Beryl Bainbridge: Booker needs her comic genius to do it justice

At the Man Booker prize dinner last autumn, before tucking into their food the guests were invited to observe a minute's silence in memory of Beryl Bainbridge. She had died earlier in the year – but that was not quite what we were remembering. It was something more serious; more grave. It was that she had died without winning the Booker. No one mentioned that she had been made a Dame of the British Empire, elected a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, been awarded honorary degrees, won the Guardian Fiction prize, the James Tait Black Memorial prize, the David Cohen British Literature prize and the Whitbread prize twice. Those who knew Bainbridge and her novels must have had difficulty, during this uneasy silence, in concealing their tears of laughter. But this was not to be the last laugh. It has been announced that Bainbridge is to be granted a posthumous Booker. It is as if she is to be translated into a brand name for the further publicity of the company. I do not know how they are arranging for payment to be made, but I must admit that the ridiculousness of this event needs Bainbridge's comic genius to do it justice. Perhaps there might be a prize created for an account of the occasion written in her most extreme style. But I fear that it is too far-fetched for any words except Bainbridge's own.