Jim Carrey and Geoffrey Rush (although, on reflection, I think they MAY have actually been Tom Weldon and Steve Rubin) – before rushing off to six parties, three dinners and my annual Spice Girls- themed Karaoke sessions with Jane Gregory, Dame Gail, Vicky Barnsley and Wayne Brooks…