Welcome to the home of Miss Daisy Frost

THE MANBOOKER PLOT FOILED!

2011-11-05T11:35:00.003Z

‘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.

PUBLISHER BOUND AND GAGGED, AGENT ESCAPES TO VICTORY

2011-10-14T09:40:00.003+01:00

When we last spoke, I was dressed in someone else’s clothes and planning some mischief. Mischief of course is the DNA of Frankfurt and completely unavoidable when people leave their blackberries carelessly in their private belongings just WAITING to be stolen. Sorry Jamie....

So there I was - lying on Lord Byng of Wikiwars's bed toying with his purloined Blackberry, when I suddenly heard the door opening. ‘O my God, Jamie’s come back to shampoo his chest hair, or something,’ I whispered frantically to myself before bolting into his wardrobe to hide under a pile of Wikileak Cookbooks. I could hear him muttering about his missing Blackberry when it suddenly and horrendously rang in my hand – so with the stealth of a flying squirrel, I swung myself over the clothes rail and balanced on top of it like a cuter Olga Corbett. As he leant in to find it I dropped down, flooring him from behind and tied his wrists with the dressing gown chord before putting some tights over his head. Worryingly he seemed to rather enjoy it. Rushing out of the door, I swung the sign round to DO NOT DISTURB and slid down the bannisters to the lobby. Free at last and time for some fun!

In the bar I looked through Lucy Abrahams' gleaming tresses to see which cool parties she was going to and using my stolen phone I emailed the hosts saying: 'Please add my v good friend Daisy Frost to the VIP list and make sure her glass is never empty. Love Jamie B xxx'. Mischief, thy name is Daisy Frost.

Part two of my plan became operational as I passed the anatomically correct ice sculpture of Christopher Maclehose outside the Icelandic embassy party. Leaning on an enormous stalagtite and armed with my 2010 Rights List I picked the worst project possible, switched on Jamie's blackberry and fired off a strategic email to some likely scouts saying 'Darlings - are you hearing what I'm hearing? Daisy Frost has a white hot manuscript called ‘Scientology for Cats' by Euphemia Turtlebaum.We are about to pre-empt for $3m for UK. Good luck. Love you, Jamie xx'. I actually felt perky. Perky in Frankfurt. Imagine!

Leaving Iceland, I swept into the A.P.Watt party just as Caradoc and Derek were on the karaoke podium duetting on a touching version of 'Georgia On My Mind'. There was a frightful commotion as the three graces of scouting - Louise, Lucy and ScaryKoukla rushed over to me to shriek 'All our publishers want to pre-empt'. I took a long sip of my Amaretto Sour and said coolly, 'Girls - the first one of you to raise me a million euros from three territories gets it. I'll be over there singing 'I Wanna Be A Billionaire' with Ed Victor.’ I had barely got to the second chorus when Louise approached with victorious fire in her eyes. 'My Germans, Italians and Dutchies will meet your demands - a million it is.’ We toasted our success in Champagne and I snuck off to call my author with the good news. It’s an unfamiliar, but joyous feeling. As I dialled her number, Gail Rebuck stood in front of me with a cheque for £1m for English Language rights. I think I made a noise like a slot machine hitting jackpot, but it might have just been Ed’s singing. Kerching.

At around 3am in the lounge at the Flughagen, now on our third bottle of champers and playing Shag marry or Publish with my now very-rich author, I realised something was bothering me. Suddenly a vision of Lord Byng of Wikiwars trussed up in a hotel wardrobe at the Hasslehof behind a door marked DO NOT DISTURB flashed before my eyes. I thought about heading back - he had made my author a very wealthy woman after all - but I really didn’t want to risk missing my flight. Still, not wanting to be totally unhelpful, I tweeted from his Blackberry 'JULIAN ASSANGE IS HOLDING ME HOSTAGE IN ROOM 239 AT THE HASSLEHOF. SEND HELP AT ONCE'.

It’s been emotional. See you next year bookbitches.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE PUBLISHER IN A DRESS - FRANKFURT DAY2

2011-10-13T09:01:00.000+01:00

The trauma of being sent to Reykjavic instead of Frankfurt clearly did
something to my brain, or maybe it was just too much Herring, because
when I landed on German soil, I was actually excited. For ten seconds.
And then I just screamed ‘Oh my GOD, IT’S FRANKFURT, HELP ME GOD’.
Rushing out of the plane, I was greeted not with the airside runway
limo I had ordered but with the sight of a luggage mountain so high
and so massive that I assumed Caroline Michel's private jet GUSH-1 was
nearby unloading her wardrobe for the week. Actually it was just a
baggage handlers strike. Either that or the Flughafen had been
integrated into the Waterstones Hub. I looked at my watch – in order
to make my power brunch with Gail, assertive action was needed.
Jumping off the stairs I leap frogged over the other passengers onto
the luggage pile, quickly snatching my monogrammed luggage and I was
away.

'Which hotel bitte?' said my cabbie, Remembering that thanks to Chloe
Daisy-hater, the only hotel I was booked into was in an entirely
different country, I had to think quickly. 'The Hasslehof, obvs.
Achtung!’ I shrieked. Heading straight for the bar when I got there, I
replenished my fluids (one large vodka and tonic from Ravi
Mirchandani's breakfast tray) whilst sitting on Lord Byng Of Hype's
knee. ‘I hear the fair’s in town – wanna come and see the clowns?’ I
asked jauntily. He nodded nervously as I slyly reached into his pocket
and snaffled his roomkey into my Marc Jacobs bag. I then instructed
him to leave, saying I’d meet him there, before bounding upstairs to
his suite, where I ran a huge bubble bath and ordered a fruit basket
in order to plan my day like a civilized person. It was then things
got a bit annoying. Opening my handbag, I spied not only Lord Byng's
room key but also, wonderfully, his blackberry! Turning to my
monogrammed case I was bemused to see it contained some torn-up
comics, 47 bowties, 5 Panama hats, some red blusher, a box of
replacement blazer buttons and several items I cannot mention
here.This DF monogrammed suitcase wasclaerly not mine - it was another
DF's.David Fickling’s.to be precise. Desparate for a change of clothes
and already late for my keynote symposium on Tweeting with
@CaroleAgent I donned one of DF's outfits, stuck a cushion in the
shirt and sped to the fair dressed as a Gentleman Publisher from the
1970s. Doormen bowed, Dame Gail Rebuck courtseyed and Marion Lloyd
even pinched my bottom. I texted DF: ‘Meet me behind the Frankfurter
concession AT ONCE. I think you know why.’ Seconds later a beautiful
brunette arrived with a hand over 'her' face wearing a Victoria
Beckham dress and a pair of snakeskin Louboutins. Smacking her hand
away, I eyeballed David and said, ‘You naughty boy - but gosh, even on
you that dress looks glorious. Well done Victoria. Now shut your eyes
and TAKE IT OFF NOW.’

Minutes later I emerged myself once more and stood on the balcony
looking down on the fair. Somewhere down there was a publisher for
every book on my list - even the really crappy ones that I just took
on because the authors were hot or had good surnames. All they needed
were a bit of heat under them and anything could happen - this was
Frankfurt after all. If NAME REDACTED FOR LEGAL REASONS could
get laid here then anything was possible. But how was I, a mere worker
ant (albeit a fabulous one) in the world of publishing going to get
that heat going. I clenched my fists in frustration and then a memory
flashed into my brain. In my hand was the mobile phone of the most
powerful man in publishing. No one would know that an email from him
was really from me… was it possible that for the first time, Frankfurt
might be ready for some Frost mischief…?

FRANKFURT. DAY ONE. IN ICELAND

2011-10-12T16:51:00.000+01:00

Much like the first time you kiss someone (maybe, for instance, the gardener at school – if you’re reading this, hi Eric) it’s not easy to forget your first Frankfurt. The big book at my first German shindig was 'The Emperors New Clothes - A History of Invisibility' which consisted of 4OO blank pages and was pre-empted by 4th Estate for £3m. There was also a novel called MIAOW, written by a man dressed as a cat who ate his food out of a bowl on the floor and ran away every time someone tried to pick him up. The novel was inpenetrable, fecund and written backwards and predictably was sold by Canongate in 47 languages (including Complex AND Simple Persian). Welcome to Frankfurt - a world where reality doesn't apply and where fools and their money are easily parted. Things have been a bit slow recently (although I did get OUP to pay £600 for a book on the neuroscience of mahogany) but packing my essentials – iPad, Chanel lipstick, lederhosen – I stalked off to the airport determined to make some serious cash. With Iceland as the host nation I tried to think of all the Icelanders I fancy. I came up with, er, none.

On reflection, my first error was of course to allow my assistant Chloe to make my arrangements, but I have been terribly busy with not only the Amanda Knox trial, but the Jackson doctor trial too AND Wikiwars. I thought Chloe was just being facetious when she asked if I wanted to stay in the Icehotel and go on a reindeer ride – I should of course have noticed the trail of metaphorical breadcrumbs leading to a sign saying, ‘YOUR ASSISTANT IS INCOMPETENT.’

It was only when I was in the limo taking me to the airport (I told them to put it on Ed Victor's account) that I glanced at my ticket. Icelandic Air? I didn’t know they flew to Frankfurt, but I was already pretty distracted by Carole Blake live tweeting about brushing her teeth, so I had to run through security to catch my plane. Grabbing my seat and looking around to see which publishing bitches I wanted to avoid I was bemused to see only blonde business men in knitwear reading Fishing Monthly and blonde supermodels reading novels by Arnauld Indriðason - in fact I realized I was the only brunette on the plane. Then an announcement came on in pure gibberish and we were served pickled herring with cabbage on a whale blubber coulis. Something felt very wrong. I summoned the air hostess who was called Siri Gudsmunsdottir and asked her what time we landed in Frankfurt. She laughed, gave me a complimentary boiled sweet shaped like a geyser and told me to have a little rest.

It was when we’d landed and I was staring at frozen arctic waters, a couple of marauding polar bears and a massive iceberg that alarm bells really started ringing. That and the massive sign in arrivals that said ‘Welcome to Rejyavik.’ I called Chloe: ‘I am meant to be in Frankfurt, but there’s not so much as a Wiener schnitzel in sight. Instead, I am queuing for a cab behind an Arctic fox.’ But Iceland were the host nation, she said. No, they were the guest, I said. How was she supposed to know the difference between host and guest, she said. ‘Chloe,’ I replied, with bearly contained calm. ‘I am in Iceland wearing no tights and a chic, but in no way heat retaining dress. My assets are freezing as we speak. GET ME OUT OF HERE.’ ‘Alright, I mean, GOD,’ she said huffily.

All of which is a long way of saying I may be a little late. Keep Patrick Janson-Smith warm for me and have a Vodka and Tonic ready at the HasselHof. Any kind of vodka will do except Icelandic.

YOU'VE GOT TO FIGHT FOR THE RIGHT TO PARTY

2011-10-11T09:37:00.000+01:00

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.

HOW NOT TO SIGN A NEW CLIENT

2011-09-01T22:06:00.006+01:00

I’m not a fan of August – it’s just a dressed up version of January ie MUCH too quiet. When the headline ‘Caroline Michel Buys New Shoes’ is ‘breaking news’ on BookMunch, you know publishing needs its pulse checking. I found myself so desperate for someone to play with that I even went to the book launch in Croydon Waterstones of one of my own authors, Gavin Scrote, who has released a derivative debut novel, ‘Two Days’.

I’d never been to South London before (apart from a party on the London Eye – does that count?) so was excited and arrived with a home made banner that said ‘Congratulations on your debut novel!’ Unfortunately, it turned out to be his third, which I think he was pretty ungracious about, asking me beadily which bit I liked most as if I should have read it, so I had to make excuses and pretend I’d lost a fantasy contact lens to create a diversion. The event continued as all book events do – with an audience of three cross staff, two alcoholics from publicity, the author’s teary-eyed mum and an angry poet who sat at the back eating food out of his beard. Scrote read at length over the increasingly deafening racket from outside (is the sound of smashing glass and sirens normal for Croydon? I thought) I then shouted some questions, the author signed some stock and we drank terrible wine with the manager. One book was sold – to the author’s still weeping mother and she already has a copy. I was about to dash off when another writer took to the stage – a Byronic devil called Lucien Swift – who instantly captivated us all with his amazing prose.

As soon as the event finished I hunted Lucien down backstage in a stock room and eavesdropped as he bitched to Scrote about his agent. Apparently she couldn’t do anything right - apparently she once took seven weeks to return a phone call, his publisher got sent the wrong draft of the manuscript and she stood him up for lunch on four occasions. I could take no more of this – he clearly deserved more ie me. Barging my way into the room, I wanted to show what kind of agent I was, so stroked Scrote’s head, saying, ‘Who’s my genius?’ before slipping my card into Lucien’s hand and whispering, ‘I could make you a star. Ditch the witch and call me.’ I then dramatically swept out of the room before his bemused face had time to speak.

Stepping out of the store, I was horrified to suddenly find myself in the middle of a war zone. Fire, armed police, hoodies, broken glass and fighting. It was like the Canongate party but without Jamie. As I stood holding a hardback of ‘The Battersea Park Road To Enlightenment’ and watched a group of hoodies drag a sack of iPads into the street as Waterstones remained untouched, I believed for the first time that the future truly is digital.

The next morning on the train to Edinburgh, my iPhone buzzed as we were approaching York. It was, gasp, Lucien from last night. Clearly my act with Scrote had worked – I decided to go for it: ‘Your agent, whoever she is, is massively under-representing you. That would never happen on my watch. SIGN WITH ME NOW and discover dedication Daisy style.’ He paused.‘ There’s one big problem with this plan. I think my agent might be a lunatic.’ ‘O my God,’ I gasped, ‘She’s not only incompetent, she’s terrorized you into thinking you don’t deserve someone decent. Who is this monster?’ He paused again, ‘It’s you Daisy - or should I say it WAS you’. I dropped the phone like a hot brick. Hopefully flowers, a sweet note and an iPad should this silly misunderstanding up. Actually if I get HopelessChloe to pop down to Croydon right now should be able to pick one up cheap...

Daisy Frost and The Hunt For The Golden Snitch

2011-08-05T12:58:00.001+01:00

July.

The month where I should be planning my Tuscan Villa holiday for the whole of August – but which always ends up with me stuck in London chasing money, contracts and submissions. This has all been made worse by the fact that the ChloeMonster has gone on holiday and left me with her cousin as an ‘intern’ – someone so small, she probably shouldn’t be working for more than 4 hours a day, like one of the Billy Elliots. I thought I’d break her in gently and said her first task was to get me tickets to the final Harry Potter premiere before I flounced off to my weekly Hot Chicks In Publishing lunch with Isobel, Mari, Jocasta, and David Shelley.

5 hours later (after some emergency clothes shopping) I returned to discover amazingly that the child slave had magically procured two tickets for Deathly Hallows 2 - I did notice C. Little's name had been crossed out and mine written in with crayon but this was probably just some admin error. Anyhow I dressed in full Hogwarts robes and took Ed Victor as my guest (he needs to get out more) and found we were seated bang next to Neil Blair and an armed guard. I asked him why Christopher couldn't make it but he was strangely silent. Busy with all that Pottermore excitement I should think.

The after party was magic – although I had no idea how I got from there to waking up on a lion in Trafalgar Square at 6a.m. Discovering a room key from the Ritz and several deeply inappropriate photos of me and one of the stars of the film on my iPhone worried me a little. Especially as I had no idea you could even do that with a broomstick. Alarmed, I checked my messages – and weirdly I had a ‘saved’ one from He Who Must Not Be Named. ‘Odd,’ I thought – ‘I don’t remember listening to that’. But the next thing was, my phone rang and it was a man called Glen from the News Of The World who said he was splashing me all over the front page describing my ‘broomstick shennanigans’ and asked if it was true that I’d played ‘Hunt the snitch’ with one of the famous stars of the Harry Potter franchise? Horrified I pointed my wand at the phone and shouted, ‘Ineedtomakeasharpexitam!’ before sliding off the lion and flagging down the nearest cab.I realized I would never live down my Potter shame once it got out so I resigned nobly as soon as I got to work and emailed my clients about my decision. This is, after all, what people do when the chips are down and your company’s reputation is at stake. Mr Cecil was a bit bemused though – ‘I didn’t realize you actually did any work, Daisy, so accepting your resignation feels rather…counterintuitive?’ he remarked. Um, I think he was just hiding his pain and I was just thinking about my father's face on Sunday. None of my clients even replied. Bastards.

Still in my robes, I moped along to the HarperCollins party at Vicky's Kensington crash-pad to drown my sorrows at Rupert's expense. After 13 Down Under cocktails, I forlornly looked around the room at the mad, bad and dangerous to know, shedding a tear on the back of Janson Smith's blazer. ‘Farewell, publishing family,’ I whimpered. Suddenly I heard Vicky mention my bete noir - the News Of The World. Surely she didn’t know my broomstick shame yet? I blushed...but no! She was announcing to the world that the red top was no more with IMMEDIATE EFFECT.With one leap I was free and I ran screaming from the party desperate to reclaim clients and my job before ChloeMonster was annointed as my successor – and yes, perhaps thinking about my potential vast payout.After all I am as much a victim now as Sienna Miller and unless I too get a quick cheque for £100k I WILL have my day in court.

By the way I DID find the snitch eventually – and rather unexpectedly - but that’s between me and You Know Who….

Miss Daze e-Frost does it digitally

2011-07-09T21:20:00.001+01:00

As far as I am aware, Godparents serve one purpose – to buy you an expensive lunch once a year to make up for all the birthdays they’ve ever missed. After three hours of boozing at Shoreditch House with my fairy godfather ‘company director’ Sandy, he reached into my bag snatched up my business cards and threw them into the nearby pizza oven. ‘Daisy’, he slurred, ‘you have got to innovate – forget the lit agent thing and start thinking ‘Miss Daisy Frost I.P Executive Vice-President of Self-facilitating e-trepeneurial Imagineering’. I would, I said – if I had any idea what that meant. ‘Get out of books and into digital AS SOON AS POSSIBLE,’ I think he replied. Before we both passed out. Sandy’s words were still echoing in my (very sore) head the next night at the Agents Association secret meeting, where all chat was about ‘Should Agents Be Publishers?’ Beards were pulled and someone shouted ‘We’re only becoming e-publishers because there’s no viable alternative for our old books’. Just as I was about to get up and shout, ‘O, who gives a f***’, I changed my mind and suddenly said, ‘WRONG. Let me tell you about, er…Jonty books..they pay...um...£1Ok advances per book and 80% royalities’ The words 'advances' and ‘80% caused an actual stampede and I was crushed under a scrum of enthused agents. It was slightly awkward, seeing as I’d just made the whole thing up, so I ran out of the room shouting, ‘Details on Twitter later!’ Hysterical with excitement I rang my brother, Jonty, screaming, ’Crank up your MacPad - we are going to be millionaires. All you need to know is I am a genius and we will be outselling all print books within a week. Just keep my name out of it’.

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have ignored the fact that he sounded really quite drunk, but I tweeted his email address anyway and went home.

Three days later he texted me to say he was being deluged with deliveries of moth eaten old Pelican paperbacks and was freaking out. I helpfully suggested he hire some interns, get them to photograph each page with their iPhones and call it epub5 or something. 48 hours later our launch list of 500 books went live featuring Colonel Mustard’s Fishing For Condiments, 27 early novels by Gyles Brandreth and 400 selected titles from the mentalists at the AAA. Keenly priced at £58 we would be millionaires by Friday I realized he was perhaps less on top of things than I would’ve liked when I found myself back at the AAA 2 weeks later in a distinctly frosty meeting. Whisphering to Carole Blake, ‘What is going on?’ she replied, laughing scarily, ‘Don’t you read the trade press Daisy? Jonty have defaulted on all their contracts - pirate copies of every title are now freely available, the P.R company has stopped returning calls, the AAA membership is collectively owed about £2m in advances, clients are threatening to sue and it’s all YOUR FAULT’.

With this loaded gun pointed in my face, I did what any sensible girl would have done. I burst into hysterical tears. ‘I can’t believe you’re blaming me for their failure. I have personally lost MILLIONS....I mean...for my authors. I mean, et tu, Bruté?’ The silence was shattered by a massive crashing of glass – someone wearing a balaclava (or it may have been a beard) swung into the room holding a piece of paper in his hands. ‘STOP RIGHT THERE’, he shouted. ‘I have researched Jonty Books at Companies House and it makes VERY INTERESTING READING INDEED’. My face went white.

But then something wonderful happened - the agents grabbed the bearded man and bundled him out of the room shouting ‘Your kind is not wanted here’. The piece of paper was never found – although I saw one very like it burning in the Pizza Oven at Shoreditch House that night…

BITCH SLAP

2011-06-03T10:18:00.003+01:00

Publishing has gone a bit Carmen Callil over the last few weeks. After the relative calm of the British Book Awards (apart from my being refused entry for some ridiculous technicality – something about not being a nominee/ guest/ wearing a I PREFER IT DIGITALLY t-shirt) I settled down for what I thought would be a quiet couple of weeks laughing myself stupid over the slush-pile (‘I have novelized the film Pride and Prejudice etc’) and excessive tweeting. O, how wrong. How very wrong.

On submission with a dead cert (hot chick, posh surname, high-concept book about a gay fish who reverses the effects of Global Warming) I set my auction date and waited. And waited. Total #fail - with not even Jamie Byng camping on my doorstep or a totally unnecessary £500,000 pre-empt from Simon and Schuster. I felt wretched and I realized right then that this job was impossible – a bit like trying to manage Geri Halliwell – and that it was time I ditched it for something cushy and well-paid like editing or bookselling. I started putting feelers out…

Suddenly I got a call from Colin Firth, as one does, begging me to take him as my plus one to the hottest ticket in the publishing world tonight. I said I would see what I could do. Ever since I gave him such successful career advice earlier this year, there’s no getting rid of him.

The first job call I made was to a man with Russian accent who told mehe was about to buy ‘Vaterschtones’ and needed someone to head it up. ‘Look no further’, said I, ‘I once worked in a Pound Store and I have a strictly vodka only diet.’ He sounded very interested but when he asked me about my national strategy I was confused. ‘National strategy? You mean there are OTHER stores than the Piccadilly one’. The phone went dead rather too quickly…

I then got straight through to Gail and said I was a dead cert to take over from Kate Elton. ‘Whatever makes you think you can head up Century?’ growled Gail in a honey-over-gravel voice. ‘Well I love reading books covered in pink glitter or dripping with gore and the thought of spanking Ben Dunne when he gets out of line makes me feel all warm inside. There can’t be any more to it than that surely’. Dead line AGAIN.

Finally the Big One – heading up Amazon Publishing in the U.K. As long as I didn’t have to work in a big drafty warehouse full of brown cardboard boxes I could really go for this one. It can’t be that hard – choose books with bold covers and screw people for ‘marketing contributions’. Sort of like running an Oxfam shop in Sicily I imagine. I tried in vain to find Larry Kirschbaum’s phone number and had to resort instead to filling in a drop down box, selecting Superprime option to deliver my C.V before being asked if I wanted to giftwrap it. I then gave up in frustration as an email pinged into my box ‘Daisy – customers who applied for UK CEO of Amazon also bought ‘You’re Fired’ by Lord Sugar.

Later I did let Firth come as my date to The Big Event because I’m nice like that. Parking at the back of a warehouse in Swindon we made our way through the rubble until we found a group of people in a circle in a rubble-strewn patch of land. Surrounded by the ghost of Catherine Cookson, a red-faced Tom Sharpe and several other authors (whose names are subject to super-injunctions) I could see Susan Sandon and Sonia Land smacking the living hell out of each other using only e-readers and rolled contracts as weapons. Forget job losses, bookshop closures and promoting the best young literally voices – this was the stuff of life. As Sonia drop kicked Sandon into a pile of broken glass I felt proud to be an agent. How could I ever give this up?

@missdaisyfrost

MY ROYAL WEDDING

2011-05-06T16:14:00.000+01:00

To be honest, getting an invite to the Royal Wedding was actually easier than becoming accredited for World Book Night. I am an excellent and attentive niece to Great Aunt Daisy – watering her plants (and secretly staying) in her Belgravia mansion flat when she’s in Zermat – so when one morning I saw an appealingly stiff envelope from Buckingham Palace arrive on the doormat I grabbed it. An invitation to the Royal Wedding, indeed! So Great Aunt Daisy really was as well-connected as she said – I always assumed those stories about her, the Duke Of Edinburgh and the naked safari were made up. I replied AT ONCE confirming my attendance. Great Aunt Daisy need never know.

After weeks of showing off about my invite, I woke up at 5am on the morning of the big day shouting ‘God Save The Queen’, before falling out of bed and trying on 74 outfits – finally settling on my Grandmother’s vintage Chanel suit, plus the patriotic additions of a blue garter with Prince William’s face on it and a pair of union jack pants. By the time I got to the Abbey, I was hysterical – I hadn’t been this excited since the last Jilly Cooper launch, even though that was much grander and had more Royals. I queued up with the Beckhams, stroking Posh’s bump and David’s OBE medal as we speculated about The Dress and whether the royal couple would be able to afford a bigger house than Beckingham Palace. Everyone agreed this was very unlikely. Guy Ritchie joined us and said he was thinking of casting Prince Harry as a notorious gangster in his next movie and there was a hair raising moment when someone whispered, ‘What the hell is Mohammed Al Fayed doing here?’ but fortunately it turned out to be the sweet old King of Tonga. I mean, separated at birth or what?

As for the ceremony itself, I mean, there are no words. I considered climbing up one of those Maple trees for an aerial view of the beautiful bride in her exquisite dress, but settled on getting a leg up from one of the van Cutsems. It was magnificent and all that work Pippa’s been doing on the pilates reformer really paid off – knowing 2 billion people are going to be checking out your arse is some incentive. There was one slightly awkward moment during the ‘does anyone know of any just impediment’ bit when my phone went off, playing ‘It Should Have Been Me’. I couldn’t find it in my bag, so I ended up having to stamp on it in a desperate bid to make it stop. Harry stifled a giggle, Sir Elton shot me quite a cross look, but Jecca Craig turned round and mouthed, ‘My sentiments exactly’, so I felt better.

The reception was phenomenal and by the time we got to the friends only dinner, I was WELL away. I was seated between Jamie Byng and someone called Itchy Legge-Bourke, I think, but I’m afraid the last thing I can remember is getting into what I believe had been Princess Margaret’s bath with that very naughty red haired chap, singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ whilst saluting and pouring a bottle of Champagne over his head. According to a photo I’ve just been emailed from Guy Pelly’s iPhone, that is.

On Saturday I was woken up by a furious voice message from Great Aunt Daisy asking why a tweet from ‘Wedding guest Miss Daisy Frost’ was quoted in The Times. OMFG. I fell out of bed to discover I was at the Goring Hotel, wearing an officers cap, with several medals pinned to my dress and with ‘Call me – H xxx’ and a phone number scribbled in pen on my arm. I just wish I could remember how my pants found their way up that flag pole outside my window....

See you at the British Book Awards. x

MISS DAISY GETS ALL MISTY EYED ABOUT THE FUTURE

2011-04-13T10:14:00.001+01:00

Book Fair dinners – you know the drill: a cellar somewhere in East London, where on average, two people never show and two are never mentioned. You sit between two people you’ve never met, who behave as if you’re invisible and the two people you want to flirt with both sit too far away. The food arrives when everyone is drunk and five people have left by the time the bill arrives. Battle lines aren’t clearly drawn, so the opportunity for social disaster is immense. Last night I was in a noisy cellar, talking to some guy who said he worked for Quirky Books. ‘God, bad luck’ I said loudly, ‘how is that dreadful old perv, Geoff?’ A terrible silence descended at the table as ScaryScout turned to me and said, in cut-glass tones, ‘Daisy – I don’t believe you know....Geoff...from Quirky Books '. ‘Gosh, I have to run,’ I gulped, ‘got a window I’ve got to ram my head through,’ throwing £100 on the table and racing out of there to cab it over to the safety of the Canongate party. Great as ever – Kate AND William on decks were a high point.

As soon as I arrived at the fair on Tuesday, people started consoling me for not being included on the shortlist for the Literary Agent Of The Year Award, which is very kind, but I want to use this opportunity to publicly announce that I withdrew my name at the last minute. Yes, I have a conscience and a deep sense of justice. What chance did anyone else stand if I was in the running? I’m quite like Meryl Streep in that sense – I should probably be nominated every year, but I’m happy for my work to stand alone, I don’t need the affirmation of a massive trophy to underwrite my sense of self or the outstanding contribution I have made to this industry. Colleagues, you’re welcome.

After a busy day I stood with the LIBF’s Arch-supremo, Alastair Burtenshaw in the IRC gallery late on Tuesday musing on the fun to be had, swanning about between the stands, bumping into friends /pushing over enemies. As we admired the terrain, it suddenly dawned on me that publishing was standing on the edge of an abyss and that if something wasn't done, there might be an Armageddon.

An idea hit me and I turned to Alastair. ‘Al - you know publishers are looking to cut overheads?’ ‘Yes’, he mumbled, – looking nervous. ‘And you know that publishers are looking for ways to innovate in a tricky market?’ ‘Yes’, he said – sounding concerned at where this way going. ‘Ok Al, start getting excited - why don’t we just get every publisher and agent to sell their offices, buy Earls Court and have the Book Fair 365 days a year?’ He looked stunned, but strangely exhilarated – a bit like a judge to whom the concept of lap dancing had just been explained. I rolled with it, continuing – ‘Jamie Byng is too busy saving mankind, so I will step up and turn this idea from straw into gold. I don’t need awards or Earls Court to be renamed The Frost Building - my rewards will come from my maker.’ His face started to flush as a smile broke out and ‘Jerusalem’ swelled over the tannoy. I went for it: ‘Forget Disney World, Al- we could build PUBLISHING World – a literary theme park with a Career Rollercoaster, a Pulp flume, a Pitch To Publication Ghost train and even a little stall where editors could get all their ducks in a row before making an offer. Good God, if we bought Earls Court 2, we could even keep authors in cages.’ There were tears in Al’s eyes now and we held hands and silently agreed that we would not cease from mental fight till we had built Publishing World in Earl’s Court’s green and pleasant land.

Am off now to conclude my last deal of the day - the auction for my Emperors New Clothes project. It currently only exists as a notion but last night I worked out how to turn it into a concept. Simon+Schuster and Canongate are going head to head for it. Bidding now at £600,000.

Stay in touch @missdaisyfrost

LIBF - JUST ANOTHER MANIC MONDAY.

2011-04-12T10:00:00.000+01:00

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…

LONDON BOOK FAIR - SUNDAY

2011-04-11T09:30:00.000+01:00

DObra-ye OOtr’ Comrades! Or ‘Hello from this year’s London Book Fair! Excitement!’

The theme of LIBF2011 is of course RUSSIA so, naturally, my first port of call on Sunday was the Russian Embassy in Kensington – a building so large it has its own postcode. Channeling the spirit of Julie Christie, I dug out my grandmother’s mink and sledged over. HarperCollins’ John Bond and Sheil Land’s Piers Blofeld were outside practicing their Russian folk dancing, until Comrade Nurnberg (looking smart in his medals) waved us through the VIP lane.

The Ambassador’s residence was incredible of course but very disappointingly there were no Ferrero Rocher to be seen anywhere. We pretended to honour Russian writers and artists and Uri Gagarin (who was, I think, the first man to bend spoons in space) whilst bolting 14 flavours of vodka, wincing on Beluga caviar and hoping the goody bags contained Faberge eggs. I WANT to say I got confused between water and the neat vodka I was licking from the statue of Boris Yeltzin, but it might just have been the combined effects of the Cossack dancing and the Pickled Herring because things started to take on a strange sort of unreality. The room swayed and the minutes I spent talking to Lord Weidenfeld felt like hours. Either I was drunk or just in ‘The Age Of Miracles’. There was then a tug at my sleeve - ‘What do you do?’ asked a bear-like man politely. ‘I’m an agent, actually – but don’t tell anyone,’ I said, tapping my nose and then falling over. He looked gravely at me. Before he could say a word, I grabbed John and Piers who were loitering nearby. ‘Of course you must know Mr Bond and Mr Blofeld’. The Bear paused and backed off - ‘I see….it has been some time since there were any significant diplomatic incidents between our two nations, I hope it remains this way,’ ‘I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean!’ I laughed, hurling my Borsch-in-a-shot into the air.

Unfortunately, it landed on the bald head of a distinguished looking gentleman, to whom I apologized profusely before snatching a napkin and giving his head a good rub. ’Gosh, I’m so sorry, it appears to have stained a little,’ I said, biting my lip. ‘Is no matter,’ came the gentleman’s response, before someone gently ushered him away, muttering, ‘Andrew Nurnberg is ready for you now, Mr Gorbachev.’ I sensed I was outstaying my welcome, so I grabbed a cello from the string quartet and snowboarded down the staircase, through the exit into the back of John Bond’s sleigh and we sped off to Freedom and the HarperCollins bash.

Something was wrong at Home House when I arrived. After the intrigue of Russia, it all seemed too quiet and too normal. Patrick Janson-Smith was dressed as Bertie Wooster, Nick Pearson was asleep in an ornamental hedge, Caroline Michel was on heels so high that waiters were having to offer her drinks from a ladder and Christopher Little and Mark Smith were playing tiddlywinks with real gold coins. Same old, same old. And then it happened – Lady Barnsley grabbed a microphone and announced that because of ‘severe market conditions’ she was restructuring the party with immediate effect. The waiters were promoted to guests, editors rebranded as ‘imagineering operatives’, agents were consolidated into a ‘rights village’, and all authors were being replaced by a roomful of monkeys with and an iPad2.

My phone broke the stunned silence. It was Hosni Mubarak and Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali with last minute jitters about my sale of their co-authored debut novel ‘The ex-Dictators Book Club’. I reassured them it had already been pre-empted in Tunisia and Egypt and I headed home.

Come and find me later today at the Berlusconi Institute in Soho where I am hosting a party for my Italian publishing friend. Dress code: stockings and a smile.

and follow me on twitter @missdaisyfrost

IDENTITY CRISIS

2011-03-31T22:03:00.004+01:00

When you find yourself on a cold March night at 10.30pm hiding in a wheelie bin at Norwich station car park from @benjohncock with your iPhone telling you that you’re 5 hours late for a meeting at UEA just before it runs out of juice, you have to ask yourself- ‘what went wrong?’

But before that - I now have some more ‘life firsts’ to add to first kiss, first book deal and first client being poached by the Wylie Agency, thanks to World Byng Night. These include wrestling Maeve Binchy into her lycra abseiling gear for the descent down Nelson’s Column, explaining to Alan Bennett how to pronounce ‘Booyakasha’ and helping Ish, Amis and the James Paterson triplets on to Harper Lee’s shoulders for the human pyramid we made for the finale. As the crowd sang ‘Feed The Word – let them know that we love Jamie’ we all looked skywards as Byng and the Pope dived 10,000 feet from the Quercus Blimp as riot police held back hysterical crowds. I signalled to Colin Firth to pull the lever releasing the million books and they shot into the airspace over the UK ready to land in pre-designated spots. The pigeons in Trafalgar Square weren’t that pleased – or that alive - afterwards (Boris – you’re welcome) and I had to leave before the after-party as I had 25,000 copies of Life Of Pi to deliver to my ‘contact’ on the North Peckham Housing Estate because they make great coshes, apparently.

After a morning altering all my unsold thrillers to take place in Sweden not London and adding those weird forwards slashes to all the letters ‘O’, I headed off on the train to my ‘Lick The Agent’ session at UEA. Having forgotten to buy a copy of Heat, I thought, ‘what the hell’ and decided to sort my manuscripts into two piles: pretentious and preposterous. My favourite was, ‘a coming of age novel which re-imagines Catcher In the Rye in a post-apocalyptic landscape reminiscent of the future we are struggling to remember’. My note was: ‘set in Sweden? Better?’

I soon lost interest and succumbed to the siren call of Twitter. After a bit of banter with @DruceyDrama about prose, @CaroleBlake about shoes and the whole world about what total Hell authors are, the train ground to a halt, so I crossly tweeted ‘stupid train has broken down just outside Cambridge’. Within seconds I had a reply from @BenJohnCock:

‘DAISY – I AM ON THAT TRAIN TOO’. COMING TO FIND YOU’.

I actually hemorrhaged. Daisy’s reign as Secret Agent would be over. I would be cast out in a hail of stones from the publishing community, drowning in an avalanche of lawsuits and – worst of all – probably lose my Groucho membership. I threw myself down the corridor and into the loo as Ben barged into the carriage, managing to lock the door just as he banged on it. When we finally pulled into Norwich, I squeezed myself out of the window and jumped straight into the car park wheelie bin. However, the lid was thrown open and before I knew it, Ben had busted me on his iPhone camera shouting ‘GOTCHA!’ before I could cover my face. Alas, les jeux sont fait.

I have now spent the last week agreeing to his every increasingly ridiculous blackmail demands (it started with him wanting to write a book with James Paterson but now we have progressed to the insane order of an invite to Kate and William’s wedding) and he tells me that he is going to reveal my identity to the world today. So to pre-empt that I have taken the big decision to do it myself on Twitter at 11.59 This maybe be the end of my relationship with The Bookseller but I will just have to throw myself on the mercy (and lap) of Neil Denny and see whether he will forgive me....

THE BYNG'S SPEECH

2011-03-31T21:56:00.003+01:00

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…..?

HAPPY NEW YEAR

2011-03-31T21:56:00.002+01:00

It’s time for me to announce something life changing to you all. Please be upstanding for my new venture: Daisy Frost Creative.

The DFC will be a nurturing academy where would-be writers can hone their craft safely away from the horrors of publishing’s commercial realities and in time, emerge as fully-formed literary beings. Forget ‘Daisy Frost – agent of this parish’ and start thinking ‘Daisy Frost – Literary Dr Barnardo.’ It’ll then only be a matter of time before the inevitable ‘Dame’ Daisy, which should enable me to look Dame Ellah Allfrey in the eyes once more. Financially speaking, my thoughts are that the Bronze Package will cost about only £10k, buying regular email contact from one of our highly-trained tutors (failed author Barry Slouch), an exclusive 24/7 private helpline (Hopeless Chloe's mobile) and a chance to win a year’s invaluable (unpaid) internship at the agency addressing my slushpile / dry-cleaning. For an additional £5k you might get to watch me (via webcam) having lunch at the Wolseley and for a further £10k, possibly get your book launched via our revolutionary e-publishing scheme (ie posting a word document on our website and linking to it on twitter).

And so to my week.There I was, staggering down Albermarle Street in my stunning high heels on the way to the Costas when I noticed a formation of people queuing up in an orderly fashion in front of a smart building. They weren’t just ordinary people though – they fell into three distinct groups: 1/ distinguished grey-haired men with expensive suits – the type who always LOVE me 2/ Anna Ford stylee women ‘d’une certain age’ with Princess Anne hair sporting long amber necklaces and 3/ young girls with perfect complexions and the kind of optimism that only comes from old money and knowing they’ll get an invite to that wedding on 29th April. I wondered curiously whether this was a Conservative party dinner dance but then saw sweet old Roly Phillips in the doorway, smirking like a policeman clapping eyes on Alan Johnson’s missus and holding a plate of cupcakes. It was, of course, the John Murrays Authors party and yet again, I was NFI. I cannot believe another year has passed with my selling Roly something - although we did come close with Lady Cynthia Arbuthnot’s collected correspondence with the unknown sixth Mitford sister, Tracey. He was pipped at the post by Patrick at Blue Door 's £275,000. So every cloud etc.......

Respect to Team Costa – they might have downgraded from the freshly ground black tie event of previous years to this more instant coffee vibe, but you cannot fault them for the caliber of guests. The place was PACKED with the elite of London literati – I’m talking Natasha Kaplinsky, Gaby Roslin and yes, H from Steps. The Man Booker gang need to up their game and get on to Louis Spence and Chardonnay out of Big Fat Gypsy Weddings agents as a matter of urgency. In their wisdom though Costa had opened a shop ON THE STAGE so every one of Andrew Neil’s words was drowned out by clouds of hot air and bubbling sound effects worthy of Frankenstein’s laboratory. When Jo Shapcott was finally announced as the winner, you could have heard a rhyming couplet drop, as people stood there, open-mouthed in disbelief, until the cheering slowly started to build along with the pretence that they loved reading poetry. I immediately texted all my clients,‘URGENT– ignore previous instructions to turn your unpublishable novels into object-based memoirs. Buy a rhyming dictionary and re-write them as verse. By Monday’.

I was going to end by telling you about the latest Association Of Authors Agents meeting, but they are all VERY SECRET NOW so that this would be unwise. Let’s just say that I hope Antony Goff can get the stain out of that leotard and the owner of his very high horse doesn’t sue.

2011 - THE YEAR AHEAD IN PUBLISHING

2010-12-21T11:40:00.002Z

I still have 19 Christmas parties to go to, but there is just time to rub my crystal ball and tell you what 2011 has in store….

January – ‘New Year, New You’ promotions clean up with Anne Widdecombe and the Pope’s ‘I Got Rhythm Method' and Waterstone’s launches their own cinema chain with a publishing version of Inception, in which Steve Jobs inhabits a world where physical books exist only in the mind of a chosen few.

February – Quercus’ Mark Smith announces profits of $19bn but delays the shareholders’ dividend until the autumn so as not to imbalance the world’s tenuous economy. Michael McIntyre signs with Penguin for a £79m sequel entitled ‘Life and Laughing All The Way To Bank’.

March - Waterstone's announces a groundbreaking partnership with Carole Blake and India Knight to launch an in-store shoe shop. A restaurant called 'EMPERORS NEW CLOTHES' opens in Spitalfields - it has one table, no menu and is run by two ex-traffic wardens. Ed Victor sells the rights to Bloomsbury for £9m.

April - LIBF is consumed by a massive plague of locusts and frogs, only warded off when Heston Blumenthal turns them into ice cream and Waitrose sells out in a record 25 minutes. The 9-day long Royal Wedding coverage boosts the book trade and Dave Starkey’s History of Royal Executions goes to No.1.

May – World Byng Night sees a million clones of Jamie Byng released into the book community to generate hope where this was sadness and hype where there was ennui. GlaxoSmithKlineCanongate start secret experiments to create a master race.

June – Kate Wilson’s Nosy Crow launches an imprint for rude out-of-control kids called Noisy Cow, Random House decide to wrest market share back from Hachette by injecting James Patterson with Byng D.N.A to create an author who never sleeps and can produce 100 books a week

July – Hutchinson announce they have signed a 51-book deal with Sebastian Faulks to follow up on ‘A Week In December’. Hodder trumps them when David Nicholls signs a 364-book follow-up to ‘One Day’.

August – Ebury’s Aleksandr Orlov launch their new ‘Zoo’ imprint with Bambi’s tragic memoir ‘The Deer Hunted’ and Bug’s Bunny’s hypochondria book ‘What’s Up (With Me) Doc?’ 4th Estate part company with their copy editor after an unfortunate mix-up over a reissue of Turgenev’s A Month in The Country.

September – Waterstone’s start a promotion in which scantily clad authors sit in shop windows waving at passers by. Trade soars in the Amsterdam branch. Widdie’s reimagining of Madonna’s Sex book is a flop until repositioned in the horror section where it sells-out immediately. The race for the Booker starts with Bloomsbury deciding to up its chances by not submitting any books at all.

October – Frankfurt is nearly scuppered by Ed Victor’s helicopter being 15 minutes late and Andrew Wylie being in a good mood but the theme nation Bolivia’s opening night party proves addictively popular. Four agents are disqualified from auctions after failing to give a urine sample.

November – Quercus announce that Top Gear’s The Stig will co-author a series of thrillers with the Far Side's Gary Larson. Vince Cable declares a national holiday – but then changes his mind. Greg’s The Bakers ‘The Steak Bake Bible’ is sold by Ed Victor to Bloomsbury for £9m and Kate and William’s unborn child signs with Scholastic for a series entitled ‘HRH Gaga’.

December – Nigella’s TV series ‘Sausage Time’ propels the tie-in book to the top of the sex charts, 27 Chilean miners books fight to dominate the rest of the Top 30 until all copies get lost deep in the Waterstone’s hub. ‘X Libris Factor’ scores audiences of 20 million for the live final when three would-be novelists perform live Haiku to a panel of judges of Carol Ann Duffy, Sir Andrew Motion and Denise van Outen. Clare Alexander gives the Queen’s Speech and Mark Smith is given the Nobel Prize. Finally.

DAISY'S CHRISTMAS CAROL

2010-12-09T10:39:00.003Z

So I’ve been on a bit of a celebrity roll recently. I am locked in battle with Mark Lucas over the 32 Chilean Miners (the score is currently 21 book deals to me and 11 to him) and I am hoping to persuade Kate Middleton to sign up for ‘The Real Princess Diaries’. Chloe my enemy (I mean assistant) has been whingeing about wanting a Christmas bonus (AS IF!) and her constant request to have some days off between Christmas and New Year are really getting on my nerves. How many times do I have to tell her that I need her here in case I want anything sent urgently to me in the Maldives. Stop going on about it!

On Monday, I was about to leave for the Bad Sex Party when I noticed on Twitter that Stephen Fry’s face had now taken on the ghostly appearance of the long dead founder of our agency, Jacob Cecil. ‘What manner of mischief is this, @stephenfry?’ I tweeted, anxiously. ‘@missdaisyfrost, it is I, Jacob Cecil – be warned, there are things you must see’ was the ominous response.

At that moment, Peter Mayer appeared before me ‘I am the ghost of Publishing Past – there are important lessons you must learn,’ he said gravely. Suddenly, we were in the editorial department of Penguin Books and I was watching my 18 year old self earnestly reading a massive pile of scripts in my lunch break, while everyone else played drinking games, the air thick with cigarette smoke. An extremely handsome American boy approached me – ‘Daisy, I’m totally in love with you, like all the boys here – be mine?’, he said, falling to his knees. ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t have the time,’ I said gently, ‘I am dedicating myself to literature. This is my life’s mission’.

I gasped. Literature? What kind of fresh hell was this?. Mayer sighed,‘That boy went onto to invent the ipad and is now worth £1.5billion. You could be living on a yacht now and you turned him down because of your publishing dreams.’ ‘But my authors!’ I shouted,’ Keith Chegwin’s hilarious memoirs and the Loose Women Book Of Sex Tips - the world needs‘… but the ghost had suddenly changed into the Ed Victor - the Spirit of Publishing Present, who took my hand as we flew over the rooftops of London, passing Katie Price doing a signing at Westfield before landing on a tiny garret window where four authors (MY AUTHORS) were huddled together burning their manuscripts just to keep warm. One mumbled, ‘Did you hear from Daisy this year?’ As they all shook their heads, Ed disappeared and Amanda Ross - the Ghost of Publishing Future - grabbed me and took me onwards.

I suddenly seemed to be at a very small cramped desk, reading a copy of HEAT magazine in horror – its headline declaring a global celebrity deficit crisis and the end of reality TV – and therefore, the magazine too. Online I saw the Christmas Number 1 was a Latvian novel called THE POTATO and that the highest rating TV show was called I’M A NOVELIST – LET’S DISCUSS POST-MODERNISM’. The door swung open and a face I recognized screamed at me ‘DAISY – IT’S 7 A.M – WHERE IS MY YAK MILK SMOOTHIE?’ as she threw a pile of manuscripts at me and flounced out. It was Chloe – AND I WAS HER ASSISTANT.

At that point, I think I haemorrhaged. Or maybe I just woke up.

I have decided to heed this warning and have acted accordingly. Chloe will indeed have Christmas day off AND boxing day and I have given her a signed copy of Gok Wan’s ‘Through Thick and Thin’. He’s put ‘Chloe - You’ll lose weight when you learn to love yourself’ which I think is a beautiful Christmas message of hope and a sign that my Christmas spirit is very much alive and well. I've really learnt a lesson.

BYE BYE FRANKFURT - YOU'VE BEEN GREAT

2010-10-08T10:34:00.003+01:00

Me and my massive gob. My memoir is already getting me in trouble and out of trouble and it’s not even written yet. It started with John Makinson startling me out of sleep (not like that) with an order to immediately vacate the HassleHof’s Davidar’s suite forthwith, settling the $14,291 bill on my way out. Anxious to dissolve the wrath of MakoMan, I whispered in his ear that he could have a floor and topping rights in my memoir THE GIRL WITH THE HAND OVER HER FACE if he just let me go. I stroked his arm like a cat and laughed loudly at everything he said, as he mulled it over before agreeing. It shouldn’t be this easy, but I don’t make the rules. I shimmied off to my last day at the fair almost feeling sad. Then I remembered I had put a pair of Louboutins and a Hermés bag on the bill and perked up.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that you can tell the prosperity of an agency or publisher by the production values of their Rights List. Apparently in the early days of the Wylie agency, The Jackal brandished a thin photocopied sheet of paper (with maybe a staple if it had been a good year) – then it became a ring-bound volume and now you just help yourself to a gold 64gb iPad preloaded with his list and with Andy’s face as a screensaver. The engraved mantra is a nice touch - 'if we don't represent the author you are looking for please let us know and we can resolve that within 24 hours’. As I was helping myself to a few extra iPads (they make such good gifts), I was alerted to the sight of Sarah Chalfant sprinting over, so I immediately ran myself. I vaguely heard her shouting, ‘We hear BIG things about your memoir – THE GIRL WITH THE HAND OVER HER FACE – Andrew needs to talk to you RIGHT NOW’. As I streaked through Hall 8, unease set in that this lie was starting to catch up with me.

Hurdling over the Free Massage area, I fell into the open arms of a well known sleaze-tastic publisher (you know who you are), who wrapped up his amorous advances in a cloak of 'considerable interest in your extraordinary memoir’. I do find it enormously tiring to have to go through this sort of thing with these silly old men who take a smile and a pretence of interest in their boring conversation as The Green Light instead of just good old fashioned manners. He stroked my arm like a cat, laughed loudly at everything I said (alarmingly karmic), asked if I'd 'ever been a model' and then said, 'Gosh, I hope you don't mind me flirting with you like this,' 'O right, I didn't realize you were,' I said, lacing my half smile with a lashing of steeliness. You've hurt my feelings!' he said, pulling a mock sad face. 'O right, I didn't realize you had any,' I said, reaching for another large drink, whilst disengaging myself from his grip. I mean, really.

Later I went to host my agency's Michelin-starred family dinner at the Steigenberger Hotel. My 23 sub-agents looked on nervously as I addressed them about market conditions, but their little eyes lit up when I said that we couldn't work without them. They cheered and handed over their immaculate annual reports, as we settled down to champagne cocktails, hilariously expensive food and yes, prolific questioning about my memoir. It was while I was eating a snail and chocolate canapé that I realized each mouthful cost more than an entire Croatian book deal (let alone the commission) so I slipped away to the airport and texted them all saying 'Actually we’ve decided to sell direct from now on, but thanks guys – you’re The Best'. It’s possible I may have forgotten to settle the bill too, but they can work it out between them, can’t they.

Auf Weidesein x

FRANKFURT DAY TWO - 'I CAN READ YOU LIKE A BOOK MR BOND...'

2010-10-07T09:00:00.000+01:00

Back at the Hasslehof's Davidar Suite, I snuggled under the duvet with a cup of tea and a good book, ie the contents of the mini bar and my iPad, to check out what the fair was getting excited about this year. Feeling about as impressed as Craig Revel Horwood watching Anne Widdecombe waltz, I tweeted that I was writing my own memoir, THE GIRL WITH HER HAND OVER HER FACE, just for fun, before passing out. I believe I had a disturbing dream about Jonny Geller in a Tutu before being woken, still drunk, by four waiters bringing me breakfast. David obviously had a standing order so I was faced with the Maharajah's Canadian Buffet. Choking back the last of the maple syrup and curry waffles, I received a message from Big Maclehose, stating he was in the foyer waiting to give me a lift to the Messe in his limo. Running downstairs, I bumped into the dullest publisher in the world, who claimed we were meant to be having breakfast, pitched him my memoir and jumped into Big Mac's arms. His gold suit and my high heels made me feel like a literary Bond girl. Actually, ‘Alphabet Frost’ would make an excellent Bond girl name - 'Oh Mr Bond – I can read you like a book’. Onwards to the fair....

The Buchmesse is totally feeling more and more like an airport every year and it was here Scary Scout gave me the hot goss about Godwin selling a memoir by the great-grand- daughter of Mahatma Gandhi's' cleaning lady. She naturally wanted more info on THE GIRL WITH THE HAND OVER HER FACE but I only smiled enigmatically before heading over to Storyville for the 'Apple is not the only fruit' event co-hosted by Jeanette Winterson and Bill Gates. Spent most of it on my iPhone downloading Robbie and Gary’s new reunion single.

By the time I left the event, I was drowning in messages from desperate publishers keen to read my memoir. I deleted them all and tweeted instead the rumour that Quercus had just bought Amazon, before being stopped in my tracks by an odd looking stand. On all four sides it was blocked by hardback books soaring up to the ceiling. I pushed a pallet full to one side and looked in - John Bond, Nick Pearson and Vicky Barnsley were sitting on the floor in a circle hand correcting copies of Freedom with crayons. Whilst taking crafty pictures of this touching scene to upload on Twitter, I heard a crunch under-foot. I looked down and there were some strangely familiar-looking glasses. God knows how THEY got there.

Later I gatecrashed the Hachette Livre party at the Intercon by pretending I was Roland Phillips’s stylist. I say ‘publishing party’, but it felt more like a political rally - we were all issued with adorable little headsets and after an audio-visual presentation which showed Hachette’s Arnaud Nourry (aka love-child of Fabio Capello and Ed Miliband?) on the beach, sharing a joke with his friends, kissing babies and climbing the Eiffel Tower in lycra, he was suddenly THERE on the stage, live and in person. As he droned on about the recession, I slipped around the back to where the simultaneous translation was being simulcast and pushed the girl aside. It was only after I had announced Hachette’s purchase of Bertelsmann, that every Friday would be ‘Cross-dressing Friday’ and that the retirement age was being raised to 100, that security found me and wrestled me to the ground. Itried singing one of Carla Bruni’s songs as an olive branch, but they weren’t having any of it.

By the time I got to bed, I had nine offers internationally for THE GIRL WITH HER HAND OVER HER FACE. Far be it for me to turn down money but the book doesn't exist. But maybe I should just write it? God, it’s only writing, how hard can that be? Ask James Patterson.

I am live tweeting the Fair at #FBF10 @missdaisyfrost

FRANKFURT DIDN'T START WELL....

2010-10-06T09:49:00.001+01:00

Frankfurt didn’t start well – the flight was massively delayed. Not by a volcanic cloud this time (alas) – this was something far more potent. It was all because of Captain Maclehose and his massive ‘Airship Blomkvist’ – the Quercus private jet that was bigger than Obama’s Air Force One and which had way more security. After the plane was loaded with more gold, champagne and caviar than I have ever seen they finally took off and we all sat back crowded in like Easyjet cattle - all thinking the same thing – that, frankly, if Quercus can make it big then anything is possible. After wiping Jonathan Lloyd’s dribble off my shoulder I arrived in Frankfurt and texted Hopeless Chloe to ask her to email details of my hotel. ‘Erm’, came the reply, ‘I thought you were organising that’.

Absolutely fuming I rang every hotel in town from my taxi (I don’t DO trains) only to be laughed at, or patronised (bit like ringing Knopf actually) but then I went straight to the HassleHof. My cunning plan all depended on the high-level efficiency of the Penguin empire developing a rare glitch. When the Manager looked at my passport and said, nervously, ‘we haven’t got a reservation in the name of Daisy Frost’. I mumbled,’No sorry’, ‘ I think it is under my married name of …erm Daisy Davidar’. He looked at me curiously, smiled oddly and then handed me a gold ‘DD’ key. Result! Hopefully the bill will be sent to Canada as well. Or India…

After a refreshing G+T I opened my large work trunk to discover Chloe had packed me 32 author copies of the Icelandic novel ‘Herpes’, a pile of 2009 Bologna rights list and the Out Tray from the post room. No clothes, no shoes, no proposals, no nothing. Thank god for Twitter. I sent out a distress call and within 10 mins @caroleagent had couriered me a selection of shoes, @voguepressoffice had offered me sample size delights and @sleezeballpublisher had helpfully offered me an all over body massage. No way I am taking him up on that offer though – I gather from the gossip that he starts well but then can’t stop himself from pre-empting. Euuurgh!

Down in the bar the staff were looking a little low – news had just come through that Ravi Mirchandani was apparently arriving a day late so profits would be down by 25%. I cheered them up by ordering Daisy Frost cocktails for everyone (ice cold vodka with a hint of absinthe) and then played very ostentatiously with my iPad and pulled together my rights guide - it didn’t take long actually– I just changed the delivery dates on half of last year’s books to make them look ‘fresh’ and changed the titles on the unsold ones and marked them ‘hot’. Can’t see what all the fuss is about really. It’s all about smoke and mirrors. Especially mirrors.

I rushed off to my first party – the Twitter reception at the Wylie Digi-dome. The conversation though was slightly stilted - all small talk was limited to 140 characters or less and you could only listen to people who were following you…around the room. I did see Wylie though, ahead of the digi-wave as ever, tweeting the first 4 lines of the Keiran Desai novel to his 3million disciples and starting a massive auction instantly. Bless him.

Back at the Hof I realised I was absolutely famished. Grabbing the themed menu I plumped for the Eat Pray Love platter (Curried goat, Quattro Formagi pizza and satay in a bap of self-pity on a soul-searching mirror), washed it down with a slice of 4th Estate Humble Pie and then left (alone) for bed. As I soared up in the private elevator and looked down at the mischief below me it hit me – Frankfurt is just like a school trip but with unlimited alcohol, huge amounts of shagging, no parents or teachers and me sitting at the back of the bus. Nice.

See you all at fair.

OUR FATHER WHO ART IN EALING.........

2010-10-06T09:16:00.000+01:00

It's been total INSANIA this week. One minute I'm feeling great indecision over my facebook status update, the next I'm in the Soho Square reception of Bloomsbury waiting for a marketing meeting about my hot new book, ONE SUCCESSFUL BITCH, the story of a special needs poodle who overcomes adversity (think Marley and Me meets Rainman). Now, I'm not someone who does waiting or queues, whatever those are, so with anger rising I stormed up the stairs and barged my way into Bloomsbury's boardroom. There I found a camera crew filming Pa Charkin wittering on about 'pesky authors', Helen Robbie-Williams, Alexandra Pringle-Jumper and Liz Calder cartwheeling in leotards across the room as Nigel Newton, in a suit made entirely of Eat Pray Love book jackets, lapdanced for Christopher Little. I honestly had NO IDEA what was going on, but I felt like I needed to take my eyeballs out and wash them, so I slipped out in silence. Dear God, that video never ends up on YouTube unless they have recruited Gerald Ratner as their new Marketing Director. Or they are just insane.

Just finding the Transworld party the next night was a nightmare. It was only when I spotted Patsy Irwin, Mark le Fanu and Mark Lucas (or was it Des Lynam?) that I ran up the steps past a massive book into

what looked like a cathedral. Instead of the usual publishing party antics - amusing canapés, Carole Blake showing off new shoes and lots of high-level flirting, there was a reverent silence broken only by the clanking of Bill Scott-Kerr's earrings. I was ushered into a pew at the back by Sally Gaminara with a whip when suddenly the lights flickered and holy smoke filled the room. We looked skyward and intoned 'Our Father who art in Ealing - Larry be thy name' as a spotlit Revd Finlay floated gently into view under a sign saying 'Welcome to the Cult Of Ealing'. Actually that could have been what it said, but it was hard to see through the smoke. Larry then delivered a messianic speech of such power and such passion, that I became completely overwhelmed.

I THINK he told us that the average age of members of staff was 107, that most people had worked there since before Jilly Cooper lost her middle tooth, that Patrick J-S had been startled by a cock and thus formed Bantam, and that the company was called Transworld because most of the senior management were undergoing gender realignment. It was all surprisingly very moving.

As Larry ascended back up to Hendon, Bookmunch rang asking me for my urgent reaction to news of Hachette adopting the Agency Model. - 'Is Tim Hely Hutchinson replacing Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model?', I asked. There was a click at the other end of the line. Weird. I do love a beauty contest though - Caroline Michel and Isobel Dixon might provide light competition in the swimwear round, but I'm already practising my 'smizing' (Tyra's word for 'smiling with your eyes') and I'm sure I can win it.

On the way out of the church, Scary Scout asked for the details of my hot Frankfurt novel, so I leant against a wall and scrawled it all down on the back of her dance card. I then realized I had been leaning against the Transworld memorial book and that the ink had seeped through so if you go into reception in Ealing next week and look carefully you may see the words ONE SUCCESSFUL BITCH immediately after Jilly Cooper's dainty signature - YIKES. As an ashen-faced Patsy Irwin rushed over with a wet cloth, I grabbed another flipping linen bag and fled.

See you all in Hell (shouldn't that be Frankfurt ? -Ed)

p.s just got mysterious text from Mum saying asking about some video I'm in on YouTube.

NO ONE MESSES WITH THE FROST

2010-09-02T19:30:00.007+01:00

I am quite wretched this week - The Bookseller has been trying to stop me writing my memoirs for those lovely people at HarperCollins. I have turned down many offers in the past but a year’s e-subscription to The Times AND the Sunday Times was just too tempting. That and frequent dinners with Bond – John Bond. The Bookseller claimed the deal ‘breaches agreed contractual and confidentiality obligations relating to the Daisy Frost brand’ and that the mystique would be broken if I went public and removed my hand from my face. The cheek! I have been legally advised to lie low, but like Lord Mandy, I will NOT be silenced.

This hideous week started with my colleagues and I collecting our A level results from the University Of Publishing. Waiting at the gate was a very nervous Andrew Wylie (who resat his A Level in Brinkmanship), Peter Straus (hoping to scrape a C grade in Small Talk) and Carole Blake with fingers (toes /eyes) crossed for an A* in Shoes. As Mark Le Fanu opened the gates, we all rushed in (almost and grabbed our envelopes from the University Vice-Chancellor Helen Fraser. My results: A* in Fending Off Lecherous Middle-Aged Publishers, Creativity With Expenses and Lunch, disappointing B in Moody Literary Posturing and a totally unfair D in Patience In Dealing With Distressed Authors. Should have been an E – I am obviously trying too hard.

I then shot up to Edinburgh to discover BookFest Director Nick Barley in a personal hell as prominent authors were pulling out at the last minute (maybe they were all Catholics?) I go WAY BACK with Nick, so I facebooked him immediately and offered to come up with a headlining event guaranteed to sell-out the inflatable Wylie Dome. My solution was ‘Dragon's Pen’, a sort of teXt Factor, which would pay me and a

professional panel to denigrate and patronize budding writers. Fun!

Three days later, I was sitting in The Den (a disused sewer off the Royal Mile the Wylie Dome having deflated at the last minute ) next to ‘Cheshire Cat’ Bickmore from Canongate and my arch-rival, uber-agent babe Lucy Luck. Remembering my lawyer’s instruction to keep a low-profile, I appeared behind a massive cardboard hand and used an X-Factor Auto-tuner to make my voice sound like a cross between Martina Cole and Joe McEldery. The first writer into the sewer was a performance poet from Droitwitch, who wanted to offer us 15% of his iambic pentameters about sheep and their relationship to aboriginal barcodes in return for taking him to lunch twice a year and getting Faber to issue his first collection. Cheshire Cat Bickmore charmingly declared himself ‘out’ immediately because they had something similar coming up from Nick Cave, Lucy Luck delivered an effusive critique of the work but blamed the market and finally I laughed condescendingly and told him I’d eat my own face before he ever saw his work in print. Next up was Mary, a social worker from Bromley who had written a novel set entirely inside a one-room prison containing people who gave birth to vampires, all narrated by a tattooed girl. There was a pause and I looked to my left and caught a glimmer in my fellow Dragon’s eyes. The game was on...

A bidding war immediately broke out between Lucy and me. She was a worthy adversary (Moriarty to my Holmes) - and I ended up offering to represent Mary for 7% commission plus ‘expenses’. Mary chose me(obviously) and we hugged (at arms length) and did the deal. As soon as the show ended, I quickly stitched Bickmore up for $1m for World Rights all paid on sig - and he helpfully wrote the cheque out to CASH. As I jumped into my taxi I shouted to a confused-looking Mary that we could sort the details out later.

My phone rang - it was my lawyer - the legal action was over and thrillingly The Bookseller had agreed to let HarperCollins make DEFROSTED their Xmas Bestseller.

I have a feeling I am going to be a perfect author but they are going to have kittens when I reveal that I am also The Stig....

RESULTS DAY!

2010-08-19T09:45:00.000+01:00

THE UNIVERSITY OF PUBLISHING

EXAMINATION BOARD

Candidate Name............FROST, Daisy

Candidate Number........1597516321

RESULTS

NEGOTIATION A*

MOODY LITERARY POSTURING B-

DRESS SENSE A

ABILITY TO SELL WORTHLESS PROJECTS FOR TOP DOLLAR A*

PATIENCE WITH STRUGGLING AUTHORS F

ABILITY TO MANAGE JUNIOR MEMBERS OF TEAM F

CREATIVITY WITH EXPENSES A*

LUNCH A*

FENDING OFF LECHEROUS MIDDLE-AGED PUBLISHERS A*

SHOES (USE AS A NEGOTIATING TOOL) A*

PUNCTUALITY F

WHO KILLED THE JACKAL???

2010-08-06T16:25:00.006+01:00

Having had tremendous fun with Simon Prosser, Eminem and Harper Lee in a yurt at Port Eliot Festival, I decided to head to the Crime Writers Festival at Harrogate. Festival uniform: jet-black dress and blood-red lips.

King's Cross was strangely dark, with an uncharacteristic chill to it. I shivered and drew my coat closer. My heels echoed across the litter-strewn concourse as departure time neared and I searched for the 10:37 to Harrogate until, with seconds to spare, I found a dark, dirty train alone at Platform 13. The doors were dented, the windows cracked, but after scraping what looked like blood off a sign it revealed the words The Harrogate Crime Writers Express. I boarded tentatively. I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation. What I had was a coat, some Tic Tacs and an iPad.

Lurching through the doors of one compartment I happened on a strange tableau Ian Rankin was sharing a malt whisky with Jon Wood; James Patterson and what looked like eight identical siblings were cosying up to Dame Gail rebuck; and Val McDermid was teaching David 'Mary' Shelley the skull's most vulnerable points on a headshot of Rupert Murdoch. Regaining my composure, I found a seat next to dear Lynda La Plante, who was fashioning a model of Martine McCutcheon out of a black candle, as a waiter served Bloody Marys. We silently raised them to the ashes of Stieg Larsson, whose urn occupied a chair of its own, when suddenly the lights flickered and went out and I heard a blood-curdling scream. It sounded half-human and half-agent. It sounded rather like me. When I ladder my tights. Flicking on the only source of light to hand (my iPad) I flashed it around the room and saw that my dinner companions had morphed into a gaggle of faded TV detectives. Bergerac, Columbo, Miss Marple and Taggart were advancing on Sherlock Holmes jealously shouting, 'Books, film AND telly? How could you sell out! Leave him alone!', I shrieked, 'I fancy him in all his guises!' As the train lurched to a stop the door to the next compartment creaked open and my blood ran cold.

Six people sat there staring at me - Susan Hill and her Woman in Black, Wilkie Collins with his Woman in White and a Lady in red singing along with a dwarf-like Chris De Burgh. I screamed, falling forward, as something red and warm splashed into my face. Then blackness.

'Daisy, you have nodded off into the soup,' Jon Wood and Dame Gail were suddenly saying. Jumping up, I saw we were pulling into Harrogate, with the Lord Mayor and the local Chief Inspector ready to welcome me and my fellow VIPs. Alighting, one of the porters behind me slipped, dropping a large trunk emblazoned with the initials A W onto the platform with a crash. The lid shot open and out slumped the very dead body of Andrew 'The Jackal' Wylie. Part of a broken Kindle protruded from his back and his chest was punctured by a stiletto heel through the heart. In one hand he held a partially torn-up publishing contract and in the other, a clump of dark hair.

I heard a noise behind me and turned to see a familiar figure stumbling away, clutching her scalp but with a triumphant smile on her face. The Chief Inspector, who looked suspiciously like a contracts director I had crossed swords with, shoved the body hastily back into its monogrammed trunk, locked eyes with me and said 'Looks like suicide to me -professional suicide. This is an open and shut case'. With that, he swung the lid shut and walked away.

After that the CWA Festival itself was a bit of a letdown apart from that evening in the library with Mark Billingham and the lead piping.....but that would be telling.

See you in hell xx

NEW BALLS PLEASE

2010-08-01T14:23:00.000+01:00

Well, well, well so a chink in my boss Edward Cecil’s armour has been found. The old dog is having an affair and I've busted him for it. I overheard him on the phone talking about the ‘exquisite Dorabella’ and how he MUST see her again. Time to play dirty. If I get a hint of attitude off this man, I¹m busting his sorry arse to his wife, Marcia the world’s most terrifying woman. Let’s see if he stops me expensing my new Louis Vuitton wallet as test number one.

So when the call came through from Uni flatmate and now Apple PR Polly offering a cheeky last-minute Wimbledon hospitality invite I did not hesitate to accept, grabbing my manuscript bag and the company iPad

and legged it to SW19. Rules are being broken left right and centre, so why not jump on the bandwagon?

Waltzing by the plebs, I breezed into the Apple hospitality tent to iKiss Polly and download a few glasses of Chateau Jobs Champagne before the serious business of lunch. I longed to be placed between Stephen Fry and Gwen Stefani but ended up in a corner nestled between Scott Pack and Damian Horner, who were taking time off from co-helming the iBook iSaw iConquered Imagineering Course for Self-Facilitating Media Nodes at the Clare Christian Institute Of Digital Futures to catch some tennis. They bickered at once - Scott said tennis was the chicken soup of the mind, Damian said, no, it was the electric kool aid acid test of the soul, while I just drank my champagne and both theirs. Just between the salmon and the beef course my Blackberry buzzed with an urgent message from Mr Cecil. High on life (and champagne) I rashly pressed delete and headed out to watch the tennis, muttering,’back in your box, Tiger Woods’. We agreed with Polly's other friends that we would switch tickets in an hour so they went off to Centre Court and we wandered off rather drunkenly, settling on a random Court - 18 I think - miles away from the action.

I found a quite corner to watch unknowns John Isner and Nicholas Mahut knock a few balls around. It all seemed fairly jovial and I alternated watching the tennis with messing around on Twitter - @caroleagent was

bantering with @harperlee about @benjohncock, dozing to the sound of light applause. The combination of the sun and the champagne must have sent me to sleep though because when I woke up I swear I was hallucinating the score seemed to be ludicrously high and the crowd had swelled to enormous proportions. Grabbing my iPad and logging on, I could see that according to Amazon, three James Pattersons had been

written, conceived and published since this set began, this was now the longest match ever and the whole world was watching. I looked down at the Blackberry 14 missed calls, all of them from the boss. I chuckled to myself, knowing he was powerless and rang back. Time to drop my bombshell?

Where am I, you ask? Where are YOU? With Dorabella?¹ I smirked casually. ‘I am on my way to Glyndbourne to see Cosi Fan Tutti again with my wife Anke Vodung is the best Dorabella we¹ve ever heard,’ he barked, with a mixture of fury and confusion.

OMFG.

‘Um, right I’m at an emergency dentist appointment’ (cue sudden attempt at lisp to feign anaesthetic), ‘Itth thuper painful, hurth a lot.’

‘How very interesting Daisy we’ve just stopped at a pub and seen on their television that your doppelganger is sitting in the crowd at Court 18 in Wimbledon talking into an iPhone and holding an Edward Cecil linen

Manuscript bag. Do you have a twin?’.

I dropped the phone and screamed as a punnet of strawberries and cream poured from my lap into the open neck of an American tourist in front of me.

Game over for me at least.

ABOUT LAST iNIGHT

2010-06-04T07:29:00.002+01:00

I am writing this at 3am, while Jeremy Ettinghausen, Penguin’s Executive iGeek lies next to me in a Penguin-shaped sleeping bag here on Regent Street, thus fulfilling one of my publishing ambitions: I can now say I¹ve spent the night with him. We're both waiting to get our hands on 9.5 inches of Steve Job's throbbing technology - I mean, I haven¹t been this excited since I got stuck in a lift with Alan Samson at Orion House. It¹s been a drag of a week though and the thought of being Jeremy's iDate has been the only thing that has kept me going that and, of course, my actual date with Mr Big at the Sex and the City 2 premiere.

I’ve spent the week wearing my Louboutins just to go to the kitchen, starting emails ‘I couldn't help but wonder’ and even at one point feeling fleeting fondness towards Chloe the monster assistant simply because she’s a girl. Such is the magic of SATC. The premiere was a blast I had my feet licked by that curious gentleman from Pineapple Studios, Louie Spence, laughed with Kylie at the terrible dress they put Dannii in for the M and S campaign and whispered ‘3,2,1, you¹re back in the room' when passing Amanda Holden, who must surely have been under deep hypnosis when she picked that extraordinary tutu to wear to the prem. I'd like to remark on how the film was, but spent most of it craning to catch Mr Big's eye, so he would spot me and we could finally get married in a ceremony where instead of him answering ‘I do’ he would say ‘absofuckinglutely’.

Leaving the premiere party, I bumped into Jamie Hodder-Williams, stroking a white cat and celebrating the news that Jefferey Deaver will be writing the new James Bond novel. Really Sophie Kinsella should have been given this gig. Her Bond novel, probably entitled ‘Live and Let Shop’ would star Jane Bond, a secret agent masquerading as a personal shopper, who would foil an international plot by Carole Blake and India Knight to deplete the world's supplies of Christian Louboutins, force the prices up and then flood the market with fakes. Jane's secret service number would be Size Zero Zero Seven and the final denouement would take place in Westfield Shopping Centre with Carole's beautiful sidekick Isobel Dixon unleashing the massed bands of literary fem-bots armed with stilettos and ceramic hairs straighteners. I would SO buy that.

Joining Jeremy on the pavement and with one eye on the auction I was holding for the 'Duchess of York Diet Book: How To Lose ￡500,000 In One Day', my mind wandered. As I looked down at Jeremy's I realised that if I wanted to make any real cash in this damn business I had to go digital and become Miss Daisy Frost - Inventor. Annoyingly the Wylie Agency have already patented the iPoach, but surely there was an app waiting to be, er apped. maybe the iChick: which analyzes the complete works of Jane Austen and can generate a contemporary Chick-Lit novel at the touch of a button? Maybe the iBonomi which generates massive hyped frenzy for any project within 5 seconds or maybe actually it is the iSlush which absorbs all unsolicited manuscripts, immediately dumps the rubbish, has settings enabling you to exclude anything described as a ‘fiction novel¹ or with ‘vampire¹ in the outline. At 59p a download I could make a fortune.

Finally the Apple Store opened and we stumbled forward behind Stephen Fry and capo di tutti capi agent Luigi Bonomi, chanting ‘iPad, iPad’, like members of some iCult. Within minutes Jeremy was holding his iPad like that Athena poster of the man with the baby, while I too got ready to pay ￡699 for mine. Suddenly a thought struck: ￡699 for a special needs iPod? That equates to almost five sessions of permanent blow dry, a pair of gold Loubitin's like Carrie’s in SATC2 or half an Hermes Birkin. As I snatched my visa back, I couldn’t help but wonder: ‘how quickly can I get to Harvey Nics from here?’. Maybe there is an app that can tell me.....

CAMERON'S SHOCK CONFESSION....

2010-05-11T20:00:00.001+01:00

MY ELECTION DAY MAKEOVER

2010-05-07T16:48:00.003+01:00

After lying low for the last week on ‘sick leave’ Election day itself has actually been great – armed with a pile of glossy mags, some chocs and a neglected to-do list the length of Jamie Byng’s hair I sat inside watching Glee on Sky+ with mounting excitement.

My peace was interrupted when the bell rang first at 9 am – opening the door I found a gleaming Marks and Spencer-clad Lib Dem candidate standing there saying he hoped he could count on my vote. Not wanting to appear disinterested I quizzed him on his environmental policies. I wasn’t really listening to him as I was keeping one ear on the telly but when he waffled something about " making Britain greener" I chewed my lip, sucked my little finger and said ‘you wouldn’t by any chance be able to give this FLOATING VOTER a hand making her garden greener would you?’

How could he resist?!

Half an hour later my patch of the garden was neatly weeded, mowed and all tidy.

Waving him goodbye from the top of my slush-pile I settled down to watch more Glee . Annoyingly ten mins later the denim-clad Labour Candidate appeared so I quizzed him on his literacy policies and revived a pleasing pledge to “create an appropriate level of English language competence”.

Chewing my lip and sucking my little finger once more I said ‘you wouldn’t by any chance be able to give this FLOATING VOTER a hand reading their slush-pile to check competency levels would you?’

Half an hour later my slush-pile was sorted and I waved him good bye just in time to welcome the local Posh Tory Boy candidate who launched into a speil about their important recycling policies.

Within seconds he was swiftly dispatched to the local dump with four weeks worth of The Guardian and a bag of Tanqueray Gin bottles.

As I lay on my day bed and shut my eyes for a well-earned rest my dreams were full of Gordon starching my sheets Cameron fiddling with my lightbulbs and Nick Clegg cleaning my chimney.

How was I going to choose between them? Decisions…decisions…decisions…

I opened my eyes to see the BBC reporting that the Polls Were Now Closed I and I realised that Mrs Pankhurst's friend throwing herself under the King’s horse had all been in vain - I had slept through the whole thing…..

I love election days - my work-life balance and flat hygiene had never been better – I wish it were election day everyday.

No worries – I have a feeling there will be another one very very soon…….

GIVE ME MERCY

2010-05-07T08:52:00.000+01:00

It is the early hours of May 7th and I have been reflecting on my first foray into the political arena. I wonder if I will turn out to have had any influence over the outcome…

Here’s how it started…Two weeks ago an old university friend, Rodney Beck, Facebooked me saying he had an urgent favour to ask me. ‘Oh really’, I thought, ‘like the urgent favour you tried to ask me at the Fresher’s Ball?. I wasn’t born yesterday’ but it turned out he needed some vital help with his party. I was rather flattered ¬ seems my reputation as the best and wildest party thrower at university had never left me, plus there was a hiatus of at least three days until the next James Paterson hardback was out, so I agreed to meet him in Charkin’s Winebar in Bloomsbury. Rodders looked different to when I last saw him ¬he was wearing a smart suit and a tie instead of loon pants and a t-shirt saying Fallen Angel and he was carrying a clipboard instead of a traffic cone.

I was, of course, full of ideas: ‘OK, what about a Eurotrash party? A heroes and villains party? A Playboy Mansion party?’.’Actually, it’s more of a political party’, he said, demurely. Avoiding the obvious point that surely all political parties also embraced those elements I’d suggested, I let him go on to explain that he was desperate for ideas on how to help a certain GB connect with the man on the street before they all lost their jobs. ‘Well that’s easy’, I said, ‘just tell him to stop smiling - he’s frightening everyone- and if he could take his glass eye out, like a party trick, I personally would find that impressive’. Rodders frantically took notes as I ranted on like a pro-plussed Scott Pack; ‘What about a photo call with Cheryl Cole or that nice girl from This Morning to bring in the younger voters ? Also could he should stop breathing through his mouth like a fish? Just a thought’.. ‘AMAZING!’,Rodney shouted, handing me Gordon Brown’s top secret schedule and smiling.

Back at the office I rang a few friends in the record industry and discovered that on the very same day Gord was due to be in Rochdale the gorgeous Welsh songstress Duffy would be travelling through on her way back to London. Her p.r seemed keen so I rang Rodders to firm it all up, but spoke to someone called Sue instead. ‘Yes, she’s called Duffy’, I explained - speaking v.e.r.y. s.l.o.w.l.y, already imagining Gord laughing and joking with the beautiful platinum selling recording artist and me then being offered a seat in the cabinet or being made Minister For Lunch at the very least. ‘But you can tell him it was your idea, if you like ¬– I’m just here to help’.

A week later I switched on the news to watch my genius idea in action, already imagining my first cabinet meeting only to see the startling headline Newsflash: PM calls Duffy a bigoted woman. Duffy a bigot? I mean – yes there were some songs on her debut album which were quite demonstrative but I think calling her a bigot is somewhat overstating it. I scratched my head and watched bemused as they played the clip of Gordon getting into the car saying ‘That woman was a disaster. Whose idea was that? Was it Sue’s?. My heart quickened and then as ITN crossed live to interview a very cross Rochdale grandmother called Mrs Gillian Duffy, I froze. Two Duffys in Rochdale on the same day, I mean, what are the chances? If this were ‘The Thick Of It’ I would be watching it through my fingers...with the sound down.

It was at that point that I democratically elected to switch my phone off and vote for change by deleting the email I was about to send to my boss saying, ‘In your FACE, publishing ¬- I’m off to Number 10.I think we're heading for a well hung parliament and I'm as happy about that as the next girl’.

BECAUSE I'M WORTH IT

2010-05-03T18:50:00.002+01:00

THE GREAT BADGE GIVEAWAY

2010-04-22T14:29:00.000+01:00

The Bookseller created a limited edition set of badges for The London Book Fair this year. I am hoping to get a few to giveaway. If you would like to enter the draw please email me missdaisyfrost@gmail.com with your name and address and your preference of badge. Good luck!

SOMETIMES A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

2010-04-22T09:36:00.001+01:00

THANKYOU!

2010-04-22T09:28:00.002+01:00

Thanks to my Twitter pals Andrew Ellis (@xph0ria) and Nicola Ford (@nic_ford) for rising brilliantly to the challenge of tweeting a pic of themselves wearing a Daisy Frost badge. These made me laugh a lot. If you are not already following them on Twitter then you are dead to me...

LONDON BOOK FAIR AD 2010

2010-04-21T08:43:00.004+01:00

I write this final missive sitting on the back of a dustcart as I head home from the two Canongate parties (one hosted by the ‘good man Jamie’ and one by the ‘scoundrel Byng’) in time to bleach my soul white again and head onwards and onwards to the final day of the fair. Tuesday was a day I will never forget. It started with a history lesson and ended with my MAKING history...

After the Orange breakfast, disappointingly not sponsored by Terry’s Chocolate Orange, I looked over the railings of Earls Court 1 onto the entire world of publishing and mused about what would happen if the ash kept on falling and this truly was our literary Pompeii. In years to come Earls Court would be excavated by brave archaeologists and they would try to piece together our weird society from the clues we had left behind. They would see tables of people pouring over rectangular lumps of fossiled paper whilst gesticulating wildly,rows of shrine-like structures adorned with iconic pictures of authors and a god-like Christopher Little being held aloft by the plebeian agents.

They might actually be mistaken for thinking they had stumbled on the HQ of some weird cult worshipping something or other. And in some ways they wouldn’t be wrong.

Breaking my reverie I stepped downstairs to mingle with the plebs once more and was thrilled to see the Blitz spirit taking hold in full force. Richard Charkin was burning books to keep warm, Vicky Barnsley was leading a group of editors in a chorus of ‘Ashes To Ashes’ and publishers were being roused by Gail Rebuck wearing a Keep Calm And Carry On t-shirt demonstrating Jamie Oliver’s Pass It On recipes out of corned beef. This made me proud to be in publishing.

After an hour playing leapfrog in the IRC I discovered lunch with our Icelandic sub-agents was cancelled (thank God - there are only so many conversations I can have about fish) so I went in search of a last minute addition to the seminar programme - Allen Carr on ‘How To Stop Eyjafjallajokull smoking’. Unfortunately I found myself by some devastating mistake in a seminar about the digital future of books. Digi-geek 2.0 in a polyester suit and converse trainers was spouting forth to a bored crowd, ‘Picture it: multi lingual virtual libraries, kindles in every womb, a Charkin App for every child, wifi in every cemetery - E-Volution NOT R-evolution’. ‘Yeah well, picture this: your head rammed through a wall’, the man next to me muttered. ‘Ssh, do you mind, I’m trying to play scrabulous on Facebook’, a woman on her iPhone said crossly from the row behind. I looked around at this group of broken, disinterested publishers and agents and felt a surge of determination. So when he finally said ‘any questions?’ I leapt to my feet.

Knocking Digi-geek 2.0 out of the way, I grabbed the microphone and addressed the room. ‘Don’t let them tell you that the only choice is between Kindles and Sony e-Readers! Trust your instincts, support actual books - you know the ones printed on paper. And sold in shops!’ I shrieked. The crowd stared at me and, after a breathless hush, they started to roar and descended onto the stage, where I was swept up, held aloft above their shoulders like Ian Charleson in Chariots of Fire. ‘I stand for something else - integrity! Real writers, not random famous people! I say no to slush piles, no to massive discounts, no to volcanoes and yes to free lunches, yes to hardcovers and yes to a literary festival for every town in Britain!’

The crowd went wild, chanting ‘Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!’

Amongst the worshipping hoards I caught sight of Alistair Burtenshaw, LIBF director, with tears running down his cheeks. 'Daisy', he said 'you have saved the day'.

I am on The Bookseller stand today till 1pm - come and say hi and pick up your limited edition badge.

LONDON BOOK FAIR DAY TWO - DAISY TO THE RESCUE

2010-04-20T12:08:00.000+01:00

There have been a handful of legendary fairs over the years - LIBF 1973: 'The One Where Ed Victor Wore Flares' LIBF 1981: 'The One When Andrew Wylie Smiled' and LIBF 1995: 'The One Where Carole Blake Changed Shoes Eight Times During One Meeting'. And now we have LIBF 2010: 'The One That Happened Under A Massive Cloud Of Volcanic Ash'. It's obvious to me why this is happening it' God trying to tell us was that we should stop obsessing over books about flipping Vampires and Angels, but I have come across other theories - The Friday Project's much-heralded revolutionary rights giveaway has thrown the carefully calibrated publishing ecosystem off-kilter that, or it's an evil villain known only by the cryptic name 'Mr Google'. Let¹s face it this week we have all been inadvertently cast in 'Publishing: The Disaster Movie', which is why I shall be wearing a dirty vest I borrowed off Bruce Willis.

As I swept volcanic ash off my shoulders and jumped over an impressive stream of molten lava that was running down Portobello Road, I read on my iPhone that the LIBF was putting in place some contingency plans to cope with the volcanic eruption. Contingency plans? I bow to no one in my admiration for LIBF Bookmeister General Alistair Burtenshaw, but does he really have secret powers that that will bring this natural disaster to an end?

Whilst running through Earls Court passed half-built stands and deserted tables, dodging falling masonry and screaming bystanders, I was deeply impressed at how we as an industry had on one level responded to the emergency so swiftly. Quercus were doing hot business with 'The Girl Who Played With Lava', David Mitchell¹s 'The Volcanic Cloud Atlas' was being snapped up by meteorologists and publishers alike and an ebullient Andrew Franklin stopped to give me a bound proof of 'Do Volcanoes Get Lonely?¹ An announcement came over the tannoy that in lieu of the non-arrival of most of the South African delegation, the LIBF was announcing a new partnership with Krakatoa and Etna and that Robert Harris would be the Author of the Fair, giving hourly readings from 'Pompeii'.

Grabbing a slice of Vesuvius pizza from Luigi Bonomi's table, I spotted Alistair wearing his LIBF asbestos uniform and sitting in a corner weeping. 'Someone¹s got to do something!' I shouted, 'or one million innocent publishers will perish!' 'Listen, Al,' I implored Alistair, 'we've got to convince an increasingly e-based society that the book world still counts, it's our only hope. If Katie Price can become a bestselling novelist remember, anything is possible'

Suddenly my mission was clear to gather together a group of like-minded agents, editors and authors, expose them to excessive quantities of self-help books and morph them into a group of superheroes, dedicated to saving humanity. I set off to recruit Jamie Byng (Hypeman), Richard Charkin (E-Man), Alan Samson (Smoothman) and Caroline Michel (GushGirl) to join me, their leader, The Frostbiter.

We could call ourselves The Literati. Our mission: To Fight Crime...but in Alphabetical Order. (Just quickly, I think I should be the only one in a lycra catsuit and mask, don¹t you agree?). The plan is simple we will soar high above Earls Court, start discussing territorial issues, e-book royalty rates and digital strategies, thus generating so much hot air that it will blow the entire cloud away from the bookfair and back to Mr Google's volcanic lair. The LIBF will be saved and the world will celebrate. I might even get a pay rise.

Before rushing into this though I might have to go to nine drinks parties, a launch of a book I will never read and then skinny dip on the roof of Shoreditch House first and give it some serious thought.

Do stop by my massive Earls Court office to say hello tomorrow it used to be the 'Iceland Publishers Collective' but it's curiously empty.

ORANGE PRIZE UPDATE

2010-04-20T11:56:00.005+01:00

Congratulations to the Orange Prize shortlisted authors.

How have they sold since being longlisted?.....

• Monique Roffey - The White Woman on the Green Bicycle 717 mass-market paperbacks (+80 copies)
• Rosie Alison - The Very Thought of You 2208 large format paperbacks (+54 copies) 5965 mass-market paperbacks (+5315 copies)
• Lorrie Moore - A Gate at the Stairs 4297 hardbacks (+74 copies)) 297 large format paperbacks (+1 copy)
• Attica Locke - Black Water Rising 1999 large format paperbacks(+115 copies)
• Barbara Kingsolver - The Lacuna 7454 hardbacks (+230 copies) 2487 large format paperbacks (+35 copies)
• Hilary Mantel - Wolf Hall 224118 hbk (+506 copies) 12749 large format paperbacks (+7 copies) 140778 mass-market paperbacks (+72663 copies)

I will follow this and update you every week from now till the big announcement in June.....

SUNDAY SUNDAY AND THE SMELL OF BULLSH*T IT RIFE

2010-04-19T15:28:00.002+01:00

I gave up chocolate for Lent, as Jesus did in the Wilderness and when it ended, I ate 45,000 mini eggs, so here I am now - fat, sugared and ready to bounce off the walls of Earl's Court at the LIBF. Actually, the LIBF can be a bit like The Wilderness - confusing and full of some potentially dangerous temptations. First timers note: Miss DF will drag you through it.

Picture the Book Fair as a volcanic disaster movie: me played by someone stunning like Gemma Arterton, Robert Pattinson as my love interest, Rutger Hauer as the evil retailer and 72 hours to save us all from massively increased discounts, every book being written by either James Patterson or Stephanie Meyer and global destruction. Gulp.

For those of you slackers who weren’t here (i.e you were stuck in Honolulu or trying to get a taxi from Oslo via Brazil) for the Grand Opening on Sunday you missed an amazing spectacle think Beijing Olympics+Live Aid. This year's main focus may be South Africa but they decided to do this bit in South Africa itself and not trouble London with it so I felt it was really up to the International Rights Centre (that's the VIP bit upstairs) to really get the party started. I visited the Italian town of Pamploma last summer to witness the extraordinary event where thousands of idiotic, pumped up individuals run through the streets being pursued by snorting, fuming beasts smelling of bullshit. My mind turned instantly to the world of publishing so twinning the IRC with Pamploma this year was a no-brainer. The opening ceremony went just as I planned hundreds of international publishers holding contracts were herded near the coffee concession and then 250 ravenous deal-starved agents were released into the fray. Manuscripts flew up into air, tables were overturned - Patrick Walsh nastily gored Susan Sandon, Andrew Wylie tossed Chris Herschdorfer up into the air (deflating a 400 ft high inflatable Ed Victor on the way down) and Jane Friedman got caught in a clever manoeuvre by Luigi Bonomi, Simon Trewin and Jonny Geller.

Bodes well for next year¹s twinning with Amity Island when we re-enact every shark attack from the Jaws series.

The seminar on How To Get Published (in the Scott Pack Enormidome), although positioned as a keynote event getting to the volcanic core of the publishing process, was really just an excuse for us all to gaze at uber-tweeter Carole Blake's shapely ankles and Lady Gaga-esque 10 inch stilettos. Lionel Shriver (a blatant girl - who knew?) passed her a note at one point saying ‘Carole we need to talk about shoes'. When an angry, bearded man with a stood up and shouted ‘Why will no one read my trilogy about Obama's Nazi goldfish?¹ I bolted to get ready for the The Main Event - the HarperCollins Party.

This girl loves a party, but even I have to admit something seemed odd. Home House sparkled through the volcanic dust , the guests shimmered and Bond (John Bond) devastated as he welcomed us at the top of the long staircase. However, on presenting our invitations we had to download a Paypal app onto our iPhones. We were then allowed a short preview of the party on a screen, catching tantalising glimpses of the Bacchanalian delights on offer along with a tiny excerpt of Vicky's speech. To penetrate any further into this publishing paradise we had to enter our credit card details and click ‘Subscribe' then choose from Option 1 30 minutes of light cocktail banter plus a flirtatious comment from PJ-S, Option 2 1 hour of unlimited champagne and a hug from Vicky or Option 3 Publishing Nirvana. I turned to James Murdoch who was pushing past me to say, ‘Jimmy’ (we go WAY back), ‘what the hell is going on?' He gravely replied, ‘Welcome to the future Miss Daisy Frost’.

Tomorrow - UNDER THE VOLCANO......

Read my daily London Book Fair column next week....volcanic ash permitting.

2010-04-16T11:48:00.003+01:00

DAISY AT THE BOLOGNA BOOK FAIR

2010-04-07T20:56:00.001+01:00

One of the great things you realise about Bologna is that it isn’t in Germany and that, to my mind is a major plus. I spent a glorious day last week wandering around the medieval city eating gelati, gazing up at incredible buildings and imagining myself as Audrey Hepburn on a vespa. It was only when I received an email from my boss asking how it was going that I remembered that I wasn't on holiday but I was there for the Bologna Children’s Book Fair. What a culture shock.

As I strode around the Fair wearing Prada and shouting into my iPhone I felt like Gordon Gecko trespassing into a kindergarten - I swear some people even tutted and said Shooosh. and when I dropped some litter at the Egmont Stand someone came over and asked me very pointedly whether I would behave that way at home. So different from Frankfurt Book Fair where it is virtually an arrestable offence NOT to be hung-over and wrecked by Day Two. What I had forgotten was that children’s publishers are a different breed altogether – they are just so much more wholesome. And clean.And sober. And NICE.

In urgent need of adrenalin I dodged a 6ft hamster in a wheel (maybe Richard Hammond launching a new YA series?) and rushed to the Puffin stand to help them celebrate their 75th birthday. They don’t do things by halves at New Penguin - Tom Weldon was dressed as Tom Kitten, Francesca Dow and Amanda Punter oozing attitude as Young Bond Girls and Jeremy Ettinghausen living the role of a Wimpy Kid. All this was topped though by Dame Madge Scardino as Angelina Ballerina with skirt tucked into her knickers and dancing around the room. We played proper games too – pinning the long tail on the Booktrack donkey being my favourite and we all tripped away after tea with luscious goody bags. My only concern was that they were branded with a psychedelic leering Puffin who looked like he was off his beak on crack and who was shouting (rapping?) ‘There ain’t nuffin like a puffin’. Not sure what example this is teachin the ‘kidz’ but what do

I know?. Bruv.

I swept through parties for Vampires, pets, monsters, fairies, pirates until I was approaching some sort of literary sugar-rush likeVeruca Salt from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. I suddenly had a lightbulb moment - if I were ever to make any serious cash I needed to write (not agent) a series featuring a Princess Vampire Kitten and her friend Elvis the Hamster at Gargoyle School. .In 3-D or something. Or in outer-space. I may have been hallucinating by then but I was convinced that this was a total no-brainer. Kate Wilson of Noisy Cow would be beating a path to my door with this one - it couldn’t fail.

I wheeled out of the fair and bumped into Uberbookpap - Benedicte Page and before I knew it we were comparing handbags in the Pink Bar and drinking themed cocktails (my fave was the Fickling which comes in a straight glass with a revolving bowtie on it) and putting the world to rights. I was all for pulling an all-nighter but when the clock struck 9.45pm all the publishers stood up and said in unison ‘we need to get an early night – hard day at the fair tomorrow’. I left in disgust and headed back to the Fair. My mission was now clear – it was time to desanitise the world of children’s publishing. Rummaging in my goody bags I put on my Chris Ryan balaclava, my Alex Rider Nightvision glasses and my Invisibility Cloak and grabbed some Wimpy Kid crayons. I snuck into the fair and set to work.

It all went a bit blank after that but when I turned up next morning I was shocked to see the whole area cordoned off by police with shocked publishers being wrapped in blankets and given tea by hordes of nuns.

Unable to get into the hall I logged on to twitter and the reliable @horacebent had tweeted some pictures. As I clicked the links it all came flooding back to me – oh god NO.. ‘Where’s Wally?’ seemed to have acquired an unwanted sequel called ‘Oh for f**sake – HERE’S Wally’, The Tiger Who Came To Tea appeared to have become ‘The Very Naughty Tiger Who Stayed For Breakfast', O.U.P Classics appeared to have a YA crossover title called The Princess And the Penis and as for what had happened to the huge poster for The Town Mouse And The Country Mouse I am so ashamed I cannot begin to tell you.....

See you at Earls Court. If I am not banned.quickly

DAISY FROST AND FLEET STREET ARE IN LOVE - IT'S OFFICIAL

2010-03-24T07:40:00.003Z

Thanks to Erica Wagner Literary Editor of The Times (and the owner of the coolest hair cut in the little family we call 'Publishing') for her mention of my slightly-controversial posting about Orange Longlist book sales in her punchy column last week. I kind of have a massive girl crush on her now! You can read her right here right now.

Thanks also to David Barnett (author of the cult classic Hinterland and Winner of The Society Of Authors' Hat Wearer Of the Year 2007) for his unmissable Guardian article 'Undercover between covers: publishing's secret agents'. He described me and the sublime Covert Kate as the 'Belle de Jours of the industry (without the sex, presumably), or maybe publishing's 3am Girls' and annointed me as 'the undisputed queen of the secret agents'. All very blushmaking I'm sure but, first things first - I am happy to have my face on stamps and coins and to live in Buckingham Palace but I ain't having Billie Piper play me in the t.v series.

You can read Big Dave's piece in The Guardian right here

The Orange Longlist

2010-03-17T10:05:00.002Z

I thought it might be fun and a bit mischievious to look up the sales figures for all the Orange Longlist 2010. WARNING - SOME HAVE ONLY JUST BEEN PUBLISHED AND SOME HAVE BEEN OUT FOR AGES.

The key to the stats is simple (hbk) means hardback (tpb) means large format/trade paperback and (mm) means mass-market paperbacks. (total) means total sales/all editions through Booktrack to date.

The entire shortlist is ranked in order of total sales of all editions from bottom to top and shows us that Hilary Mantel sold more copies in total than the rest of the list put together!

• Clare Clark - Savage Lands 188 (tpb) 188 (total)

• Laila Lalami - Secret Son 252 (tpb) 252 (total)

• Rebecca Gowers - The Twisted Heart 323 (hbk) 94 (mm) 417 (total)

• Monique Roffey - The White Woman on the Green Bicycle 633 (tpb) 633 (total)

• Amy Sackville - The Still Point 655 (tpb) 655 (total)

• Maria McCann - The Wilding 729 (tpb) 729 (total)

• Nadifa Mohamed - Black Mamba Boy 893 (tpb) 893 (total)

• Attica Locke - Black Water Rising 1885 (tpb) 1885 (total)

• MJ Hyland - This is How 2283 (tpb) 2283 (total)

• Eleanor Catton - The Rehearsal 2172 (hbk) 149 (tpb) 398 (mm) 2719 (total)

• Rosie Alison - The Very Thought of You 2154 (tpb) 655 (mm) 2809 (total)

• Lorrie Moore - A Gate at the Stairs 4223 (hbk) 296 (tpk) 4519 (total)

• Amanda Craig - Hearts and Minds 196 (hbk) 2688 (tpk) 3268 (mm) 6152 (total)

• Roopa Farooki -The Way Things Look to Me 7347 (mm) 7347 (total)

• Sadie Jones - Small Wars 6876 (hbk) 1157 (tpb) 8033 (total))

• Andrea Levy - The Long Song 8435 (hbk) 866 (tpb) 9301 (total)

• Barbara Kingsolver - The Lacuna 7224 (hbk) 2452 (tpb) 9676 (total)

• Kathryn Stockett - The Help 3 (hbk) 23842 (tpb) 23845 (total)

• Sarah Waters - The Little Stranger 45258 (hbk) 6471 (tpb) 163328 (mm) 215057 (total)

• Hilary Mantel - Wolf Hall 223612 (hbk) 12742 (tpb) 68115 (mm) 304469 (total)

Of course it is all deeply unscientific but FASCINATING nonetheless.

DAISY IN WONDERLAND

2010-03-07T09:53:00.002Z

I was beginning to get very tired of sitting in front of the TV last Sunday afternoon, planning in my head what I would wear had I been nominated for a BAFTA and reading The Pregnant Widow and Heat Magazine simultaneously when a friend I know who works at Working Title rang me and said he had a spare ticket and did I want to come as his date to the awards. ‘I'll pick you up in half an hour,’ he said. ‘Er, you shall pick me up in two hours and not before!’ I shouted, as I dropped my phone and hurled myself at my wardrobe. ‘O dear, O dear, we shall be late’ I heard a voice faintly whimpering from my phone.

Finally I emerged, dressed gloriously in white McQueen and the next thing I knew, I was swanning up and down the red carpet with my pretend famous face on, smiling and mouthing, ‘Oh, hi!’ at the likes of Carey, Kate and Gabourey, as if we were old school friends. When seated (you can see me just behind James Cameron's hair) we mostly chatted amongst ourselves while J Ross played ‘hunt the laugh in my script’, but fortunately blowing kisses to the back of Matthew Goode’s head kept me going. The after-party party was a riot - I seem to recall playing cards with Helena Bonham-Carter and throwing Colin Firth in a fountain, but in any event I must have inadvertently drunk too many of Tim Burton’s cocktails as I suddenly needed to go and lie down. I found a mossy bank left over from a production of ‘The Dream’ and rested my weary head.

Before I knew it I was following a white rabbit who looked astonishingly like Martin Amis (but with better teeth) down a little hole in the ground. ‘Drink me!’ I shouted, grabbing another cocktail along the way. ‘Indeed I shall I say, Martin Rabbit, you appear to be shrinking’ When I emerged I found myself at an Author’s tea party hosted by Orion’s Peter ‘The Cock’ Roche in a Mad Hatter costume (with a ‘3 for 2’ label sticking out of his hat) and with Jonathan Lloyd and Luigi Bonomi fighting over a rattle as Tweedledum and Tweedledee. On the other side of a golden river of Linwood Barclay royalties stood Susan Lamb as The Queen, playing croquet with balls marked ‘literature’ and ‘serious biography’ trying in vain to get them through impossibly tiny hoops labelled WHSmith Travel and ASDA, while Amanda Harris rode pillion on The Hairy Bikers pink flamingos.

Curiouser and curiouser.

After several Hachette cocktails Peter Roche’s perennial ‘there are more agents here than authors’ speech seemed almost fresh, almost exciting and almost the epitome of wit and eloquence and almost better than Jonathan Ross's. Almost. Avoiding a selection of tarts I skipped happily through the Orion meadow towhere the action really was – with London's twitterati - @caroleagent (aka Carole Blake), @drearyagent (aka David Miller) and @Iprefersaturdays (Scott Pack) we all talked about how difficult it was to work in this brave new world where authors needed to diversify. It was one thing Grisham adding YA books to his oeuvre but where would this all end we pondered? Maybe authors will, like publishers, have to merge to survive? Actually not a bad idea - Gok Wan and Kathy Reichs could have a great big hit with ‘How To Look Good Dead’ and Alice Sebold and Jeffrey Deaver would go straight in at number one with ‘The Lovely Bone Collector’. The mind boggles.

Suddenly all hell broke loose as news came through on a Newsflash from BookBreakfast that Tiff Loehnis was leaving Janklow. The room went silent as every agent started to google Tif’s client list and scan the room for her authors I think I even saw The Jackal leapfrog Gillon Aitken as he ran towards the exit at one point. In all the chaos I found myself being dragged away by the White Rabbit who urged me to ‘get back and read The Pregnant Widow’. ‘I won¹t!’ I shouted. She should have taken the morning after pill’.

It was only when my sister rang that I woke up in a cupboard at the Royal Opera House wearing McQueen and very confused. BookBreakfast sending out a Newsflash? I had definitely been dreaming.

THIS IS THE ONLY BADGE YOU NEED FOR #TWINTER TOMORROW

2010-02-09T18:23:00.003Z

READING THE SIGNS IN MISS DAISY'S BEDROOM

2010-02-09T17:55:00.000Z

The collapse of High Street bookselling as we know it came at a very useful time for me – I happened to be moving to an unfurnished flat and was terminally short of cash so I rang my very good friend Borders CEO Philip Downer for advice. Although he was very distracted selling jewellery, car jump leads and novelty umbrella hats to passers by he told me the happy news that they were flogging off all the fixtures and fittings as well so I screamed over to Charing X Road in a cab. It looked like DFS after a ram-raid but 30 minutes and £50 later I had everything I needed. Now my bijou Notting Hill apartment resembles a flagship Borders – lovely squishy red sofas in my own mini-branch of Starbucks (aka my kitchen), DVD racks in my sitting room and beautiful book shelves (organised by section and author) in the corridors. It is only the bedroom that doesn’t quite work. My on-off (mainly off) boyfriend came over for a look and felt, probably rightly, that a banner saying ‘loyalty cards accepted’ on the door and a sign saying 3-for-Two over the bed itself perhaps gave out the wrong impression but he did approve of the Everything Must Go sign on the wardrobe door so it wasn’t all bad. Happily Philip D even offered to stay on for an extra £25 a week – he now does all my reading for me and there is always a lovely cup of Mochabankruptaccino and a Blueberry muffin waiting for me when I get home. So the year ahead looks very bright indeed – he has even arranged to consolidate all my little loans into one big one with easy monthly payments. The future is bright.

My first launch of the year was for lovely softly spoken angel Nigel Farndale’s heavenly novel The Blasphemer. I was delighted to find myself being squeezed in between Melvyn Bragg, Emily Maitlis and Kathy ‘inevitably’ Lette at The English Speaking Union as we all scanned the room for free booze. Now I've always felt Lord B and I should possibly be married, so I swanned up to him to finally make friends. ‘Lord B - there's something I've always wanted to ask you,' I purred suggestively, downing my glass of nail polish remover and wrestling my way past Dame Gail, who was staring at him with kaleidoscope eyes. 'Don't even think about it, Rebuck, I will TAKE YOU DOWN' I said (in my head) ‘Lord B – Mel, Mel – I do need to ask you something terribly important,’ I said again, before a hush descended for Dave Windy Miller to make his speech. I caught the phrases ‘most important book of the last ten years!’ to which we all shouted ‘huzzah!’ ‘I read it in twelve minutes, I loved it so much!’ he shouted again. ‘Well, I read it in seven minutes!’ shouted someone else. We all laughed and clapped. ‘Well I read it before I was even born!’ I shrieked, joining in. Then everyone went quiet and stared at me. After a long pause and loveable Nige’s speech I found a nervous looking Bragg again, blessing people in a corner. We locked eyes, ‘you had something to ask me, my child?’ he said, soothingly. ‘Yes Melv. It’s something I’ve wanted to do all my life.’ We both gulped. ‘Please – go ahead,’ he effused. So I went for it: ‘Can I touch your hair?’

There was an audible gasp. ‘Blasphemer!’ someone shouted before people started to push me away. ‘Thou shalt not touch his hair, get out!’ the crowd roared, as I hastily grabbed my coat and legged it to the Chesterton Hotel for a nerve steadying brandy, a bit of self reflection and to live-tweet the whole experience.

No one seemed very sympathetic on Twitter to my plight – they were too busy swapping jokes about the preposterously named iPad which truly does sound like an electronic sanitary protection device. As one of my 2032 followers said (not that I’m counting) – the slogan should have been...’Apple...with wings’. Tweet tweet.

THE FROST REPORT

2009-12-19T10:04:00.000Z

Merry Christmas everybody here are my monthly chart predictions for 2010 -another terrifying year in publishing, wohoo!

Jan - In a bold move Lutyens and Rubinstein buy Borders and open 374 branches of their literary agency throughout the UK causing mass panic through the agenting community. Christopher Little worries that his place as King of YA literature is slipping with the unstoppable rise of Stephanie Meyer, so buys a prime piece of the Hachette empire and creates an agenting/publishing empire called Christopher Little Brown. Ben Dunn joins as CEO.Susan Sandon launches Apprentice style programme to recruit staff for Century.

Feb - Returns from the trade are so massive that urgent landfill site are created and a bridge is built between Southampton and the Isle Of Wight solely out of copies of Sheryl Gascoine's MY LIFE SURVIVING GAZZA. Due to cutbacks in their publishing programme, the Orion Authors Party is held at the Royal Opera House (cloakroom) - Peter Roache jokes that there are more cloakroom attendants present than authors.

March - HarperCollins restructures and moves into Fortress Wapping,where News International cross-fertilisation sees Vicky Barnsley on Page 3 of The Sun, Kelvin McKenzie given his own list at 4th Estate, Patrick Janson-Smith's Blue Door painted Red and the News Of The World hiring John Bond as their Agony Uncle. Ben Dunn becomes Showbiz editor of The Sunday Times and Vice-Chairman, NewsCorp.

April - The Times announces that 'industry insiders¹ say that Jeffrey Archer is close to signing a US book deal with Knopf for $57bn. Knopf deny it. In a last ditch attempt to stay in power before the election, the Labour Party replace Gordon Brown with the dream team of Philip Downer, Scott Pack, and Anthony Cheetham. Ben Dunn becomes Minister for the Arts.

May - Dave Cameron sweeps to power with a majority of 609 and Labour goes into administration - they start selling pottery and sunglasses alongside 'Buy One MP get one free' promotions and Philip Downer retires to spend more time with his conscience. The Times announces that Hollywood insiders say Jeffrey Archer is close to signing a $750m film deal with Dreamworks for 'First Among Equals' to star Jonathan Lloyd. Dreamworks deny it. Gordon Brown's memoirs are sold to The Friday Project.

June - Jamie Hodder-Headline rebrands Headline as Bottomline and their zeitgeisty down-to-earth new list Breadline launches with The Big Issue Soup Kitchen Cookbook. Andrew Neill wins the Orange Prize For Skin, Century announce that no one has left this month. Ben Dunn joins Disney as Head Of Imagineering.

July - In a lull between Patterson thrillers and Meyer chillers, Titan Books rush out 'Publishing - The Graphic Novel' but the tale of Bloodsucking and two-faced treachery is so unpalatable, that it is withdrawn from sale and all copies burnt. Ben Dunn leaves Disney to become King Of Poland.

August - Private Eye leads with news that Richard 'Avatar' Charkin has digitized himself and that staff wishing to consult him have to download a CharkinApp to their iPhones first. It turns out to be true. Ben Dunn is deposed and returns to the U.K to launch the Ben and Gerry Bookclub with Waterstone¹s Gerry Johnson. Rumours that Jeffrey Archer is to become Pope are denied by the Vatican.

September - Century launch Peter Kay's new book 'Sales Petered Out', the auction for Cheryl Cole's memoir is finally won by Transworld for £976m and a law is passed that mean all books have to feature either an abused childhood, a vampire or a meerkat. Ben Dunn joins Tesco as Chief Fiction Buyer. Frankfurt¹s hit is Carole Blake's Collected Tweets.

October - Jo Brand and Russell Brand¹s unlikely joint memoir 'My Cakey Wakey' proves a surprise hit as does Katie Price's TWIN PEAKS UP CLOSE - although many readers are disappointed to discover it is her biography of David Lynch. The Man Booker Prize Fiction is won by Jeffrey Archer¹s publicist, Ben Dunn starts a publishing company with Weidenfeld's Michael Dover and so Ben Dover Books is born.

November - God announces he is representing Ed Victor for his memoirs and Lutyens and Rubinstein buy Tescos to ensure UK distribution for Roland Phillips's honey. In a shock move, Addison Cresswell buys WHSmith Travel so they can only stock his celebrity clients memoirs - no one notices anything different.

December - With booksales slowing to an all time low, Waterstone¹s launch a PAY WHAT YOU THINK THE BOOK IS WORTH promotion but it is swiftly curtailed when customers who bought the new Patterson start invoicing them. Christmas comes so late that it is postponed to January. Ben Dunn joins Century again. Daisy Frost's Christmas message raises the spirits of a battered nation as she announces her engagement to Robert Pattison.

A PRESENT FOR YOU!

2009-12-06T12:08:00.003Z

I see The Guardian decided to get Lily Allen to design some wrapping paper to give away with yesterday's paper. I had a good look at it and, to be honest, thought that it was probably about as good as if Laura Ashley had been asked to record a Christmas single. And then I thought 'Well - if Lily can do it then Miss Daisy Frost can certainly do it too..and do it better'. Here is your free wrapping paper - click on the image on the left and download my quotetastic wrapping paper for all your present needs. That should wipe the smile off your face Ms Allen.

ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS

2009-12-06T12:01:00.000Z

It’s December and my desk is like Cheryl Cole’s current style choices or the Waterstone’s Hub. Total chaos. Manuscripts / party invitations / messages to return / contracts to process / practice pages of Mrs Robert Pattinson signatures - my eyes are swimming at this mountain of responsibility. What do I do first? Do I talk my client down from a proverbial window ledge because his sensitive literary coming-of-age novel is now inexplicably repackaged with a leering blonde babe obscenely licking a 99 flake? Or do I return Val Hudson’s urgent call? Or do some tweeting? Facebook update? Skype? Ebay? Aaaagh! Actually suddenly remembering that there is the critical matter of my yet-to-be-awarded Christmas bonus, I quickly tweet, ‘Going to read some inspiring slush pile submissions’ then sling the whole lot on the work experience bod’s desk and decide to go and do some vital market research: aka the Burberry Sample Sale.

Two hours and one cashmere coat later (Christmas starts at home) I found myself in that Charing Cross Road branch of Costa Coffee that has a book shop attached to it. The door took a while to open (I think it needed oiling) and the cobwebs got in my face, but I finally made it into Borders to find a group of people standing around staring at me. Their shock was swiftly followed by a round of applause and they all gathered round to see if they could help. A nice man called Philip CEO (funny name I thought) introduced himself as my personal shopper and showed me round their hot promotions. Wiping off a thick layer of dust, I revealed the title of their must-have Read Of the Week: The Blue Peter Annual 1972. Even Philip was surprised – he’d thought they’d sold out.

However, the next section looked much more interesting - I walked straight into a massive six foot high pile of copies of Sheryl Gascoine, Alan Davies and Dara O Brien in a 3-for-1 Promotion all of which came with a covermounted £10 note, a weekend for two at the Priory, dinner with the author at The Ivy and a taxi home - still no takers though. As I stood there, spoiled for choice Philip grabbed my coat and tried to tempt with me a 3-for-2 offer on The Big Issue. At once I knew then it was time to do a runner.

Back at the office, there were 14 messages from clients, which I addressed immediately ¬ with the delete button. I spent the afternoon instead monitoring twitter and getting all the latest on the coronation of Jamie Hodder-Headline and the redundancies up at Euston Road. Cutting back on celebrity non-fiction sounds a bit too ‘sensible’ to me ¬and I didn’t understand the line about ‘working with existing Headline fiction authors in other areas’. Does that mean that Headline’s big Christmas 2010 titles will consist of the Victoria Hislop Dangerous Book For Lepers, Martina Cole’s Hard Girls Cookbook and Andrea Levy’s Round A Small Island With A Fridge. If so I can’t wait!

On Monday I dressed sluttishly for Bad Sex Awards which were being held at the In and Out Club - no, REALLY. Alas none of the candidates really measured up in my mind, so I suggested in vain to the guys from the Literary Review that they expand their categories to include a Fellowship for my ex boyfriend Charlie The Editor for his devotion to providing consistently Actual Bad Sex in Publishing. In retrospect, of course, the trouble of sex with an editor is the not the sex itself, but the editorial notes you get after. I have a strict rule about sex with clients as well – it is completely off limits because I am only get 15% of the pleasure. Alas I couldn’t stay till the shuddering climax of the Awards as I had to rush home to finish my perfect pitch/job application for the all-important Ebury job.

Here goes….

Dear Ebury.

Her parents were the country's golden couple. Then they weren't. The inside story on the fights, the tears, her mum's cross dressing boyfriend. It's time for the truth. I bring you Princess Tiaami: The Dummy Years.

Call me.

Daisy Frost

Xdaisy

p.s NEWSFLASH - I see from their latest offer that Borders have now gone into administration - with every two stores you buy you get one free.

THRILLING NIGHT OUT

2009-11-08T11:49:00.003Z

There are some publishing events that I would truly kill to be invited to - James Patterson and Thomas Pynchon's literary salon, Katie Price's Oxford Union symposium on 'the role of silicone in a reductionist prose landscape' and, of course, anything involving Sebastian Faulks, but from the look of the invitation for the ITV3 Crime and Thriller Awards - dripping in blood and with a sinister typeface - the killing appeared to have already been done for me.

Dressing for the part - imagine hot Disney witch meets Cheryl Cole – I sped over to the Dorchester, blew kisses to the paps and to DCI Tony Mulliken and swept off to find my fellow guests. I was attending as part of the Murder Most Foul imprint recently launched by Hitchcock Books and one of my authors, Hector Hambledon was up for the Zombie Dagger for his poignant study of marital disharmony TILL YOUR FLESH DO I EAT. It promised to be a hot night.

After hours of oo-ing and aah-ing as various hot technicolour TV stars and some rather crumpled black and white authors collected their worringingly authentic Dagger trophies we got to the defining moment of the evening - no, of 2009 actually and of my career to date.

Sweet Lynda La Plante came up to the podium to join the Hall Of Fame and accepted her dagger with dignity and real humility. We clapped and cheered and ovated and she smiled. Then something happened – she went totally mental and started really screaming about how sleb-lit was bastardizing real lit and publishers were to blame. The room went quieter than Waterstone’s Piccadilly after a Leona Lewis signing session and in a moment of true inspired brilliance LLP threw her dagger just over the head of Martina Cole and with extraordinary accuracy it shot across the crowded room straight towards the lovely Martine McCutcheon. Time went into slow motion and we gasped collectively and as it was nearing its sleek gleaming target I knew that I had to act - I leapt to my feet grabbing the cheese board in front of me and caught the full force of the dagger right through the middle of a piece of Neal's Yard stilton. Catching my breath I sat down calmly removed the still vibrating dagger from the board and delicately ate the cheese from the end of it. The cameras zoomed in and the audience paused and then cheered, laughed and stamped their feet in my honour. Forget Martine this truly was MY moment and it was being seen live by millions of people around the world. Well – at least a few hundred.

Comforting a distressed Martine is the ladies powder room afterwards I gently took her hand, locked eyes with her and said, ‘I think Lynda was being unfair - she quite clearly hadn't read your book she probably just read that incredibly cruel parody called ‘The Mistress' that someone has put up on the web. They have even designed a hideous pink cover with your name on it to make it look real. Christ, it made Geri Halliwell's children's series read like The Chronicles of Narnia’.

I was about to continue when suddenly I was tapped on the shoulder by a man who introduced himself as a TV producer. ‘You were awesome in there', he raved, ‘a natural born entertainer - Amanda Ross wants you to front a 13-part series about publishing called THIS IS LIT. Please say you'll do it.'.

I just knew this moment would come one day - inevitable stardom, followed by the Daisy Frost biopic that would trace my humble beginnings from private school to the flat my parents bought me in Notting Hill. I could be played by-...'Me?' Martine piped up. ‘Um...sorry was I thinking all that out-loud? I was going to say Megan Fox' I said crossly, dropping Martine's hand and striding forth to find Ms Ross.

As I was leaving the event, now undecided between Ange and Jennifer Garner, I grabbed three goodie bags and ran for the Hitchcock Books limo. Discarding all the usual sponsors leaflets and weird stuff like I came across a free book with a strangely familiar pink cover - The Mistress by one Martine McCutcheon. As I read the first line I realised that the on-line parody was in fact the real deal.

Oh my god.

Must dash - my future awaits me.

--
http://www.missdaisyfrost.com/

An Open Letter To Authors Looking For Representation

2009-10-24T09:15:00.006+01:00

I was approached recently by the European Booksellers Association to attend a conference in Amsterdam to sit on a panel about the route to publication. It went brilliantly and I am delighted to be posting here an extract from my keynote speech on How To Approach An Agent....

1. Don’t write in your covering email that

a) the book has been turned down by 19 agents around town and that you are now trying me.

b) most bestselling books are rubbish and that yours is so much better.

c) your friends think your book is a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.

d) my biggest rival has recommended me as a potential agent for the book. They hate me. Go figure.

Don’t email me your manuscript in 29 separate attachments and ask me to stitch it together at my end. There is a reason why my keyboard has a delete button.
Don’t ring me half an hour later and ask if I have read it yet.
Don’t send me a badly photoshopped cover design for your book.
Don’t send me an accompanying picture of you wearing speedos and holding a copy of ‘American Psycho’.
Don’t ring me every day on my mobile to ‘see how I am enjoying the novel’. The journey from prospective client to stalker with a restraining order is a swift one.
Don’t email me two three or four times a week saying ‘I have changed a section in one of the chapters – I have attached it – please substitute the pages in the copy you are reading and then alter the main character’s name from George to Jenny and please note I am thinking about changing the setting from Louisiana in 1830 to Solihull in the present day’.
Don’t email me again a day after I have turned your book down and say ‘I have taken on board all your comments and changed the book accordingly – I’m sure you will take me on now’. I won’t.
Don’t then ask to be my friend on Facebook.
Don’t write again 2 years after I have rejected you and say ‘I am now self-publishing my novel and am set to make millions selling it from my website. I will prove you very very wrong indeed – what do you know anyway? You loser’. P.s Can I send you a finished copy in case you want to reconsider?

WINNER OF THE FIRST FROST BITE AWARD

2009-10-23T22:52:00.001+01:00

After a week of frenzied voting in the inaugural Miss Daisy Frost 'Frost Bite' Awards the WORST WRITER OF 2009 trophy goes to the lovely sensitive columnist Jan Moir who impressed YOU the judges with her beautiful tribute to the late great Stephen Gately. I think in any other week she would have been trounced by Dan Brown and Stephenie Meyer who appeared in second and third place but for various reasons not unconnected to the fact a record 22,000 people complained about her Daily Mail column she steamed into first place.

Moving away into less controversial territory I am now inviting suggestions for nominees for next week's Frost Bite Award for the Christmas Gift Book You Would Least like To Receive in 2009 . To kick off I would like to suggest HOW TO BE GREEK by Stavros Flatley from Bantam. Oh dear - what were they thinking? Seriously - who actually took this project to a big meeting full of men in suits and got a unanimous YES? Imagine opening this on Christmas morning from your loved one and having to feign delight/interest/eternal love? Instant break-up more like....

Email me your suggestions to missdaisyfrost@gmail.com or twitter them to @missdaisyfrost

xd

FRANKFURT – THE WHOLE GODDAM STORY…

2009-10-17T14:38:00.000+01:00

Sitting back in London now the whole Frankfurt experience seems like some nightmare that I can’t quite get out of my head….

It all started pretty badly and got worse from there…

Day One

Frankfurt is only days old and I have already slept with an older man....

The London to Frankfurt journey always brings out the worst in me. It is bad enough that I am subjected to flying Sleezy Jet, where they make you QUEUE, but when you get to the check in bit, there is always an angry girl there telling you you've got too much luggage. This, to me, is a major betrayal of the sister-hood I shouldn't have to explain my need for outfit options to another woman, for God's sake. This year was no different, so by the time I'd scrambled onto the plane with my party bag of Book Fair essentials (knuckledusters, earplugs, Alka-seltzer etc) I was in no mood to find someone asleep across my row under a copy of Down And Out In Paris and London.

Fortunately it turned out to be sweet old fox Peter Mayer, wearing his trademark Leonard Bernstein meets James Dean smile, who entertained me with the Century drinking game (where the glasses disappear at alarming speed) and stories about his 1961 camping trip with Gore Vidal, Elvis and J D Salinger when they all ended up in Dylan's hot-tub with Norman Mailer. And Seabiscuit. After all that exertion Peter rather sweetly fell asleep on my shoulder and I covered him with a blanket before realizing I was frightfully drunk and passing out.

Pausing only to pick up a hitch-hiking Steve Rubin, I raced off to the city when we landed, my mind hysterical with thoughts of the parties, the gossip, the flirting and the louche behaviour (highlights) the massive prices, the dreary architecture, the awful food and all those bloody books (low points)

Frankfurt would be great I thought if it only it didn¹t have to take place in Frankfurt.

After dropping Steve off at the YMCA I sped on to the HassleHof to check-in. After waiting in line behind Jonny 'Man' Geller, Sonny Mehta and Binky Urban, was handed an envelope containing a note from my boss saying ' 'Daisy- do NOT check-in -you are staying at the appartment we have rented with us'. O. My. Christ. How to describe my feelings about this? Crosser than A S Byatt on Booker night? The charming apartment booked by Chloe the monster assistant was in the Bahnhofsvierte district above Dr Mueller's Sex Shop with a red light above the door and a handwritten note saying 'Model 3rd Floor'. Theagent / pimp lines really are continuing to blur, these days.

Onto my first party the regular Tuesday night Fischer bash. I got a bit lost but finally found the dark cellar. I'm not averse to a bit of PVC when the occasion calls for it, and even a, er, comedy blood cocktail, so got stuck in, merrily assuming Fischer were, like everyone else, launching a Zombie series. It was while I was being chatted up by four Herta Mueller lookalikes and someone who could have been Jane Freedman that my phone went it was my boss asking where the hell I was. At the party I said. In the cellar. What cellar he said - it's on the roof? As I left what turned out to be the Frankfurt Night Of The Living Dead Zombie Party, it struck me that Zombies are actually not all that different to publishers near-mindless, possessing little reasoning power,blood-sucking and rarely coming out during the day.

Fischer party seemed very low-key after that and I crept off back to Dr Mueller¹s Sex Shop for an early night.

I am seeing 17 publishers today at the Messe that our foreign rights director couldn't be bothered to see. Instead of losing the will to live, I will tell them all they are half an hour late, hide somewhere, tweet madly and get impressionable men of a certain age to buy me vodka tonics. I need to plot my sale of the Jonny Geller Diaries for tomorrow.......

Auf weiderzein pet.

Day Two…

While I am still trying to remain generous about why my boss would select a flat over Dr Mueller's Sex Shop in the Bahnhofsviert district as a suitable place for his staff to lay their weary heads, I should perhaps try and qualify my reservations by giving you a run down of last night’s events:

1/ 3am - woken by incessant banging on the door. Panicked it might be boss, so pretended not to be at all drunk in spite of not being able to open eyes and flung door open. ‘Svetlana?’ a strange man asked. Door slammed curtly in his face.

2/ This in no way put him off – knocking continued, now with cheeky voice enthusing, ‘Hello – it’s your wicked Uncle’.

3/ Suddenly realized this voice was familiar. Armed self with theWilliam Shawcross, opened eyes this time and then door.

4/ Well, looky here – turns out Svetlana’s wicked uncle was also the most notoriously flirtatious editor in London. Caught with hand in cookie jar (not literally, thank God).

I’m not going to name names, but let’s just say he will be returning my calls pretty damn sharpish from now on and a six-figure deal might also be on the cards.

Woke up feeling (and looking) like Ronnie Wood, but remembering the China theme for the Fair this year, kept my silk Chinese dressing gown on, stuck some chopsticks in my hair and grabbing a copy of Wild Swans, legged it to Hall 6 in search of my first meeting and to start hyping My Big Project – The Obama Diaries. Yes, that’s right – The Obama Diaries – represented by moi, Daisy Frost. Might even be really lucky and get a foreword from Jonny Geller – hello success! I’ve been working flat-out to secure this project to fill the last minute gap in the rights list made by the cancellation of the Roman Polanski YA project and to be honest, I have impressed even myself.

Outside Hall 6 I took a break by the Press centre and tweeted to my 1,000 followers - ‘Miss Daisy has the hottest book of the fair’.Pausing only to build the tension I then tweeted ‘Big clue – his initials are B.O and his lives in a White House’. By the time I reached my table in the Agents Centre, people were looking at me as if I was Cheryl Cole (ie goddess and most important person in world) and I swear I saw The Jackal applaud. I hyped it to my first editor fromSchminky Pinky Verlag and told him that The Obama Diaries promised to give a controversial, floor level insider’s guide to the whole Whitehouse experience and he virtually wrote me a cheque for 100,000 Euros on the spot. Within an hour, I was receiving blind offers fromall the usual suspects, scouts were forming a disorderly queue and Anne Louise and June were practically trading punches. Left my foreign rights director to rapidly issue contracts, while I swanned off to toast my success over a frankfurter.

Tweet tweet – ‘Miss Daisy is trying to fend off a seven figure pre-empt from the U.S.A’. Within minutes, Sonny was offering ‘whatever it takes’, as if the day couldn’t get any better. Well, Sonny – thereis one thing you could definitely ‘offer’ to land this one and it ain't just the money.

Half an hour later the deal was done and I was being chauffeured off to a luxury suite at the Hasslehof – rapidly vacated by one S Mehta.I do hope that I made it quite clear that the B Obama concerned was Bo Obama the Portugese water dog and not the Most Powerful Man In the World, but that is the kind of attention to detail that would undermine the whole point of Frankfurt. Buying a book here is like going to bed with Robert Pattinson and waking up with Dracula.

Caveat Emptor….

Day Three

I ended up spending a flimsy half hour in Sonny Mehta's ex-suite at the Hof after all that must work out as about £100 a minute, so thank God I wasn't picking up the tab. After a mammoth night of gatecrashing, fighting with Carole Blake about who has the sexiest shoes (her diamond encrusted jet black Monolos with a platinum and ermine collar triumphed) I obviously ended up playing drinking games with Anthony Cheetham and the Atlantic Crew on top of the Commerzbank Tower. Anthony is busy penning his memoirs which are potentially entitled ME CHEETHAM. 'Wow, it'll make Mein Kampf look like Jonathan Livingstone Seagull,' I said, cheerfully. I think that might have been when he turned down my offer to agent it for him. That and his wife being an agent. Doh!

There's nothing like a few ales to get you in the mood for some Karaoke. I was delighted to find a competition in full swing at the Curtis Brown party, so decided to get stuck in, uninvited or otherwise. I tried to persuade Jonny 'Man' Geller to duet with me on 'Free Nelson Mandela' but he thought that might give out the wrong impression as, to be honest, the bidding was now at $5m and counting. Chatting to Sheila Crowley instead was a bit like taking a trip in the Tardis - what seemed like hours was in fact only a few minutes. I eventually reeled off as the sun was coming up on my last day. That's right, who would be lame enough to stay for the week end?? Only people up to no good.You know who you are.

I spent the morning in the Agents Centre intimidating my rival ten-percenters, by striding around looking like Jeremy Paxman in a bad mood,phones clasped to each ear shouting random phrases to imply I was handling the hottest book on the planet: 'Maybe I'm bad at maths, but I can't understand figures that come in under a million', 'If you want to be taken seriously, then stop crying', 'I fired Dan Brown for that sort of attitude.And you know what? He is STILL asking to come back' or just simply 'If the milk's sour, I ain' the kind of pussy to drink it' A respectful space started being cleared around me - at one stage Ed Victor even gave me a thumbs-up and The Jackal came over and gave me a little back rub. 'Don't hate the player, hate the game,' I said to him and he nodded in agreement.

Later on, while I was chatting to Roz 'Gordon' Ramsay, I heard a voice suddenly say 'Ello Daisy thought I'd pop over and help you pitch my novel'. I froze as I recognized it to be my nightmare author Barry Eastwood. O.My.Christ. What in the name of Sandon was HE doing here? I then had an out of body experience, as the Agents Centre went quiet and I watched myself stand on my table and, with all my frustrations with the book trade suddenly let loose like a pack of escaped prisoners, started to scream. 'Barry!' I roared, 'I have received 29 'nos' to your novel! Feedback includes: 'I did read it - there's three hours I'll never get back'; 'this novel isn't BritLit it's Shit Lit'. The only thing you can help me pitch, is your novel into a shredder, you self obsessed megalomaniac and the sooner we find a way of removing all you whining ungrateful authors from the supply chain the better!'

There was an awful moment of stunned silence where I think I saw death but suddenly, the sound of polite applause started to slowly build to a roaring standing ovation. Agents stood on tables, agents formed human pyramids, they threw their Kindles in the air. I felt like Obama at the inauguration calling for 'Change' This truly was my Dead Poets Society moment.

Authors are SO last year.

Quitting while I was ahead, I ran for a taxi, shrieking, 'Zum Flughafen Mein Herr'

CLEAN ROUND THE BEND

2009-10-03T10:45:00.006+01:00

This morning I am feeling abandoned by God, I'm so hungover. The reason? Last night I let a pack of savage publishing individuals back to my house by mistake and we ended up playing the viral drinking game that Macmillan have devised to launch the Willie Shawcross Queen Mum biography. When reading the book aloud, every occurrence of the word ‘gracious' nets you a compulsory vodka shot, ‘character' is a tequila and ‘national institution’ is a brandy plus there's the ‘drink when the Queen Mum drinks' rule, like in ‘Withnail and I' when of course you have to bolt a G&T. I added a new rule which was that you had an advocate and absinthe whenever you felt dear Willie was being less than objective and trying just a little too hard for a knighthood but we adandoned that after I went blind before we even reached the end of the prologue. By 3am my sitting-room looked like a bar and I had to throw everyone out and there were still another 2300 pages to go ofthe book - I might just might have to check into the Priory instead of going to Frankfurt this year.

Seeing as The Lost Symbol has actually made it onto the news, I marched down to Waterstones to claim my signed copy, but was shocked and confused to discover they were all gone. With the sentence, ‘Do you know who I am?' starting to form on my lips, an urban youthsuddenly ran into the store shouting, ‘I've been ripped off! I justpaid a tenner for this book and I can't find any mention of how to predict the national lottery numbers!' Sensing an opportunity, Ihustled the young man over to a massive pile of of Derren Brown's ‘The Smug Hypnotist's Guide To Life' I believe this is what you are after, young man,' I said gently, as he dropped his signed Lost Symbol into my hands with childish gratitude and I slipped silently out of the door. Time to make some cash..

Within thirty minutes I was back at the office, having stopped only to buy 20 normal copies for a total of £9.98 from our local supermarket (on sale as part of a bizarre Buy One Get Ten Free offer.) Then, thanks to my Sharpie, twenty ‘signed' copies materialized before my eyes and were immediately bunged on ebay with a BUY IT NOW price of £500. By midnight, I had netted enough to pay for an extended holiday, a newcar and some outrageous purple fringed Louboutin boots. I must pointout that I haven't technically committed any crime the listing clearly stated, ‘rare signed copy of Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol' but nowhere did it say they were actually signed by Dan Brown. I can't beresponsible for people's lazy interpretation of my prose.

I also made a brief and unscheduled appearance at Vicky Barnsley's inaugural staff awards ceremony, ‘The Harpics',, last week at the O2. It was great - Chateau Murdoch vintage champagne, delicate Canapés,the London Symphony Orchestra playing selections from Wagner's Ring Cycle and Vicky talking about the realities of the credit crunch. Perfect. How inspired too to name the awards about the toilet bowl cleaner marketed under the slogan of Clean Round the Bend. Unfortunately I had to leave just before the most hotly coveted award was announced - the Amanda Ridout Golden Clipboard for the most tidy desk thanks to a last minute invite to yet another unexpected Century leaving party. Fun! 4th this week I reckon. Rumours that the recent deflux of staff has made Century consider rebranding themselvesas Half-A-Century or just Decade are apparently totally wide of the mark, so don’t repeat that. Ok?

I am so looking forward to seeing you all at Frankfurt apparentlythere is a bookfair taking place there as well, which will be hilarious. The opportunities for scandal beggar belief - I am openingseveral new Twitter accounts under names such as edvictortheagent, therealanthonyforbeswatson, jonnygelleragentfella andalansamsonlovesopera not to mention annelouisefisherliketotallyrocks,so keep one eye over your shoulder, I'm watching!

Tweet tweet my sweets. Achtung!

LORD ARCHER and KIERKERGAARD...

2009-09-04T21:18:00.004+01:00

After last Summer’s abortive trip to Ed Victor’s pad in the Hamptons I decided to play at home this year and wander up to the Edinburgh Fringe for a bit of rest and recuperation instead. The prospect of a holiday from the delights of the Edward Cecil Literary Agency was a total joy and I made a pact with myself to banish all thoughts of books, paranoid authors, the economy and deranged editors from my mind and have a bit of Daisy-time instead . I soon got into the theatrical spring of things and saw a bunch of students from my alma mater Bristol giving us their interpretation of Romeo and Juliet (as retold through the love story of Katie and Peter), 'Droopy' - an ice ballet about the male menopause starring Benedictine monks and the London Lesbian Choir doing ‘Womb With A View’. It was all going brilliantly and I even managed to find the off button on my Blackberry. Hoorah!

When I turned it back on in a moment of weakness I saw scarily that I had 47 missed calls from a harassed sounding bod at the Edinburgh Book Festival who said that Thomas Pynchon and J D Salinger had pulled out of their ‘How To Sell Yourself’ seminar slot in the Charlotte Street Big Top and could I possibly step in at the last moment and come up with a replacement event. Frankly it was news to me that Edinburgh had a book fest at all but I was happy to help if I could. I headed over to the venue and decided to do a bit of undercover work first to get a sense of the territory - I snuck into a room full of a strange bunch of people waiting for an event called How To Make A Living As A Writer by someone called Keith A Charters. The audience had the usual makeup of individuals – the angry looking men with beards, the intense spinsters with notepads a-ready and the too-cool-for-school students slouching at the back. As the Q+A started a confused looking Keith tried to fend off questions about tips, tablecloths and wine-lists from a curious group of men in white shirts and black waistcoats who had obviously misread ‘writer’ for ‘waiter’. Oh dear. Not good. I made my excuses and left to plan my mini FrostFest.

I knew I needed something big, something eye-catching and something campaigning that would really grab an audience up against such fierce competition as Sebastian Faulks doing an event called ‘Having Fun with Faith In Fiction’ (hosted by Salman and Davina) and Andrew Wylie Live At Edinburgh Castle (on ‘Humility’) so I scanned the press for some inspiration. A little story caught my eye – Wuthering Heights had just shot to the top of the Waterstone’s Classics chart all because Stephanie MetroGoldwyn Meyer had mentioned it in one of her sex-blood-fangs teen-pash novels. This got me thinking and all it took was a quick call to Penguin and a few agents and I had the ‘Daisy Frost Reclaims The Classics’ event all assembled. This could be my perfect moment – move over Martine! Immediately Katie Price agreed to fly in for FrostFest to announce that her new novel would be called The Conference Of The Birds after the obsession her central character Beaujolais – the Essex hairdresser - had for Farid al-Din Attar’s twelfth century allegorical poem of the same name. Persian literature and Essex girls – a match made in heaven. Jeffrey Archer also came through with the goods and agreed breathlessly to announce that his new thriller would feature as a plot-twist the central tenets of Kierkegaard’s psychological exposition of edification and awakening by Anti-Climacus as expounded in his seminal work ‘The Sickness Unto Death’. What a trooper. I could just see lovely Jon Howells at Waterstone’s showering me with his gratitude. Heavenly thoughts.

The event was of course a sell-out and as I brought my campaigning speech to a rousing climax flanked by Lord Archer and Katie Price I looked over and could see Pynchon and Salinger (the Ant and Dec of American literature) cheering, waving and wiping away a tear. It doesn’t get any better than that.

p.s Questions being asked in publishing this week...

Question 1 - Which popular editor-about-town has revealed a previously unknown passion for Opera?

Answer - click here

Question 2 - Who has unwittingly given away one of the best-kept secrets in publishing?

Answer - See tonight's London Evening Standard diary.........

HOW TO GET A TABLE AT THE WOLSELEY

2009-08-07T09:29:00.009+01:00

Lovely to see so many of you at Latitude. There is nothing like spending a lost weekend in a muddy field talking about post-modernism and reinforcing the importance of the long-form novel whilst secretly tweeting, keeping an ear out for Thom Yorke's solo set and trying to catch sight of Katie Price.

I have been really busy since then putting the finishing touches to the deals for my various Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and Bobby Robson instant books. Think of it as dead-celebrity spread betting. Especially excited about the Jacko book JACKO EXCLUSIVE in which Bob, the guy who gives me my londonlite at Notting Hill Gate every night (and who once saw Jacko on Top Of the Pops) recounts the distressing minute-by-minute events from his perspective on the cutting edge of the media fulcrum. We are very excited by the prospects - Bloke publishing is confident of getting 75000 copies into the trade , Newsnight have booked him and BBCRadio 4's The Moral Maze is looking interested. The only blot on the horizon is the hype gathering behind EXCESS ALL AREAS the intimate memoir of one of the security guards at the Staples Stadium who will be revealing the conversation he had with Blanket as he escorted him through the backstage area. Harville are backing that particular title with everything they have to muster.Time will tell which one triumphs.

Frankly dead celebrities and Dan Brown seem to be the only way out of the credit crunch right now so I decided to have some fun at the Wolseley on Tuesday while I waited for Ben Dunn. Annoyingly my table reservation had gone missing so I decided to try a new tack. I whipped out my BlackBerry Pearl, tweeted that it was rumoured that Amy Winehouse and Kate Moss had gone missing in a plane being piloted by the Pope, that the Dan Brown book had been postponed to 2011 and that WHSmith was being bought by Ted Smart. Within seconds I could see Gail, Tim H-H, Belinda Budge and Ursula reach for their vibrating blackberries, go visibly pale, make their excuses and run out of the building. No shortage of tables now.

I claimed the best table and sat waiting for Ben we were meant to be celebrating his job swap with Mark Booth but he was obviously running late. I sat there thinking that there should actually be more job swapping in publishing imagine if Lord Byng went to Century to put some multi-layered dialetic analysis into Katie Price's new novel and Kate Elton rushed off to Canongate to put some glitter into Yan Martel's new tome? Under Jamie's tutelage he might even get Katie Price to win the Man Booker. And Yan Martel could become the darling of the RNA. The mind truly boggles.

Actually - looking at the Booker longlist made me realise that if I am ever going to have the honour of repping a contender then I need to take this seriously and work out what precisely makes a Booker winner.

As the clock ticked on and still no sign of Ben I think I managed to crack it...

You can't fail to win the Man Booker if you make a novel historical but with a contemporary lilt, add in some obligue versions of real-life figures, throw in a mysterious stranger, a building which embodies some dark family secrets, a mental disorder and set it all against a rich and historical landscape. Bingo!

To that end all I needed was to find an author to dramatise the hitherto unknown romance between Napoleon and the ghost of Queen Boudica as told through the journals of an Irish nurseymaid with OCD which are discovered in a trunk bought from a charity shop in Hampstead. By a lesbian librarian who dreams of becoming a Chess champion. And who is a vampire.

I was just pondering the brilliance of this when a text message arrived from Ben

‘sorry babe got an offer for lunch I couldn¹t refuse. Exciting new job possibilities will tell all later Bx'.

GRANTA - THE SAGA CONCLUDES. OR DOES IT?

2009-07-10T18:32:00.005+01:00

Interesting letter in Private Eye today which I couldn't resist scanning. Buy the new issue out today for some great publishing gossip about Philip 'Tis Pity He's A' Hoare.....

MY NAME'S DAISY AND I AM A BOOKAHOLIC

2009-06-27T09:00:00.007+01:00

Every now and again in life, one of those ‘where were you’ moments occurs. It happened with Diana, it happened with 9-11 and it happened with the July 7th bombings. Sometimes though the world is rocked to its absolute foundations and one truly does need to just hold onto the walls. And so, lurching in recently from a Daunts launch for my fireman client’s memoir ‘Grate Expectations’ (Ebury £9.99) I switched on my laptop to see something that both alarmed and confused me. Icould hardly believe what I was reading and my first instinct was that it was a hoax – but no, I looked again and it was true – an editor from Orion had actually replied to one of my messages. Whatever next? World peace?

Anyway I am now in New York this week doing the rounds with an author but I’ve been making sure that everything gets Twittered. Or is that‘tweeted’? Anyway all talk here is still of Granta and the Clarke/Graham shock horror resignation and of how all staff at the publisher-turned-literary-salon are now contractually obliged to drink wine, read poetry aloud and dress like Bohemians at all times. Rumours too are that the Tetra Pak Twins are going to be publishing only books THEY want to read from now on. God knows what the unit cost will be on a print run of two copies but they will work it out somehow –and they always be printed on a waxy folding paper stock. I wonder whether all their books will have a ‘read by date’? Twitterers also tell me that the Al Reynolds mega bookdeal with Gollancz has been misreported too – that doesn’t surprise me as no one would give a science fiction writer a million pounds for ten books. I mean how many anoraks does a geek need? My spies tell me that it was actually an advance of £10 for a million books and not vice-versa.Let's hope theyare separately accounted although knowing Hachette I doubt it.

Finally I want to use this opportunity to send a big thank you from New York on behalf of humanity to John Blake. In the aftermath of the Michael Jackson tragedy he broke away from a hard days weeping at the shrine of Jade Goody to take the temperature of the public mood and announce that his decision to rush out a cash-in book came not from any desire to buy more petrol for his ambulance, but as a result of widespread requests from retailers."The trade made us to do it’, hesaid. And then it ran away, I imagine.

In other Jacko news, I gather self-regulating media node Damian Horner has offered to bring his massive Bookaholic Road Show to the O2 for fifty nights and that his set will be all about experiential directional marketing. I actually attended the last event and it worked for me – I left with a decisive, clear minded sense of the direction I needed to take with immediate effect. In fact, I broke into a very fast run away from the venue to have my need fulfilled I might even have passed a bookshop on my sprint to Oddbins, but I was screaming at the time, so can’t be sure.

CHATEAU GRANTA

2009-06-24T22:22:00.005+01:00

I was about to sit down and write something pithy, funny and biting about the goings on at Granta but then I read today's Private Eye and the truth was funnier, more biting and pithier. The best quote comes from an anonymous insider at Granta who talks about the new policy of having wine on tap to make the atmosphere more Bohemian and bonding. They say, 'the wine, the wine...it's like being a toddler and watching your dad and mum being murdered and the killer then offering you a brand new Scalextrix set'. Buy Private Eye NOW

MISS DAISY NEEDS YOU ON TWITTER

2009-06-21T08:59:00.003+01:00

All the action is over on twitter at the moment and if you join me there you will get at least 6 tweets a day about what the naughty people in publishing are getting up to.

Join me now here

THERE IS NOTHING LIKE A DAME

2009-06-13T08:36:00.004+01:00

Like the rest of the world this morning I have woken to the announcement of the Queen's Birthday Honours List and scanned it for people from the good world of publishing. We need to try harder people - we aren't making an impact.....

I could only find two - Gail Rebuck becomes a Dame which is obviously great and well-deserved but surely it is a little greedy? I mean - she is already a 'Lady' - not to mention a CEO, a Lady and probably President Of The Secret Order Of The Grand Squirrels. There are rumours that, seeing as her 'Lady' title is now surplus to requirements that she will either put it up for auction on ebay (for charity of course) or simply pass it down the chain to her number two at Random House - Susan Sandon. Something tells me that Susan would love to be Lady Sandon - it would suit her mild-mannered nature down to a tee. The only other honour I could find for 'one of us' was for Andrew 'Poetry In' Motion and that doesn't really count because he has been Poet Laureate for years so, as far as the Queen is concerned, he is virtually family anyway.

To that end I think we need to redress the balance so today I am announcing the first wave of awards under Daisy Frost's Honours' List.

Alan Samson for services to the communications industry

Mark Smith of Quercus for services to optimism

Ali Gunn (because I wouldn't dare NOT to include her in this list)

Ed Victor for his unflinching support of the London social scene

Jonny Geller for services to the poaching industry

But this is just the tip of the iceberg - please send me YOUR nominations and I will share them with my extensive Awards Committee and we will continue to confer these great honours on the deserving members of our great community.

email the nominations hotline NOW

AT THE BOOKSELLER'S ASSOCIATION CONFERENCE...

2009-06-11T08:46:00.003+01:00

It is 4.47a.m and I am sitting in the grounds of the Wellcome Conference Centre in Cambridge wearing Jonathan Lloyd’s golden Nibbie-shaped Agent Of The Year tiara on my head and drooling on Anthony Forbes-Watson’s velvet jacket. It had been a long emotional evening.

I sensed I was a last-minute addition to the Nibbies guest list –unless the Bookseller’s Association make a habit of inviting people onthe day itself through a series of increasingly panicked sounding voicemails, texts and emails. I wasn’t exactly busy (who is these days?!) when Merric finally got hold of me so I grabbed £600 fromPetty Cash, rushed around Bond Street for some essentials (dress,shoes, makeup, jewellery) and then hopped on the 4.30pm Publishers Special coach from Kings X. It all felt very school trip and I foundmyself at the back in between Kate ‘Knuckledusters’ Wilson and Martin Neild and we gossiped happily all the way there whilst eating our packed lunches and waving at passers by. All it needed was someone to be sick and it would have been perfect. All talk was of two women –Alex Clarke who had left Granta for the excitements of....erm...spending less time with her job and of Amanda Ridout -Princess Prozac herself - who had still to announce the precise (or any) details of the ‘confidential job’ she had excitedly leftHarperCollins for. Speculation was rife though that Alex had already been signed up by Patrick Walsh for a memoir called ‘My Tetrapack Year’ and that Amanda was soon to be named as the new editor of Granta. With a judicious sprinkling of Ridout populist fairydust and Cecilia Ahern on the cover Granta could really turn its fortunes around and could finally get stocked in Asda and Morrisons and at HarperCollins Alex Clark could teach Lady Barnsley how to write a press release that made any sense at all. Maybe.

The Nibbies ceremony was a bit like a school-prize-giving where the headmaster had an ill-hidden obsession with drum and bass and the science department had pumped mind-altering drugs into the air-conditioning – it all felt a bit ‘pumped up’ to be honest. Luckily the teachers were happy to hand out little cans of Pimms with straws tokeep the pupils under control. I took six.

The winners were all lovely.Shame really. No one was very drunk, no one cried during their speeches and no one made any bitchy remarks and, lo and behold, allthose people who said they hadn’t prepared a speech and hadn’t expected to win strode up to the podium, were word perfect and as coherent as Barack Obama at the inauguration. Lord Byng made us all teary-eyed at his ill-disguised love for the whole world, Ravi made us all a little teary-eyed with his badly disguised love for Toby Mundy and Toby made us all teary-eyed at his ill-disguised love for himself.Something called The Book Depository won something as well I think.Services to Lee Harvey Oswald perhaps? And as for the Diversity Award that was a total disappointment - there was no sign of energetic hoodies leap-frogging each other and doing back-flips – instead we got a gushing posh girl. Weird.

Dinner afterwards was a total confusion alas – no wine for about an hour, no food till about midnight and the seating plan was really confusing.I ended up sitting on my own at a table designated for Tim Andrew,Amanda Ridout, Alex Clark, James Gurbutt, Francesca Liversidge and Claire Kingston. Where were they? Maybe they were held up in traffic?

xdfx

AU REVOIR I HOPE

2009-05-12T07:38:00.006+01:00

So they have finally split - the golden couple who contributed so much to the profitability of bookstores up and down the land. I am not sure how we will cope anymore. I feel quite emotional just typing this - let's just hope that it's not really farewell but au revoir Katie and Peter.

A GRAVE END TO THE BOOKFAIR

2009-05-12T07:30:00.006+01:00

Well, thank James Patterson (ie God) THAT week is over and I can finally get back to some real work – The Apprentice on i-player / Britain’s Got Talent on YouTube /Jamie Byng on Twitter/ all of this week’s HEAT magazine. I am ignoring my clients with gay abandon, living life by the full hour instead of having my life flash before my eyes every 30 minutes and not using spasticated phrases like ‘a distinctive new voice’, ‘we have just accepted a pre-empt from Germany’ and ‘this is like Dan Brown for the Twilight generation’. According to the Bookseller, the fair had ‘Fewer People But More Focus’, which sounds like an election promise from the Labour Party, although I did wonder whether maybe we could take that theme and roll it out to other areas of our lives – ‘Fewer Kisses But More Passion’ (too Max Moseley?) ‘Fewer Words But Better Prose’ (too Geri Halliwell? In our dreams) and am already preparing to justify a few duvet days with the phrase, ‘Fewer Days In The Office But More Thinking’. Well, quite.

But before I could entirely shake off the Narnia-esque surrealism of the Earls Court-based jollity that we call the LIBF, there was but one final date on my dance card to tick off before the electronic tag was, figuratively speaking, removed from my ankle and I was released back into the wild. ‘But how glamorous, where was it?’ I hear you ask. ‘Nobu? The Wolsey? The Champagne Bar at Claridges perhaps?’ Ah yes, but this is PUBLISHING – the answer being a graveyard in North West London, of course. If only I was joking. I wasn’t sure what to wear - never been to a party where the guests are outnumbered by corpses.

When the invitation had come in to my assistant Chloe – or ‘Daisy-hater’ as I like to call her, back in January, I must admit I had been a bit puzzled by the venue – why would the nation’s smartest and scariest scout, Anne-Louise Fisher, choose to hold a life-affirming supper party for her favourite publishers, editors and agents in Kensal Green Cemetary? However, as I stood leaning against the colonnade of the Dissenter’s Chapel, smoking a fag and talking first dances with newly-engaged Peter Straus and Peter Robinson, I realized what the clever girl had done - ever prescient, she had chosen a venue that was strangely symbolic of the state we are all in. Is this where we’ll all be visiting the graves of our careers next years? This allegorical choice might only have been bettered by Marco Pierre White’s restaurant ‘Titanic’ - but a graveyard full of open jawed skeletons, who had succumbed helplessly to the fate of Father Time was enough to make the point. ‘I’m SO going to Hell,’ I thought wearily, as I downed another drink – but seeing Peter Mayer and Alan Samson appearing out of the mist as I was walking home, made me happy in the thought that at least I wouldn’t be alone.

Thank you, Anne-Louise – a rather splendid party, although you have set the bar pretty high for next year – just a thought, but if the book trade continues on the same trajectory, maybe you should start checking dates with the function room at The Debtor’s Prison by Tower Bridge…

LONDON BOOK FAIR - THE WEDNESDAY COLUMN

2009-04-21T14:41:00.008+01:00

So yes, the Institut Francais party on Monday is only surrendering vague memories of being carried across Hyde Park afterwards on the shoulders of Patrick Walsh, as we challenged each other to a book-themed tongue twister competition. Try saying ‘he was literally literary’ or ‘June Babcock plays bad cop’ after a few too many glasses of warm wine. The Groucho received a visit from us, I believe, followed by the dinner for Dan Brown (or was it Gordon?) at Gail’s house and then a transvestite bar in Soho with Mark Lucas’ new client Susan Boyle, who was singing ‘I Dreamed A Dream’ as he auctioned her memoirs to a crowd of baying editors. Mark really has got talent.

By the time we got to the Orange breakfast, I was seeing visions of my own death, as feisty Fi Glover announced the short list, traditionally the worst kept secret since the ending of Harry Potter 7. My money is on Marilynne Robinson to win, just because she is a perfect anagram of ‘my iron-on linen bras’. It’s as good a reason as any.

With a thumping head, I braved my first appointment of the day at the Rights Centre, which is still like Terminal 5 - without the improvements. Talking of badly organized, my assistant Chloe is SO DEAD, as the schedule she’d organized for me involved fighting off a lecherous Swede / a confused Dutchman / a man called Hans, who seemed to be more interested in my Temperley handbag than my books / three meetings with Chinese publishers, which involved everyone smiling nicely, all of us in total silence. Maybe they were a week early for the Internet Technology Conference? Time to bail from these half hour horrors, I thought –so shouted ‘Gosh, I’m late!’ to no one in particular and bolted.

After an arduous afternoon schedule sunbathing and eating an ice cream in the park, I popped back in to The Google Book Settlement - How Does It Affect You? seminar for about ten minutes. My executive decision was ‘it doesn’t affect me’, so I left. Feeling it was probably vodka-and-tonic-o’clock by now, I gate-crashed the Sony E Reader reception - but instead of real drinks and real snacks, we were just shown pictures of a black and white website advertising a virtual bar and then a man in a hideous suit showed us how to download our selection into an i-glass app on E Readers carried around by waitresses. And to top it all, no goodie-bag. Perhaps they’re intending to email them?

Talking of goodie-bags, the Canongate midnight rave was as rammed as ever, but my big disappointment at the end of the evening, was that each guest was only given four copies of Obama’s book. Jamie is obviously cutting back this year, what with the credit crunch, so I am still two copies short of building my scale model of the White House. If anyone has any to spare, I will be in the Rights Centre all day, so be an angel and drop them off for me. Any extras, I’ll use to make the kennel for Bo / organic kitchen garden.

Someone has just emailed me to say they have worked out ‘Conville and Walsh’ is a an anagram of ‘Novel cad shall win’. On that basis surely the smart money is on Patrick Walsh as a dead cert for Agent Of The Year?...

LONDON BOOK FAIR - THE TUESDAY COLUMN

2009-04-21T14:30:00.002+01:00

Am I imagining it, or can I feel the tip of an axe at the back of my neck? This Anne Boleyn mania is all thanks to my boss Edward flaming Cecil and my name appearing on his redundancy list of death, as previously discussed. To ward off The Grim Reaper, I am accepting every invitation going - therefore at 10 am, I was to be found in the front row of the Getting Ahead Seminar, run by the Society Of Young Publishers in Earls Court 2. Funny bunch the SYP – a bit like the God Squad virgins you meet in Fresher’s Week – the sort of people whose entertainment was to compete with each other to sing ‘I Am The Very Model of a Modern Major-General’ as fast as possible instead of taking drugs like everyone else. The room was like a Nuremberg rally organized by hyperactive children and after a while, I just wanted to stand up and shout, ‘For God’s sake, it’s not hard - all you need to get ahead in publishing is a) go to the right University b) drink yourself to death at Frankfurt b) oversell fashionable books to desperate publishers c) have a private income and d) flirt your tits off. No one makes any money, because there isn’t time – they’re too busy having lunch.’ I suddenly felt paranoid that I had said all that out loud, convinced I could feel eyes boring into the back of my poor, victimised neck.

So I legged it out of the room in order to hunt down the world’s most successful human EVER – James Patterson.

The scene at the English PEN Literary Café was like the Michael Jackson comeback press conference, yet somehow even more important – this was Patterson we were queuing to meet. Patterson – the man who was single-handedly responsible for £10m of turnover and whose output was so prolific, that he was probably going to convert Borders into a megastore, with the sole purpose of selling his books. I queued up to be blessed by him, hoping we would immediately become best friends, but on my arrival, James simply handed me a signed copy of ‘8th Confession’ without even looking at me. ‘Odd,’ I thought, ‘I had a whole speech planned about us becoming BFFs,’ when I noticed that he was dictating a novel under his breath to Gail Rebuck, who was sitting next to him and frantically typing his words into a laptop. Teams of people behind her collated pages spilling off a printer as designers crafted jacket design after jacket design. This was less a signing session and more a factory visit - should I be wearing a hard hat maybe? I decided to queue up again for another crack at him, but by the time I reached him, he seemed even more frenetic – and this time round, I was thrust a copy of ‘9th Confession’.

As I left, I saw a huge Print On Demand machine behind, him spewing out copies of…yup….‘10th Confession’. You’ve got to admire the guy – he’s like the Bob Geldof of publishing, feeding the starving book world instead of Africans. How his true fans keep up I have no idea.

Anyway after an afternoon dodging unsolicited authors and people who kept insisting they had an appointment with me, I looked in at the announcement of the finalists for The Orion Publishing Literary Agent Of The Year. Yet again, I failed to make the final cut, but frankly, judging by the people who did make the shortlist (Kirby, Walsh, Blake, Coleridge, Trewin and Lloyd), it now makes me feel the same as when I didn’t make it into the school production of Pirates of Penzance – relieved. Off now to the Spanish Embassy and then the French Institute. It feels like not only do I have to attend the Book Fair but I am getting homework afterwards as well....--

LONDON BOOK FAIR - THE MONDAY COLUMN

2009-04-20T10:21:00.002+01:00

Oh my God, it’s the flipping London Book Fair AGAIN. I am so excited, I could spit - which is why this year, I decided to really immerse myself in the whole experience by getting stuck in two days early. This has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I saw my name on a list at work under the heading ‘Fire / make redundant’ – I say list, but I’m not sure if one person’s name constitutes a ‘list’.

It’s fine really, because actually I didn’t want to go to Cannes for the MTV party or to George Clooney’s house for his annual ‘Auctioning Kisses For Darfur’ party anyway - far better to go to Earls Court and surround myself by librarians and men called Gerald who work in remainder books. Hey – works comes first for me, everyone knows that.

So on Saturday morning at 11 a.m, I stood gravely outside the LIBF and did a mental assessment – grown up, yet hot dress: check. Attitude of Margaret from Apprentice: check. Mission set to actually work and keep job: check. To kick the week off, I had agreed to take part in a fringe panel event, sponsored by Slush Magazine and called ‘The Secrets Of Publishing’, which I knew my boss would be attending. The other panelists were Clytamestra King of Perineum Books, Augustus Bloom of AuthorCareInc of Croydon and self-regulating media guru Damian Horner.

I got off to a cracking start with a soliloquy about how fortunate I felt to be a ‘cultural curator’, a ‘literary shepherd’, a ‘seeker of fact and fiction diamonds for all the world to share’, when I was suddenly interrupted by a red faced man from the audience.

‘Only famous people get books published! Real works of art like my book are ignored, I’ve spent years and years on it and no one cares!’ He raged. ‘Richard and Judy are Satanic worshippers!’

Damian, looking rather uncomfortable, asked the man whether he had ever considered getting an agent to help him navigate the publishing forest. This seemed to annoy him even more and his shouting became Krakatoa-like as he screamed, ‘I’ve got a bloody agent! Agents are the problem, not the solution!’

I raised my eyebrows in embarrassment at my fellow panelists and casually wrote ‘whack-job’ on Fred’s pad to try and make him laugh, before saying in my best matronly tones,‘The author /agent marriage is a delicate relationship and sometimes they just don’t work out. Whoever currently represents you clearly isn’t up to the job for you to be this upset – I mean, who is this rank amateur anyway?’

'You are, Daisy,’ he said.

From the look my boss threw me, as I was shepherded off the podium by a security guard, while he tried to placate the raging (ex?) client, I suspect the redundancy process might be somewhat accelerated.

Later, as I sat in the cemetery opposite the Book Fair, nervously smoking my second packet of fags and gulping a double V+T from a Starbucks mug, I contemplated the week ahead:

1/ No HarperCollins party to look forward to, cancelled due to the credit crunch.

2 / Anne Louise Fisher’s Wednesday dinner, ironically in yet another cemetery

Great! There was, however, one shining beacon of fun to look forward to– the world’s greatest living writer James Patterson being anointed Author Of The Day on Monday and launching a literacy programme. I mean, honestly, the punchlines write themselves sometimes....

A MAN CALLED BARRY

2009-04-07T10:06:00.004+01:00

The time is swiftly approaching for Agent of the Year, people – start getting excited.

Following the BAFTAS and Oscars this year, I feel the theme of young, gorgeous girls sweeping the board is going to continue and have been practicing in the bathroom with my bubble bath bottle, lifting it like a trophy and giving it the full Winslet, in anticipation of a personal victory. Having said that, something tells me a dark horse may be bringing up the rear this time round – if David Miller can win, it’s anyone’s game. More of that later…

Anyhoo, on Wednesday I crashed a party at the London offices of Canongate (i.e Lord Byng Of Hype’s house). Waltzing in, I grabbed a glass of Chateau Byng and did a visual recce – the usual Byng suspects included a rock star, a Nobel Laureate, a Vietnamese mime artist who is writing a memoir entitled ‘The Mime Of My Life’ Pablo Escobar’s brother and Kathy Lette. I couldn’t get near to Francis Bickmore (sigh), so downed another glass or three and started chatting to a terribly sweet American chap called Barry, who said he was one of Jamie’s authors. ‘Gosh, you look familiar,’ I said. ‘Were you at Frankfurt last October?’ He said no he wasn’t and offered me a cigarette. ‘Well, alright Baz,’ I laughed, ‘just this once - but can we get our coats before we go outside, it’s bitching cold out there.’ ‘Yes we can,’ he said.

Barry was a riot - I taught him to say ‘Allo, Mary Poppins’ and other useful English phrases – but his friends were rather quiet and kept following us everywhere. When I left, there was total chaos on the street outside – six, huge black cars with US diplomatic plates and 12 men in black suits, dark glasses and earpieces, even a couple of police vans. I turned back to see Baz waving out of the window, so I pointed at these chaps with a rather unsuitable hand gesture and lurched off home.

Anyway – back to the dark horse for Agent Of The Year? Ed Victor, Jonathan Lloyd? Luigi Bonomi? Surprisingly not – it is Addison Cresswell, a man who sounds like a suburban mini-cab firm. He represents every comedy performer on the planet and rumour has it that all he has to do to get Transworld, Ebury or Penguin all shook up, is to let their phone ring twice, hang up and then sit back and wait for Doug, Jake or Rowland to send over a cart full of gold. No mention of sample material or proposals – this is a man who got £2m for Michael McIntyre’s memoirs last week. I can’t wait for the gritty revelations – how Michael once got a detention for getting only 97% in his Ancient Greek homework or how he once went on holiday to Dorset. Safe, blud.

Addison is the reason we are in a recession – it’s not that there isn’t any money, it’s just that it’s all been sent to him. I therefore suggest our literati have their vengeance and became comedians: J D Salinger, Thomas Pynchon and Julian Barnes on ‘Mock The Week’, Diana Athill Live at The O2 and John Banville hosting Have I Got News For You. Who wouldn’t find that funny?

The Daily Mail this morning had a picture exclusive ‘Obama Mystery Party Girl’. ’Gosh that girl with President Obama looks just like me,’ I said to my assistant, Chloe. ‘That’s because it is you,’ she said. ‘People have been ringing all morning.’ The last thing I can remember as I felt my legs give way beneath me and the room go black was ‘I tried to make him say ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ backwards, is that treason?’ I eventually came round to see my boss Mr Cecil looking ‘concerned’ and saying ‘Daisy, we need to talk about the restructuring plans for the agency’. Doesn’t sound good…..

LAST NIGHT A DJ SAVED MY LIFE

2009-03-23T11:55:00.007Z

I am hot and panting with the excitement of the email that has just popped into my inbox. The Galaxy British Book Awards have secured the services of one of the world's top DJ's to spin the decks at the post-awards party in The Ballroom at the Grovesnor House Hotel. No - it's not FatBoySlim, it's not either of the Ronson siblings and it isn't Chris Moyles. Shames about that actually - Moyles would have knocked a bit of sense into the publishing community. No - it's the Byngmeister General - Jamie Byng, Lord Of Hype and friend of Barack Obama.

Apparently Jamie used to run a club dubiously called Chocolate City in Edinburgh sometime in the dim and distant past. I have just called him to congratulate him on his new appointment and he promises us all a combination of 'funk and jazz and rare groove and soul and hip hop and Latin and rock'. Um...right.

Jamie has asked me to help him out compiling the set-list. please email me here with your suggestions of songs suitable for the Nibbies post-party set-list...

Be inspired and be in touch - if you don't then he will just be standing there looking a bit embarassed...

THE LOST MUM

2009-03-14T09:11:00.020Z

This week has been so action packed - what with Kate 'Knuckle-duster' Wilson taking over the big job at Headline and Eric Simonoff announcing that he was dumping Lynne and Mort's patronage to join those famous Wallpaper-cum-talent agents at William Morris.

I think the Headliners should make sure their shoes are very polished and their brains razor-sharp with ideas for Kate Wilson's first-day - she is like a dropped fire-hose of enthusiasm and will probably have them running up the 13 flights of stairs every morning singing the company song and repeating the mantra 'We will be better each and every day' over and over again until Headline rules the world. Or, in any event, until they settle their dispute (yawn...) with Amazon.

As for Eric and William Morris I can't wait to see him and Bill Clegg buddying up and becoming one of the greatest double-acts of all time. It will be like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid all over again. Or maybe just Sonny and Cher..

The big big news as well is that HarperCollins have decided to cancel their traditional Sunday Night party at the London Book Fair. Wtf?! That was the uber-party and they had canapes served on mirrors and EVERYTHING. Where will we all go? What will we all do? We could all just meet outside HC's CEO Vicky Barnsley's mansion and throw bound proofs at her window until she agrees to let us in or take us all to McDonalds for a Happy Meal or we could just stay at home and watch Entourage or Free Agents..

Actually I am going to hold an alternative event but as I wouldn't be able to squeeze more than a dozen of you into my flat I am going to choose a big pub somewhere central and you can all buy me a drink to celebrate my entrepreneurial nature. I will be announcing the address on Twitter at 4pm on the big day itself so make sure you stay tuned.

Talking of Twitter I see that some of my American friends got into a bit of trouble last week by posting the worst lines from the slush-pile horrors onto a Twitter profile called Queryfail. I particularly liked "Like my protagonist, I definitely could be described as [an] overachiever, and I naturally have hair like Lady Godiva, and "my book is about a friendship based upon mutual vomiting practices in high school". Lots of authors went mental and started complaining at this unauthorised breach of copyright and it all kicked off. Being American some of them are probably now suing for emotional heartache and claiming Madoff-esque sums from the naughty agents concerned.

Alison Flood's piece in The Guardian about the whole scandal quotes an agent called Marcella Edwards as saying "It's part of the job, being able to laugh at this stuff". Hmm. I would NEVER admit that in public Marcella - obviously I take MY slush-pile very seriously indeed and actually cancelled a dinner date with George Clooney this weekend so I could catch up on my reading. I'm THAT committed.

In fact I have had a bit of a good find recently. I am going to start some editorial work this weekend on a manuscript called 'The Lost Mum' that I have just taken on. It is a devastating memoir written by a well-educated middle-class teenage boy whose comfortable London life is ripped apart forever when he discovers his mum is harbouring a terrible secret that engulfs the family life - she is actually a secret journalist. It turns the author's life upside down until he has to throw his own Mum out of the family home. It brought tears of sadness to my eyes and the last time that happened was when I was watching Lenny Henry trying to be funny on Comic Relief last night.

Anyway, I digress, I am not 100% sure but I also have a gut feeling that my new client was also responsible for that heart-rendingly honest column 'LIVING WITH WRITERS' that used to appear in The Guardian. Time will tell. He has denied it outright to me categorically so I am probably right.

Either way - this is going to be my big book for the LIBF....

Should be a blast.

BOOKS WARM YOUR HEART

2009-03-04T05:51:00.015Z

I was reading a royalty statement the other day (I know – but I have to fill the massive publishing lunch void somehow – and there are times when even I-Player disappoints) and it dawned on me that in the whole sorry financial muddle that we call publishing there is one person who scoops the pool and makes more money than anyone else. I will give you a clue – it is not the author (obviously) and surprisingly it isn’t the publisher – it is the blessed bookshop.

Honestly I can’t see how they can fail to make money – they get leant the books, they only pay for them when they have the customer’s cash in the till and they can demand bigger and bigger discounts. Sounds like a license to print money. So much so that when Mr Cecil finally wakes up to the fact that I am not exactly covering my costs right now (although cutting out 3 lunches a week has helped) maybe I should leave agenting and just set up a bookshop and watch the money pour in. I mean – how hard can it be? I can see myself now in some Cotswold village with a loyal customer base, oodles of author events and a large Labrador called Neilsen who sleeps in the window next to piles of Jilly’s latest tome. Heaven in a basket.

I mused about this new life as I travelled down to see my Mum and Dad in Bristol this weekend. The fridge was empty and the washing basket full and I fancied a publishing free zone for fourty-eight hours so it seemed like a good idea at the time. I updated my Twitter profile en route virtually every time a new gem sprung unbidden into my mind so all my hundreds (not) of followers were able to follow my thought-process from ‘I’m going to scratch my head soon’ through ‘Maybe I will sneeze shortly’ all the way through to ‘I hate all my clients and wish they would all die’. Hopefully my authors will see the supreme irony behind that statement because I can’t find anywhere to retract a Twitter update. Anyone know?

Anyway – Mum picked me up at Bristol Temple Meads and we were heading out of town when we came across a scene straight out of news footage of some war-torn far-flung corner of the empire. A crowd of people appeared to have broken into a huge warehouse and amidst the splintered wood of shelves and detritus they were fighting over the contents of cardboard boxes spilling out their contents. They were dragging boxes out and filling cars and small vans with their spoils. I looked closer and this wasn’t a third-world nation or even New Orleans post Hurricane Katrina – oh no. It was in fact the Book Barn in Bristol which was going out of business and all the stock was up for grabs. Free.

I wandered in, my feet stamping on sensitive little first novels and large illustrated cookbooks by the dozen – here I was quite literally walking across the failed ambitions of thousands of writers - my eyes could barely take in the chaos and mass of ripped up paper and I suddenly felt very protective towards my lovely little authors. One man next to me was filling a sack with random volumes and I made the mistake of asking him how he was making his selection. Was it through word-of-mouth, cover design, the blurb, even maybe the author’s previous work? He looked a bit confused – some might say shocked and muttered , ‘I’m not fussed – I am not choosing them for the WRITING - the paperbacks are great fuel for the wood-burning stove and the hardbacks are great for loft insulation'.

All thoughts of me and Neilsen and MISS DAISY’S BOOKSHOP evaporated into the ether and I ran back to the car, jumped in, wiped my eyes, turned to my mum and asked her if she had read any good books recently.

Come on Mum – don’t let me down.....

THE TWITS

2009-03-03T22:54:00.005Z

I am now officially twittering away if anyone would like to add missdaisyfrost as a friend.

SNOW BUSINESS LIKE THE BOOK BUSINESS

2009-03-03T22:31:00.003Z

Can I just say, snow totally RULES. I'm 'stuck' in my house with a roaring fire, a large glass of wine, curled up on the sofa with a whole host of unwatched telly on Sky+. This is what they call 'working from home'. Result.

Fortunately, the Big Freeze happened this week and not last, so the Costa Book Awards was able to go ahead. 'Fortunately', I hear you say… Maybe it is all that clapping other people's clients /having to pretend to be interested in books that have kept my own clients off the shortlist /not winning anything and therefore getting spectacularly drunk? I managed to combine all three last Tuesday into an experience known at the Costa Book Awards – the Lib Dem alternative to the establishment Booker and the Right-On Orange. And so I strutted into the Ballroom at Park Lane's Intercontinental Hotel, only to realize that I was the only person in a floor length dress and borrowed diamonds. I made up for this by cavorting in front of a massive phalanx of ambivalent paps who took one photo of me by mistake and then all started chatting amongst themselves.

But what of the glittering reception, you ask? Jaw-dropping opulence and awesome canapés? I've got to stop confusing the Costas with the Oscars - there was nothing to eat and I couldn't see Jack Nicholson anywhere. Instead it was the usual lit-pack – Dangerous Dan Franklin, Mr and Mrs Scary Scout, sexy Stephen Page and dearest Liz Thompson, but we could have been at the Droitwitch Rotarians Annual Dinner Dance and Whist Drive. In fact – maybe we actually were?

Nice to see some slebs there making the effort though –especially Penny Smith, who was almost wearing a leopard skin dress and that nice family man Andrew Neil who brought his lovely daughter with him ….

Anyway – we swept into dinner and Mariella welcomed us with speech that I didn't listen to a single word of, mainly because I kept thinking 'that woman has snogged Alex James AND George Clooney, God I love her,' before we settled in to watch lots of little films about the authors, clap / laugh /clap more and then listen to Matthew 'I Love' Paris tell us that out of the all the books published in 2008 they had decided to give the prize to something 'flawed'. Terry Jones lookalike and winner Sebastian Barry was suitably apologetic, but the Faber lot looked WELL thrilled and his agent Derek Johns almost smiled – I mean, I know!

To be honest, had the prize been decided by a good old-fashioned Clapometer that evening, it would have gone to Diana Athill. She twinkled like a naughty granny and we cheered and adored her, virtually just for being old and still able to walk. Seems like a perfect way of deciding on a prize, to be honest, and it cuts out all of that boring reading and debating.

I can actually reveal that I was at the Costas in an undercover capacity on behalf of new annual awards I am thinking of starting. They will probably be called The Daisies – there were other suggestions but, as Chair, I quashed them. We agents are going to present awards that really reflect the true publishing experience – such as Editor Least Likely To Return Calls, Most Vacuous Publicist, Most Blatant Publishing Lie (shortlist includes 'We are saving all our energies for the paperback', 'we all love the cover' and 'the sub is shaping up very well'), Longest Lunch Ever, and the Nightmare Client Of The Year. Should be hell of an evening. All we need now is an appropriate sponsor…..

THE FROST REPORT 2008

2008-12-19T17:27:00.004Z

London, December 2008. I am the only survivor of a nuclear fall-out, the human race has been destroyed. No it hasn't – I'm just in Waterstones and it's emptier than Guy Ritchie's promise not to fleece his ex. You could hear a half-price pin drop into a Buy One Get One Free haystack –even the siren call of celeb autobiographies is falling on deaf ears – I mean, I know! Not interested in the ludicrous wealth of second rate comedians (and temporarily unemployed chat-show host millionaires) anyone? Really? I sense a storm gathering for the year ahead in publishing……….

Jan – Waterstones announces a new Buy 1 Get 3 Free promotion on all its unreturnable signed celebrity stock and Tescos cover-mounts cheese onto a range of paperbacks on the basis that cheese has a longer shelf-life. HarperCollins mentions restructuring.

Feb – Random House announce that they will be bumping the trend by hiring 14 new editors and launching 3 new imprints – 'Stable Door', 'Horse' and 'Bolted'. The latter will concentrate exclusively on fiction, with characters looking for love in a climate of economic downturn – or 'CreditCrunch-Lit' as it becomes known. HarperCollins restructures its restructuring plans.

Mar – The children's publishing world walk to Bologna to beat the 'no flights' ban. Joyously, a riot breaks out when J K Rowling announces a new book, 'Harry Potter and the Economic Downturn' in which Gringots is merged with HBOS, Hogwarts is repossessed and Voldemort comes back from the dead AGAIN as Peter Mandelson, Minister for Business. HarperCollins restructures its first restructure plan into another restructure plan.

Apr – The London Book Fair is scaled down and takes place on the fifth floor of Waterstones Piccadilly. No one notices. A global ban on publishing lunches is announced and Publishers Lunch rebrands as Publishers At Desk With A sandwich. HarperCollins tries to think of another word for restructure.

May – Jonathan Lloyd and Gail Rebuck receive an official warning from the AAA and P.A for blatantly having lunch at the Wolsely. Publishers fall back on self-parody and The Dangerous Book For White Tigers, The Dear Fatty Cookbook and Paul McKenna's You Can Make Me Rich prove instant bestsellers. HarperCollins sets up a restructuring department.

Jun – Tescos acquire a majority interest in Books Etc and start food/book themed sections – Roald Dahl is shelved with chocolate, Ian McEwan with Viagra and Kerry Katona with Pot Noodle. HarperCollins closes down its restructuring department whilst restructuring another one.

July – In order to provide low-cost housing from renewable energy sources for redundant authors/editors and agents, the The Society Of Authors constructs rudimentary dwellings out of remaindered copies of the Jonathan Ross and Lorraine Kelly autobiographies. HarperCollins appoints a Head Of Restructuring to formulate a Restructuring legacy Strategy.

Aug – Publishing takes its cue from parliament and shuts down for the whole month. No one notices. Apart from David Miller who has to make his own fun for once. HarperCollins says it will think about its restructure plan whilst on holiday.

Sep – In a spirit of Back-to-school optimism, Clare Christian and Scott Peck reform to create The Friday Afternoon Project, announcing ambitious plans to produce an annual 26-volume index to the Internet. HarperCollins takes a break from restructuring.

Oct – Frankfurt Book Fair. Meeting slots are reduced from 30 minutes to 10 minutes, creating a literary speed-dating event. An optimistic Mark Smith is complimented on his GSOH when overheard saying 'We are having a great year here at Quercus'. HarperCollins mentions possibly reimagining its restructuring plans.

Nov – The Crunch continues - as part of continued downsizing 4th estate becomes 3rd estate, Headline becomes Footnote, Fig Tree becomes Fig Leaf and Louise Moore becomes Louise Less. HarperCollins announces no plans to restructure.

Dec – Rumours that an agent has sold a debut novel prove unfounded. HarperCollins restructures. I'm right – you know it.

BAD SEX

2008-12-19T17:25:00.003Z

Love is a wonderful thing—especially when it’s naked and with someone cute. In most instances, I am liberal and uninhibited—until I find myself reading a sex scene written by one of my authors. I am then forced to read through the fingers of one hand clamped firmly over my eyes, much like my mother does when she’s watching any kind of amorous content on TV—Karl kissing Susan on "Neighbours", for example.

I was once introduced to Ian McEwan just after reading On Chesil Beach. The build-up was bigger than the event itself (oi oi!). In fact, it was all over rather quickly (steady on!). But when it’s one of your own clients—when you’ve had tea with a nice middle-aged man who looks like your favourite uncle and who slips you a manuscript (I said MANUSCRIPT) that features people doing something disgraceful, it makes you realise they must have some knowledge of sex, like your mum and dad, which is enough to make you want to hide under your bed FOREVER. It makes things very hard to swallow (don’t be

disgusting!).

So with great reluctance I allowed myself to be dragged off as a guest of Orion’s Silver Fox to the Spectator’s Bad Sex Awards held at the In and Out Club (cheeky!). I was expecting strippers and nakedness but it turned out to be rather smart. At one point I thought I’d spotted Peter Stringfellow, but it turned out to be Anthony Grayling.

The usual suspects were also present—Toby Young, Kathy Lette, John Walsh and Ed Victor. Do Ed or Kathy actually have homes to go to or do they just wander perpetually from party to party in some sort of canapé-and-white-wine purgatory? The place was heaving with grinning public schoolboy types. I tried to flirt with Alastair Campbell, but kept over-spinning my chat-up lines, so looked in vain for shortlisted author Paulo Coelho instead. Although he wasn’t there in person, I’m sure he was very much there in spirit.

As the evening built to a shuddering climax I found myself standing next to Kathy (who is to self-effacement what the Duke of Edinburgh is to diplomacy). She received the news that Boris’ sister Rachel was this year’s Queen of Bad Sex with a mix of disappointment and relief. She says she is writing a musical with her BFF Kylie next year. Tentative title is no doubt Down Under.

Next was Toby Munday’s party to celebrate his acquisition of three kiddie novels by Kimberley Quinn. Kim, as I now call her, told me over a Slippery Nipple that "the most important readers in the world are children. What they absorb today is the foundation of everyone’s future". Given the fact the book is called The Queen Must Die, I’m not sure what she intends for the future of our nation. I did slyly ask whether Atlantic would be producing a Braille edition too, but as she was about to reply we were distracted by the arrival of Ed Victor, Toby Young and . . . Kathy Lette.

I suddenly felt tired, so went home for a bit of Sunday night telly. Nothing like watching a load of cockroaches crawling up Timmy Mallett’s pants to put a smile back on a girl’s face.

DAISY IN PONDERLAND

2008-11-29T16:30:00.003Z

I have had one of those weeks when the past has come back to haunt me.

I know it's a bit tacky, but I do have a 'previous record' with Russell B, as I think I may have mentioned. Hay on Wye is not the place one expects this kind of incident to take place, let alone in a field and I can only put it down to a distressed state of mind and severe confusion because camping is not something that brings out the best in me. Suffice to say that the launch of his Booky Wook did make me slightly nervous, but Russ didn't let me down and kept his hairy gob shut (a first) about the incident. My mother would have been absolutely furious - even with her theatrical past she would not have approved of my entanglement (quite literally) with anyone who looks like a toffee that's been dropped on the carpet. Having said all that, I do think fondly of that night – he is terribly handsome under all that fur and has an excellent and extensive knowledge of the English language, amongst other noticeable attributes…

So back to business – you may remember that Frankfurt scored a 10/10 for total disaster and I handled it with what I feel was a considered and mature response – I went crying to my Mum, who laughed, gave me a stiff drink and ignored everything I said for the whole 48 hours I was at home. As I sat, sobbing, 'Goodbye forever, book world sods' in front of the news coverage of the Man Booker prize, she just turned to me holding a bottle of wine and said, 'Top up, darling?'

But it's Christmas soon and I'm starting to come round to you book lot again. The party season, you ask? The presents from clients? No – it's the thought of hearing publishers finding different ways of justifying sluggish sales of their particular million-pound celebrity gamble: 'December is going to be very late this year' / 'She hasn't been on the cover of Heat for at least two weeks because of that wretch Katona, no wonder she's out of the public consciousness' – and my own take: 'If Jesus Christ spent the rest of his life trying to knock up a miracle for this one, it'd still be in trouble'.

A terrible thought did strike me the other day, as I eyed up the piles of O'Grady, Carr, French, Hammond, Fern and Walters in Borders - what happens if we have quite literally used up our entire supply of celebrities and there are none to fall back on next year? Is there in fact a celebrity crunch? Maybe the government will have to intervene, nationalize celebrities and lower self-interest rates? Will Tess Daly have to be merged with Claudia Winkleman? The mind boggles. If not there is a real danger next year we might have to publish some real books instead. Real books? Yikes.

However, there is one book we ALL want for next year – Andrew Sach's autobiography, tentatively titled A Manuel For All Seasons. Andrew is surely set to become a major celebrity and rejuvenated comic talent all over again. If he gets it right he will be on a staple diet of Strictly, Jungle, Dictionary Corner and Millionaire before you can say, 'Que?'. In fact maybe he engineered this whole sorry affair?

As you can imagine, I've been desperately trying to get hold of him, but weirdly his machine hasn't been picking up. I got back from work on Friday and switched on Russ raving about God knows what on Ponderland – suddenly my blackberry buzzed with a message from my father and he sounded quite angry. 'Darling - I'm a bit confused', he says, 'We have just come home and there are 5 messages from a man called Russell and a man called Ross and we don't understand what they're saying – something about you, this Russell fellow and a punctured airbed? What is he talking about? Please call soonest'

Yikes – does anyone have Max Clifford's number?

FRANKFURT SPECIAL

2008-10-16T17:37:00.013+01:00

T.S.Eliot (or was it Amy Winehouse?) once said 'I have measured out my life with coffee spoons' but like the rest of the publishing community I have measured out my life in Frankfurt Book Fairs. Well, I say that, but I've actually only ever been twice – the same is not true of old cobweb features, Edward Cecil, my boss, who has been coming to the fair since the 1850s. In those days it took almost six days to get there, trekking across Europe with a team of horses, (changed on every second day) your own body-weight in parchment paper, secretaries from the poor houses, wigs, quills and ale for sustenance. Now of course you can get to Frankfurt in less time than it took Edward to show Florence just how much he fancied her in 'On Chesil Beach'. Or so I thought.

I am a very considered packer and like to only take the essentials - laptop, iPod, iPod charger, ear-plugs, hair-straighteners, the latest series of Entourage on DVD, Agent Provocateur underwear (in case there is language breakdown and I become desperate – OK not really) and a cocktail shaker. I book my taxi for a punishing 4.30am start and then head off early to bed to dream of six-figure deals, hilariously pointless meetings with moustachioed publishers about books called 'Santa Has Feelings Too' and karaoke with Sonny Mehta and Larry Finlay. Vegas, here I come – no, God, I mean Frankfurt.

Thankfully the journey started brilliantly - limo to London City Airport, fast tracked through check-in, golf-carted out to a gleaming private jet 'The Blue Door', glass of champagne in hand as I reached the top of the steps and a kiss on the cheek from my hosts – the glorious-but-could-be-terrifying Anne Louise Fisher and the adorable Patrick Janson-Smith. Definitely a more appropriate way for a business-woman, such as myself to travel – I've never been good with queues/baggage reclaim/Stansted Airport or other such disagreeable things. So as I sipped the Dom Perignon (vintage, of course) and settled back into the calf-skin leather recliners, wondering if it was possible to get a massage, I contemplated the day ahead - power breakfast, 14 meetings before lunch /18 afterwards, 3 cocktail parties, a dinner at Mikey Rosen's Bristol Bar and then carousing till the early hours with Lord Byng of Hype, Nick Cave and the Canongate crew in a disused prison-turned-nightclub somewhere near the autobahn. I nodded off to sleep just as Patrick started to croon 'Come Fly With Me' to Anne Louise's pitch-perfect piano accompaniment. Zzzzzzz

When I woke up, I stretched, lazily pushed up my eye mask and looked out of the window with eager anticipation of a journey almost completed, but then I noticed something very strange – instead of that glorious overcast view of a Frankfurt from the air with the Metropolis-like skyscrapers stabbing urgently through the smog all I could see was two twelve year olds in hoodies smoking fags and Mariella Frostrup riding a bike with her children strapped on the back…..OH. MY. GOD….I suddenly realised I wasn't in Frankfurt at all but in my flat in Notting Hill, my total bastard of a Bookseller alarm-clock had failed to go off, it was now 9.30a.m and my phone was ringing. 'Meezes Dina Furst? - zees izz Hans Knees from Boompsadaisy Verlag. I em et zee Hessischer Hof Hotel fur oor breakfast – hev I got zee time wrong? I hung up and ran screaming into the shower.

I admit it - I have occasionally turned up at the wrong restaurant for lunch, but I've never been in the wrong country for breakfast. I started to collate a number of excuses: 'I broke my leg in the night and can't walk / I thought this day of the week had been scrapped in a government legislation to save money for the banks / I am in Frankfurt, but I've just lot a lot of weight and some people find it hard to actually see me'.

T. S Eliot (or was it Victoria Beckham) famously said it was 'the journey and not the arrival that matters', yet somehow I don't imagine the author of 'The Four Quartets' ever found himself standing in the rain in Notting Hill at 9.47am, with dripping wet hair, a hastily-packed bag a and a migraine whilst trying to hail a cab and knowing that he should have been in Frankfurt half an hour ago. Forget April, Tom - October is truly the cruellest month.

As the taxi driver, who was as talkative as Peter Straus with a hangover, took me grumpily towards Gatwick (which is about as much a 'London airport' as Jordan is a 'novelist') I frantically texted all my morning appointments at Frankfurt with a variety of excuses - 'I am delayed at the 'Berteslman Honours Daisy Frost' Breakfast' / 'one of my auctions is so heated I can't leave my hotel room just yet' / 'I am hiding from that man from the bar last night'. I only felt slightly confident some or all of these would do the trick and so rang my assistant Chloe, the world's laziest human being, screaming 'FLIGHT! FLIGHT! FRANKFURT! NOT THERE! ACHTUNG!' Needless to say she wasn't at work yet – I mean, if this stress continues and I end up looking old before my time like Dannii Minogue, I'm sending her the botox bills.

Heavens knows what delights I am missing at the Buchmesse, probably Saint Christopher (Little) auctioning J K Rowling's breath, but judging by the increasingly angry email messages coming through on the Blackberry from my boss Edward Cecil it sounds, pleasingly, like my absence is causing some annoyance – yay! EVERYONE is keen to read my last-minute hot-book 'How To Eat The Credit Crunch' by Dawn French's nutritionist, but my series of lifestyle guides with the supermarket chain Iceland have, alas, turned out to be a damp-squib. I am gutted too that I will be missing the lunch for this year's Frankfurt Guest of Honour, Iceland (the country not the supermarket – OK now I'm getting confused) but I imagine they will be about as welcome as Amazon at Tim Hely-Hutchinson's Hachette soiree. Bread (dry), water (lukewarm) and pie (humble) doesn't sound like a great lunch to be honest - although the last time I went to Frankfurt I had to survive on a diet of plasticky sausages in an e-number laced bap with a daub of mustard so maybe humble pie would be an improvement.

I finally made it to Gatwick by late morning and ran to the Easyjet check-in desk where a member of staff, who was the spitting image of Amanda Ross, sat reading a copy of 'How To Lose Friends And Alienate people' ignoring me and the other hundred people in the queue. After I forcibly removed the book and, staring her straight in the eye told her in no uncertain terms I was very stressed, very late for another country, very intolerant of bad manners and very ready to lose friends and alienate people by using the spine of the book to kill her with a single blow to the temple if she didn't hurry up and check me in. She looked up at me with the sort of look the Royal Society Of Literature receptionist might give Jordan, fiddled around on her computer and told me that there was no record of any reservation at all. She might as well have said 'Computer says no.'

'That is it, start packing your bags, I want to see your manager, you are SO FIRED!' I roared. At that moment, my phone beeped with a text from Chloe: 'Hope the journey to Stanstead was okay. Please call Edward on arrival - he sounded angry'.

Stanstead? Right. Taxi!

I must say, I find the word 'angry' very inadequate at times. 'Angry' might as well be a meadow full of fluffy bunnies and ickle fairies having a cupcake party because it doesn't really do justice to what I have been experiencing of late. Let me run you through my week so far:

1/ miss flight to Frankfurt

2/ therefore miss several important meetings / piss off boss as result

3/ get cab to Gatwick airport –takes same times as it would to just walk to Germany.

4/ scream at Neanderthal creature at check in who says I don't have flight booked

5/ actually threaten her with death

6/ only to be told by Forrest Gump (my assistant Chloe) that she has booked me on a flight from Stansted

7/ have to apologize to NC at check in – and run away before security arrives

8/ then remember have no idea where Stansted is can't get hold of Chloe to ask – she is probably too busy speaking to a human rights lawyer about me have a tantrum so massive that am sure I can hear someone making a phone call to Supernanny.

I finally got back to central London by train (I mean, I know) and just stood outside Victoria Station with tourists and commuters disgorging onto the platform around me, the Evening Standard billboards shouting of job cuts, recession, credit crunch and meltdown - even the Big Issue sellers were looking nervous. I never wanted any of this, this was never my plan.

When I was little, my greatest ambition was to be on the Muppet show. Where did it all go wrong? My Blackberry buzzed again – Chloe said she had secured a third flight and that if I legged it RIGHT NOW to somewhere called Luton then I could just make check-in and get to Frankfurt in time for the Hamburg Book Guild and Readers Digest Condensed Books Fork Supper and Oompah Jamboree at 6pm – followed by dinner with our Korean sub-agent. "Ok, Ok, it's 1.30 now, what time is the flight?' '1.55' she said, with ebbing confidence –'Oh and that novel you love has been turned down by six publishers this morning, thought you should know that.

Like I said – 'angry' – stupid, pointless word. So then I did something unprecedented - I switched my Blackberry off (didn't actually know it had an off switch but apparently it does, quite exciting) and hurled it in my bag. I would rather eat my own eyes than schlepp all the way to Germany to take part in a game of 'Let's pretend'. Namely – 'let's pretend we are all one big happy publishing family', 'let's pretend we think all our books are breath-taking' and 'let's pretend that we are not teetering on the brink of a recession'. Frankfurt could do without Miss Daisy Frost this year – maybe forever.

It's time for me to turn my back on publishing, I thought – I am going to commit the rest of my life to worthy causes, I'm going to go to India and work in the slums with children who can only afford to eat dust. First, I'm going to go to my mum's. Then Calcutta.

Nine hours later, fed, watered, freshly laundered and daydreaming about being surrounded by cheering orphan children as we got hilariously sprayed with water by the trunk of an elephant, my mum switched on the News At Ten as they crossed over live to the Guildhall for the announcement of the Man Booker winner.

As Aravind stood at the podium, newly anointed and enriched, I sat there with total indifference to the whole stupid publishing world. It all seemed so very far behind already. And then I remembered something – Aravind didn't have an agent. Aravind - his £50,000 cheque and imminent surge in book sales had no one to look out for him....

Gosh.

NOW WHERE THE HELL WAS MY BLACKBERRY??