A new literary prize celebrating boldly original fiction

The New Statesman supports the launch of the Goldsmiths Prize.

A £10,000 literary prize rewarding boldly original fiction has been launched by Goldsmiths, University of London in association with the New Statesman.

The Goldsmiths Prize has been established to celebrate creative daring and to recognise published fiction that opens up new possibilities for the novel form. The annual prize will be awarded to a book that is deemed genuinely novel and which embodies the spirit of invention that characterises the genre at its best.

Jonathan Derbyshire, Culture Editor of the New Statesman, says: “The New Statesman is delighted to be supporting a prize that rewards invention and innovation in fiction – qualities that the magazine has long promoted in its literary pages. We are especially pleased to be entering into partnership with an institution as forward-looking as Goldsmiths.”

The prize will be officially announced today at a reading by Booker Prize-winning novelist James Kelman, part of a series of author talks organised by the new Writers’ Centre at Goldsmiths. After the reading, Kelman will discuss the art of the novel with Derbyshire.

Blake Morrison, poet, author and Professor of Creative & Life Writing at Goldsmiths, commented: “We hope [the prize] will encourage more risk-taking among novelists, editors and agents alike. There’s an idea that innovative and genre-busting books are bound to be inaccessible. We don’t believe that’s the case.”

Tim Parnell, Head of the Department of English and Comparative Literature, added: “Serious discussion of the art of fiction is too often confined to the pages of learned journals and we hope the prize and the events surrounding it will stimulate a much wider debate about the novel.”

Publishers are invited to submit their entries from Friday 25 January 2013 to Friday 22 March 2013. The Prize is open to novels published in 2013 and there is no limit to the number of titles that may be entered by a publisher or bona fide imprint, provided the works entered meet all other entry requirements. 

The entries will be judged by an expert panel consisting of British novelists Nicola Barker and Gabriel Josipovici, Jonathan Derbyshire and Dr Tim Parnell.

For more details, terms and conditions, or to download The Goldsmiths Prize submission form, visit http://www.gold.ac.uk/goldsmiths-prize/

Reading material: the Goldsmiths Prize rewards innovation in fiction (Photo: Getty Images)
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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt