The flu is still lingering, and I'm doing my utmost to be rid of it in time for Saturday tea-time, which is when <a href="http://www.fosca.com/">Fosca</a> play their first gig of 2003.

The venue is Notting Hill Arts Club, 21 Notting Hill Gate, London W11. It's one of those noted <a href="http://www.roughtrade.com/docs/rota.htm">Rough Trade "RoTa Sessions"</a> they have there.

Entry is free!

There's four bands on, in fact. Here's the schedule:
Doors 4pm
Matt Hill 4:40-5:00
Pale Horse And Rider 5:15-5:45
Anna Kashfi 6:00-6:35
Fosca 6:50-7:30

The cheapest drink at the bar is, apparently, a glass of champagne for £2.

I was interested in Mr Moore's phrase made during his acceptance speech, "Shame on you, Mr Bush. Shame on you."

I don't think that's something a British satirist or political activist would say. It sounded strangely inclusive, treating Mr Bush as an equal and a fellow American who has merely strayed from the path. If, say, Mr Tatchell were given an Oscar (for Best Citizen's Arrest Attempt?), I'm sure he too would mention the much-alleged illegality of both the War and Mr Bush's own elected status, but the phrase "shame on you" would sound very odd indeed. If you have utter contempt for someone, wishing shame on them seems strangely tame and polite. Yet on Mr Moore's lips, and while holding an Oscar, the phrase sounded a powerful, shocking indictment.

Mr Farrell is supernaturally good-looking in real life, despite the beard. Which surprised me as I'd only previously seen him in DareDevil as an evil bald villain, and couldn't understand what the fuss over him was all about. I now have an inkling.

Mr Martin is clearly still an extremely funny man. Why he can't make films as funny as "The Man With Two Brains" or "LA Story" anymore is therefore even more perplexing.

Such a shame that the entries for the Best Song category have to be original works written for a recent movie. So, rather than all those excellent Kander & Ebb 70s compositions from "Chicago" like "All That Jazz", "Razzle-dazzle 'Em", and "They Both Reached For The Gun", we get their comparatively forgettable "I Move On", just because it's new.

Mr O'Toole was rather wary of his Lifetime Achievement Award, seeing it as the Oscars' way of tidying you into the grave, their equivalent of placing a coin on the lips of a corpse. Still, if it makes people investigate "Lawrence Of Arabia" , "The Ruling Class", or "The Stunt Man", for the first time, it can only be a good thing.

One protracted part of the ceremony, being as it was the awards' 75th year, featured an onstage seated display of as many previous winners of Best Actors as the organisers could presumably rustle up. As the commentator moved from uneasy, fixed-smiling actor to uneasy, fixed-smiling actor, naming each one plus the films they won the award or awards for, one could hear the whispers across the world:

"Oh, I didn't know they got an Oscar for THAT film."
"Never seen that film."
"Never heard of that film."
"Where's Katharine Hepburn?"
"I thought she'd won more Oscars than that"
"Is she STILL alive?"
"Look at the state of her!"
"Who?"

I was tickled to see that one of the winners was "This Charming Man". Not the Smiths song, but a Danish live-action short film whose director was presumably a bit of a Morrissey fan. A suspicion which was confirmed during the "Other Awards In Brief" section of the highlights programme I watched, which showed a still of the 30-year old director at the podium, displaying an admirably Morrissey-esque haircut. I wonder if he thanked Mr M in his speech for the idea of the title?

No sign anywhere of my two favourite films of last year "24 Hour Party People", and "Kissing Jessica Stein."

The fever has now passed, thank heavens. I don't mind the other symptoms of flu so much, but it's difficult to enjoy life when it feels like someone has set fire to one's face.

Let me paint you a picture of my Monday.

A cluttered room in Highgate, the curtains closed, a narrow single bed on which the occupant, Mr Dickon Edwards, 31, is sprawled with one arm across his brow, trying to suppress his influenza-induced coughings. His hair, white as snow, is more flowing than usual, but more due to procrastination of a trip to the barber's than the result of any aesthetic intent. On the bedside table is a bunch of grapes, kindly provided by Ms O'Donoghue of Finsbury Park, at which he occasionally plucks with ivory fingers. He is listening to the recent Radio 4 dramatisation of "Brideshead Revisited", as well as readings of selected Evelyn Waugh short stories.

All the components of this tableau are either accidental, or entirely devoid of any deliberately aesthetic agenda, yet as he lies there, he realises just what a fictional character <i>manqué</i> he must sometimes seem.

Is this state of affairs a Good or Bad thing? He can't decide. It's true that many of those involved in The War, whether pro or anti, might think very low of him indeed. He is, after all, scant use to anyone. If more people were like him, it's true no one would get bombed. But it's also true that the Working World would grind to a halt. ("Hello, you're through to 24 Hour Emergency Plumbers… Sorry, but we can't deal with any burst pipes right now, due to the fact all our plumbers are too busy listening to Evelyn Waugh").

"Maybe that's just as well", he murmurs huskily to himself, and pulls the blankets over his head as Sebastian Flyte trots off to Morocco.

I feel like I'm dying. My face appears to be on fire as I type this.

I have a phlegmy cough, a nose that is at turns blocked and running, a headache, hot flushes and cold shivers, plus aching and fatigued limbs.

Flu-like symptoms.

So, yes, naturally, I think I've got <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/2871613.stm">SARS.</a>

Last year, when I had a similar bout of flu, I thought I had anthrax poisoning. Seriously. I am a world-class hypochondriac, something which tends to go hand-in-self-obsessed-hand with narcissism. Still, it doesn't help that all these scary viruses that make the news tend to have symptoms of common everyday illnesses. Now, bright blue spots on the forehead – that'd be more useful. Mystery illnesses are just so <i>thoughtless.</i>

I'm knocking back a bottle of Day Nurse, but if you have better remedies to mind, feel free to post them.

Otherwise, let the world know that I died with my mascara on.

Last night, in Whitechapel's Arts Cafe, I was privileged to witness a solo set by Joel Gibb, singer and songwriter with The Hidden Cameras, my new favourite band, the one that I've already rattled on about before.

Suffice it to say he was <i>superb</i>, holding the audience spellbound as he performed selections from the "Ban Marriage" EP, from "Ecce Homo", the 4-track self-released album that's already out, and from "The Smell Of Our Own", the forthcoming full-band album on Rough Trade which I shall review shortly. Sublime voice, sublime guitar playing, sublime songs. His raven hair was slicked and side-parted in a schoolboy fashion, which along with his glasses and quietly-muscular frame solicited comparisons with Clark Kent. Mr Gibb – truly a musical superhero. And that was without the full band and famed go-go dancers, the likes of which are pictured in this week's NME live reviews.

If that wasn't enough, the evening's DJ, Ben from Cornershop, played Tracy Thorn's cover of The Monochrome Set's classic "Goodbye Joe". As well as "There's A Kind Of Hush" by The Carpenters.

Which reminds me. I myself will be the special erotic guest DJ at the gently-legendary monthly club <a href="http://www.howdoesitfeel.co.uk/">How Does It Feel To Be Loved?</a> tomorrow evening. Playing 60s girl groups and 80s indiepop and anything else which vaguely fits. I think I'm "on" at 10pm-ish. Expect a feast of Supremes, Shangri-Las, Supremes, Hidden Cameras, Supremes, Orange Juice, Supremes, Morrissey, McCarthy, Supremes, Tatu and more Supremes until Mr Watson drags me giggling from the decks.

The club is at the Buffalo Bar, underneath the Famous Cock Tavern, right outside Highbury & Islington tube, and runs from 9pm to 2am. £3 entry. I think I'm on about 10pm.

Do come if you're in town and the mood takes you.

This entry was brought to you by the words "spindle" and "perineum".

Mr Baudrillard tells us that the Gulf War did not take place. That the reporting of it on the television and in the newspapers at the time made the people of the West "hostages to media intoxication", and that this has been the case with reporting of conflicts and terrorism ever since. I certainly remember never having heard of CNN until 1991, when the company's logo was indelibly attached to the endless hours of footage on UK news reports. Many UK viewers thought CNN was the new name for the USA.

Mr La Fontaine tells us, ‘the day there is real war you will not even be able to tell the difference".

Mr McLuhan tells us "the medium is the message".

As I glance around, it's difficult not to agree. Since 1991, the reporting of war has become so fast, so flashy, so sexy, so rabid, that War does seem first and foremost something made for telly. Like Richard And Judy, but less violent.

The band Coldplay are among those currently asking everyone to walk out of their jobs if the US and UK start attacking Iraq. Such General Strike-style sentiments are admirable, even revolutionary, and the thought of Coldplay going on strike has to be one bright side of the imminent conflict.

But I can't help thinking that, outside of those directly involved with the fighting, the only people whose withdrawing of labour would really Stop The War are those who work in the media.

If every TV and radio station and every newspaper suddenly shut down today, my impression is that Mr War would indeed Stop at once, and flounce off in a hypothetical huff to phone its agent. Along with Mr Schrodinger's unfortunate cat, the fridge light, and that wretchedly noisy tree falling in the forest.

I'm not saying that ignoring coverage of a war would make it go away. But it would call the bluff of all those slavering, overexcited news readers. If they and their colleagues just calmed down a little, I might be able to take what they say seriously.

It's easy for me to be an idling, narcissistic, powdered fop. I'm lucky. I've never known War outside of my TV set. If I find the news upsetting, I turn it off and go for a saunter in Highgate Wood, where there's squirrels and birds and trees and a little cafe where there is literally honey still for tea, and all is well.

But I do often wonder what would happen if events did affect me directly. If I had to deal with a personal them-or-us situation. If Mr War came to tea. Which is why one of my favourite films is <a href="http://www.plugincinema.com/plugin/articles/wentdaywell.htm">Went The Day Well?</a>, made by Ealing Studios in 1942. An unusual, unsentimental work, it tells the story of a sleepy, timelessly peaceful English village whose almost stereotypically cosy residents become cold-blooded warriors in order to survive a German invasion force. The violence in the film is, as you might imagine, childishly tame compared to the likes of "Saving Private Ryan". Yet the brutal acts it depicts are extremely affecting due to the Ealing Films context, amplified all the more by the absence of incidental music, the many bleakly comic moments, and the odd diversions of tone.

In one scene, two landgirls (women who took up farmwork because of the manpower shortage) are firing rifles from the windows of the village manor at approaching Germans on the lawn. One girl shoots successfully, then turns and puts her hand over her face at the sickening realisation she has taken a human life. "I… shot one," she says to her colleague.

"Good girl", replies the other girl, Ivy, a feisty Northerner. "You know, we ought to keep a score. That's one for you. Half a moment, now, I'll have a go. Missed him. Can't even hit a sitting Jerry."

Here's the movie's promotional poster. Ivy is on the bottom right of the group of figures:

<img src="http://www.britmovie.co.uk/studios/ealing/filmography/images/29a.jpg"></img>

The young actress playing Ivy is Thora Hird. Who died this weekend, at the age of 91.

The thought of Thora Hird gunning down Nazis is an amusing one to British TV viewers, as she was famous for being the UK's Most Lovable Old Lady. The Queen Mother of the TV acting world. So much so, that it's difficult to imagine her ever being <i>young</i> at all.

I note that other obituaries have all drawn attention to her portrayal of many a mother, grandmother, wife, for her roles in Alan Bennett plays and Last Of The Summer Wine, and for her presenting of the Sunday tea-time religious programme, Praise Be. Not to mention being the butt of many a gentle joke for her advertising Stannah Stair-Lifts in the back of the Radio Times magazine.

But her role in Went The Day Well, which is now considered a classic British film with serious academic books dedicated to it, appears to have gone unmentioned. Perhaps because it goes against the grain of her Definitive Old Lady persona. I have the film on video, and last night watched it again by way of a tribute.

And as I did so, I considered that here was Thora Hird at my present age, 31. Living in a time when War was something more than a flashy way of selling TV sets. Making a film about what would happen if Mr War knocked on one's own front door. Playing someone forced to kill or be killed. I think about the bravery of her character, and hope to heaven that if Mr War ever came to my street, there'd be someone like Ivy around.

Goodnight, landgirl sniper.

The motto in the BBC's coat-of-arms is "Nation Shall Speak Unto Nation".

LiveJournal's should be "Bored, Unhappy Soul Shall Lament Unto Bored, Unhappy Soul"

I'm aware that many LJ users post their grievances about Life while at work, being as they are in one of those writing jobs where the Internet is available for personal use when the boss is not looking.

But what if you can post such outbursts of despair in your actual work? Knowing that your boss never reads your work. Which is, of course, part of the reason for the despair.

Imagine you're a cricket fan with a talent for writing. To be one of The Guardian's live, online Cricket World Cup commentators must be a dream job, right?

<a href="http://sport.guardian.co.uk/cricketworldcup2003/overbyover/story/0%2c12864%2c914033%2c00.html">Read this opening paragraph and weep!</a>

Last night BBC2 showed the most fascinating documentary. It followed Mr Robert Newman as he worked on his third novel over a period of four years, from 1999 till the present day.

UK readers of a certain age will recall how he was once the kind-eyed, flowing-haired, early 90s student lust object and inoffensive comedian “Rob” Newman, one half of Newman and Baddiel, the hip ones on “The Mary Whitehouse Experience” who did routines about indie bands, and who then had their own series, “Newman and Baddiel In Pieces”.

The documentary showed footage of the last Baddiel & Newman gig, a show at Wembley Arena in December 1993. It was the first time comedians had played (and sold out) a 12,000 capacity arena venue, an event which, for once, gave credence to the tired catchphrase of many a magazine at the time, “comedy is the new rock and roll.”

Arguably their most popular skit was <a href=”http://www.micaelita.com/historytoday/main.shtml”>the two “History Today” professors</a>, whose supposedly academic discussions were entirely composed of primary school playground insults:

Newman: See that Eddie the Eagle Edwards? That’s you, that is. That’s your mum.

Baddiel: You see Thora Hird?

Newman: I am aware of her work.

Baddiel: You fancy her.

Newman: You ARE her. </i>

Then Newman & Baddiel split up.

Mr Baddiel, as UK readers will be profoundly aware, continued appearing on television, hooking up with Frank Skinner on “Fantasy Football League” and “Baddiel & Skinner Unplanned”, and was partly responsible for that “Three Lions / Football’s Coming Home” song. This was a ditty that became so ubiquitous it even overtook “Auld Lang Syne” as the Trafalgar Square revellers’ song of choice on New Years Eve 1996. He wrote and starred in his own sitcom. He went on the panels for both the Booker Prize and the Whitbread Prize. He also had two novels published.

Mr Newman… had two novels published.

All he had ever really wanted to do with his life, he said, was Be A Novelist. And now publishers were refusing to let him do so. His first two books hadn’t sold enough to warrant an advance for any more, and things were getting so bad he was on the point of selling his house. He was even “on tick” with the local cornershop, to the tune of <i>thousands</i>. Occasionally my own local shop lets me pay some other day if I’m really penniless (and they know where I live), but <i>thousands?</i> The shopkeeper must really be a fan.

The documentary opened by cutting from footage of the 1993 Wembey gig, with the slim, young, popular, black-clad, rock star-like Newman making his entrance on a motorised skateboard to the adoring applause of thousands, to Newman the shockingly overweight, struggling novelist in 1999. His fatness was particularly distressing. It was the kind that makes one think “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Prosthetics”. The viewer was treated to watching him mooch idly around his home in a series of stained old t-shirts, smoking, napping, looking sad, lonely, bloated, unwashed, unshaven, and doing very little indeed.

One upsetting sequence showed him performing in a tiny pub venue, trying out new material. Not for a new comedy show, but for his then-embryonic new <i>novel</i>. He utterly died a death. It was difficult to infer if the unresponsiveness of the audience was down to the folly of such an ill-advised idea for a gig by a famous comedian, or because Mr Newman’s corpulent appearance made it impossible to concentrate on what he was saying, or both. But it was so uncomfortable to watch, I nearly turned the TV off right there.

At one point in the series of video diary extracts, he recounted an instance where, while sitting at his desk trying to write, a passer-by in the street outside realised the light was on, and said loudly to their friend, “That’s Rob Newman’s house. He used to be funny, but he’s not anymore.” Heckled at his own desk from the street outside. He’d become his own “History Today” insult. “See that Robert Newman in 1999? That’s you, that is.”

While it indeed was a relief to see him looking thin, well-groomed and healthy in the later stages of the programme (he now looks like the handsome male lead in Six Feet Under), the more we heard about the contents of his new book, a heavily-researched tale of anti-globalisation protestors around the world, the more awful and pretentious it sounded. <a href=”http://www.chortle.co.uk/news/feb03/rob.html”>As publisher after publisher rejected his manuscript</a>, it was difficult to feel that they and the reading public were missing out on a literary classic. He still has many loyal fans, but would any of them say he’s much better placed in the world as a novelist than as a comedian?

“This above all: to thine own self be true” – Shakespeare (Hamlet).

But, on the other hand…

“It’s no good running a pig farm badly for thirty years while saying, “Really I was meant to be a ballet dancer.” By that time, pigs are your style.” – Quentin Crisp.

And what if you’re actually a very <i>good</i> pig farmer…?

It was fascinating to watch Mr Newman struggle with his writing while being forced to return to the odd bout of stand-up comedy (properly, this time) in order to pay the bills. However, I think the documentary was intended to have the viewer rooting for Mr Newman’s novelist career to take an upward turn. After all, it was part of a series about the mechanics of the writing process. The only lessons learned here was how to completely lack self-awareness, refusing to accept that your life might be better spent <i>not</i> writing novels, if it’s been proven that people are more willing to pay for your efforts as a comedian.

Mr Newman complained to the camera that he constantly had to break away from writing his novel just when he was getting on a roll, in order to play a comedy gig somewhere in the UK. As if it was stacking shelves in Kwik-Save. It’s still a form of creative art, connecting and communicating with the world. People will pay you to listen to what’s in your head. And yet he told the video diary that if his novel wasn’t published soon, he would have to quit stand-up comedy for good and get a nice regular job in a local bookshop. Or was that another joke?

From his wry exchanges with the video diary and clips of his reluctant but perfectly successful stand-up gigs, it was clear that he’s definitely still a talented and charismatic left-wing comedian. So why can’t he be one proper, and leave novels to the likes of Mr Tolstoy? Writing books is fine, but why fiction? Why can’t he use his humourous talents and detailed knowledge of the political world to write a Michael Moore-style work of US-bashing non-fiction? That really <i>would</i> sell copies. It’s certainly the kind of book that currently dominates London bookshop window displays. I may be a non-committal navel-gazing fence-sitting fop, but I just don’t think a <i>novel</i> is what the anti-globalisation movement really needs.

He was shunning what people really wanted from him (comedy, however political) in order to write a novel about how the Tony Blairs of this world don’t listen to people power. The irony seemed to be lost on him.

Still, the film had a happy ending, if a compromised one. <a href=”http://www.micaelita.net/robnewman/”>His third novel is finally going to be published by an independent publisher later this year</a>, so people at least will be able to read it and judge for themselves.

I am currently sitting for <a href="http://www.ellaguru.org.uk/">Ms Ella Guru</a> for a portrait, which in the spirit of Ms Kahlo will include some animals in the background.

To wit, one pelican and two foxes. I am portrayed at one with flora and fauna, just like my namesake in The Secret Garden.

Here is the photo montage she is referring to for composition, using a picture she took of me in Highgate Wood a few months ago:

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/pelican-blond-photo.jpg"></img>

That line on my cheek is the shadow of a branch. I know it looks like I've got a duelling scar. But then, I suppose I've always had a metaphorical duelling scar of sorts. En garde, entire world!

I have no idea what the band Torture Shoe sound like (apparently they're a bit like Squarepusher, so I suppose that means bleeps and clicking noises all round), but I'm rather fond of their titles.

Their album is called "That Last Stage Of Syphilis Really Caught Me By Suprise", and its tracklisting is as follows:

1. I Don't Smell Of Urine Anymore
2. A Scoliotic Spine In My Stomach
3. Aspirating Meconium
4. Donating Expired Food To Flood Victims
5. Perfectly Good Ova
6. Taste The Arm
7. Skip This Track
8. This Song Is Weak And Should Not Have Been Included
9. Jackie's Finger Hurts: Does That Mean Cancer?
10. Slicing Ankles
11. I Have Never Before Used The Word Stratagem During Conversation