“Three cheers for the Woodstock of the Mind.” I assess the Sykes woman: skinny, earnest, lined; midforties, black hair, with silvery outriders. She’s kind to her punters: Each one gets a friendly word, which only proves how few books she’s ever signed. Envious? No. If she believes her mystic-mumbo she’s a deluded idiot. If she’s cooked it all up, she’s a snake-oil merchant. What’s to envy?

Publicity Girl asks if I’m ready to start signing. I nod. Festival Elf asks if I want a drink. “No,” I tell him. I won’t be here long. My first punter approaches the table. His crumpled brown suit belonged to his dead father and his teeth are the color of caramel. “I’m your biggest, biggest, biggest fan, Mr. Hershey, and my late mother—”

Kill me now. “A G-and-T,” I tell Festival Elf. “More G than T.”

MY LAST PUNTER, a Volumnia from Coventry, treated me to her book group’s thoughts on Red Monkey, which they “quite liked” but found the repetition of the adjectives “sodding” and “buggering” tiresome. Dear reader, Hershey missed not a beat: “So why choose the buggering book in the first sodding place?” A trio of dealers then descended, wanting a stack of first edition Desiccated Embryossigned, thereby increasing their value by five hundred pounds a pop. I asked, “Why should I?” One of the dealers gave me a sob story about driving up from Exeter “special, like, mate, and it’s not like scribbling your name costs you anything,” so I told him that if he paid me 50 percent of the markup on the nail, we’d have a deal. Mate. He vanished in a puff of poverty. Next stop is the first-night party at the BritFone Pavilion, where I am to endure a brief audience with Lord and Lady Roger and Suze Brittan. I stand up—and feel … a sniper’s tracer on my forehead. Who’s that? I look around and see Holly Sykes, watching me. She’s probably curious about real writers. I click my fingers at Publicity Girl. “ I’m a celebrity. Get meout of here.”

On our way to the BritFone Pavilion, we pass the smoking tent, sponsored by Win 2Win: Europe’s premier facilitator of ethically sourced organs for medical transplant. I tell my minders I’ll be along soon, and although Editor Oliver offers to join me I warn him there’s a two-hundred-pound fine for nonsmokers who don’t light up, and he takes the hint. Publicity Girl checks mumsily that I have my lanyard for getting past the bouncers.

I produce the plastic tag I refuse to wear around my neck. “If I get lost,” I tell her, “I’ll just follow the sound of knives sinking into vertebrae.” Inside the Win 2Win tent, fellow initiates of the Order of Nicotine sit on barstools chatting, reading, or gazing hollow-eyed at smartphones, fingers busy. We are relics from the days when smoking in cinemas, airplanes, and trains was the natural order; when the Hollywood hero was identified by his cigarette. Nowadays not even the villains smoke. Now smoking really isan expression of the rebel spirit—it’s virtually sodding illegal! Yet what are we without our addictions? Insipid. Flavorless. Careerless! Dad was addicted to the hurly-burly of getting a film made. Zoл’s addictions are fad diets, one-sided comparisons between London and Montreal, and obsessing over Juno and Anaпs’s vitamin intake.

I light up, fumigate my alveolar sacs, and think dark thoughts about Richard Cheeseman. Someone needs to skewer hisreputation; jeopardize hislivelihood; see if heshrugs it off with an “I bloody well won’t let it spoil my lunch.” When I stub out my cigarette, I imagine it’s into Cheeseman’s fatuous eye.

“Mr. Hershey?” A short fat boy in glasses and a maroon Burberry jacket interrupts my revenge fantasy. His head is shaved and he’s doughy and ill-looking, like Piggy in Lord of the Flies.

“My signing session’s over. I’ll be back in about five years.”

“No, I wish to give you a book.” The boy is a girl, with a soft American accent. She’s Asian American, or semi–Asian American.

“And I wish to smoke. It’s been a most exhausting few years.”

Ignoring the hint, the girl proffers a thin volume. “My poetry.” A self-funded volume, plainly. “ Soul Carnivores, by Soleil Moore.”

“I don’t look at unsolicited manuscripts.”

“Humanity asks you to make an exception.”

“ Pleasedon’t think me rude, Miss Moore, but I’d rather perform root-canal surgery on myself, or wake up next to Aphra Booth in the breeding pen of an alien menagerie, or take six shots in the heart at close range than everread your poems. Do you understand?”

Soleil Moore flaunts her lunatic’s credentials by staying calm. “Nobody wanted William Blake’s work, either.”

“William Blake had the merit of being William Blake.”

“Mr. Hershey, if you don’t read this and act, you’ll be complicit in animacide.” She places Soul Carnivoresby the ashtray, wanting me to ask what that made-up word means. “You’re in the Script,” she says, as if that settles everything, before finallybuggering off, as if she’s just delivered a killer argument. I take a few more puffs, sifting a conversation nearby: “She said, ‘Hershey’: I thoughtit was him”; “Nah, can’t be, Crispin Hershey’s not thatold”; “Ask him”; “No, you ask him.” Cover blown, I crumple up my death-stick and flee my smoker’s Eden.

THE BRITFONE PAVILION was designed by an eminent architect I’ve never heard of and “quotes” Hadrian’s Wall, the Tower of London, a Tudor manor, postwar public housing, Wembley Stadium, and a Docklands skyscraper. What a sicked-up fry-up it is. A holographic flag of the BritNet logo flutters from its pinnacle and you ingress through a double-sized replica of 10 Downing Street’s famous black door. The security men are dressed as Beefeaters, and one asks for my VIP lanyard. I check my jacket; my trousers; my jacket again. “Oh, sod a dog, I put it down somewhere—look, I’m Crispin Hershey.”

“Sorry, sir,” says the Beefeater. “No ID, no entry.”

“Check your little list. Crispin Hershey. The writer.”

The Beefeater shakes his head. “I got my orders.”

“But I did a sodding event here only an hour ago.”

A second Beefeater comes over, eyes ashine with fan-glow: “You’re never—are you really …  him? Oh, my God, you are …”

“Yes, I am.” I glare at the first. “ Thankyou.”

The Worthy Beefeater walks me through the small lobby where lesser mortals are patted down and have their bags checked. “Sorry about that, sir. The Afghan president’s here tonight so we’re on amber alert. My colleague back there’s not au fait with contemporary fiction. And, to be fair, you do look older on your author photos.”

I double-check this pleasing sentence. “Do I?”

“If I weren’t such a fan, sir, I wouldn’t have recognized you.” We enter the pavilion proper, where hundreds are mingling, but the Worthy Beefeater has a favor to beg: “Look, sir, I shouldn’t ask, but …” he produces a book from inside his ridiculous uniform, “… your new book’s the best thing you’ve ever written. I went to bed with it and read right through to dawn. My fiancйe’s mother’s a huge fan too, and, well, for premarital Brownie points, would you mind?”

I produce my fountain pen and the Beefeater hands me his book, already turned to the title page. Only when nib touches paper do I notice I am signing a novel called Best Kept Secretby Jeffrey Archer. I look up at the Beefeater to see if he’s taking the piss, but no: “Would you write ‘To Bridie on your Sixtieth Birthday from Lord Archer’?”

A famous columnist from The Timesis standing three feet away.

Dedication written, I tell the bouncer, “So glad you enjoyed it.”

The pavilion contains enough celebrity wattage to power a small sun: I spy two Rolling Stones, a Monty Python; a teenage fifty-something presenter of Top Gearjoshing with a disgraced American cyclist; an ex–U.S. secretary of state; an ex–football manager who writes an autobiography every five years; an ex-head of MI6 who cranks out a third-rate thriller annually; and a lush-lipped TV astronomer who writes, at least, about astronomy. We’re all here for the same reason: We have books to flog. “I spy with my little eye the rarest of sights,” an old codger purrs in my ear by the champagne bar, “a literary writer at a literary festival. How’s life, Crispin?”