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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Is Danny Baker a “bona fide genius”? Not in his new show

The clichéd decade: Cradle to Grave and Danny and the Human Zoo reviewed.

I’m not qualified to rule on whether or not Danny Baker is, as the newspapers insist, a “bona fide genius”; I gave up listening to the ever more blokeish BBC Radio 5 Live a while ago, and I’m too young to remember the supposedly fantastic pieces he delivered to the NME back in the day (I read that they were even more amazing than those of Tony Parsons, which is saying something, isn’t it?). But I can tell you this: his new autobiographical comedy series, Cradle to Grave (Thursdays, BBC2, 9pm), displays no evidence at all of his talents, brilliant or otherwise. Anecdotes that just peter out. Jokes that fail to hit home. Misplaced nostalgia. Honestly, what’s the point? If you want 1974 – and quite a lot of us seem to, if the performance of Jeremy Corbyn is anything to judge by – you’d be better off treating yourself to a box set of the eternally satisfying Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads?.

The series, co-written with Jeff Pope, is based on Baker’s memoir Going to Sea in a Sieve. It’s 1974, and Danny (Laurie Kynaston) is a randy teenager who still lives at home in good old Bermondsey with his ducking and diving docker dad, Fred, aka Spud (Peter Kay), his kindly mum, Bet (Lucy Speed), and his older sister, Sharon (Alice Sykes). A voice-over tells us, in effect, to forget all about the nasty old three-day week and to consider instead the warmth of lovely south-east London. How decent its people are, how eager to try out newfangled consumer goods such as the continental quilts Spud has pilfered and which now fill the hall of his tiny house like clouds. (Correct: he’s basically Del Boy, minus the Robin Reliant, the cocktail bar and, fatally, the workmanlike jokes.)

The denizens of Bermondsey are not, you understand, quite ready for the new world. In this part of London, bomb sites remain, merrily sprouting buddleia and pink willow herb; men are men and women are women. Spud is horrified to discover that his daughter’s new boyfriend wears – wait for it – white plimsolls, though not quite so horrified as Danny is to find a stranger’s ­penis flapping exuberantly against his cheek when he goes up west to see Hair (needless to say, our Danny was in search of naked girls, not sweaty blokes). If you find this kind of thing funny and (I can hardly bear to write the words) “heart-warming”, then you have seven weeks of bliss ahead. Who knows? Perhaps the characters will go on to debate the virtues of the various flavours of Old English Spangles. But I can’t believe that many people will be so easily pleased. Those who are old enough to remember the Seventies will know that the best of the decade’s own comedy was ten times more sophisticated than this, and those who aren’t – those who have never had anything other than a duvet on their bed, and can locate a naked female or even a flapping male member with just one tap of their mobile – will simply watch something altogether more grown-up on Netflix.

Kascion Franklin (centre) on BBC1. Photo: BBC/RED

Unfathomable BBC scheduling (is it having some kind of John Whittingdale-induced nervous breakdown?) treated us to two doses of 1974 as the summer limped to an end. The second loving spoonful came in the form of Danny and the Human Zoo (31 August, BBC1, 9pm), an almost-biopic drama in which Lenny Henry told the story of his painful start in comedy.

My TV critic colleagues have all been most respectful but, lovely as Kascion Franklin’s performance in the lead role was, I couldn’t altogether get with the show. Unlike Baker, Henry certainly wiped the Vaseline from the lens: his version of the Seventies was clear-eyed, particularly in the matter of racism. But his tendency as a writer is to tell rather than show, which becomes wearying, and the narrative he offered us – success on the New Faces talent show, followed by the self-loathing that came of joining the Black and White Minstrels – wasn’t exactly unfamiliar. An unscrupulous manager with bad hair; parents who think their son should get a “proper” job but are secretly oh-so-proud; Mud’s “Tiger Feet” and Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” on the soundtrack: such TV clichés really should be illegal by now.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 03 September 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Pope of the masses