I’ve just been tipped the wink that Barabara Kingsolver is a shoo-in for tonight’s Orange Prize. It’s a cert. A done deal. But the fucking book closed this morning; three hours before I got the tip! So what use is giving people tips when you can’t get on? I am, as the young people say, gutted.
It’s 18.58 and the festivities are due to start in half an hour or so. The fragrant authoressess and their elbow dressing are probably already on their way to the do. Here’s Spume with a pony he can’t get on, and a betting slip for fucking Hilary Mantel at odds of three to one. You might say, ‘At least you got value, there, Spume.’ Bollocks to value! It wouldn’t matter if I’d got tens about her, since Barabara bastard Kingsolver is going to win the bloody thing.
I’m sorry if I sound bitter, but when you are lucky enough to get somebody inside the stables, it would be nice if they got the tip to you in time to get on. Bum, as Larkin used to say.