Rachel Johnson, in last week’s Spectator diary, says that her husband says she only writes a book in order to have a launch party. Me too. My thoughts are too disordered to write a book from scratch, but now and then someone offers to publish a collection of these columns and I, fantasising about a party with all my pals there, agree to it. Times must have changed for the publishing industry since Short Books put out the last Low life collection and gave me a terrific launch party, because the publisher of this latest collection stated with finality (once the book was done and dusted) that publishers no longer finance launch parties. I am invited to book launches all the time and was therefore gobsmacked and sceptical on hearing that. But if Rachel Johnson’s publisher refuses even her a launch bash, I suppose there must be some truth in it.
In the end, The Spectator stepped in and gave me a launch party in the garden at 22 Old Queen Street last Friday. Hennessy, who are celebrating their 25oth anniversary this year, sent inconceivably large bottles of cognac. Brighton Gin, made with juniper and milk thistle, and therefore healthful for the liver, supplied the G and T. I invited 25 guests, the publisher ten, about a dozen came from The Spectator, and there were 12 Spectator readers, winners of the ‘My biggest drink or drug debacle’ essay competition, selected by me.
Rachel Johnson says that half of those whom she invited to her party failed to turn up. In my case, two thirds of my 25-strong guest list cried off or simply didn’t appear. But the great Taki was there, which is all that mattered, and we had a jolly little party, and come the end nearly every person I chatted to appeared to be suffering from an insult to the brain.
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