DANNY was launched on the 11th of June 2004 from the miniscule city of Kirkwall in the distant Orkney Isles. The publishers, a fledgling Poison Pixie, decided to start the book's life with a bang and and threw a massive Hollywood-style launch party complete with a stretch limo and all-chocolate buffet to celebrate the occasion. The dub poet, Gillian Muir, was on the guest list and wrote up the following account for the local newspaper.

Satins and Sequins, Champagne and Chocolate, Oh Boy Danny, What a Party!

"But do you know where I live? I'll have to come over on the boat and fork out for hotel money."

The voice was creamy and persuasive: "We would love you to be there."

Quick rewind of thoughts....boat has to go to Papay first... room in Kirkwall overlooking harbour.... time to get a ballgown? ... meet literati and glitterati.

"OK (arm twisted) ... Thank you!"

There I was then, invited to the ball, the Oscar of parties, the book launch of the year, of Chancery Stone's coming out of DANNY and all his delicious expletives.

I logged into eBay for any larger than life, whale-boned and corseted off-shoulder number, the 'Come Dancing' swirls of netting and pink satins. I waited for cyberspace to work miracles.

I tapped into a different world and entered the dark side of Poison Pixie's suctioning website. Duty-bound as part of an invisible set of literati, I galloped through the sample chapters of DANNY and felt dirty. Then I detached myself and appreciated the author's craft, the suspense, the formed characters, and the familiar background.

The reader had been warned: "Sexually Explicit". The wrapper warns: "Parental Advisory". I was locked in the world of Danny, Beenie Man and Big Brother 5. I revised the word 'normal' again.

I continued to be a spectator of the abused, the vulnerable souls fighting back and surviving.

It was all far from a room in a croft in Westray.

* * * * *

Max Scratchmann, Marketing Director of Poison Pixie Ltd, greeted me in the Town Hall lobby. Our next stop was the book-signing table next to the selection of wicked-looking complimentary drinks. The literati and glitterati looked sumptuous in lurex, sheens of shaped fabric, slit lizard-tight dresses, fishnet stockings, heels up to your knees and those eye-candied ladies sported agile, besuited tuxedoed guys on their arms.

Grandmothers swished and swirled their frocks to the whoops of local dance beats and frenzies.

After the limousine rides and the champers glugging, I stood on the silent grass outside St Magnus Cathedral. It was a fine summer's evening. My nephew passed me tucking into his kebab, greeted me and disappeared down a lane. A seagull menaced by, poked about in a crisp packet, and waited by the bins.

I looked towards the Town Hall. the lights were red and warm, beckoning us to be groomed and shocked and numbed and chocolate-drenched. I saw the silhouettes of revellers going up towards the all-chocolate buffet. It seemed like the world of Toulouse-Lautrec; really it was mild decadence. Gloved hands tucked into chocolate and gateaux. There was confetti and glowing neon jewellery and that unique madness in a raffle for a limousine ride.

DANNY, after thirteen years and tons of typing, had been launched in style in a party, the first of its kind.

What was there not to enjoy?