Horace walks LBF's heaving aisles after a transatlantic grilling
That loud groan you heard yesterday at circa 10.30am reverberating through Olympia? That was the collective “WTAF” from the crowd at the Achilles James Daunt and David “Dave” Shelley talk, where the pair discussed which trendy Brooklyn cafes are the best (Daunt is ardent it’s Bed-Stuy’s Coffee Uplifts the People; Shelley stans Williamsburg’s The Cardi Lisa).
There they were, two transatlantic heavyweights turning their attention towards artificial intelligence, when interlocutor Alex Peake-Tomkinson steered them away from the subject “as it was a bit controversial”. It was a turn in the convo that the audience did not want but one imagines that Hachette comms boss Chloë Johnson-Hill was punching her fist in the air.
Alas, I’m afraid I had to leave at that point, but I imagine if one of them later confessed that they were behind the still-unsolved hit on Gambino boss Francesco “Franky Boy” Cali, they would have been stopped with the admonishment: “Hey slow down, we’re not doing a true crime podcast here! What are your thoughts on enemies-to-lovers, fake-dating, grump-and-sunshine,” – deep breath – “forced proximity, best friend’s sibling, best friend’s sibling’s second cousin twice removed, vampire-werewolf interspecies romances”?
Anyway, apparently ol’ Horace ruffled a few feathers from the wafer thin-skinned Reed supremos with yesterday’s mild chiding of the present refurbishments – excuse me, improvements that are totally out of our their hands, it is nothing to do with them, do you hear me? – at everyone’s favourite Grade I-listed venue in the uncoolest part of London. C’mon, my kings! If Horace isn’t mentioning you, you don’t exist.
But LBF top gun Adam Ridgway should be beaming today for the busy, buzzy, bursting aisles rammed with happy campers. I have heard of fairgoers who had to camp overnight just to get on the waiting list for tickets to the Strong Partnerships for a Greener Publishing Industry gabfest. But, to be frank, this is the kind of rabid fandom (think a level of stardom that is a cross between Sabrina Carpenter and Timothée Chalamalabingbong) that the panel’s star, Kibworth Books supremo Debbie James, engenders every time she runs her weekly Book Club in the Barn in her Leicestershire shop.
Still, was it because of the rammed aisles that it was too full to replicate the great publicity stunts of LBF’s past? Like the parade of handmaids for Margaret Atwood’s The Testaments? I do remember that late, great Peter Usborne complaining bitterly that kill-joy LBF organisers wouldn’t let the kids’ publisher bring in live sheep for a stunt on one of Fiona Watt’s That’s Not My… titles. All we got yesterday is some be-cowled and be-cloaked people (I’m reliably told one was Bill Scott-Kerr) passing out pamphlets for the new one from renowned writer Dan Brown. There is a price for popularity.
