Prince Philip and the UFOS: Philip Eade's launch of his biography

Prince Philip: ufologist

Daunts Holland Park is the launch party venue of choice these days, and there we flocked for Philip Eade's party for his biography of Prince Philip's early years (Philip's obviously a good name, isn't it? Ahem). We learned of the Royal consort's liking for ufos - apparently he calls in abductees to the palace and grills them, the royal presence being 'like truth serum'. (If only J K Rowling had known she wouldn't have had to bother with veritaserum, she could have just wheeled on the Duke of Edinburgh. I am seriously considering using this as a plot point in my next book.) There were gallons of champagne, although I didn't manage to snarf any canapés; and we discovered that the book has already shot into the Amazon Top 50. HRH himself didn't make an appearance (though one of his early girlfriends was present), but there were more than enough Philips there to make up the difference; this was before a saucer-like object landed on Holland Park Avenue and several grey men with large ears stepped out, demanding to be taken to our leader - or was that just the Duke's equerries? (NB this last bit may not be true).

The Book Lover's Tale by Ivo Stourton: Review

Stourton: nimble

Ivo Stourton's second novel, The Book Lover's Tale, is a deliciously dark literary thriller that concerns the seamy habits of an interior decorator, Matt de Voy. de Voy once had ambitions to be a writer; after his first novel was published, he found himself becoming increasingly dependent on his aristocratic girlfriend; eventually abandoning all pretence of 'writing', he ended as second in command to his now-wife's interior decorating business, where his job is to be the arbiter of elegance (sort of like Petronius, except madder) and sneer at the wide-boys who come to him for assistance whilst fornicating fulsomely with their wives. It sounds like the best job in the world. de Voy is a splendidly conceived character, possessed of a self-belief that precludes any sort of reflection that isn't directly focussed upon himself. He is vain, snobbish; he believes that he inhabits some kind of Les Liaisons Dangereuses world where he can seduce people by giving them books (in particular Anais Nin); he is mean to his long-suffering wife and to his lovers; he also believes that he can bring back the simplicity of Greek tragedy to the long-corrupt, amoral English landscape, where the old guard has fled to the back streets of Chelsea, its values and standards imitated by barrow boys and foreigners (as de Voy sees it). In this world soldiers are sneered at by bankers; sex is a weapon, and everybody has ulterior motives. It's bleak, brittle, and fascinating.

de Voy falls in love - or rather, obsession - with one of his client's wives, and resolves to keep her for himself. This can only be done, he decides, by murder. The novel hurtles along keenly to its resolution, giving us a portrait of a man of extremes as he battles his way through the inconsequential nothings of London society, threatening to make a final statement that will have real, destructive power - much more power than he could ever achieve through the subtle arrangement of books in a banker's palace.

Stourton has a gift for the vivid and the violent: there are many bold, striking scenes, as when a guest falls from a balcony at a party, or when one of the characters suffers a terrible accident. The reader marvels at de Voy's audacity and self-deceiving arrogance, and yet is pushed along by a plot that is hooked and shining - with some elegant literary criticism along the way. Stourton's smoothly shocking novel is a sharp comment on our heavily consumerist lives: de Voy, after all, is only a product of the system - just one that's taken things a little too far.

PORT Magazine - 2nd Issue

Secundus, in Latin, means favourable as well as second; and it's a stonking second issue (in both senses) from PORT magazine (of which I'm a contributing editor). David Remnick, editor of the New Yorker, gives a rare public interview, cementing PORT's policy of putting people on the cover who aren't just celebrities. There's a piece about assassins in Colombia by Martin Amis, with very striking photos by Tom Craig; an open letter by Fatima Bhutto to the Pakistani people about the state of education; an elegant linking circle of stories featuring John Keats, Baudelaire, Jarvis Cocker and Hunter S Thompson; and all the usual excellent writing and style we'd expect from PORT. Let's raise a glass of the stuff to it (yes, I know it's the morning).

Children's Books for the Summer: Philip Womack's Round Up in the June Literary Review

Eight sterling books for the summer

I've reviewed eight books for my biannual round up in Literary Review. It's not available on this thing called the interweb, so if you want to read it (which of course you will) you'll have to go and get it yourself from something called a 'newsagent'. The books I've reviewed are:

Bracelet of Bones by Kevin Crossley-Holland
Scrivener's Moon by Philip Reeve
The Last Dragonslayer by Jasper Fforde
Magicalamity by Kate Saunders
One Dog and His Boy by Eva Ibbotson
Sky Hawk by Gill Lewis
A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness
Thomas, Silent by Ben Gribbin.

Scandilicious! by Signe Johansen

Signe Johansen: Crac(l)king

For some reason I've been to Islington and its surrounding boskiness rather a lot in the past week; I was there on Friday evening for the launch of Signe Johansen's cook book, Scandilicious! It was a crispy, aromatic summer evening; the leafiness of the area was a suitable setting for the recipes, which aim to show that Scandi cooking is not all about rollmops and herrings. There are receipts for hot trout salad, chocolate cake, and one for sour cream porridge that manages to sound enticing. I talked to a man who smoked salmon for a living (he was wearing rubber boots, having just come from the refinery) - some of his wares were available to taste, and were indeed perfect; and there was, delight of delights, a whole roast suckling pig. The tenderness of the flesh, the crackliness of the, well, crackling (although I did stop short at eating its ear), were so delicious that I may well have been seen going up for seconds.

Signe's recipes are the kind that make you want to go and sample them immediately - and I urge you to do the same. 

How to Avoid Being Killed in a War Zone by Rosie Garthwaite: Launch

Rosie Garthwaite, in a non-conflict situation

To the offices of Bloomsbury for the launch of Rosie Garthwaite's (pictured, with flowers) exciting new book, How To Avoid Being Killed in A War Zone. We packed into the (extremely hot) panelled hall and learned of the genesis of the book, which offers down to earth and extremely practical advice for entering conflict zones. Nigel Newton, (head honcho) gave an enthusiastic speech: the book is being published globally. Also present was author of The Junior Officer's Reading Club, Patrick Hennessey, and many of the people who have contributed their ideas and guidance to the book.

Apart from a misguided flirtation, when I left university with some idea of being a dashing foreign correspondent, with the idea of writing for The Baghdad Bulletin (which my parents, quite rightly, vetoed), the closest I've ever come to conflict is probably trying to get a seat on a Central Line train. The book is still great though for non-adventurous types like me, who can dream, and for the real heroes and heroines who bravely enter the liminal territory of war. There is a section on skinning animals; notes on how to catch birds; and information on how to survive a kidnapping, as well as reams of diagrams and tips.  It's witty, earthy and real; it's got a striking cover, and is the sort of book that should be issued as standard to soldiers and NGOs and, well, everyone really. As Rosie's publisher said, Rosie would be the best person to have in a conflict - and now the whole world can have her in their pocket. (Well not literally of course.) Congratulations to Rosie, and may there be peaceful times ahead, as well as adventures.

Thurston Moore at The Union Chapel: Blessed Be the Noisemakers

"You're so tall!" PW and Thurston Moore.

A late night missive from the poet-den. Your correspondent has just been to see the legendary black-winged angel (in his own words. Well almost.) Thurston Moore play at the Union Chapel in London's Trendy Islington. Your correspondent was minding his own business on the pavement outside when who should walk by, long black coated, carrying a blue plastic bag from the local newsagents which contained, as far as yr sharp-eyed corresp. could see, a copy of Mojo magazine and a packet of Purple Silk Cut. There were so many things I wanted to say: Thurston Moore! You are a legend! being one of them. So many things that we could discuss about the structure of his music, his harmonies, the way that he makes abrasive sounds so beautiful. I caught his sleeve. What did I say? I commented upon his height. 'You're so tall!' My friend took our picture and Thurston swept off again, spindly and kind, into the corner where he supped on a beer with some friends. There is something remarkably nice about rock stars hanging out in the pub before their gig. It should happen more often. (Of course we exchanged numbers and now I am his best friend and will be joining him on tour as lead guitarist. NB This last bit may not be true.)

The gig itself was in an old church. We sat at the very top, at the back, commanding a view of the whole chapel. The audience was a good mix of ages (including a baby, to whom Thurston dedicated a song). The songs were from the new album, Demolished Thoughts, which are shimmering and hazy and controlled at the same time, carrying all the hallmarks of a Sonic Youth / Thurston Moore production: the dizzying ascents into cacophony, the sudden lapses into harmony, the juddering guitars, all with Thurston's rough-edged Silk-cutting voice over the top, and with the addition of a rippling harp and a violin. The songs had suitably pentecostal titles: Benediction, Illumine, Space. Bliss and joy come from that man's guitar, which seems somehow to be a part of him. He shuffles and stands like a teenager; his voice sounds gravelly and timeless. He read a poem at the end: whatever its qualities, it didn't matter. Thurston Moore could read a shopping list and make it sound cool. ( Can you imagine going shopping with Thurston Moore? 'Washing powder....carrots....narcotic squads sweeping through poet dens...small flowers...don't forget the cauliflower...'). He extended an open invitation to the audience to come and visit him in Massachussets and finished his poem with 'Blessed are the noise musicians.'

As an encore he played two songs from Trees Outside the Academy - but not Honest James (my favourite); however he did play my Absolute All Time Favourite, from his first solo album, Psychic Hearts, which I happily sang all the words to (although I'm not sure anyone else did). Blessed are the noise musicians, and blessed is Thurston Moore.