London’s first Literary Death Match!
Let me tell you how it went down. I know, because I was there. You want to know where all the blood came from, and whose teeth those are? Those are my teeth, yo. Baby got owned last night.
And, as ever, the video proves my least favourite truth: I am not England’s Brad Pitt. I am the blonde Marty Feldman.
Tempted as I am to put the whole thing into a vibrant street ode, I wouldn’t be able to match the likes of my Latitude hero Elvis McGonagall or one of last night’s other contestants, Joe Dunthorne. Joe has balls of steel, is all I’m saying. He actually wrote something for the occasion, learned it, and put it out there. He was up first. In other words, without knowing how the whole thing would play out in London or what the crowd would be – whether this would be more earnest or more drunken than the NYC event, or more angry or more whatever – he put a piece of untested work in front of them and did it well. He made them come along with him to Dunthornesville, and they went like lambs, I tell you. Like lambs.
Balls.
Of.
Steel.
Tim Wells was up next, and he took Joe to town. Joe made them think, then Tim made them feel. For a moment, I thought I’d see that mop of hair rolling on the carpet. I thought – I really thought, when Tim fired off his poem about his glasses misting up – that Joe was in trouble. The judges dithered, and then it was done: Tim was taken off on a stretcher and Joe was the champ of round one. Everyone went off to get some more drinks in.
Todd Zuniga cracked the whip to get everyone back in line for the second round, and I was up. I’d put in some time doing my literary performance kata. My technique is good these days; I can flow right from “I’m Nick Harkaway, I have a morbid fear of looking like Boris Johnson” right into “this is chapter one” so smoothly that you don’t feel the non sequitur going in. I can take your head clean off with it before you even know.
Just don’t bow.
I gave the audience four brief readings, and I felt them weaken. I hit them with the first page, then moved on to the truth about modern war and sheep. That combo is my special signature move, like the one Chun Li does in Streetfighter where she turns upside down. My finishing technique was a bit I don’t usually do about cherry pie. It’s more like the secret strike D’Artagnan’s father teaches him in the beginning of The Three Musketeers. It’s rapid and almost impossible to defend against.
I felt it go home. Yes! Yes, I did! I rocked! The audience was mine, I tell you, mine mine MINE! They were laughing, they were surprised, they were putty…
And then Amber Marks kicked my bony arse.
Amber read with a simple, solid delivery which was very British and very dignified, but at the same time full of humour. The audience didn’t laugh out loud as much as they had for the fireworks with the pig-powered generator and the pie, but the judges gave her the match on points, and my head fell in the dust like a bad melon.
Like I say, baby got owned.
And then, to make me feel better, she kicked Joe’s bony arse as well…
The finale was a variation of that higher/lower card game which was part of a tv show a million years ago, except that the playing cards were all literary figures. It was irreverent and bloody hilarious. It went to a tiebreaker, and Joe lost by one point.
I don’t know when the next London LDM is – Todd’s off to Madrid and Tel Aviv – but you should entirely go and see it. Huge fun. I wouldn’t even care about losing if it weren’t for the, you know, the “death” part. And even that seems to have been sorted out with a couple of Laphroigs.
But I’m telling you, people, I am gonna be the goddam Blofeld of LDM. I will not lie down. When you think I am totally deceased, I will be there with my furry white cat and my mocking laugh and I will build a base in a volcano and rule the world. I will have minions and stolen Rembrandts and giant missiles and swamptigers in cages instead of a burglar alarm.
This isn’t over, Mr Bond. Indeed, it has only just begun…
Ah. AHA. A-BWAHhahahahahahaa!
