Launch party for The Double Axe

Here are some pictures from last night's party at Daunts Chelsea, in Tatler.

Launch party for THE KING'S SHADOW

What ho! Here are some ace pics from the party last night, at Daunt Books, Chelsea. Find them on the Tatler website.

Launch of Dan Jones' The Hollow Crown

Dan Jones: Moody

Evenin' all! Despite the fact that it seems like no time at all since his last book, last night I went to the launch of Dan Jones' new historical tome, The Hollow Crown, at the Rook and Raven Gallery near Tottenham Court Road. It was very hot. As these photographs on the Tatler website will attest. Obviously, both Anna Friel and Heston Blumenthal were in attendance. I wonder if I missed the canapés because they were all shaped like something else? Oh well.

Launch party for The Broken King

So last night was the launch for my new book, THE BROKEN KING. Tatler have very speedily put up pictures already, which you can see here.

Launch party for Raffaella Barker's From A Distance

Barker: literary lightness

Last night Raffaella Barker launched her new novel, From a Distance, at London’s book launch venue extraordinaire (Daunts Marylebone.) There were Barkers aplenty, including Raffaella’s mother, Elspeth Barker, with whom I talked about the Roman poets. Her editor spoke about how she’d known Raff since she was a girl of fourteen, dressed in Victorian clothes in a vicarage; and how her wonderful first novel, Come and Tell Me Some Lies, followed on very soon after that. This, she said, is a novel for a hammock on a sunny afternoon, both light and literary.

Launch party for Constantine Phipps' What You Want

Phipps, with wife Nicola Shulman

Last night Chelsea was simply heaving with literary types, for it was the launch of Constantine Phipps' third novel, What You Want, an epic poem about life, the universe & everything. I've reviewed it for The Spectator: the piece will appear soon.

It was a roisterous, champagne-filled, wonderful party, with guests spilling out into the garden, chattering and laughing and having the ballest of balls. 
 

Costa Book Awards: Party! Winner! Coffee! Champagne!

Last night the streets of St James' filled with carousings and calloocallays, for it was the night of the Costa Book Awards. The prize has been going for over forty years, and continues to shine lights on good books.

I was a judge on the Costa Children's Book Award this year, and took great pleasure in deciding the shortlist: Sarah Naughton's creepily excellent The Hanged Man Rises; Ross Montgomery's hilarious romp Alex, The Dog and the Unopenable Door; Chris Riddell's clever, charming Goth Girl and the Ghost of a Mouse; and Elizabeth Wein's moving Second World War saga, Rose Under Fire.

Champagne fizzed, canapés flowed (well, there were lots of canapés) and we were treated to mini-videos of all the authors who'd won their categories and were now up for The Big One, as it's known in the biz. There were lots of scenes of authors coming in and out of doors, and sitting down, and holding pens and looking moody, which, as an author, I can say is certainly what I spend a lot of time doing, particularly the latter two. (In fact I am absolutely sure that I'm sitting down, right at this very moment.)

Lucy Hughes-Hallett was interesting about her repellant subject, Gabriele D'Annunzio, the womanising poet-prince who "told the Nazis how to be Nazis." We also got a glimpse of Chris Riddell's writing shed,  amongst other things. Poet Michael Simmons Roberts, who'd won the poetry category with his collection Drysalter, talked about his method: writing 15 lines - an almost sonnet - was enough for him. No rhyming couplets for Mr Simmons Roberts. Kate Atkinson said that whilst the premise of her novel, Life After Life, in which a woman, er, keeps living and dying all over again, each time subtly different, "annoyed" some readers; but her pleasure in it was enough to confound them.

Guests included the tv presenter Anneka Rice, whose programme, Challenge Anneka, I have fond memories of; novelists Amanda Craig & Raffaella Barker; writer Polly Samson and her husband, Pink Floyd member David Gilmour. I also spotted the actress Natascha McElhone looking all cheekbony and svelte. McCheekbone?

I will confess that I thought Lucy Hughes-Hallett was going to win it, hands bang down, but Nathan Filer got the gong (wearing a bright yellow tie) for his first novel, The Shock of the Fall, which draws on his experiences as a mental-health worker. It's a big trumpet for a debut, and I hope he goes on to great things.

Now, back to the coffee martinis.

vPPR Ott's Yard launch

Tatiana and Brigid von Preussen

Greetings, from rainy London. I went to the launch of hip young architecture firm vPPR's new residential buildings in North London. Their website is here, and you can check out some pictures from the party on the Tatler website here. It was fun, and the buildings are beautiful - shaped like triangles, as was a lot of the food. 

Launch of Philipp Meyer's The Son

To Soho, last night, in the heat, for olives, peanuts, rosé, and also for the launch of Philipp Meyer's The Son, a book that has been garnering impressive reviews in America and Australia. Meyer apparently spent years researching this sprawling Texan family drama, including going on tracking courses. Which is pretty cool. The book's definitely one to look out for. As I left, Meyer appeared to be practically drowning under female attention - those tracking courses must have paid off. Sometimes I wish that my novels required more research than, er, sitting on the sofa.

Home Fires by Elizabeth Day: Party

Miss Elizabeth Day

To Lincoln's Inn Fields, for the launch of Elizabeth Day's novel, Home Fires - her second, and a lovely, moving read it is too. The party took place in an officer's mess - perhaps in homage to the military theme, Elizabeth Day was in a striking red dress - and was attended by various literary types (I got told off for having a copy of Wuthering Heights in my pocket, and the London Review of Books in the other), including biographer Andrew Lycett, and novelist Sadie Jones; also present was Molly Oldfield, whose book, The Secret Museum, is hotting up displays all over London.

Home Fires looks at grief and loss: it starts with the burial of the Unknown Soldier, seen from a little girl's perspective. It's written with great clarity and intelligence, and I suggest that you go out and buy it - although as Elizabeth herself said, "it's not a beach read." Go! Buy!

Paper Aeroplanes by Dawn O'Porter: Pink Party

Head pupils: O'Dowd and O'Porter

To the basement of an art gallery in trendy London's trendy East trendy London (is that enough trendies?). The walls were white, and ready to be graffitied, for it was the launch of Dawn O'Porter's teen novel, Paper Aeroplanes, which is set in the 90s. 1994 was the year of my musical awakening, so I was mightily pleased to hear Greenday's Dookie on the soundtrack; accompanied by Wotsits, Wham bars and rosé champagne we all got down to merrily defacing the wall with felt tip pens. I kept fearing that the headmaster would walk round the corner and bust me (my inner goodie goodie) so wrote some Catullus; alas such was the exuberance of the night that I got it slightly wrong, which I suppose is what a graffiti artist would do anyway. It was pleasing to see so many Romani eunt domuses, though.

Also eating Wotsits was O'Porter's husband, Chris O'Dowd, proudly sporting a Head Boy badge. The singer Kate Nash was present, looking remarkably gothic; the tv presenter Cherry Healey, wearing some very large glasses; Derren Brown's boyfriend, who allegedly drew a penis on the wall and then left.

The book comes out in May: it's a touching, truthful tale of becoming a teenage girl. There was a copy of Cosmopolitan and a tampon in the goody bag. Not quite my target market, but I'm sure there will be loads of girls out there who'll find much to enjoy. Now, excuse me, I've got to meet someone behind the bike shed. Someone's selling Wotsits on the cheap.

How to be Danish by Patrick Kingsley: Meatballs and jumpers

A famous Dane

"The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,
Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels;
And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his pledge." (Hamlet)

 To Elsinore! I cried to my squire as he saddled up my raging steed. The sledded Polacks were attacking, and it was time to do some smiting... Well, maybe not quite. To the Danish Embassy! I cried, rather grandly, to my cabbie, who said he thought it was somewhere near Harrods, which it was. Of course I am not always popping in and out of embassies - I was there for a reason, which was to celebrate the launch of Patrick Kingsley's book, How to be Danish.

He wrote it having wept after seeing the first episode of The Killing, and was soon drawn into the friendly, social democratic world that is Denmark, where knitted jumpers are fashionable, and judges earn two and a half times what a cleaner does. Everybody gets a chance to chill out in their teens, and they are the happiest people in the world. Or are they? These were the questions delved into as Patrick chatted to journalist Jenni Russell, and fielded by the ambassador, Anne Hedensted Steffensen, who greeted us warmly (though not wearing a jumper) as we entered the ambassadorial residence, which combined quite severe style with some odd little quirks. The Danes, suggested Patrick, became much more community based after their empire collapsed, and they realised that the only people they ruled were themselves. A lesson for Britain?

It's not all good, though; the Danes have their own problems of social cohesion and immigration, but they certainly make good meatballs, and a pretty marvellous soup, at the bottom of which lurks something that looks a bit grisly but turns out to be another sort of meatball. I must confess that I have never seen The Killing, or any Danish drama; but having spent a couple of hours on Danish soil, I shall certainly seek them out, and look to Patrick's book as an excellent guide. Although, as I left, I did hope for a little bit - just a tiny bit - more wassailing.

Jubilee Party Photobooth at Tatler Party

Freya Wood and PW

I went to the Tatler Jubilee party - there are some fun pictures up of what went on in the photobooth here on their website.

The Plantagenets by Dan Jones: Book Launch

Dan Jones: Game of Thrones

To one of London's hidden delights, the St John Museum in Clerkenwell, for the launch of Dan Jones' new book, The Plantagenets. The room was vast and airy, stained glass windows catching the late sunlight, and gilded with armorial bearings. Below the room was the museum, which detailed the fascinating history of the Order of St John, from almost a thousand years ago to its work across the globe today. An appropriate place, then, for a launch of a book that discusses one of England's most important dynasties. It's like Game of Thrones, but real, said the editor. Game of Jones?

Many historians were present, including Ben Wilson, who now has a beard; also the actor Tom Hiddleston, who is much, much taller in real life than he is on film. Does that make sense? I didn't pluck up the courage to go and talk to him, though, alas. The politician Kwasi Kwarteng was there - he said that he'd read the book in six hours straight. That's how good it is. Also present was Richard Godwin, the Evening Standard columnist and noted bon vivant whom I bump into more than anybody else in the world. Much fun was had by all, and I even went to the St John restaurant afterwards and feasted, mediaevally, on bone marrow. Yum.

Bloomsbury Circus: Launch

Will Davis: Author - and aerobatical genius

To Brick Lane, for the launch of a new imprint from Bloomsbury. Editor Alexandra Pringle looked down upon a massy crowd of literary people (including novelists Amanda Craig, Michael Arditti and Lucy Beresford; short story writer Polly Samson; assorted literary editors, journos, publishers, and other types) as clowns, trapeze artists and sundry performers cavorted. The new imprint is a first for Bloomsbury (who published my own two books): and, rather conveniently, one of the new tomes they're publishing under the name is by the excellent Will Davis - who happens to be a brilliant trapeze artist. He stunned the audience with his aerobatic display on silks, tumbling up and down them with grace, agility and speed, drawing gasps of admiration and awe  as he slid about in a breath-taking and daring show. Did I mention he's also written a book? (More than one, actually.)

What was also cheering was that Alexandra Pringle stressed the importance of the midlist - "We love the midlist," she said - it's where they grow authors and look for future prizewinners. She also said that they loved physical books - the new imprint will publish fine editions (with what are called French flaps. Don't ask me.) Their new  colophon is the Bloomsbury Diana swinging in a half-crescent moon. I look forward to seeing many fresh and new talents emerging under its sign.

We were fed, deliciously and appropriately, on burgers and hot dogs. Amongst the guests I spotted Tracey Emin. I wonder what she was doing there? Poet Adam O'Riordan was present and correct, whose novel has been bought by Bloomsbury; alas, none of us could be persuaded to do a handstand, or even a forward roll. Will Davis has set the bar high (quite literally high) for us authors. As if it's not enough for us all to be blogging, twittering, presenting, festivalling and all the rest, we must now all learn a useful circus skill. Anna Stothard and I are going to start a knife throwing team for our next book launches. Failing that, I'll learn how to catch bullets between my teeth.

Launch of Hot Key, and Notting Hill Editions

A brace of bumptious literary parties last night: the first, in Clerkenwell, for a new children's imprint that will publish books for children and young adults. It is helmed by Sarah Odedina (who was my first editor at Bloomsbury), and looks set to publish its first book later next year, which I look forward to very much indeed. Lots of little mince pies and bucketfulls of champagne made a  merry evening in their snazzy, white-painted and wood-floored offices. I spotted The Fool's Girl author Celia Rees, who's got a new, modern-day novel coming out soon, as well as I, Coriander writer Sally Gardner. The place was thrumming with agents and authors as I left, so it all looks set for a rocket-fuelled lift off - very best of luck to Hot Key.

Then onto the Hammersmith and City line (not one of my favourite lines, I must admit, although it was behaving properly last night) to the other end of town, for a party celebrating Notting Hill Editions' new series of essays. It took place in the Idler Academy, which was packed to the brim with literary types and lots of cakes (including a rather delicious ginger biscuit) and, of course, champagne. Latinist Harry Mount (who teaches at the Academy) was there; as was the author of The Kit-Kat Club, Ophelia Field, and erstwhile Cheap Date editor, Kira Jolliffe, as well as bags more. NHE's new selection of handsomely bound essays includes Adam Mars-Jones, neuroscientist Susan Greenfield, and Simon Heffer, as well as Osip Mandelstam and Stanley and Munro Price. They combine intellectual curiosity and power with - well, looking nice on your coffee table. And there aren't many things that can do that. The box set makes a lovely present, too.

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.

A Dashing Duo of Literary Delights: The Desmond Elliott First novel, and The Times Literary Supplement Summer Party

You wait all day for a literary party, and then three come along at once. Last night was positively abounding with them: I only managed to go to two, which is extremely unlike me I know, but you have to draw the line somewhere. The first was the Desmond Elliott First novel award. There was a strong shortlist, including Ned Beauman's Boxer, Beetle; (the longlist had on it both Jonathan Lee's Who is Mr Satoshi? and Leo Benedictus' The Afterparty); the gong was gonged to Anjali Joseph's Saraswati Park, which I haven't read yet, but now most certainly intend to. Edward Stourton was the gonger.  The party was in Fortnum and Masons, which meant the best sausages and mash and excellent champagne, whilst young literary types (including Jonathan Lee, and the dashing brace of Literary Review editors, Tom Fleming and Jonathan Beckman) quaffed ale (well, champagne) and I wish I could have stayed longer but I couldn't because...

... then it was a dash up the dashing Jubilee line to the imposing house of Peter Stothard for the TLS Summer Party. It was in an enormous marquee which covered the back garden. I spotted Ferdinand Mount in a very smart seersucker jacket; although it was eclipsed by a man in a blue and white checked suit who was wearing a bow tie; and a very small old man (who I think was a poet) who was wearing a purple suit that looked like it had been made out of the tablecloths. Miniburgers were the order of the day. Soon-to-be-novelist Cressida Connolly was there; I'm sure there were lots of other lights of the literary scene but I was having too much fun perching on the rim of the pond and trying not to fall in whilst holding a champagne glass. Novelist Anna Stothard was there, of course, and the young editor of the White Review, Jacques Testard. I misplaced my bag, more than once.

I think we went to a pizza restaurant afterwards. The other party was beyond me. It was Hodder Headline, in a church in Marylebone, and apparently there were chicken shish kebabs, but I think mini-burgers are better, don't you?

Ivo Stourton: Launch Party at Shoreditch House

East London at the weekend became a haven for book lovers - although hopefully not the sort of book lover who is to be found in the pages of Ivo Stourton's new novel, The Book Lover's Tale, because that would be, well, dangerous to say the least and I'm not sure that many of us would have survived. Still at least the murders would have been done very tastefully. The party was at Shoreditch House, in an echoey room of the sort that one would expect Patrick Bateman to haunt. Bellinis were drunk; dancing was executed - perhaps most spectacularly by some gatecrashing breakdancers who shook their groove (if that's the right terminology) on the dance floor. Guests, including socialite Henry Conway, exerted themselves till the early hours and no one (so far as I know) was killed, so that's all right then. Now, where did I leave my meat cleaver? Oh there it is...

Making Merry with Marion Lloyd

Marion Lloyd (centre) and her Ladies

To the October Gallery in Holborn: strange nets hanging off the walls,  and a celebration of Marion Lloyd's list. All the authors published this year gave insightful speeches: they are an eclectic bunch, with some fascinating life stories: Jane Johnson, who grew up 'wild' in Cornwall and is now married to a Berber; the half-Sudanese Sam Osman, self-confessed 'provincial' mother of three Ally Kennen (whose interests include Viking funerals and rubbish tips); the hilarious Kate Saunders who works and reworks her manuscripts and then throws them away if they're not good enough; and Moira Young, who appears to have been pretty much everything, as well as a nurse. Sadly absent was Eva Ibbotson, who did not live to see publication of her lovely book One Dog and His Boy; but she was ably represented by her son, who gave a vivid, touching and amusing account of his mother's writing ways. 'Imagine me a bit shorter, with white hair and beady eyes, and imagine that I'm about to say something completely inappropriate - and you've got my mother.'

As an author it's always interesting to hear about other people's methods, particularly as the whole business is so strange it's hard to believe that oneself is actually doing it, let alone anyone else; Moira Young said that effectively she 'listened' to the voice of her characters, whilst Sam Osman commented on the fact that Marion Lloyd treats her characters as friends - which is what they are when they come whole into your mind. I've left three of my new characters sitting under an underpass - and I really ought to be attending to them.... The party was attended by many Scholastic people, as well as novelist Amanda Craig; an enormous thank you to Marion Lloyd and to Scholastic for a marvellous evening.