Make good choices: let the London Book Fair festivities commence

Was anyone else observing the London Book Fair/Bologna dates clash thing and imagining it was like the scene in “The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent” where Nicholas Cage and Pedro Pascal face off against one another, guns drawn, waiting to see who blinks first? Actually, it was more like the final duel in “John Wick: Chapter 4” when Keanu Reeves goes mano-a-mano with arch-nemesis Bill Skarsgård because, without spoiling things too much, both principals come out of the duel far worse off than when they started.

Anyway, I guess you could say Gareth “Keanu” Rapley blinked first, albeit very reluctantly (you could practically see the steam coming out of the LBF boss’ ears in the presser announcing his event’s date shift). But then, one imagines that with LBF now the first fair in 2024 by three weeks, it might put quite a serious dent in Bologna’s designs to lure some non-kids’ business to the Fat City. So maybe whoever blinks last loses. At the very least the trade will be spared the many Bookseller headlines along the lines of “Fury at book fair clash” and the mass resignations of children’s publishing logistics folk who might have chosen another career rather than deal with the chaos.

We go into this LBF fresh as a daisy. Well, not entirely fresh. The penultimate week before the event is meant to be the proverbial ‘calm before’

So we go into this LBF with a clean slate and fresh as a daisy. Well, not entirely fresh. The penultimate week before the event is meant to be the proverbial “calm before” where you rest up and hone those pitches—which I think this year might be along the lines of “It’s Colleen Hoover in space”; or “It’s Colleen Hoover meets Jack Reacher” (I would so read that); or “It’s Colleen Hoover if she were a 70-year-old Oxford Don writing a 600-page non-fiction title on AI and mass extinctions”. (An aside on CoHo: I wonder if she and other American BookTok-boosted authors will be late delivering their next tomes as I imagine the bulk of their current output is not concocting juicy romances but firing off emails to their representatives in Congress voicing vehement opposition to the RESTRICT Act.)

But no rest this week as I shuffled off to the Susanna Lea Associates pre-pre-LBF bash at the Groucho, cunningly disguised as a “spring party” but more a grand coronation of Thérèse Coen taking up the reins as the SLA London boss. Incidentally, I tried to get all and sundry at the ’do to stop saying “Ess El A” and pronounce the agency “slay”. As in: you slay, girl. I fear that was as successful as my ongoing campaign for Booker backers Crankstart to rename the prize The Crankies, which I feel would lend the award the gravitas it has long been missing.

As I write this, I am weighing the wisdom of going to the Crossing Borders/White Rabbit pre-LBF acid house rave disguised as a night of book readings. There is danger to this one, folks—and not just because Katie Espiner and Lee Brackstone will be there—as it’s on the Sunday night before the fair. My usual Sunday eve is a nice cup of chai while watching “Endeavour” repeats on ITVX, not carousing ’til dawn with foreign agents and publishers.

If you spot your old pal Horace as a catatonic, dribbling wreck on The Bookseller’s stand next week, you’ll know which path I chose. We’re at 2A111 on the mezzanine level, come by and say hello—or kick my prone body, whichever is appropriate.