24 July 2014
This is a guest post from Francis Plug. I'm afraid that he's quite angry about the way things have turned out with this year's Booker Prize. And why wouldn't he be?
Yesterday I found out I hadn't been included on this year's Booker Prize longlist. To say it was a 'dark day' would be a gross underestimation of the day itself, and my true feelings.
The announcement came around 12:05pm, and I viewed it on my computer, dressed in my suit, all dolled up. Needless to say, I'd taken the day off work, from my real job. When I read through the list and saw my book and name were omitted, I reloaded the page. I did this about six times, but the list didn't alter. On each occasion, I carefully counted the list, time and time again, but the number of authors and novels remained at the prerequisite number. I felt a sense of bewilderment and shock, so I rang Elly, my publisher at Galley Beggar Press.
FP: Have you seen the longlist?
Elly: The Booker longlist? Yes, I saw it just now.
FP: Is this some sort of sick joke?
Elly: Um, what do you mean?
FP: Well, I'm clearly not on it!
Elly: Oh, right. Yes, never mind…
FP: You did send my book in?
Elly: Yes, of course…
FP: Are you absolutely sure? You saw the postman take it, in the envelope?
Elly: Um, I'm quite sure…
FP: Then why? I don't understand. No, I don't understand.
I then called Sam, Elly's partner at Gallery Beggar Press, and my co-publisher.
FP: Have you seen the longlist?
Sam: The Booker longlist? I have.
FP: Is this some sort of sick joke?
Sam: Sorry?
FP: Well, I'm clearly not on it!
Sam: Oh, right. No, you're not…
FP: You did send my book in?
Sam: Um, yes, we did…
FP: Are you absolutely sure? You saw the postman take it, in the envelope?
Sam: I'm pretty sure…
FP: Then why? I don't understand. No, I don't understand.
Sam: Francis…
FP: I'm going to get to the bottom of this!
Sam: Look, don't do anything rash…
FP: Rash!
The Booker Prize don't have a ‘Complaints Division'. There isn't a Booker Prize shop with an ‘Enquiries' desk out back. So I decided to visit the offices of the Booker Prize sponsor, Man Group plc, to air my grievances. Being an investment management company, their office is situated in the City of London. Before marching into their foyer area with head down, eyes raised, I stopped by The Bell pub on nearby Bush Lane. They say you shouldn't start an argument after a few drinks, but I was very, very thirsty.
Receptionist: Sorry, can you say that again?
FP: I said, what is the meaning of this Booker Prize longlist? I demand answers!
An older gent, also in a suit, politely ejected me from their very swanky building so I returned to The Bell.
It was there that it suddenly dawned on me. Those bloody Americans. They're the ones to blame. They've shunted me off my own literary longlist. Those bloody Americans! I decided to visit the American embassy right there and then, for an urgent meeting with the ambassador.
On the way to the bus stop, I passed a McDonalds fast-food chain. I banged on the glass, startling some diners within.
FP: Bloody Americans! Clear out!
The man outside the American embassy was holding a machine gun.
FP: I'm here to see the ambassador. About the friggin' longlist.
Machine Gun Man: Do you have an appointment?
FP: No I don't. Why are you holding a machine gun? It's a very rude way to greet visitors.
After failing to find reason with the man, I found the nearby Grosvenor Arms pub and began writing a letter to the ambassador.
Dear Sir/Madam,
I am writing in regards to the Booker Prize longlist, which was announced earlier today, and which your citizens feature prominently on.
You've been spying on the judges, haven't you? You've been listening in to A.C. Grayling's phonecalls. You bloody have.
I'm going to out you and your cronies, you bloody sneak.
Mark my words, you're not going to get away with this.
Sincerely,
Francis Plug
After delivering my letter to the gun-toting embassy official, I wandered back to the Grosvenor Arms, waking up some time later in Hyde Park, in my soiled suit.
Comments
Try a mask
Permalink Submitted by Stephen (Joe) King on 24 July 2014.
Hey Francis, you’re right to feel aggrieved. They’ve been working against me for years.
Every time I sent something in … nothing.
It was driving me insane … my work got more and violent, more and more creepy.
Then I had my breakthrough idea.
I became Hilary Mantel.
The real HM is held up in a snow up cottage in Northern Alaska. I just wear this crazy mask and put on the kooky voice – you'd think someone would have noticed by now or called me out but no I just keep on writing these ultra-violent historical novels and they suck it all up.
Maybe you should try the same thing … I've got a great Julian Barnes mask it you want to borrow it.
SK
Try a mask
Permalink Submitted by Francis Plug on 24 July 2014.
Thanks for your reply, Stephen.
Have you got Hilary Mantel's signature down-pat, for book signings?
It's quite large and flowery, which possibly doesn't sit well with your own hand, which I imagine is very small and scrawly, like mine.
I appreciate your kind offer of the Julian Barnes mask. It's a double-edged sword, really. Part of me would like to be Julian Barnes, to bathe in his literary world and kudos. But the other part of me doesn't want to be recognised and pointed at when I take a long nap in the doorway of the Boston Arms, my local.
But can you still send it to me? I'd love to practice reading aloud in front of the mirror, my 'theatre audience'. Such a prop might prove invaluable in this regard.
Please take care of Hilary. Make sure she has plenty of St Bernards turning up to the door of her snowed-in cottage with little barrels of whiskey.
I quite fancy a little barrel of whiskey myself. Or a large one. Maybe someone could drop that mask into the Boston Arms?
Don't go changin', Stephen.
Francis Plug
Budleigh Salterton
Permalink Submitted by Paul on 25 July 2014.
Go to Budleigh Salterton. Everything will be cleared up if you go to Budleigh Salterton. I promise.
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