HAS there ever been so many grey cells on any dance floor? The party thrown by Lilliput Press in the Temple on Monday night brought the most extraordinary mix of people together, from rock stars (Morrissey) to garden writers (Helen Dillon), from barristers (Patrick Gageby) to film directors (Neil Jordan), from ravers (B.P. Fallon) to actors (Ger Ryan), from academics (Terence Brown) to poets (Derek Mahon), from clothes designers (John Rocha and Michael Mortem) to theatrical designers (Monica Frawley).
Nell McCafferty here, Valerie Pakenham there, almost every layer represented.
Among those shaking their stuff (sorry for the 1970s term, but it wasn't the only one in the air on the night) were historian Roy Foster and his wife, novelist Aisling Foster, Beckett's biographer and noted writer of speeches Anthony Cronin as well as an assorted gang of composers, architects, painters, paupers, millionaires, diggers, and the occasional PAYE worker twisting and shouting the night away while veteran chanteuse Agnes Bernelle wearing a fur coat, regally peered down from the gallery beside the revolving crystal ball. The main purpose of the fantastic party was to officially launch My generation, a book of hilarious and evocative stones based on people's memories of their favourite rock music. Compiled by Vivienne Guinness and Julian Lloyd, it's a great book to keep by the bedside. Most of the contributors turned up, including novelists Dermot Healy Colm Toibin, Anne Enright, Hugo Hamilton and Joe O'Connor (looking so trim he could host a Weight Watchers convention).
Terry Woods helped bring the contributors together and all that was missing in this throwback of a night was him singing with, say, Donovan or Marianne Faithful, with the bearded broadcaster Dick Warner looking on.
Some sophisticates said they knew better than to step onto a dance floor once they had passed 30. Writer Vincent Banville, on the other hand seemed never to leave it and most partygoers seemed delighted to be out in a club that wasn't dominated by writhing teens in skin tight lycra.
Marina Guinness and her niece Diana wore tinsel, Michael Bradwell of the Bush Theatre in London wore the pointiest shoes imaginable Marie Donnelly, new director of the Hospice Foundation, wore bell bottoms and the Knight of Glin wore leather.
It was an extraordinary evening a night to call for a pint and find Morrissey standing beside you. He had been bought so many pints, in fact, he started giving them away. On the other side of the room Danny Morrisson danced with Nell McCafferty, while his meaty looking guardian angel (so to speak) watched over him. Lynn Geldof was out of Africa for a three week visit home. Novelist Eamonn Delaney who told a sad tale his novel in progress was felled by a computer virus. Mary Rose Doorley endured person after person coming up to her and saying wasn't her book about Haughey's house, Abbeville, perfectly timed? Roddy Doyle peered at the stage as Noel Redding, once upon a time and long ago from the Jimi Hendrix Experience, introduced the book and picked up his guitar. Antony Farrell of Lilliput Press returned the night to the 1990s and dedicated a song by Jarvis Cocker to his son.
