In Memoriam: Jeremy Lewis

I was deeply saddened to hear of the death of Jeremy Lewis, publisher, journalist and biographer. Jeremy was a familiar and welcoming sight on the literary circuit: at launch parties he would hove cheerily into view, canapé in the act of being eaten in one hand, second or third glass of wine in the other, anecdote at the ready.

I knew him from my time at Literary Review, when he would come into the office on occasion as our Editor-at-Large, invariably wearing his blue corduroy jacket; once he appeared rather dazzlingly in a very smart seersucker. If ever the phone rang (which, at Literary Review, was not very often) he would leap up, alarmed, and look round for assistance, to a cry of "Help!" This would extend to computers, which he regarded with mild horror: he would refer to the Microsoft Office icon as "the Henry Moore sculpture."

 He would indicate his approval of a submission with a "rather good, I thought"; his disapproval was shown with a hand to the mouth, in imitation of a yawn, and a waggling of his immense eyebrows. He was an acute observer, picking up the tiniest details of dress or habit, which made his work involving and vivid; he was a brilliant raconteur, and would hold us all mesmerised with his accounts of increasingly absurd adventures in which he, invariably and self-deprecatingly, was the butt.

Even in 2005, when I began at the magazine, he mourned the passing of the old way of publishing life: the long lunches and the bibulous evenings. Though we still managed the odd roustabout, it felt as if we were at the end of a span of time that would never be imitated. No longer would publishers tumble out of darkened restaurants at 4pm, hilarious with wine and good writing: what he called the "Perrier" world had already taken over.

Jeremy was always very kind to younger writers, offering advice and cheery goodwill: his writing was warm, humorous and tinged with a clear-sighted knowledge of human folly. We all loved him in the office, and I will miss his presence hugely.

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Return of the Party Season: Cressida Connolly and Global Party

Cressida Connolly: prams in hall make good novels

August has mooched past in its far-from-augustan way, in its now customary widow's weeds. But now September approaches, and brings with it a bumper harvest of parties, starting with the launch of Cressida Connolly's first novel, My Former Heart. It's a lovely book (I'm currently only halfway through, but a review will poke its nose out soon) and has already been receiving lots of acclaim. Her husband Charles mentioned Cyril Connolly's famous maxim about prams in the hall being enemies of art, and said that this was a book which couldn't have happened without prams in the hall - three, in fact (and all three pram-products were visible: the lovely Hudson sisters Violet and Nell, and their brother Gabriel, although none of them spent very much time in the hall.) Plenty of literary people thronged the Chelsea confines, including Wyatt biographer Nicola Shulman, Literary Review's beloved editor-at-large Jeremy Lewis, (who has himself written a biography of Cyril Connolly, and was sporting this season's must-have green trousers, as noted before), and much-loved Literary Review Contributing Editor, explorer Sara Wheeler. I was wearing black tie, and was luckily not mistaken for a waiter (very much).

Lee from Blue

The reason I was penguined up was that it was then off to the Natural History Museum for the launch of Global Party, which will see 80 parties around the world celebrated on the same day in aid of several charities. The beginning was a little like the sort of psychedelic Sixties dream that you see in The Avengers sometimes, where there are lots of flashing lights and you're not really sure who you are or where you're going or indeed what you are doing in the Natural History Museum being corralled up an escalator into a womb-like structure whilst a man (in top hat and tails) shouts at you: "This is going to change your life!" I suppose we must have experienced some sort of rebirth as we came out of the escalator, for there waiting for us were a Glee tribute band who yelled "you all look wonderful!" as we went past. Herded, like well-dressed cattle, we were pressed with drinks and led past lots and lots of thin Russian girls waiting demurely in a line to have their photographs taken – they all turned out to be models. I wonder if you can rent them by the foot? How much is a foot of models? There was about ten foot worth there, and they were all about as tall as two John Bercows, or if it helps you to imagine it better, about a third of the length of Brutus the monster crocodile, with whom they certainly shared a smile.

Somehow, a little disorientated but much refreshed by champagne, we came out of the miles and miles of corridors (where I did see a dodo, which was possibly the best thing that ever happened to me, although of course it was dead. I feel that there ought to be some serious consideration of redirection of funds into reviving the dodo, because I feel that the world would be a much better place if only we had them wandering around. They could become quite a feature – "have you seen the Psmiths recently? Their new dodo's just laid, they'll save you an egg if you like." And then we could all discuss the problems of dodo training, and how difficult it is to find dodo sitters, and so on. Anyway. So there we all were, minding our own business, in an enormous hall underneath a dinosaur. There was some confusion over where we were meeting, as some of our party thought that the head of the dinosaur was in fact its tail, but nevertheless we managed to find each other. There was plenty of food, although it was very difficult to see, as the light was red; therefore one had to be very careful when eating as if you weren't lucky you might find yourself chomping down on sashimi when you were convinced you'd picked up a plate of lamb. There was a cocktail that tasted like alcoholic lemonade. Several proud-looking Indian women wandered absently through the throng; the crocodile of models wound its way around; I think Bryan Ferry played at some point although it was difficult to hear. Also there was a dinosaur in the way, and I don't know if you've ever tried to watch a concert through a dinosaur, but – well. It was all thoroughly enjoyable, and we were even given a goody bag, which contained not cake and marbles, but a compact disc and a short film about a hotel. Possibly the highlight of the evening (apart from the dodo, of course) was when we spotted Duncan - no, sorry, Lee, from dodo-like boyband Blue – or are they still together? – who looked rather sweet, and much smaller in real life, naturally, which, if you think about how small he looks on TV, is actually quite small. Also I thought I saw Naomi Campbell but it turned out it wasn't, although apparently Katie Melua was there too, although since I don't know who she is, I wouldn't have recognised her if I had poured my alcoholic lemonade all over her. Right, I must go, the dodo needs feeding.

Literary Review Summer Party: Flowers and Green Trousers

This is not Jeremy Lewis

Last night brought the Literary Review Summer Party, which took place in the elegant confines of the Academy Club, a refuge from the sweltering heat. A full complement of dashing editorial staff was present at the beano, including explorer Sara Wheeler who was wearing a garland of flowers as if she were the goddess of summer itself; Jeremy Lewis, our beloved Editor at Large, was wearing this seasons must-haves - electric green trousers, or 'candy pants' as I believe they are known to the fashion world. Henry Conway himself could not have chosen better. Also present were biographer Jane Ridley, historian Michael Burleigh with his wife Linden; Harry Mount, Suzi Feay, political columnist Joan Smith and David Cesarani, amongst others. A  flowering of literary talent fit to adorn the heads of explorers the world over.

Take a gander at this month's Literary Review - Mervyn Peake is on the cover, and there are the usual round of intelligent, witty and quirky pieces (including a lovely one about deer parks.)