When I first told people about this launch party thing, the thing they always latched onto was the word ‘canapés’ (pronounced “can-apes” by those of us what is sophisticated and in the know). Why that should be I don’t know, but the word ‘canapés’ acts as some sort of magnet for people. Mention it and they’re drawn inexorably to the idea, like hungry iron filings. Sandwiches: no, canapés: yes. It’s like telling people they’re invited to a cocktail party (only actually coming through with the promise and providing cocktails, rather than a selection of soft drinks, interspersed with photos of Hillary Clinton’s bunion).
I’m hoping that the lure of the canapé is enough to get a good crowd through the door tomorrow (Ottakar’s, Union Street 19:00 to 21:00, be there or be forever compared to Sponge Bob’s pants) where I will – apparently – be giving a talk on the book and answering questions. This means that tomorrow, in addition to doing a tax return and getting the house ready for guests, I’ll have to decide what the hell I’m going to talk about. Maybe I’ll just get up there, give them a song (I’m sure Bryon can recommend something) and bugger off to the buffet table sharpish, before anyone notices I’ve gone.
The worst possible scenario for tomorrow is that no one turns up at all, and I’m left giving the best speech of my life to a couple of paperbacks by Marian Keys. Second worst is that lots of people turn up and I give a speech that sounds like a cross between cattle having sex with alligators and a party political broadcast for the ‘we love lint’ party. Third worse involves forgetting to put on any trousers and being ruthlessly chased through the St Nicholas Centre by a slavering pack of nubile women. Who then staple photos of Hillary Clinton’s bunions to my knees and ridicule my choice of underwear. What’s wrong with gold lame boxer shorts then?
Anyway, by this time tomorrow it’ll all be over and I can go back to not doing what I’m supposed to be doing during the day.
I wonder if there’ll be Mini-Kiev’s…