<i>Resume 7am-9am daily diary writing routine, after putting it off for some days due to an attack of the dreaded black dog. Backlog of activities to be cleared. Awake to hammering of rain against the window, which always makes me happy. Hurl myself out of bed, pull open the curtains to see Highgate leaves gratefully bobbing in the morning downpour. London is meant to be this way, though doubtless someone somewhere is flooded out of their home. City of extremes – all or nothing. Switch on the computer. To work.</i>

Saturday May 22nd. Play the first of four London gigs in five days. Having personally managed to get Gentleman Reg to come all the way from Toronto to perform his first UK concerts, I push my luck as a fan by e-mailing him in advance and asking if he'd like me to add a bit of supplementary guitar and backing vocals. He agrees to the first (on some songs), and I decide to spare him the second. Partly out of fear of squawking wrong harmony notes, which are all the more likely given we have no rehearsal. But mostly because Mr Reg Vermue's vocals need highlighting alone, I feel. Backing vocals can sometimes provide a sense of "mateyness" which isn't always appropriate for artists trading in loneliness, longing, and other personal emotions.

Saturday evening, and The Clerkenwell House is the first venue on this mini-tour of the capital. The surrounding streets are deserted, shops and offices closed in that strange weekend ghost town way parts of the City can resemble. I'm constantly fascinated by the on-off noise extremes of central London experienced by simply turning street corners, particularly in the tea time limbo between working hours and nightlife. The spaces left by people going home, the spaces to be filled by people going out.

I stand alone in Hatton Wall, EC2, with my guitar, peering at the door numbers, when a man passing along the other side of the street suddenly calls to me. "Clerkenwell House? Over there." He is the only other human in sight, and correctly assumes that, if I'm holding a guitar and looking lost in Hatton Wall, I must be seeking The Clerkenwell.

I make my entrance to the usual internalised applause. The venue is a trendy concourse bar with extremely comfy sofas surrounding a performance space marked out at floor level. Meet Mr V for the first time – slim, smiling, luminously blond. I joke about my being a wannabe albino, once compared to the besuited pink-eyed assassin in the Goldie Hawn / Chevy Chase comedy thriller, "Foul Play". My mistake – Gentleman Reg is not actually an albino, he's just often mistaken for one with his white eyebrows. "I sometimes feel I might as well be an albino," he adds. "I get the stares."

I also meet his manager, Ms Melanie, who has dyed bright red hair. In her first email to me, she says "I hear you're a bit of a character".

They are both charming company, all Canadian utopian optimism and tolerance, though I find myself frequently apologising for the detrimental attributes of London, which even they are openly frustrated by. The way tube trains are overpriced and under-developed, the way bars and clubs can be so expensive yet seldom appear to spend any of the profits on maintaining decent toilets, the way mobile phones run Londoners' lives like chirping electronic comfort blankets, yet to phone a mobile from a phone box costs an absolute fortune, the poor choice of food on offer, the extremes of things. In the longeurs dividing soundcheck from performance, I give them a list of recommended attractions to enjoy while on a low-budget stay in London, and reassure them that there ARE so many things one can do without spending much money. The umpteen free art galleries and museums, the countless parks and green spaces, the way one should look up whenever walking about to discover unique and frequently ornate architecture above the corporate franchise shop fronts. I'm intrigued that they most want to go to the Tate Modern – along with the London Eye it really has become an instant favourite attraction for discerning visitors and Londoners alike. Far better that than the tacky likes of Madame Tussauds. Though I have to break the news to Reg and Melanie that the enormous Weather Project installation (featuring a gigantic sun simulation and mirrored ceiling) is no longer at the Tate M. I recall that The London Eye was originally a temporary feature that became permanent through overwhelming popular demand, and it's a shame the same couldn't be done with the Weather Project, given its success.

I warn Mr V in advance that London gigs are typically saturated in audience chatter, and that he shouldn't take it personally if people talk throughout his sets. Londoners demand to discuss their fashionably baggy jeans. We have a quick impromptu rehearsal on acoustic guitars, and I add some six-string doodlings to the songs "Make Me Pretty", "Statement", "Give Me The Chance To Fall", "Untouchable" and "Anthem For Self-Confidence". I've managed to work out the chords and hooks by ear, referring to the album "Make Me Pretty" as well as <a href="http://www.justconcerts.com/concerts/concert.cfm?Concert_Id=190">a solo Canadian radio session available online</a>. Thankfully he allows this indulgence on my part as a fan, and his London sets begin with himself playing a few numbers solo, before I join him onstage. Reg's stage clothes are a matching grey waistcoat and trousers, shirt and tie. Along with my own usual besuited apparel, we look appropriately Gentlemanly.

<img align=left src="http://www.fosca.com/ladybench.jpg"></img>
<b>{I'm using more of Mr Hughes's photos to illustrate entries. Always helps to keep readers informed what one currently looks like.}</b>

Over the next few days, I can be found at London concerts, either as a spectator or performer, or both. Here's the full details.

GENTLEMAN REG – DEBUT LONDON GIGS

Angelic-voiced albino and Toronto indie troubadour Gentleman Reg, aka Reg Vermue, is playing his first ever London UK dates over the next 7 days. He's performing by himself, with the possible danger of back-up vocals / guitar from myself on selected songs.

Recommended album: "Make Me Pretty" (Three Gut Records). Echoes of Nick Drake, Cat Power and Sarah Records. More info at http://www.gentlemanreg.com . In addition to his excellent solo work, Reg is a member of fabulous Canuck homo combo The Hidden Cameras and sings on both HCs Rough Trade albums.

Those Gentleman Reg London dates (note FREE entry to first one):

Sat May 22nd: Clerkenwell House, as part of 'The Medicine Show'.
9pm. FREE. 23-27 Hatton Wall, EC1N 8JJ. 020 7404 1113. Chancery Lane or Farringdon tube.

Sun May 23rd: The Windmill, Brixton, with Charlemagne + Justin Rutledge + Denison Witmer.
7.30pm. £3. 22 Blenheim Gardens (off Brixton Hill), London, SW2 5BZ. 020 8671 0700. Brixton tube.

Mon May 24th: The 12 Bar Club. with Justin Rutledge + Ryan Bishop + James & Jason
7pm. £5. 22-23 Denmark Place (off Denmark Street), WC2H 8NL. 020 7916 6989. Tottenham Court Road tube.

Weds May 26th: The Spitz. with Scarlet's Well, Fiel Garvie and MPE Band.
7pm. £8/ £6 109 Commercial Street, Old Spitalfields Market, E1 6BG, 020 7392 9032. Liverpool St / Shoreditch / Aldgate East tube.

This last gig is headlined by SCARLET'S WELL. SW is the solo incarnation of ex Monochrome Set frontman Bid.
The show will be Bid's first UK gig in 8 years. Needless to say, I am rather excited about this. So excited that I joined the band. So with Gentleman Reg in support, it's possible I will be onstage twice that night. More SW info at http://www.scarletswell.co.uk

Last night- to the home of Ms Denitto and Ms Spivack in Camden, for a party. Enormous fun, in as much as I have fun. Discussed which season of "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" is best at one point. Typical party talk. Still, beats chatting about Star bloody Wars.

Annoyed that I missed Morrissey on Top Of The Pops. Apparently he wore a Jobriath t-shirt. Still haven't bought his album yet, out of my ludricous anti-following-the-crowd snobbery. I tend to shy away from Joining In with something everyone else does, equating it with eschewing the popular people at school and preferring to chat to the person in the corner with no friends. All very well, but applying that analogy to buying records or seeing films is just ridiculous. I still haven't seen Shaun Of The Dead or read the last Harry Potter for (mostly) the same reason. Why not? I approve of them, after all. Sometimes my own Robin Hood-like philosophy is my own enemy – why rush to follow the crowd and give to the PR-rich when others are starving, the voice in my head tells me. It's true that Morrissey doesn't NEED me to buy his album, but so what? That doesn't mean I won't enjoy it. Besides, I'm entirely happy for Mr M's impressive comeback into blanket popularity, even if his new album's reviews are more mixed than I predicted.

But the voice won out, and I instead bought the last Delgados album, on sale at £1.99. Partly because I genuinely love their recent material (especially "Come In From The Cold"), and so it's a bargain, but mostly, if I'm honest, for the feeling that they deserve my purchase power more than Morrissey. How patronising can one get? What skewed criteria. Today I will snap out of this madness and buy the Moz album. I'm additionally galvanised by reading this Guardian article on <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/editor/story/0,12900,1218921,00.html">What To Think About Morrissey</a>. Fair enough monitoring what the press are saying, but the implication is that one doesn't need to find out for oneself and make one's own mind up. There's a character in Whit Stillman's film Metropolitan who doesn't read novels, just reviews and literary criticism. That way he gets a clear idea of what the author intended, and an opinion to produce at dinner parties. All without having to read the actual novel. In one later scene, however, a copy of "Mansfield Park" is at his bedside. He's been shown the error of his ways.

There's nothing wrong with appearing to follow the crowd, as long as one stands out from it.

And besides, the child in the corner with no friends sometimes turned out to hate me.

The news is full of yet more appalling photos of US guards taunting or abusing Iraqi prisoners, or pictured smiling over their corpses. One is a sunny, white-toothed young female soldier, delighted to be posing over a body wrapped in plastic. I tell myself it's all a bit Starship Troopers meets Twin Peaks, in an attempt to stop myself feeling sick at the reality.

Still, there is humour to be found. The Commons had to be cleared when someone in the gallery threw condoms full of purple flour at Mr Blair. Despite all the lectures to the public of vigilence and security, the Honourable Members were utterly clueless as how to react, some sprawling out of the building in self-seeking confusion, some milling around in a bemused fashion. They appeared to have had no drill training whatsoever. It's said that Ian Duncan Smith, the sacked former Tory leader, was the only one who reacted swiftly, shouting "Sit down! Stay still!" No one paid any attention to him. Faced with possible death and being told what to do by Mr Smith, the MPs took their chances.

After other news of another intruder at Windsor Castle – again a benign one – one can't help thinking of missed opportunities. What if, say the newspapers. But there never is an If. From the man who fired a starting pistol at Prince Charles some years ago, to the "comedian" who gatecrashed Prince William's party, to this new intruder and the Commons condom-hurlers, our Royals and Leaders must project some aura of playful invulnerability. Help yourself to taking a pot shot, the effect seems to be, but you wouldn't try anything serious. The only thing that can kill a Royal, or depose a power-mad Prime Minister, is a drunk chauffeur or, in the case of Mrs Thatcher, other party members. Members of the public? Tug your forelocks, wear your silly fancy dress and throw your flour. It's all so English, and ultimately my feelings are ambivalent. I'm glad and sorry.

The Commons attackers were from Fathers 4 Justice, whose cause was also represented (albeit independently) by a man dressed as Spiderman holding up the traffic on Tower Bridge last year. All very well, but if you're convincing the world that you're a Good Father, dressing up in bad fancy dress, performing publicity stunts and wasting police time in a climate of potential terrorist attack do not immediately spring to mind as traits of responsible paternity. Giving the news reports, the protesters' grievances as fathers have been utterly upstaged in MPs' minds by the security implications. It's difficult to feel that their cause has been advanced.

And is the irony of rueful fathers misusing condoms lost on them?

<img align=left src="http://www.fosca.com/CamPic95.jpg"></img>Yesterday – A ghastly sunny day. Spend the first part of the day lying in bed wishing the world would go away. Thankfully, Mr Hughes comes by, and passes on the results of a photo session we had in Highgate the other day. Myself posing against trees, reading "The Lady" on a bench in Pond Square, loitering with arch intent outside the public lavatory, that sort of thing. I can never have too many photos taken of myself.

The Mens' loos in Pond Square are marked with a Camden Council sign in shockingly bad English: "GENTLEMENS". I wouldn't be at all surprised if this has been the subject of angry letters to the editor of the Ham and High.

On the way up to the village, a grey-haired man collars us. "Did you know this is the steepest slope in London?" he tells us for no reason at all. "It was on The Weakest Link".

I'm rather distracted by his baggy shorts, which advertise his lack of underwear from some distance. The effect of gravity on the ageing male body all too gruesomely illustrated.

Mr Hughes has brought his umbrella. He's just come back from Sri Lanka, where silvery parasols are quite common. One doesn't see people walking with them very often in London, which I think is a shame. We are two grown men walking on a hot London street, sharing a large tilted umbrella as a parasol. I get an extremely dirty look from a young black man as I pass, and enjoy it immensely. I feel like Audrey Hepburn at the races in My Fair Lady.

At one point, Mr Hughes grumbles about Ms Greer's recent book "The Boy In Art", which he'd been browsing. "If such a tome were written by a man, the police would be round in an instant."

We sit in the Gatehouse pub and watch the schoolboys emerging from fee-paying Highgate School in their appealingly old-fashioned blue and red uniforms, on this occasion coupled with camouflage combat trousers. It's clearly been a Cadets day. The pub has pictures of past alumni of the school including Mr Betjeman, and Mr Gerard Manley Hopkins. I didn't realise until now that Mr Hopkins strongly resembled Nicholas Lyndhurst from Only Fools And Horses.

Mr Hughes shows me a tree in a quiet corner of Hampstead Heath where he used to come and sit in his schooldays, some thirty to forty years ago. We languish there in the balmy afternoon, quoting Keats and playing I-Spy Cruisers with the occasional passing lone man, who passes again rather too often.

With birdsong the only background noise, it's difficult to remember we're in the middle of a metropolis. It's moments like this that remind me why I love London, and how best to deal with it on hot days if one is lucky enough to be one's own boss. The ability to quickly find a quiet leafy space, or in the case of the Heath an actual field, and settle down beneath the shade of a tree to read, write and think, or not think.

As regular readers may recall, last year I discovered the music of a Toronto band called The Hidden Cameras, and fell rather embarrassingly in love with them.

One of their number, who sings on both HCs Rough Trade albums, but sadly didn't feature in any of their UK live line-ups last year, is Reg Vermue, who also has his own musical life under the name of <a href="http://www.gentlemanreg.com/">Gentleman Reg</a>. I listened to a few audio samples on the web, and heard enough to warrant buying his two albums on Toronto indie label Three Gut Records, "Make Me Pretty" (2002) and "The Theoretical Girl" (2000). No mean feat, considering I've more or less gone off new music.

"Make Me Pretty" has rarely been off my CD player since I acquired it. Mr V's truly beautiful, gooey, angelic singing voice and sly, delicate arrangements really hit the spot with me. He's also a rather talented songwriter, and is the sort of artist I thought Cat Power and Bright Eyes would turn out to be, but weren't. "Anthem For Self-Confidence" contains a terrific, head-swaying chorus:

<i>I'm the one, I'm the one, JUST ADMIT IT, I'm the one…</i>.

Elsewhere on trumpet-swathed "You're So Alone", his lyrics touch on dilemmas not usually mined in the genre of pop music:

<i>Attractions to my girlfriends' boyfriends / There's a situation that ends / With them being the cutest pair you've ever seen"</i>

When I heard he wasn't coming to the UK with the Hidden Cameras, I decided take action and drag him across the Atlantic myself. I offered him a support slot at the Scarlet's Well concert on the 26th. <a href="http://www.chartattack.com/damn/2004/05/1302.cfm">Incredibly, he agreed, and booked a few other London gigs to maximise his trip.</a>

So, I feel absolutely honoured to be responsible for Gentleman Reg's first ever UK dates, which are as follows:

<b>GENTLEMAN REG PLAYS LONDON
May 22nd > Clerkenwell House, as part of 'The Medicine Show'.
May 23rd > The Windmill, Brixton, with Charlemagne, Justin Rutledge, and Denison Witmer.
May 24th > The 12 Bar Club, with Justin Rutledge.
May 26th > The Spitz, Spitalfields, with Scarlet's Well. </b>

On the 26th, he'll be onstage pretty early, circa 8pm.

Please catch him if you can.

Last weekend – to Brighton with Ms Andrei, to see a production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. A truly stunning piece of theatre. The show has taken on a kind of Rocky Horror Show following, complete with fans in the audience dressed up as characters. This detracts a little, I think, from the piece's superior literary depth. "Hedwig" could be set for A – level. The description of Gummi Bears looking out of their packet through its transparent window, fogging it up like "a Polish bath house" is a good example, as is the line "This is a new song, written for a man to sing. We're talking to Phil Collins's people. Then again, aren't we all?" I am the only person who laughs at this rather good joke.

Ms A homes in on a favourite shop with her nose. Lush, a jolly, smelly home-made soap store. Reminds me of the Body Shop, though without so much of their self-righteousness. Some of the products feature the face of the person who made it, in a cartoon style. One bubble bath soap is called "Waving Not Drowning". Another, specifically intended for scrubbing the posterior, is "Buffy The Backside Slayer". Most of it smells and looks like it could be eaten. Pots of face mask resembling ice cream scoops.

The train back is late, and we're forced to take night buses home. Never a favourite thing to do on a Saturday night. We were greeted with a surreal sight around Westminster – thousands of women (and a few men) in bras and baseball caps snaking around the pavements. At about 1am. <a href="http://www.walkthewalk.org/events/moonwalk/FAQ.htm">Turns out to be a breast cancer fund-raising event</a>, the Playtex Moonwalk. All rather cheering. At Trafalgar Square, a large lad snarls "Get out of my f—ing way" as he boards the night bus. I am reminded how much more afraid of men I am than of women. On balance.

Knots in the stomach. I feel so anxious, I could snap in two. No particular reason. Just general, lurking, creeping fear. Fear of other people, fear of the world, but mostly fear of the part of me that's holding me back. The therapy has brought this to the surface, but not tackled it. Yet.

A few comments and emails from people blaming or praising me for putting a Donations button on my diary. Often, the less complimentary unsolicited reactions and judgements I receive, whether for what I say, what I do, or how I look, say far more about the commentator than me. I'll be their mirror, reflect what they are. It was ever thus. ("Ye gods, he's comparing himself to Nico now")

I hear from a friend about a magazine he's written for. The publication has folded, and the contributors have not been paid. I suspect that any redundancy funds that can be found will go to other creditors first, with writers last in the queue. It's a common situation. The assumption is that writing well is less of a job than cleaning windows well, as if it takes no time, effort or skill to do. To some, writing seems too much like Fun, which it often is, and that's often the root of the prejudice. Writers don't need paying as much as payroll clerks, the reasoning goes, because they <i>want</i> to do it. It's like the fence painting scene in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0140620524/dickonedwards-21">Tom Sawyer.</a>

I <i>want</i> to do this diary. The fact is, it's one of the few things I've done in my life with some degree of success, in terms of unforced popularity. Yet some people would rather I did a day job badly than do this diary well. I've DONE umpteen day jobs in my time. You name it, I've done it. Shop work, telesales, catering, office work, museum work. I was useless at every one of them. Believe me, both employers and customers or clients alike are better off without me. I don't want to be on benefits all my life, though, and am trying hard to secure some kind of living connected to something I actually do vaguely WELL for a change, ie Being Dickon Edwards. Is that really so bad?

Ideally, I'd write a paying column for a national publication. "Twenty First Century Fop". Or, "The Friday Fop". But which one? I rather fancy something like The Lady or Tatler.

****
Anthony Ainley, who played The Master in Doctor Who during the 80s, has died. The epitome of the prancing, boo-hiss-style camp pantomime villain. There was never any need to justify his evil plans. As far as his Master was concerned, there was only ever one reason. Playing evil is so much <i>fun</i>. I'd love to appear in the new Doctor Who that's being made – but only as a baddie. I can see myself wearing black gloves and saying something akin to "I could play all day in my green cathedral". My performance wouldn't be any worse than Goldie or Tricky in those blockbuster movies they did. If someone can't act, get them to play a henchman. Bad being, as in life, much more easy to do than good.

****
Last Wednesday – to Wandsworth to be in the audience for a recording of a BBC4 TV programme, Battle Of The Books. Alighting at Wandsworth Town station at 10.30am, the South London streets are like a ghost town. More like a Sunday than a Wednesday. I suppose everyone is at work, and the criminals, dealers and murderers are all still in bed. Or perhaps the nearby prison puts them off.

I am here because (a) It's something I've not done before, at least for a debate programme; (b) The programme sounds interesting, and I can't get BBC4 at home; and (c) I am promised a free lunch.

Audience members are subjected to a debate on which of two books is "the better read". "Evidence" and arguments are put forward, and then the members of the audience vote for their choice.

The advocates arguing this pointless but enjoyable task are blonde presenter-without-portfolio Mariella Frostrup, who is heavily pregnant (cue Omen music), and chirpy big blokey comedian Kevin Day, who must be cheaper than Phil Jupitus. James Naughtie, of Radio 4's Today programme, is the chairman, and he clearly prefers the live chat element, resenting the times he has to read the autocue. The producer uses audience members like set dressing, according to what they're wearing, and they shove me directly behind the chairman. Most of my day is therefore spent studying his bald patch in detail. I could go on Mastermind and answer questions about it. I know the back of Mr Naughtie's head like the back of my hand.

The first debate is <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0552149519/dickonedwards-21">The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown</a> versus <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0099466031/dickonedwards-21">The Name Of The Rose by Umberto Eco</a>. The tenuous connection being themes of religious doctrine. One of the witnesses singing Mr Brown's praises is the writer of a fanzine-like volume about the ideas in the book, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1843171031/dickonedwards-21">Cracking The Da Vinci Code</a>. He has long hair, a beard, wears a big black coat and dark glasses. Indoors. No one is in the least bit surprised. The other, for some reason, is Egon Ronay, the famous restaurant critic. He is a small, stylishly dressed old man, who has a constant sly smirk as if to say "yes, I know you're all surprised I'm still alive. So am I."

Mr Ronay's presence as a pro-Da Vinci Code witness is even more baffling when he goes on to admit that the only thing interesting about the novel is its theories and concepts. As a novel, even an airport-lounge-friendly thriller novel, it's woefully substandard. Mr Ronay advises people to buy his fellow witness's non-fiction tome instead.

A food metaphor is cited: The Name Of The Rose is a four-course, filling meal, while The Da Vinci code is more like a Big Mac. Mariella Frostrup puts the case against the former by reading a "Rose" excerpt floridly describing a vision of hell. "Isn't that tedious?" she posits, wrongly. It's exactly the sort of thing I love. I am sold, and vote for Mr Eco's work. It loses to Mr Brown's, but only by one or two votes. On the station platform later that day, I spy a commuter reading The Da Vinci Code. For all its lack of literary worth, people genuinely do love it. The saying goes that bad books make good films, and the movie version is on the way. I think I'll give the book a miss and wait for the film. Big Macs just make me queasy.

I stay behind after the recording and volunteer to be filmed individually, for a Vox Pops comment on how I voted. This is a mistake, as it means that by the time I get back to the audience green room, all the food has gone. So much for my free lunch. Once again, it seems you mustn't be rewarded for what you <i>want</i> to do.

In the afternoon, the debate is A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess versus A Kind Of Loving by Stan Barstow. The tenuous connection this time is cult 60s novels detailing other worlds. The other world in Mr Barstow's book being the disappearing, pre-60s one in Northern England, as modern values creep in. One of the pro-Barstow witnesses is Jonathan Tulloch, author of The Gateshead Trilogy. He argues passionately and articulately, and is one of those rare writers who speaks like they write. His statements swing it for me, and include an anecdote about reading A Kind Of Loving while working in a biscuit factory, accidentally losing his copy in the machine, and then finding it years later in a charity shop still with a few crumbs buried in the spine.

I'm also put off A Clockwork Orange by Mr Day's tiresome dismissal of "Loving" as typical, dated, irrelevant, grim-up-North, trouble at mill, kitchen sink stuff. Which just makes him come across as an ignorant, even bigoted Southerner. See also people who dismiss Alan Bennett as twee, or Morrissey as depressing. Why don't you find out for yourself, one wants to say.

If anything, it is Mr Burgess's book I find dated, with its embarrassingly 60s Klingon-like slang. It's true A Clockwork Orange evocatively depicts the teenage male lust for violence, self-centred sex and destruction, but big deal, I say. Teenage boys can be thugs? You don't say! On this day, the newspaper covers feature a US civilian hostage in Iraq decapitated on film by his captors. Right now, one needs a book about violence like a, dare I say it, hole in the head.

"The book helps to UNDERSTAND violent people" say the pro-Burgess witnesses. No it doesn't. "Viddy well, o my droogs" Oh, get knotted. It's a silly cartoon sci-fi novel about ideas and actions. A Clockwork Orange is all about the head. A Kind Of Loving is all about the heart.

Sadly, come the vote, Mr Burgess wins over Mr Barstow. As he does in bookshops. A Clockwork Orange is currently available in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/014027409X/dickonedwards-21">TWO different</a> classy <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0141182601/dickonedwards-21">"classic literature" editions</a>. A Kind Of Loving can currently only be found in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0435125079/dickonedwards-21">a tacky schools hardback edition with an appalling cover</a> and unimpressive, minimum blurb. The sad fact is the one known all too well by both newspaper editors and the late Mr Burgess, who practically disowned ACW when it overshadowed his other novels so completely: violence, whether real or fictional, will always sell. One of the most popular films around at the moment is Kill Bill.

I find out that many of the other audience members have been hastily recruited from the local job centre. They are being paid to be here. I ask one of the programme crew if there's any chance I can get paid too, given I'm also unwaged and living on benefits. Even just the Travelcard cost would be a help. And, after all, I have contributed to their Vox Pops sections.

"Sorry", comes the response. "You <i>wanted</i> to do this. So we can't pay you"

I sigh. "It's like the Tom Sawyer painting the fence scene, isn't it."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. It's a book."

My first published poem, "Alibi", is on the web as part of the webzine The Mind's Construction:
http://www.geocities.com/themindsconstruction/alibi.html

I suppose I'd like to think the poem is more Stevie Smith than Wendy Cope or Pam Ayres (the less fashionable Wendy Cope), in that I'm trying to get an element of depth and sadness in amongst the jokes. But who am I kidding? I didn't write it because I wanted to write a poem. I wrote it because I wanted that opening line to get out of my head and leave me alone. The poem wrote itself.

It's my first attempt at verse since winning "Highly Commended" in the Suffolk Free Press poetry competition circa 1986. My prize specimen then was a political comment poem about South African censorship. I grimace at the memory. Typical teenager aren't-bad-things-bad fodder. Still, people will always like Issues in their teenage verse.

I performed "Alibi" at Farrago, a poetry "slam" at Filthy MacNasty's Lit-Pub in Angel last Sunday. This is where you are given marks out of ten by various judges. Didn't even make the final round. Winner was a Spanish woman writing about the March Madrid bombings. Runners-up did equally serious stuff about Death or Love. But I think "Alibi" is entirely serious on one level.

In my sour grapes way, I think of how Oscar winning films tend to follow a formula – serious dramas about offspring being taken away. "What have you done with my husband / baby?", cue applause and trophy. Must feature crying. The fantastic Mr Murray losing out to the appalling Mr Penn. If it makes you laugh, it's somehow less worthy. Then again, who wants to be Worthy with a capital W?

Anyway, at the slam, I didn't perform it as well as I could have done, and they do take that into account in the judging.

Last night – to the Boogaloo, Archway Road. My "local" and the nearest pub to this computer, and to my bed. I'm fairly certain the landlord, Mr O'Boyle, reads this diary. Must ask him to confirm. The other day he emailed me, and I can't recall giving him my address. Turns out it's not me he wants, but a person who was part of a birthday drinks gathering I attended there, who borrowed a bottle of vodka from him. Anyway, I found out who it was, the person got in touch and repaid the favour, and all is well.

I meet strangers all the time who say they read this diary and, more often than not, they are not Livejournal Friends, ie "declared readers". There's no need to be – I only use LiveJournal as a handy format and certainly do not regard myself as a member of the LiveDrivel Community, perish the thought. This web diary was started in 1997, some time before "blogging" and LJ came into widespread use. If as some people think, "blogging" will turn out to be a fad, this diary will continue, perhaps in yet another format. It will only stop being when I stop being. I am given to moan that I have not yet been called upon to write or talk about the art of public web diaries for a mass media publication or programme, when others who have barely kept theirs going a year or two have, but that's a typical gripe of anyone who watches TV or listens to the radio and hears some "expert" reveal themselves as less informed than oneself.

A few years ago I heard a Radio 4 poetry programme about Ms Rossetti, where the presenter was standing by her grave in Highgate Cemetery. She mentioned the grave contained other members of that notable family, which is true, but including her brother Dante Gabriel, which is false. His grave is in Kent. It's not that minor an error – he and his paintings are arguably more well-known than Christina. What was particularly vexing about such an oversight was that the presenter described herself as standing there, in the cemetery, looking at the grave, with the appropriate rustling and birdsong in the background. Either she didn't bother to read the stone itself, or it was a BBC Sound Effects disc and she was in a studio, lying through her teeth. Regardless, she hadn't checked her facts. I wrote in and received a typically polite but insincere note apologising that my enjoyment of the programme was compromised. Nothing about admitting they were wrong and I was right, or how they got it wrong, or why they are getting paid for making badly-researched programmes while I'm on state benefits and know more about their subject than they do.

I then realised what I had become – the archetypal Radio 4 listener who writes in to "Feedback" and complains. The shame of it. I then sent a complaint note to myself. "Dear Dickon, what did you expect? That they'd write back and offer you a presenting job? Let it go. Stop griping and get on with getting things done that really need to be done." I haven't complained since.

By the way, I highly recommend this practice. For self-assessment of the mind, every now and then, write a letter to yourself, and post it first class. And not just on Valentine's Day. Try to be constructive, though. I've told myself to drop dead far too often. Like all poison-pen writers, I sent it anonymously. To myself. But I knew who I was. The handwriting gave me away.

So it's pointless becoming an expert on any subject if one wants to be called upon to dispense one's knowledge to the masses. They will find someone else with less knowledge but a better agent and better teeth. The only subject on which one can be a guaranteed expert to consult is oneself. I am the world's leading authority on Dickon Edwards. If they ask anyone else to comment on me while I'm still alive, and refuse to get me on, they will look very foolish. And for other subjects, the call will come when they DO want the Dickon Edwards take on something. I have an opinion on everything. Never mind White Van Man, here's White Hair Man. And if the call doesn't come, then I can just enjoy Being Dickon Edwards – my favourite pastime.

Although no one has asked me to dole out the benefit of my experience as a veteran Internet Diarist, I can still stop moaning and attempt to get paid for it. At the pub last night, I met an American called Erica. "Just to say, I read your diary", she said, and she mentioned yesterday's epic entry to prove it. I told her about my latest plan, to install a PayPal button, so people can donate money if they enjoy my diary and have more money than me, which is likely.

I think it's better to put it like this. Buy me a drink in the Boogaloo without leaving your computer, whether you be in Arkansas, Oslo, Wellington or, in the case of my friend Mr Parkes, a mere minute's walk from the pub. Not that he's ever bought me a drink. I shall put the button on the diary's <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=dickon_edwards">"About The Author" information page</a> tonight. Though people can already go to www.paypal.com and send money to my Hotmail address, as seen on the diary info page. PayPal accepts most debit and credit cards.

So if you like this diary, and feel like buying me a drink, please do so via PayPal.

£3 will get me a glass of wine, or a bottle of Magners cider, at the Boogaloo. Treat this diary as if you're with me in the pub. I will drink your health and promise to reply to any diary comment or email you send me. Cheers.

[diary entry finished 9am. Dear Dickon. Well done.]

Yesterday – a day of being stared at by middle aged men.

1040: first weekly psychotherapy session at the Tavistock Clinic, Swiss Cottage. This is my new routine for the next six months. The sessions are paid for by the NHS, and they pay for my bus pass, too. So I can gad about town the rest of the day easily. Having the session on Monday morning is ideal, as it sets me up for the week. If it were on Friday afternoons, I'd just be dreading it all week. The therapist is a rather stern headmaster-like fellow, 40s-50s in a suit. Today's session was really to see if he was "right" for me. I don't think it makes much difference, a listening stranger is a listening stranger.

The sessions are really me doing all the talking, with him putting in little guides and pointers, taking me up on things I've said etc. He asked me "you realised you may not be "Dickon Edwards" anymore after this treatment." I think he meant as in more of a Normal Person that speaks fluent Relationship, Mortgage, and so on, as if my foppishness is just an empty pose. A common criticism, but messed up as I am, by the age of 32 and having tried all kinds of attempts at Real Life, I like to think I have a vague idea of what the Real Me is like. I just need the courage of my convictions in order to channel it into making a living from Being Dickon Edwards, and beat the paralysing depression. So that I rise in the morning, write something that can generate an income (prose, poetry, articles, songs, fiction, drama, comedy, anything), and go about pitching and hustling to a potential publisher or editor. The ideas are no problem, and neither are the contacts. The real problem is the 90% perspiration bit. The work and the hustling. Just seizing the day and getting things done. And that's what I hope these sessions will do for me.

Therapist thinks one of my main problems is a desire to entertain, a fear of intimacy, and fear of other people in general. "You know so many people, but you don't have any <i>confidants</i>? Don't you trust <i>anyone?</i>" He's entirely correct, but I don't regard these things as problems. What's wrong with a desire to entertain? The things I say may make people laugh, but I'm always deadly serious. I'm after bittersweet, tragic, self-mocking smirks, not telling the one about my mother-in-law. I don't have a mother-in-law.

As for being celibate, one reason is I view sex as an entirely public act, for which I'd be badly cast, so it's pointless auditioning. As soon as the last coital gasp is uttered, the other person can't wait to get to meet their real friends (ie not their lovers – note distinction) or update their internet diaries with their blow-by-blow accounts. Pun intended. Sex is not a private act of love or even lust. It's done only so it can be talked out, thought about, used with guilt, used in writing, used, used, used. Ones underwear being taken down and used in evidence against you. A brief event indelibly haunting you for the rest of your life. Sex is, apart from anything else, appallingly bad <i>value.</i> This is all fair enough, so if you can't cope with that, and have not got the decency to kill the other person afterwards, like spiders, you shouldn't do it at all. Hence celibacy. I was careful to point out to the therapist that that last statement was a joke. I've been known to get in trouble for my jokes. But I'm only ever <i>slightly</i> joking.

But that says more about me than the world.

It's true I don't trust anyone. If I started to open my heart to anyone, they'd just retort with their own problems unhelpfully. No, that's unfair. I don't trust anyone, it's true, but I don't care if they go around gossiping about me – that's what I live for, after all. Gossip shouldn't be seen as an attack. It's a homage. My real worry is that I'd have trouble remembering which friends I've told which secrets of the heart to. I would see Friend A as The One That I've Told This To, Friend Q as The One I Told That To, and so on. It's just too complicated to remember. And also, I live in London, where people say "I'd love to listen to you, but I'm so busy right now… oh, there goes my mobile phone. It must be my boss / lover / dealer."

So this is what the therapist is for. I tell him I'm entirely happy being single and celibate until the grave, but he doesn't seem to believe this is possible. I come away from the session thinking it said more about him than me, but that's the way I feel when speaking to anyone. I'm the narcissist that's fascinated by other people. It's like that Wilde poem about Narcissus being stared at and loved by the pool, but only because the pool saw its own beauty reflected in Narcissus's eyes. I know plenty of people who think of themselves as Normal types, but are actually far more self-obsessed than me, though they'd deny it. False modesty being just that: false. I'm arguably the least narcissistic person I know. I am my friends' more unabashed mirror.

And that was only the first session. Six months of this, once a week. After which, the therapist may need therapy.

* * * *
Current ailments: bloated feeling, with sporadic unpleasant aches and pains in stomach and chest (or thereabouts). Have occurred since last Wednesday. That was, though, when I really did punish myself somewhat. Umpteen cigarettes and glasses of wine, binge eating, being sick, then a ghastly fry-up at the cafe the next day. Still, I haven't smoked since. Will see doctor if this goes on. Typically, I assume it's terminal and compare myself to Louis MacNeice when reading about him. Mr MacNeice wrote his best stuff in the late 50s, despite being labelled as a 30s poet. But then, the book says, "he hadn't much time left". Slightly odd death, he contracted pneumonia in 1963 from going down a Yorkshire pothole while recording sound effects for a BBC radio programme. That's devotion for you. I am extremely fond of BBC Radio, but one must really draw a line somewhere.

That phrase "not having much time left" resonates in my mind, and I feel every one of my 32 winters. My new aches and pains may well just be that, but they do make me think that if I were to die tomorrow, I'd be terribly annoyed more than relieved. Despite all my suicidal thoughts. So this, combined with the weekly therapy right at the start of the week, has galvanised me into getting done the things I really want to get done.

Thus, new daily routine – rise at 7, get a diary entry written by 9AM. That should set me up for getting other things done in the rest of the day. Two hours for a diary entry should be plenty. I like to take time and ponder over my writing, diary entries included. But It's already 9 as I type, and I've only spoken about yesterday morning. Thing is, when I do write something, it's usually because I've had thoughts of dying the next day. So the diary entry, article, song, poem, review, is often forged as if it were my last message to the world. The result is (I hope) something that can only be pithy and aphoristic, and therefore has the tone of Essential Reading. Why write at all if you don't consider what you're writing Essential Reading?

Here Lies Dickon Edwards – he was Good Value.

The only problem is, of course, being put off writing at all by fear of not coming up to scratch. So that mustn't happen. Better to write something than nothing. That thought has to take priority. But it all helps to get one's mind pointed in vaguely the right direction. And indeed, in the Write Direction.

* * * *

So, rest of yesterday. I swanned about on buses in London. Fairly mild May weather. Indulged myself in Borders and decided to treat myself to a luxury item. <A HREF="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1841954594/dickonedwards-21">"The Assassin's Cloak". Edited by Irene and Alan Taylor.</a> The latest edition is £9.99, which swung it for me, as the previous version cost £14.99. I sat in the shop and carefully compared the editions. Both are paperbacks. Exactly the same pages and content. The only difference is the older version's cover was made of slightly thicker card, extending to flaps on the inside cover. Five pounds for a couple of cardboard flaps, ultimately.

The book is a hefty anthology of diaries. I'm fascinated with The Art Of The Diary, and this is a superb reference tool worth owning rather than borrowing from a library. Like a LiveJournal Friends page made up of all the great and the good (and the bad) across the centuries, but with the highlights kindly selected for you. Mr Pepys never bored the world (and himself) with a "Which Lord Of The Rings Character Are You" poll. Though he did make some pretty dull entries about his financial accounts. The book's introduction cites the case of Mr William Soutar, the Scottish poet who was confined to his sickbed for 13 years, and could only sit in his room, read, and write. A good example that one doesn't have to go out having adventures, witnessing important historic events or going to celebrity gatherings to keep an interesting diary.

I can't help thinking that poor Mr Soutar would be regarded by some today as "not having a life". "Get a life" is an odious modern phrase frequently used by someone whose own life is rarely enviable. When people say "get a life", they really mean "get a life like mine". Completely forgetting that the criteria of others can't possibly apply to oneself. They just haven't thought it through. Indeed, therein lies the root of many a war and conflict. Dickon sums up the problem of the Middle East. People saying "get a life like mine – or die." Other people thinking they know what is best for others is fine. The problems start when they enforce such "advice".

I'm not saying that if everyone in Hot Countries On The News suddenly swanned around in bleached hair and suits burbling about Louis MacNeice things would be much better, but…

What am I saying? Of <i>course</i> things would be much better. No real work would get done, so infrastructures would crumble overnight, and the world would end, but what a party.

While in Borders, I also leafed through <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/080505894X/dickonedwards-21">The Wilde Album (ed. Merlin Holland)</a>. Incredible photographs. Wilde on his deathbed. Wilde and Bosie at a table in Paris after the prison years. Talk about uneasy body language. Bosie looking beautiful and cruel, surprise, surprise.

Also – a <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0747568553/dickonedwards-21">biography of Patricia Highsmith, "Beautiful Shadow" (by Andrew Wilson</a>). Author of Strangers On A Train and the Ripley books. She appears to have set the world record for Most Lesbian Lovers By An Acclaimed 20th Century Author, yet her books are mainly about gay men. Albeit murderous, anti-hero gay men. Photos of her various companions remind me of a few people I know – cat-loving boyish types with pageboy haircuts, one Berlin girl in male drag and uniform whose real preference is clearly the camera, never mind girls more than boys. Sad that she tried so hard to get herself "cured". Slightly shockingly for a lazy lunchtime in a bookshop, the spine of the book has a nude photo of her in her early twenties. One doesn't usually think of dead authors in the nude. It was taken by a gay German called Rolf, who was so taken with her boyish frame that they decided to try sleeping together. I think this must happen more often than you hear about – slender dykes whose frame is so boyish and haircut so handsome that gay chaps get terribly confused. The Lady Caroline Lamb effect. Problem is when getting down to the bedroom antics. Nothing boyish about <i>that</i> aspect of the female anatomy. Taxi for Lord Byron!

Posters in Oxford Street for the new Morrissey single. First new record by him in seven years. "Irish Blood, English Heart". As he gets older, the Irishness of his ancestry certainly has become more visible in his face and build. No longer the pale skinny bookworm of the 80s. Just that little bit more thick-set. By coincidence, I find myself thinking of a line from a song on his last album, "Trouble Loves Me", <i>"Otherwise, kill me"</i> Which is also a line in Mr MacNeice's poem Prayer Before Birth. "I am not yet born; O hear me… Otherwise kill me." Is Mr Moz quoting MacNeice?

Passed by the internet cafe on Archway Road, where I'd been a few days before to scan in a newspaper article. I'd left the piece in the machine. Kind young man of Far Eastern descent and whose first language is not English rushes out of the shop as I pass to give me the piece back. It's in an envelope marked as follows (sic):

<i>"Customer Forgot bring this Newspaper when he finished scanning he forgot get back he is gold hair."</i>

* * * *

Evening – invited to the LSE to see Pink Grease and Selfish C***. Vaguely enjoyable, though I find it hard to get excited about loud rock music concerts these days. Meet people I know, meet new people I've not met who read this diary, am spoken to by people I thought would blank me, am blanked by people I thought would speak to me. All in order, then.

Drink chocolate-flavoured Vodka Mudshake. One of which is heaven. Two of which makes one feel quite sick.

Pink Grease certainly dress up and make an effort to put on a gaudy rock show. They remind me a little of Plastic Fantastic. Just then, the singer of Plastic Fantastic, Stuart, speaks to me. I tell him I feel a little sorry for the PG singer, as his bandmates are doing their utmost to upstage him constantly. "I only wish my bandmates would have done that", he replies.

Generally, people here seem to love PG's live act, and their fans, comprising regulars to clubs like Kash Point and Stay Beautiful, are very well-dressed. Perhaps too well-dressed. A male photographer spies me and remarks, as if my appearance is something to reply to (which it is), "I was just saying to someone, this is one of those gigs where the audience are more interesting than the bands".

Selfish C*** follow, fresh from appearing in Private Eye's Psueds Corner twice running, and for once are strangely tame. By comparison with PG and their own gigs, at least. I saw them at Trash a while ago, and the show was riotous. Singer Martin is a charming, friendly, and very beautiful young man. Onstage, though, he adopts a Mr Hyde persona, and tried to cause as much aggression, mayhem and destruction as possible. Often, he throws himself into the crowd and starts fighting the nearest person. He's so skinny that it's fair to assume he'll be the one worse off in such an encounter, so it's all very enjoyable to watch. At Trash, a girl was standing by the stage holding three full bottles of Becks beer. Martin grabbed them off her, and emptied the contents over the entire front row of the audience, then chucked the bottles in after them. He then proceeded to jump into the crowd, and emerged with his slinky top thoroughly ripped to shreds.

After their Trash set, I saw the girl grab Martin at the bar and shout "Hey – you owe me three beers". "Yes, okay. Sorry. I get carried away". And he bought them for her. This is, I think, one of the best aspects of SC. Iggy Pop with a conscience. Rock and roll is all very well, but Niceness is the pinnacle. Niceness is the ultimate state of Rock. I am a SC fan. Ms Lucinda is wearing a white visor, in case Martin tries to spill beer on her. He grabs it and throws it into the distance. But I see her later with it on again. All very SC.

One SC song goes "PRO-PATRIOTIC! GAY-BASHING! PRO-PATRIOTIC! FOOTBALL WATCHING!" Not all football-watchers are gay-bashers, needless to comment, but one can never have too many anti-football-fan songs, I feel.

Ms L takes my photo at one point. This makes it a Good Evening in my book. If I go out and NO ONE takes my photo, it is officially a Bad Evening. One of Ms L's friends pinches my bottom. I only ever get this from men older than me.

Likewise, on the tube home, a middle-aged man in a suit cruises me. Vaguely like Matthew Parris, the Tory MP turned journalist. But not as good-looking. Follows me into the compartment. Keeps throwing me looks all the way home. An uneasy journey. Gets off at Archway. I stay on and think of what would have happened. But this is the Dickon Edwards diary, not Joe Orton's. Still, it's nice <i>somebody</i> can still want me for my body.

Stop in at the chip shop on Archway Road. Middle-aged American man gasps as I walk in and insists on taking my photo several times. We end up discussing poetry and translations of Rilke.

Well, not a bad diary entry. It's now 11.17. Ah well. My apologies, but it just poured out of me and I couldn't stop. Will try to be more brief tomorrow. I've compared myself to Louis MacNeice and Lord Byron. Solved the problems of the Middle East. Read about dead lesbian authors and bed-bound poets. Enticed the eyes of men much older than me, but no one else. Discussed Rilke with a stranger in a chip shop at midnight. A typical day.