In the footsteps of Dylan Thomas... in a manner of speaking

On Saturday morning I hauled my arse to London to indulge in an afternoon of literary talk and the quaffing of alcohol.

We met at the Fitzroy Tavern on Charlotte Street for two reasons:

1. Dylan Thomes used to get booze-brained there and in the other ale houses of Fitzovia so it felt like an apt place for a meeting of scribblers, and,
2. The Fitzroy ain't got no big screen telly showing the World Cup football so the place was almost deserted.

And what a humdinger of an afternoon it was with a prestigious line-up of literary talent. Novelistic debutantes Roger Morris and Jim Younger were present - there was an impressive stack of copies of Taking Comfort and High John The Conqueror on the table and the afternoon became something of an impromptu signing event (leaving Jim mildly bemused and embarrassed by all the attention). Jai Clare was teetering on the Cusp Of Inebriation (we all were but I can't resist the pun), as were Wendy Vaizey and her partner Steve (what a fine name that is), Kay Sexton, Andrew Morton, Rachael King from New Zealand (complete with entourage) and, of course, the Insufferable Cunt Chris Morrow™.

The fates were kind to us and smothered us with sunshine all day as we commandeered most of the pavement tables outside the pub. The conversation flipped from existential literature to celebrity gossip to why London Underground decided to close the Northern Line on the day the capital would be full of football fans to music recording techniques to what is wrong with the British film industry.

And then a big black man dressed as a Reverend pulled up in a big black car and proceeded to conduct some kind of wedding ceremony on a pogo stick. Or something. I was happily nestled in alcohol's warm embrace by that point so I'm not entirely sure what was going on.

In short, a bloody marvellous day out.