The Stars Come Out but I Want Writers

So, there's this column I write for The Gloucestershire Echo.

You can read it here.

Or below.

 What sort of place was Cheltenham? I was asked when I was preparing to move here. I dunno, I'd say.

 Horses, Irish people. Umm, angry colonels writing to the Telegraph. (I think I had Cheltenham confused with Tunbridge Wells - Cheltenham, I am so, so sorry.)

 I found out within 10 days it was a place where you met your teenage heroes.

 This is a sad tale, prepare yourself.

 I was living in a bedsit. I was in a new job. I knew nobody. Outside of work hours the only conversations I'd had with living people were the ones that went: "Would you like a bag?' "Yes please." "There you go, here's your receipt."

 On my second Sunday I was wandering the town centre, alone, when I bumped into a work colleague and her friend.

I was obviously so needy and desperate they invited me along to a curry house.

 That's where I met my hero, the man who gave me hope through all the teenage angst - Joseph Heller, the author of Catch 22.

 (That's probably the saddest bit of the story, my bookish nerdy adolescence.)

 My reaction was: that's Joseph Heller. No it can't be. It is, you know, I'd know that face anywhere. But he's a New York writer, why's he eating a lamb bhuna in Bath Road? It can't be.

 It was, and I've got his autograph to prove it.

 Anyway, I love the Literature Festival.

 If, to my shame, I hadn't been totally ignorant of it then, my confusion over Mr Heller's presence might have been lessened.

 I love that my town hosts Seamus Heaney, Heller, Ian Rankin, Sebastian Faulks.

 The names on my shelves visit me, just because I have a GL5 postcode.

And I get to have a curry with them.

 Shut up; he was at the next table. If we'd pushed them together we'd have been a party of seven. We're practically old friends.

 I do have one slight concern.

 I'm looking at the festivals website now; the front-page featured events are: Ray Davies, Amanda Holden, Helen Fielding, Cerys Matthews and Brian May and Midge Ure.

 One writer, and an actress and four musicians who have books out.

 I understand.

 It costs a lot to put on the festival - it doesn't take any council tax money, it brings in a lot to the town, its supported by sponsors and ticket sales and bums on seats really matter.

 But the best events I've ever been to have all been about writers and writing; Adrian Mitchell reading his poems, Steven Pinker on language and the brain, Sam West (an actor, I know) being thrilling about Shakespeare and Simon Armitage holding The Everyman Theatre in his hand as he read his translation of the Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, a poem 700 years old.

 Even cantankerous old Will Self who strode on stage, said not a word in introduction, read aloud from his novel Dorian, An Imitation for an hour, nodded and stalked off again was an entertainingly truculent performance.
 And I think his point was made well enough, he's a writer not a talk-show guest.

 So, yes, celebrities by all means.

 But this is still the festival of literature, not people off of the telly.

 And the transforming power of words on the page, and the vital role of the people who put them there, should be front and centre.