Apologies for the delay in updates. One reason is trying to write about the Scarlet's Well concert, and about what I'm doing now, in a suitably definitive fashion. It's worth getting right. I'll try and clear the backlog over the next few days.

What I am doing RIGHT NOW, as in the next 24 hours, is something new. A short Dickon Edwards solo set. Myself singing and playing electric guitar with no other backing, at the excellent monthly event, "Club Bohemia", which I recommend to anyone in London on the 4th Saturday of the next few months. The spirit of the 1970s meets that of the 1890s. I think it's fair to suspect that the organisers have seen "Velvet Goldmine" more than once. Which is no bad thing in my book. More details <a href="http://www.glam-ou-rama.co.uk/bohemia.asp">here</a>.

Their website says I'll be taking requests, but that's rather impractical on the night. If someone reading this is coming, and does have an Orlando or Fosca song they'd like to hear me attempt in the solo Billy Bragg-esque style, do email me in time. The club always sells out on the night, so those interested should get there early. Why am I doing this? Because I rather like Club Bohemia and want to lend it my seal of approval. The club is about the unusual, so here's unusual me doing something unusual for me. And because I want to ensure I catch the Wilde Thing performance this time.

Yesterday – walking through Parliament Hill Fields to Highgate Library (Camden Council branch). I'm not wearing any make-up, but I am wearing braces on my suit trousers (US readers know them as "suspenders"), without a jacket to disguise them. I used to wear belts, but braces seem more me. Had to go to an old-fashioned suit shop to get them.

As I pass, a group of black youths shout "Batty Man! Batty Man" at me. I don't say anything. But I am tempted to blow them a kiss. Or turn around and say "You really must try gay sex some time, dear boys, it's Da Bomb". Their response would make a good diary entry. Parliament Hill Fields is hardly South Central LA, and boys like these are, I suspect, a lot less tough than they make out. But my cowardice, or rather, crippling passivity, gets the better of me. I walk on. The earth remains distinctly uninherited by the meek.

An article in the Independent about the plight of black comedians on TV. I seem to have as much talent as Mr Lenny Henry at making young black people laugh. They just can't seem to help themselves as I walk by. Perhaps I am what he needs for his current disastrous programme, where he is, it's fair to say, dying on his batty. "It's not going well, Mr H. Better bring on Dickon Edwards to give them a REAL laugh." I wouldn't even have to say anything.

Matthew Glamorre recently defined the clientèle of his club Kash Point as people who get shouted at in the street. Half of me is pleased I've still got "it", even when my appearance is at half-mast. The other half just wants to have a good cry.

Typing this while Big Brother Live is on in the background. Hysterical, shouted arguments and genuine threats of violence have sparked off. All very disturbing, and then we go to the cosy, soft-voiced adverts. "Talk Talk, for all your communication needs." British TV in 2004.

<a href="http://www.client-online.net"><img align=left src="http://www.client-online.net/client/cover.jpg"></a><i>Monday 14th June</i>
A particularly intense therapy session. Normally I shed a tear or two at some point during the 50 minutes, but this time I actually break down completely. Progress of a kind, I suppose. Feel much better afterwards, but it's a rather draining experience. Afterwards I decide to treat myself – I feel I need some kind of reward, so off to the Swiss Cottage shops round the corner from the clinic. I suppose one is meant to buy a new dress or a large amount of chocolate, but I settle for some Doctor Scholl ankle pads in Boots, as my new loafers are somewhat of a loose fit.

Someone taps me on the shoulder to say hello. Ms Sarah Blackwood, charming singer, formerly of the synthy indie dream-pop group Dubstar, whose music I'm rather fond of. She's now with the office-worker-fetishising, ill-fitting corporate uniform-sporting (<i>deliberately</i> ill-fitting, of course) electro band <a href="http://www.client-online.net">Client.</a> She is all smiles and sympathy, and is just what I need here and now. She invites me to her gig that night, but the heat is too much for me, and I can't go in the end.

I learn that Client have an excellent, brand new electro-pop single out this very week, "In It For The Money", or, as Ms Blackwood sings in her deliciously unfettered Halifax accent, "mURNey." (Is this the first time the words "Halifax" and "delicious" have been used in close proximity?). There's a chance the single could make the proper UK charts, though it's touch and go. So, by way of saying thank you to the unasked comforting company of Ms Blackwood, and because I couldn't make her gig, I use the money I'd have spent on gig drinks buying the single in a number of formats.

I strongly urge you, Dear Reader, to <a href="http://www.toasthawaii.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=495">do the same</a> before Sunday, if you feel like buying a Dickon-Edwards-endorsed £1.99 pop single this week. And if you agree that the pop charts should feature more people who are spontaneously kind to fragile fops in Swiss Cottage chemists. The B-side features guest vocals from Mr Doherty of the Libertines if that sways your decision. Buying chart-potential pop singles these days, as opposed to downloading them, is as much a form of voting as anything else. Vote Client, I say.

<a href="http://www.kashpoint.com/"><img align=left src="http://www.ju90.co.uk/ssp/kp/showboat_front2.jpg"></a>Client are also playing the London Metro this Thursday, but I shall be attending An Evening With Alan Bennett at the Morrissey festival on the South Bank (doubtless Mr M will be in the audience too), followed by <a href="http://www.kashpoint.com/">Kash Point's</a> triumphant return to the newly refurbished Tattershall Castle boat, moored opposite the London Eye on the North Bank. Alan Bennett, Morrissey and the Kash Point club. Good examples on what it means to Be Defiantly Oneself in 21st Century England. Kash Point remains less a disco, more a sanctuary for exotic blooms.

<i>[My thanks to <lj user=automatique> for <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/automatique/79081.html">creating the current inevitable user picture of me</a>. Entirely unsolicited, naturally. I particularly like the Trooping The Colour goings-on in the background.]</i>

Thursday June 10th – To Jacksons Lane Community Centre to vote three times: for the London Mayor, for members of the London Assembly, and for the European Parliament.

British Democracy in 2004 is currently defined as the right to choose between Shifty, Shifty, Nazi, Looney, Obviously Shifty, Rich Person Possibly Running As A Tax Dodge, Lately Shifty, More Nazis, George Galloshifty, Liberal Shiftycrats, The Joan Collins Nazi Club, and the Green Party.

I place my Mayor Of London X next to Cuddly Ken Livingstone (whose first volume of autobiography was called "If Voting Changed Anything They'd Abolish It") , and put Green for everything else. The Greens are, The Observer points out, an established anti-war party, not one that becomes anti-war when it suits them, like the Liberals. I don't entirely agree with some Green policies, like being anti-Euro because the Euro is, they say, a tool of globalisation, and they're anti-globalisation. Funny how the Nazis and Greens can have some things in common for different reasons. And The Greens do have rather too many silly beards in their gallery of candidates. My second choice for Mayor is the Green's openly-gay, beard-free candidate, Darren Johnson. If London can't have Ken, a Gay Green Mayor would surely be the next best thing. Also, the Greens are endorsed by Peter Tatchell, Joanna Lumley and Twiggy. What a dinner party!

I know I should vote "tactically", which really means voting Liberal, but it's not what my heart dictates. What I really want to do is vote Labour. But not while Mr Blair is still in charge. So Green it is.

It is the first time in my life I've not voted Labour across the board. Mr Blair says that if people disagree with him taking the country to war, then "they know what to do at the ballot box". All the protests, marches and petitions mean nothing to him. With that in mind, I take him at his word and quietly register my own anti-war protest with a small pencil on a string. I hope Mr B notices, if as he implies, voting is the only language he understands. If anyone who goes on anti-war marches doesn't use their vote as well, they are whistling in the wind with those loud football whistles of theirs.

Friday June 11th- Mr Livingstone makes it in to a second Mayoral term, but only just. A frightening thought that thousands of people seem to trust Stephen Norris, the shiftiest Tory around. And that takes some doing.

The Greens lose an Assembly seat, and Mr Johnson gets less votes than his rivals in the BNP, Respect (George Galloway's new vanity party) and UKIP. Rather depressing, but I'm glad Ken's staying.

The best news is that the country-wide local election results are translated as a serious disaster indeed for Labour. Even the Deputy PM, John Prescott, admits that voters have shown their anger at the Iraq mess, and now Attention Must Be Paid.

Stereotypes would have us believe that voting is a pointless, unsexy, waste of time that the young eschew, while marching is more visible, done by dancing youths with dreadlocks who possibly don't wash after sex.

Today's lesson appears to be that, when it comes to political protest, dogs on strings are nothing compared to pencils on strings.

The worrying side-effect is the Conservative Party becoming a serious political force for the first time since 1997.

Strange echoes of last night's dream pervade, though I can't remember anything more. Something about The Pope being interviewed on Radio 4's Loose Ends, and a discussion about falling in love with buildings. The word "Archisexual". Image of someone in bed with the St Pancras Hotel. "Buildings are better than people. They don't let you down and tend to still be there in the morning."

Currently fighting off permanent fatigue. Heard that cutting down on caffeine, even cutting it out altogether, increases alertness and energy in the long run, and might help reduce my general anxiety and stomach aches. Haven't had any coffee, or caffeinated fizzy drinks, for some days now. Feeling more tired and work-shy than ever. Cold turkey? M.E.? Last Tuesday I insisted the doctor test my blood for pretty much everything under the sun. "We'll get the results next week. If you're clear, we then have to look at your susceptibility to believe you've got every illness you hear about." He takes my hypochondria very seriously indeed.

My grandfather died recently, and left me a little money. Not much, but enough to enable me to buy the £150 off-white Italian linen suit I see glowing with temptation in a Highbury menswear shop window. The shop stands out all the more as all the surrounding shops are all fast food takeaways. I try on the suit, and it fits so well it's not true. About time I had a decent, lightweight, light-coloured summer suit. I look at the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/weather/5day.shtml?id=2735">BBC weather forecast for Highgate</a> with some dread. Temperatures over 25C on the way. But I now have the suit to fight the battle. Keeping it clean will be the hardest thing, and I consider getting another. At the Hidden Cameras gig, John Moore tells me about £50 machine-washable linen suits in a shop in Chalk Farm. One can never have too many summer suits.

Monday May 27th. To the 12 Bar for the third Gentleman Reg gig. The 12 Bar Club has a tiny stage best suited to acts consisting of one or two people, ideally the archetypal solo acoustic singer-songwriter. Despite this, full bands with drummers often squeeze themselves bravely onto the platform, and when Justine Rutledge, another Canadian, performs here tonight, his keyboard player has to sit at the side of the stage, amongst all the empty instrument cases. While he's playing a delicate, alt-country style piano part, I sheepishly have to mutter "excuse me" and retrieve my guitar case from the side of his left elbow. I time it so I can act while he's not playing any bass notes.

Why bands with full line-ups put themselves through this awkwardness says something about the status of the 12 Bar as a much-loved venue. It's centrally located, in the shadow of the Centrepoint tower, by the junction of Oxford Street and Charing Cross Road. It's neither too touristy and off the music industry map like the Rock Garden, or too smelly and beery like the Monarch or Dublin Castle, though one does has to brave the smells of the alley outside, Denmark Place, which clearly doubles as a lavatory. The 12 Bar is just about trendy enough while being unpretentious and friendly.

More recently, the venue's expanded to take in a cafe in Denmark Street and a second bar area, with TV monitors so one can watch the acts while buying a drink. Thankfully, the two most unique aspects of the place, which anyone who's been there will tell you about, are still in place. One is the seventeenth-century blacksmith's forge, with its chimney next to the stage, a plaque proudly displaying its birth as 1635. I point out to Gentleman Reg he's playing a venue older than his country. "Do you have dates like that in Toronto?" I remark, surprising myself with an air of a Peter Ackroyd-like popular historian. Must remember to apply as a tour guide at Highgate Cemetery, in training for a possible future career to follow Messrs Ackroyd, Schama and Starkey as a Slightly Camp English TV Historian. "Dickon Edwards's Limpwristed London."

The other feature of the 12 Bar is a low balcony area where one can watch mere inches from the artist's scalp. I once saw Momus play here in the mid-90s, and now know the top of his head like the back of my hand. I think it's the same year I see The Magnetic Fields here, to promote the album "Get Lost". Just Stephin and Claudia. The next time they headline a gig in London, it is in the Queen Elizabeth Hall.

The 12 Bar performer in turn is at close eye level with the balcony viewers' shoes, seen through railings. Mr Rutledge's backing band know all about staring at shoes, as they are members of Mojave 3, who in turn were once called Slowdive. Along with Lush, Moose, Chapterhouse, and Ride, Slowdive were part of an early 90s UK indie scene nicknamed "shoegazing", because of the bands' tendency to perform sullenly without moving their eyes from the floor. Dreamy, fuzzy guitar music, heavily influenced by My Bloody Valentine, with lots of effects pedals, 60s haircuts, and nebulous, quasi-psychedelic lyrics about falling down in a breeze. Perhaps because of their name and wispy girl vocals, Slowdive were spotlighted as the quintessential shoegazers, often used unkindly as a personification of the whole scene by those aware of its music paper coverage. At the time, the Manic Street Preachers remarked "We hate Slowdive more than Hitler". Right Said Fred, in the proper pop charts at the time, told a TV interviewer in defence of their novelty pop status that "Well, we're not Slowdive."

Perhaps even Slowdive hated being Slowdive, as a few years later they re-invented themselves as Mojave 3, and played a more roundly unthreatening, alt-country-style music. Quietly acclaimed, annoying no one. Mr Rutledge's songs suit their playing well, and it's impossible to dislike a live slide guitar player.

When I play with Gentleman Reg, some of the chatter from people at the bar is so loud I can't hear my own guitar. I do something out of character, and which I disapprove of in other live acts: I tell a punter off. The garrulous culprit is a blond woman whom I can see through the bar doorway. Her lone natter is carrying from a separate room, and is drowning out my playing. As bad a guitarist as I am, I like to be at least given a chance to hear myself. On top of which, I have personally brought Reg across from Toronto to play these gigs, he's only on for a short set, and there are people other than me who have come to hear him. So I do hope any jury would support my decision to stare directly at the woman, put my finger to my mouth, and offer a deeply annoyed "SHHH!" at the top of my lungs. This is something I instantly regret, and expect her to shout back at me, or worse. But, to my surprise, she does in fact shut up.

For an encore in doing out of character things, I later make an ill-advised onstage remark. Reg introduces "Statement" and "Give Me A Chance" as songs featured on the soundtrack to the US version of the TV series "Queer As Folk". "Your British version is probably much better, though", he adds, speaking to me. "I don't know," I say, in an attempt at onstage banter. "Does your version have rimming in it?"

Silence in the audience. A word too far, Mr Dickon. I imagine mouths agape. Darts, had there been any, would have paused in mid-flight. Across the road in the Astoria, Skipknot and their audience of pierced Jeremys pause in mid-mosh and stifle a collective gasp. I feel like <a href="http://encyclopedia.thefreedictionary.com/British%20Comedy%20Awards">Julian Clary at the Comedy Awards.</a>

Sunday May 23rd. To Stockwell for a lengthy rehearsal with Scarlet's Well, then onto the second Gentleman Reg gig. Rather conveniently, Reg is playing Brixton tonight, a short bus ride from Stockwell. The venue is The Windmill, a delightful little place near the nineteenth century landmark of the same name. To my shame, I've lived in London for ten years and never realised there WAS a windmill in Brixton. As it's still daylight outside, I go to take a good, tilting look. The windmill is in a small park, with Brixton Prison on one side and a children's playground on the other. A group of small boys are playing football, and as I approach their ball falls over the separating railings and lands at my feet. I try to affect an air of jovial, avuncular mateyness, as I loosely imagine one is supposed to do in such situations. I make some remark about the prison and not being able to kick a ball to save my life sentence, and throw the thing over to them. They have become completely silent and are staring at me in utter terror. I walk back to the venue, glance over my shoulder and see they are still looking at me. I do hope they got to resume their game. Perhaps I represent the sort of Stranger they've been told to not speak to.

Inside the venue, the bar prices are refreshingly cheap – certainly cheaper than Highgate. A small stage is at one end, the main bar at the other. Somehow the place manages to have the former area in atmospheric darkness, the latter with enough lighting to chat and drink. People watching the band are unusually quiet, people at the bar can chat away happily without affecting the performance and being able to hear each other speak. It's a perfect small venue.

A jovial, fortysomething Irish gentlemen appears to be glued to a bar stool, his Scottish Terrier occupying the adjacent seat. The dog is remarkably well behaved. The Irishmen less so. He throws an unsolicited comment at every single person who walks by.

I get "You remind me of…"

"Oh yes?"

"…Jools Holland."

Perhaps it's my voice, I muse. Later, he collars me again.

"No, sorry, I didn't mean Jools Holland. I meant The Young Noel Coward."

"Well, I can live with that one a bit better."

During the rest of the evening, whenever I have to cross from the stage to the bar, somewhere in the darkness I hear an automatic "How yer doing, Noel?".