Through A Glass Darkly event and literary pub quiz, The Wheatsheaf, Fitzrovia, 29 June 2007.
By Sophie Parkin (above).
I refer to the millions of deceased who have gone before us, left the room, exited the building - from Elizabeth Smart, to George Melly (dearly missed and recently departed), Louis Macneice to Patrick Hamilton, Cedric Price to Charles Jackson, all would have been welcomed, but they have their excuses – they’re dead, but where were you?
Actually, ‘Don’t be Ridick Darling’, as Jackson wrote in the Lost Weekend, you couldn’t have fitted in any way. Upstairs at the legendary Wheatsheaf pub in Rathbone place we squeezed in with the ghosts of Aleister Crowley, quarrelling with Cyril Connolly, Augustus John or the aesthete David Tennant escaping his Gargoyle Club for a quick pink gin.
What a wonderful cracking start to London Lit Plus in such historically highbrow surroundings. First to brave the stage was, actually me, because Our Master of Ceremonies, A[ndrew] Stevens had blown up his leg with a bicycle pump (shurely not? - ed). Well it looked that way to me. So I introduced the evening to an already full room of expectant little faces, eager with the anticipation of what literary delights might stave off their hungry hearts from expiring - bless!
I threw Anouchka Grose to the lions, and mighty happy they seemed to be, once she had calmed her nerves a little with their laughter. Strangely, she claimed that she wasn’t going to be funny, but her stories of men who quite literally were so obsessed with their closets they couldn’t leave them alone, had us all of a titter. Annouchka isn’t only a novelist but also a psychotherapist, so she brings a unique psychological view to her stories. She tells me not to keep introducing her as such, because men keep on telling her their problems, but I suppose I find it amusing that a shrink can have a blonde Weimar Republic bob and be so gorgeous and funny. The other readers are just as gorgeous, (that must be why I chose them), Lana Citron, Salena Godden, and indeed myself (have I no shame? No), and none of us are Freud or Jung (though I was born the day he died, indeed the very same hour, which must mean something) or, analysts.
Next was me on the plinth, reading from my book soon to published, Pleasing Yourself. The only thing people seemed to remember afterwards was the story of the tinned ham, not even auntie Bess’ arms. Lana Citron, wittily tripped through her female detective trying to do stand up, hilarious, in her latest novel The Brodsky Touch. Meanwhile Salena Godden’s novel is out next year with Harper Collins, and she read from her manuscript, entirely in the voices of two eight year old girls, one rather voraciously chasing the other for peculiar sexual practices. Not at all horrifying just extremely funny.
We had a few little breaks, for drinks, more drinks and to hand out the Literary Quiz which had been culled from all five of us, including A[ndrew]. I think you can tell a lot about a person from the type of quiz questions they set. A.S is obviously obsessed with Adrian Mole, which might be a little unhealthy in your 30s, I’m awaiting Anouchka’s professional analysis on this one, obviously. Lana with her Wilde, Yeats and Joyce choice which might prove her Irish origins. Chaucer, Fitzgerald and the name of Vronsky’s racehorse in Anna Karenina? It’s Frou Frou in case you’re racking your brain. Salena and mine were a little more concerned with who Gore Vidal had slept with (who hasn’t he, should have been the question) and what Mae West’s best lines were, plus Bukowski, Miller and Selby – so you know which direction, we were going in.
Each of us thought our questions were easy-peasy lemon squeasy, probably because we knew the answers, the others’ were impossible, to which we didn’t know the answers. It seemed as if everyone there knew how it was supposed to go, except me. They got into teams, they sussed out each other literary genius and somehow got most of the answers. Next time if I’m ever allowed in charge of the literary quiz I’m going to make sure no one cheats and no teams are allowed. There will be strictly controlled exam procedures respected (Fahrenheit 451 stylee) and I will patrol the room for anyone with a Blackberry and confiscate it! Harsh but fair, what’s the fun of cheating when there’s a box of Ferrer Rocher on offer, Ambassador? There were loads of other goodies too, signed copies of our books, Lana’s new one The Brodsky Touch, sequel to The Honey Trap, Anouchka’s Darling Daisy and Ringing For You and poetry books from Salena and I. Infact it was quite worth cheating, though I didn’t actually see anyone cheat, but then I think I was enjoying myself too much with all the chattin’ and laughin’, which is really what the night was about.
I cannot stress too highly that if you are at all cultured (not in the yogurt sense), like being read to (but not for longer than 10 mins at a time), and a convivial evening, you couldn’t do better than to get yourself to one of these literary to do’s, it’s not all pish and balderdash – actually there were some very fine writers hiding in the room – maybe I’ll get them to read next time amongst the beautiful girls, drink, boys, drinking men and laughing women. You know you wish you were there now.
