Will le Fleming

There are some achievements in the field of human combat that resonate and echo down the centuries. Those guys on that bridge at… um… Thermopylae, maybe? The bowmen at Agincourt. The people who almost escaped from that prisoner-of-war camp, who are in that film.

Now, I am pleased to say, there is a new entry on this illustrious list, one that justifies this unprecedented two-posts-in-a-week intrusion into kind supporters’ long-suffering inboxes: my second-place in the febrile cauldron of dreams, lust and books that is the Literary Death Match. And before anyone quibbles or raises caveats about the worthiness of this feat to join the others aforementioned, let me ask you this: have any of the heroes of the past been celebrated in a glossy magazine owned by a Russian oligarch and given away free on Fridays? No, I rather thought not.

And finally, my friends, here is the clincher of all clinchers: the work of fiction with which I came so heroically second at the Death Match features in this account of the vastly talented publishing supremo who brought the book to the world, where it is described as ‘quite beautifully written… superbly skilful story-telling’. Between the Evening Standard and the Blackmore Vale: that is celebrity, right there.

I have little to add to the official dispatches of the event (there’s another account here), except perhaps ruefully to acknowledge at last the accuracy of the taunts by pre-pubescent peers that I throw like a girl – or rather far less well than a girl. And to say that the event was fun to be part of, and from having attended one in the past, fun to go to – so if you are near one of the many cities bestridden by the Literary Death Match brigade, go. More on upcoming events here.