THE MANBOOKER PLOT FOILED!

‘Matches, matches, never touch,’ I sang to myself as I ran, adrenalin charged through the tunnels below the Guildhall with one eye on my watch and another on the live twitter feed of t.v coverage from the ceremony taking place above. As Dame Stella Rimmington was emoting upstairs about the importance of literature and Julian Barnes was nervously fingered his well-worn acceptance speech, I slammed into Man Booker's Ion Trewin and Colman Getty's Dotti Irving. How was it that I, Miss Daisy Frost, had wound up in some freaking cellar for the first time since the launch of the Chilean Miners Cookbook) with the future of literature in my hands?

Let’s rewind three weeks to me sipping an amaretto sour in the Club At The Ivy – suddenly I got a strange text: 'Unhappy with the world of literature? Want to make a difference?'. It was a bit like being asked whether you wanted a date with George Clooney. I texted back 'YES and YES. Tell me more'. ‘Meet us at midnight in the basement of Blacks in Dean Street. Tell no one and come alone. The code word is ELITISM.’ Elitism?  

I hurried off to Blacks, uttered the code word and was ushered into a candle lit back room. As my eyes adjusted to the light I became aware that I was not alone. Around me sat John Banville, Pat Barker, David Mitchell, Nicole Krauss and Mark Haddon. They seemed to be waiting for something - or someone – and were chanting 'master, master, master'. Suddenly a flash of blue light flickered into a human form and uberagent alpha male he-man Andrew Kidd's appeared. With shining eyes, he spoke: 'We are here, followers, to stop the evil Man Booker prize from blighting our literary landscape with books that people might actually want to read. This cannot happen - we need to create an elite prize full of literary novels chosen only for their prose and nothing more. Readability and sales figures be damned'. 'A bit like Picador when you were running it?' I said eagerly. John Banville spat his claret out: ‘Foolish child, you know nothing of what we speak, but we need your...erm...contacts. In return we can offer you immortality. And Martin Amis' mobile number'. I was sold – we sacrificed a lamb to Andrew and then drafted a press release for the big launch for the new Literature Prize the next day.

It started well – my contacts and the press went nuts –  I got Andrew the guest judging slot on an XFactor Italo Calvino special and a chance to lecture the Big Brother house on Umberto Eco, but he mystifyingly refused them both, sneaking off to Radio 3 to broadcast to its 9 listeners. I lost my rag, but Andrew only shouted back at me 'this prize is really going to put a rocket up the ManBooker and go with a real bang'. I quit and  swept furiously out of the room, bumping into a man delivering barrels. I called Dotti at Man Booker. ‘Count me back in,’ I shouted. ‘I’m coming to the dinner.’

Two weeks later I was at the Guildhall swapping dead parrot jokes with Julian  B when suddenly images of fireworks, barrels  and Kidd with a little pointy beard and a lace collar flashed through my mind. Grabbing Ion and Dotti I dragged them away from the dinner shouting 'Trust me - the future of the Man Booker depends on you now'. Three minutes later we kicked down the door in the basement and discovered Kidd with a massive barrel of dynamite, 47,000 copies of The Finkler Question and a lit match in his hand. Upstairs we heard Julian unfold his dog eared speech and begin: 'Thanks so much for awarding me this prize for Flauberts Parrot, er...England, England...er...Arthur and George...er....'. Meanwhile downstairs Ion Trewin rugby-tackled Kidd to the floor, Dotti doused the fizzing fuse with her glass of champagne and I raised mine to Julian, to literature and to readability.  I thank you.