Tuesday Ist May 2000

“Hats are always funny”, said Tim Baxendale to me yesterday. “If you put a hat on the monster from Alien it’s immediately funny.”

Yes, it’s the Dickon guide to the vibrant, colourful, glamorous, futuristic, state-of-the-art UK Alternative Music Scene. Cut out and keep. Notebooks out, plagiarists!

Stereophonics:
Three bowls of porridge looking for a spoon.

Muse:
I’d like their records to be played at my funeral. And not before.

Idlewild:
I can have no room in my life for a band whose vocabulary does not incluced the word ‘moisturiser’. Eric Idle is wilder.

Gomez:
A band that would be greatly improved by death.

Primal Scream:
Free Satpal Ram! Jail Bobby Gillespie!

Embrace:
Useful… for putting up shelves.

I’m sorry, I’m in that kind of mood. Things like the “All Tomorrow’s Parties” festival line-up depress me immensely. A festival named after a song from the Warhol Factory days. But no Superstars, Pop Artists, transvestites, deviants and iconic Germanic blondes to be found here. Just badly-dressed indie-schmindie Real Ale fans playing. White boy indie post-rock. And again and again and again. Bad Beards and worse clothes. Sports clothes. Badly-cut sideburns. Ruddy skin. Stubble. Did Karen Carpenter die for nothing? Don’t they remember The Associates? Ivor Cutler? Orange Juice? It is possible to come from Glasgow and not be quite so very dour.

The thing is, the actual idea of having a music festival in a holiday camp is terrific. The problem is, the camp element seems to stop right there. It’s the Lack Of Variety Club. This year the acts and films were chosen by Mogwai. Who, let’s face it, are not the world’s greatest Abba fans. They balk at the mere mention of sequins. Mogwai and their dour little friends Must Be Stopped. With Knives. Next year it’s the turn of… Tortoise. The future’s so dreary I’ve got to wear mascara.

It’s all very well me sitting here and moaning about it. But I’m also doing my bit in the Pop Wars. Putting my neck gladly (and gaudily) on the line myself. And so… here’s some new records of my own, by way of an alternative to the Alternative.

The new Fosca single. “The Agony Without The Ecstasy”. All 2 minutes 50 seconds of burbling synths, MIDI magic and sparkling auto-harps. AND you can dance to it. Out on CD only (no 7″ elitism here) on Shinkansen next month. Release date JUNE 26th. Backed with “Confused And Proud” and “Weightless”. More aphorisms to scrawl on your satchel while gazing vainly across the room at the one who won’t gaze at you. The album, “On Earth To Make The Numbers Up”, follows in August. Unlike Orlando, the new Fosca releases should be available in France, Spain and America as well as the UK. And we’re working on Sweden and Japan. Next stop, Madison Square Gardens…. in Hemel Hempstead.

I had one of those internet questionnaires recently.

WHAT’S ON YOUR MOUSE MAT?: It’s got a plain red cotton layer covered in shameful grime, so it currently resembles a late Francis Bacon.

FAVOURITE BOARD GAME: “Drabble” It’s like Scrabble, but the loser has to impersonate Margaret Drabble for a day.

WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK WHEN YOU WAKE IN THE MORNING: Oh no, not again.

FUTURE DAUGHTER’S NAME: Dickonia.

FUTURE SON’S NAME: Dickon Garden City

IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB YOU WANTED, WHAT WOULD IT BE?: I’d quite like to join Asian Dub Foundation. Seriously! But do you think they’d have me? Last week, and this is true as well as handy for the purposes of a bad pun, I was snogged by a very cute Asian boy, smudging my make-up. I was then wearing, wait for it… Asian Rubbed Foundation.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SNAPPLE?: Are you an American? You must be very proud.

FAVOURITE MOVIE(S)?: This week it’s Liquid Sky. All-time it’s The Naked Civil Servant.

WHAT IS THE WORST THING YOU HAVE EVER SEEN?: “The Horse Whisperer”. I had to gnaw my own elbows off to survive.

WHAT ONE THING IRRITATES YOU THE MOST IN PEOPLE: Not obeying my every command.

WHERE DO YOU WANT TO BE RIGHT NOW?: New York.

WHAT IS YOUR MOST MEMORABLE MOMENT? : To date, winning my Marksman badge at Colchester Barracks for the local Scouts. Deadeye Dickon, they called me. I’m actually quite handy with a .77 army rifle. You wouldn’t think it to look at me, would you? I’m a dab hand at using the crosshairs to kill people whose hair makes me cross.

Apparently these diary entries are printed out by one reader and read in the girls’ toilets at her school.