The glittering literati at Sri Lanka's Galle festival

Thursday: three hours down to Galle with Pradeep Jeganathan, noted anthropologist, shortlisted short-story writer, and member of my “post-war literary” panel. Started Out of Sheer Rage, which is the Tristram Shandy of literary criticism inasmuch as, halfway through, the subject—Geoff Dyer’s proposed study of DH Lawrence—is still “not yet born.”

Woke this morning (Friday) in agony, on the floor of Ru Freeman’s hotel room. Apart from a shared lift yesterday evening, Ru Freeman does not know me from Adam.

Effortful recollections of last night’s writers’ welcome drinking session. Met the man who played the brigadier in the recent film version of The Road From Elephant Pass (a garment manufacturer in real life). Also met Rana Dasgupta, the bright young Delhi-based novelist whom I’m supposed to interview at some point, and his wife, the artist Monica Narula. And met Ulrik Plesner, renowned Danish architect and colleague of G Bawa—until Plesner got married, anyway (the history of Sri Lankan modern architecture, ex-pats included, is a litany of homosexual tantrums). Then (re)introduced myself to Michael Frayn, whom I interviewed a couple of years back—nothing doing, until I mention that he thought I’d come to fix the door knobs and then I discovered he had not in fact adapted the play about which I was supposed to be asking him questions. “Ah,” he says, “yes.” He was smiling, but all the same I made a note not to bother him for the rest of the weekend.

Festival impresario Geoffrey Dobbs brought formalities to a close, effusively welcoming writers of/in all languages, including “Pakistani”. After-party until 1am (these crazy lit. kids!), with Rana, Monica, Ulrik and London novelist Diran Adebayo. Majority of “literary” conversation memorably unfit for print.

First event of the GLF proper, a 10am panel discussion—“Who Do You Think You Are?” —feat. Gillian Slovo, Ru Freeman, Lal Medawattegedara, Michelle de Kretser and David Blacker. Immediately apparent: five people is two too many for an hour-long talk. After moderator’s interventions and audience questions, it averages out at two major statements per panellist.

Nobody tells us who they think they are, and there is way too much literary-type bullshit—“The author isn’t responsible for his characters”, “I don’t choose stories: they choose me”, etc. Line of the hour: “What I remembered about this man was that he was unforgettable” (Slovo).

Power cut on the stroke of 11: in a country reliant on fans, a highly effective way of getting punters to move on. Stagger out in search of coffee, or tea, or whatever I could find (Dyer: “Life is really no more than a search for a hot drink one likes”). What I find is that Galle has a disagreeable paucity of coffee shops. Encounter two art exhibitions en route: one flogging generic “smut-faced urchin” shots, and one of “ball-point art”. Neat enough gimmick; but when I want a ball-point sketch of two people having sex I’ll nick some schoolboy’s exercise book.

Return, partially restored, for Slovo solo event. But it’s a straight reading, and decades of living in the UK have almost totally obliterated her Seffrican accent (except when she discusses “ahrony”), which might otherwise have kept me there on its own merits. Rana sends a beer summons, and I duck out, cursing the fact that no-one here seems to be observing the Poya day ban on alcohol. What might have been an interview turns into a photo-shoot: terribly literary photo of me, which I immediately promise myself never to use.

Back at 3 to hear Mac Barnett talk about the magical McSweeney’s publishing empire. Condensed highlights: their first employee was a carpenter (who made aquariums); bookstores hate them because their publications are rarely the same shape twice; their most recent “book” was a 400-page newspaper; writers get 50% of profits. Barnett’s summary of their business approach: “There are times when McSweeney’s thinks about stories first and business second… I don’t necessarily recommend that.” A full hour of people spluttering in surprise and delight. One woman asks for a job. One guy asks for a publishing deal for a book on Buddhist humour (turns out there is none). Out of my mind on one beer, I offer to publish it.

Wendy Cope at 4:45. As a girl she wanted to found the Women’s Merchant Navy. She talks touchingly of her grandmother. She talks of men who nearly bring you flowers (actually, this has a redemptive ending for us blokes). She talks of making lots of cash from a Jools Holland arrangement of one of her poems. A lengthy, published, confession of love is followed by another confession—that she ditched the chap shortly afterwards. Almost constant laughter, even when she’s fulminating against being designated a “light” or “comic” poet. She reads with wonderful natural rhythm, notwithstanding her exuberant use of tricky forms (I am surprised to find that "triolet" is pronounced not “tree-o-lait” in the French style, but more like the Russian for the loo), and has a flawless deadpan when shrugging off the poncey avant-garde-ists who sell infinitely fewer copies than she does. In response to her straightforwardness, the audience questions are genuine and friendly. I seriously consider grabbing the mike and delivering my tribute… but no. Should be just me and Wendy, I feel.

Up the hill to Closenberg Hotel, to moderate Ashok’s readings from his new book. Ashok is a humorist, but Serendipity, for better or worse, is set in the turbulent Colombo of the 1980s. My job is to ask two or three semi-serious questions every ten minutes, to break up the relentless levity (what’s the opposite of leavening?). It falls flat. Ashok ducks questions he’s happily answered before (in print); the audience lose sympathy with me. Not a success, all told. I sneak away, slightly stung.

Dinner with Pradeep, Rana, Monica and Diran. Excellent company, but booze beginning to hurt. Conversation evenly divided between cataloguing the merits of District 9 and listing the reasons why Diran should never have been one of London’s Top 100 Most Influential People. He thinks it’s “a load of bollocks”. Easy to say when you’re on the list.

Others retire to drink vodka. Midnight looming, I wake every hotelier in three towns, trying to find a bed. Eventually get one in Unawatuna, 10 minutes down the coast: still home and dry before Diran, who is in a kind of palace exile, some 30kms away in the jungle.

NBs for the day. 1. Watching writers dashing around to see their own favourite writers (no discernible hierarchy) is very heartening. 2. It is not possible to be a punter, participant and literary journalist (and bibber) all at the one festival.