What’s that dazzling glow in the sky, you may well be asking yourself? Well fellow book sufferers, it is my halo. For I have spent an entire effing week going to effing publishing parties all so YOU DON'T HAVE TO. It felt fitting that in the midst of the worse double dip recession since Tesco ran out of hummus and taramasalata that publishing decided to basically hold a series of the most lavish parties ever known to Man. That said they still managed to provide their guests with the worst, cheapest wine that ever made contact with a human palette but yes, I still managed to drink several lakes of it. Other saintly behaviour included dancing the High Discount Tango with Ted Smart (twice), eating 250+ canapés and taking Kathy Lette to the bathroom on more than one occasion. At the very LEAST, I should be beatified for that alone. Saint Daisy has a nice ring to it.
The Vintage 50th party was eventful though. I arrived, fabulous in Chanel (vintage obviously) to find the bookerati hysterically queueing in the street, all bidding frantically on their iPhones for Carole Blake’s handbags on ebay. I’m not one for queuing, so , using all my saintly powers I summoned Lord Byng of Wikiwars, who arrived parting the crowds like the Red Sea. Slipping quietly under his velvet cape, leaping onto his back and holding onto his flowing locks, I dismounted from him only when I was safetly inside. He seemed pleased to see me and whispered, ‘Daisy – am I doing the right thing publishing an author against his will?’ I slapped him on the back and ruffled his hair. ‘To be honest I REPRESENT most of mine against their will – so to be honest, who cares?'. Analogue Dan then shushed the room and Rachel swept up to the podium. I didn’t hear much of what she said - I was too busy making eyes at Ian McKellen and Pamela Anderson - or was it McEwan and Stephenson? Anyway - it was obviously cotime to make my exit. Onwards!
I ducked going to the Goldsboro Books party for Hysterical Writers and went instead to the Bloomsbury ‘At Home’ 25th Birthday party. dressed as Miss Daisy Dalloway wearing a false nose They seem to be living in a tent these days - post-Potter days must be really tough. Only 2000 guests too. When I got there Nigel was on his hind legs, fluffing the shareholders with stream of consciousness nonsense whilst sounding like Lloyd Grossman with the batteries running down. After the 79th mention of Harry Potter I wandered away in search of some food and stumbled across Heston and the Fat Quack team stuffing an elephant into a mouse into a gnat bathed in a cat sweat jus. Declining a unicorn ice-cream burger with owl foam I bolted, fortunately dodging an angry-looking Sophie Dahl. My idea to rebuild her grandfather’s shed by getting the public to raise 500k had been heartfelt but, on reflection, having her arrive in a private jet wearing a chocolate crown and a dress made of this year’s BFG royalty statements was possibly misjudged. The Bloomsbury going home goody bag was refreshingly different though - Heston's latest Cookbook in a hand stitched silk purse made out of a sows ears. Adorable.
Later I stopped in at the Gollancz sci-fi party long enough to nab another goody bag containing a Malcolm Edwards-branded anorak and a light-sabre before heading home. As my halo hit the pillow Lord Byng called me once more to say he had a rush job on – the Wikileaks Cookbook. Apparently they had nothing on paper other than contracts from 47 foreign publishers worth £2m and they urgently needed to keep the project alive, so he wanted recipe ideas. Pronto. Yes Chef ! I fired up Tweetdeck and 10 minutes later I was staring at recipes for Wikileakandpotato Pie, Advocado with Guatanomocole, Andrew O’Hagan-Das Ice-Cream and Chicken Julian. Byng sounded ectstatic although, of course, that is his default setting. I had no idea it would be so easy – I must find Heston’s number and share the love.
The Vintage 50th party was eventful though. I arrived, fabulous in Chanel (vintage obviously) to find the bookerati hysterically queueing in the street, all bidding frantically on their iPhones for Carole Blake’s handbags on ebay. I’m not one for queuing, so , using all my saintly powers I summoned Lord Byng of Wikiwars, who arrived parting the crowds like the Red Sea. Slipping quietly under his velvet cape, leaping onto his back and holding onto his flowing locks, I dismounted from him only when I was safetly inside. He seemed pleased to see me and whispered, ‘Daisy – am I doing the right thing publishing an author against his will?’ I slapped him on the back and ruffled his hair. ‘To be honest I REPRESENT most of mine against their will – so to be honest, who cares?'. Analogue Dan then shushed the room and Rachel swept up to the podium. I didn’t hear much of what she said - I was too busy making eyes at Ian McKellen and Pamela Anderson - or was it McEwan and Stephenson? Anyway - it was obviously cotime to make my exit. Onwards!
I ducked going to the Goldsboro Books party for Hysterical Writers and went instead to the Bloomsbury ‘At Home’ 25th Birthday party. dressed as Miss Daisy Dalloway wearing a false nose They seem to be living in a tent these days - post-Potter days must be really tough. Only 2000 guests too. When I got there Nigel was on his hind legs, fluffing the shareholders with stream of consciousness nonsense whilst sounding like Lloyd Grossman with the batteries running down. After the 79th mention of Harry Potter I wandered away in search of some food and stumbled across Heston and the Fat Quack team stuffing an elephant into a mouse into a gnat bathed in a cat sweat jus. Declining a unicorn ice-cream burger with owl foam I bolted, fortunately dodging an angry-looking Sophie Dahl. My idea to rebuild her grandfather’s shed by getting the public to raise 500k had been heartfelt but, on reflection, having her arrive in a private jet wearing a chocolate crown and a dress made of this year’s BFG royalty statements was possibly misjudged. The Bloomsbury going home goody bag was refreshingly different though - Heston's latest Cookbook in a hand stitched silk purse made out of a sows ears. Adorable.
Later I stopped in at the Gollancz sci-fi party long enough to nab another goody bag containing a Malcolm Edwards-branded anorak and a light-sabre before heading home. As my halo hit the pillow Lord Byng called me once more to say he had a rush job on – the Wikileaks Cookbook. Apparently they had nothing on paper other than contracts from 47 foreign publishers worth £2m and they urgently needed to keep the project alive, so he wanted recipe ideas. Pronto. Yes Chef ! I fired up Tweetdeck and 10 minutes later I was staring at recipes for Wikileakandpotato Pie, Advocado with Guatanomocole, Andrew O’Hagan-Das Ice-Cream and Chicken Julian. Byng sounded ectstatic although, of course, that is his default setting. I had no idea it would be so easy – I must find Heston’s number and share the love.
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