<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0860682633/dickonedwards-21/"><img align=left width=180 src="http://images-eu.amazon.com/images/P/0860682633.02.LZZZZZZZ.jpg"></img></a>Yesterday- I have to be in W2 at 8.30am. So, like any other good commuter, I rise at 6am and put on a suit and tie. Then, less like any other good commuter, foundation, mascara and lipgloss. Off to the tube station.

Once again, I'm an extra in a film. This time, it's <a href="http://uk.imdb.com/title/tt0421229/fullcredits" target="_blank">Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont</a>, an adaptation of the 1971 novel by Elizabeth Taylor.

From a description of the novel:

<i>"One rainy Sunday in January Mrs Palfrey, recently widowed, arrives at the Claremont Hotel in the Cromwell Road. Here she will spend her remaining days. Her fellow residents are a magnificently eccentric group who live off crumbs of affection, obsessive interest in the relentless round of hotel meals, and undying curiosity. There is Mrs Burton with her mauve-rinsed hair, her costume jewellery, and her drinking; Mrs Arbuthnot, bossy and arthritic; Mr Osmond with his risque stories, his endless stream of letters to the press. Together, upper lips stiffened, teeth gritted, they fight off their twin enemies: boredom and the grim Reaper. And then one day Mrs Palfrey encounters the handsome young writer, Ludo…"</i>

Today's scene is at a party in someone's (real) flat. Mr Pushaun, who I've met at various clubs, is in charge of recruiting suitable party guest-like people. And so here I am at 8.30am in a top floor Bayswater flat, pretending to chat while not making a sound, pretending to get drunk on coloured lemonade, practising the film extra art of being seen yet not being seen, in order to provide background decoration to the performances of Ms Joan Plowright, Ms Millicent Martin, and Mr Rupert Friend. The latter, who plays Ludo, is a beautiful young floppy-haired man with a passing resemblance to Mr Orlando Bloom. I'm sure <a href="http://www.contemporarywriters.com/authors/?p=auth9" target="_blank">Mr Paul Bailey</a>, the original inspiration for Ludo and editor of "The Stately Homo: A Celebration of the Life of Quentin Crisp", would approve.

Some of the other extras are from an interesting social scene: the Serpentine Swimming Club, who spend most mornings taking their natural highs from bathing among the waterfowl in the Hyde Park lake. They are a jolly, friendly gang of all ages, and their quietly exotic company provides a welcome relief from the usual long periods of waiting around during takes.

After spending the day pretending to be partying, I go straight to a couple of real parties in Mayfair. First, the album launch for glacial electropop duo <a href="http://www.client-online.net" target="_blank">Client</a> at Infinity in Old Burlington Street. A sold-out gig, but Mr Martin White and his chums are already there and have saved me a seat by the sofas. Client, in their yin-and-yang turquoise stewardess uniforms, manage to satirize the trappings of women in both pop music and the world of work, while putting on a winning full-length pop show. They are the feminist thesis you can dance to. The new album in question is called "City" and is highly recommended to all my readers. Support act <a href="http://www.thesohodolls.com" target="_blank">The Soho Dolls</a> put on an equally sturdy set of catchy synthpop with feral party girl attitude, including their delicious debut single "Prince Harry".

I then slink round the corner to Number 3, New Burlington Street to see more pop hostesses in uniform. This time, DJ nurses. Ms Val, Ms Clare and Ms Alicat have just relocated their excellent club <a href="http://thefanclub.info/popklinik.htm" target="_blank">The Pop Klinik.</a> to this afterhours drinking den off Regents Street. They are simply the most impossibly charming trio of DJs in town, always playing a marvellous selection of old and new pop records; following, say, Franz Ferdinand's Tell Her Tonight with Adam Ant's Dog Eat Dog. The club remains high on my list when asked to suggest unpretentious, affordable nocturnal haunts for those new to London.

Therapy session. The Problem is my current crippling refusal to connect or commit to, well, anything at all: the real world, people, love, sex, sexuality, writing, sensible money management, sorting out my past from my present and future, adulthood.

On the way back, my mind ablaze with reflection, I go Life Shopping.

I buy new bed linen for the first time in 14 years. The previous coverings were bought when I moved to Bristol in 1990.

Then… hair bleach, foundation, vanilla lipgloss.

I buy the new single from Client, "Radio". This turns out to be the unknown stand-out song I enjoyed when I last saw them in concert; it remained spiralling in my head all the way home. A superb slice of rain-riven, panoramic, velvet synthpop. Highly recommended.

<img src="http://www.client-online.net/client/radio.jpg"></img>

Weds – to the NFT to see <a href="http://www.us.imdb.com/title/tt0040746/quotes" target="_blank">Rope</a>. My favourite of Mr Hitchcock's films, indeed one of my favourite movies full stop; I'm surprised more people aren't familiar with it. So much to love about this film. Made entirely of innovative ten-minute shots, only cutting when the reel runs out. Hitchcock inventing a 1940s version of Steadicam to film it. Gay young men in suits (based on Leopold and Loeb) killing a fellow student purely for Nietschean supremacy reasons, then inviting the victim's girlfriend and parents to unwittingly dine from the body's casket. James Stewart, fresh from It's A Wonderful Life, as the arch school teacher they took too seriously. The beautiful young Farley Granger – a Uranist in real life – going deliciously to pieces over 80 minutes. 1948 Technicolor on the big screen, every frame looking as if it's painted. Forgotten just how Wildean and funny it is. Favourite line from the Lady Bracknell-like Mrs Atwater:

Mrs A: Do you know, when I was a girl I used to read quite a bit.
Brandon: Oh, we all do strange things in our childhood.

My companions for the film are two lovely, stylish Americans In London: Mr Wren Gullo (<lj user=tzarohell>) and Ms Jennifer Connor. Though it's fashionable to be unkind to the country at the moment, particularly its politicians and its companies, I do rather love the company of its people. Such positivity, such better teeth.

Ms Connor wears a scarf that was formerly a Christmas tree decoration. She is literally like that line in Mr Brel's song "Jackie": decked out like a Christmas tree.

To my delight, Mr Gullo tells me his aunt is the actress Patricia Charbonneau, who played Cay in the classic 80s lesbian film <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089015/" target="_blank">Desert Hearts</a>. I promise to make him a copy of the sublime Field Mice song, "So Said Kay", whose lyrics are based on quotes from the film; notably "Where'd you learn to kiss that way?", the title of the band's <a href="http://www.vh1.com/artists/az/field_mice/295809/album.jhtml" target="_blank">best-of compilation</a>.

Photos are taken at the steps of the Hungerford Bridge on our way home.

Mr Gullo and Mr Edwards:

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/WrenDickon-sep2004.jpg"></img>

Ms Connor and Mr Edwards:

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/JenConnorDickonSep2004.jpg"></img>

***

Thursday: To the Boogaloo with Ms Spivack (<lj user=my_name_is_anna>) for the launch of <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0233000704/dickonedwards-21/">the new Kirsty MacColl biography</a>. The author Ms O'Brien wears a striking Mary Quant-like black and white dress, and looks rather like a singer herself. She reads anecdotes from the book about Ms MacColl's life, and reveals that the sleevenotes for the mid 90s compilation Galore were based on a Shangri-Las sleeve, where journalists sung the girl group's praises. For Galore, Ms MacColl got her pop star friends to provide quotes, notably the following one from Morrissey:

<i>"Kirsty is a voice gradually added to a body. She has great songs and a crackin' bust. She is a supreme original but not – as far as I know – one of the original Supremes. Everything shows in the voice. The best of the last of. Furthermore, a full set of teeth. What more? NOT cursed."</i>

Ms O'Brien comments, "The 'crackin' bust' line must have caused confusion among some Morrissey fans. As if they weren't confused enough."

Here’s a jolly photo from my birthday a few weeks ago, posing with a copy of kiddie rehab classic The Secret Garden. Photo taken by Dr Adrienne Cullum at the club How Does It Feel To Be Loved, Brixton. My thanks to her and to Ian Watson.

That evening, I had a sense of a convergence of my personal history. On my birthday, I tend to dwell on my past and present regardless. So to be surrounded that day by people from different periods of my life somewhat intensified the sensation

Amelia Fletcher was DJ-ing, playing Kenickie at one point. In a nutshell, that’s my early 90s meets my mid 90s. It also occurred to me that the first time I met Ms Fletcher and Rob was again in Brixton, at a Heavenly gig, The Fridge, 1990. I got all the band members to sign a fanzine called The Fine Art Of Shoplifting. "Mathew is cool". "Yes, but only in The Fridge – Rob." It was the first of umpteen Heavenly gigs for me. Over the next four years, I would hitchhike around the country to see them play.

Others from my past that night at HDIF, equally at no invitation of mine: David Kitchen, who ran my old band Orlando’s mailing list; Claudia Gonson of the Magnetic Fields, who I fondly remember supporting The Divine Comedy at the Water Rats in 1996, with Ms Fletcher on guest vocals wearing an Orlando badge; Justin Pearce – my more recent past.

In the same room were Martin White, Jennifer Denitto, Neil Scott, David Kennedy – all from my present.

Dickon Edwards, This Is Your Life. Who are you now? Who were you then? Are you happy? Were you happy?

The story goes on. I’m neither the gushing indie music fan I was in 1990, nor the troubled music biz hustler I was in 1996. But there's remnants of those characters in my current make-up. The pun is definitely intended.

Amelia and Rob are now in the band Tender Trap. I've just been listening to their latest, highly witty EP on Elefant Records, "Como Te Llamas? (Tell Me Your Name)". I wouldn't hitchhike to see them anymore, but then I wouldn't hitchhike to see anyone any more. But I still adore Ms Fletcher, whose biography really must be written one day. And I’m looking earnestly forward to the next Tender Trap album.

Sample lyrics from the EP:

Indie girl seeks the same
I'll be wearing a check shirt and a denim skirt
And a hairgrip with a cat on it

– "Como Te Llamas? (Tell Me Your Name)

I don't know anybody.
Now I am disembodied.
I found affection here online.
Oh be my Catcher In The Rye
I'll be your Postcard singles

– "Friendster"

Last night – to the 269 Gallery in Portobello Road for a private view. I'm trying to go to more art shows and book launches, as opposed to clubs and gigs. There's usually free drink, conversation that doesn't involve shouting in people's ears, and they're over by 9pm. And one never feels as if one's too old to be there.

I grumble at having to go to West London, so it's just as well the exhibition turns out to be utterly marvellous. "Evolution: A Fusion of Fashion and Film" is a multi-purpose affair; serving as an art installation, a fashion retrospective and a fund raiser for a forthcoming short film, "Eye Of The Beholder." <a href="http://www.elizabethemanuel.co.uk/" target="_blank">Ms Elizabeth Emanuel</a> is the artist. Chiefly a fashion designer, her name is associated with many a celebrity wardrobe from the early 80s onwards. One memorable example being the wedding dress of Princess Diana.

One end of the gallery is decked out to resemble an abandoned film set, featuring a dingy room with a flickering table lamp. Negatives and photos are pegged on a clothes line, countless magazine clippings featuring Ms Emanuel's past creations coat the walls. There's a sewing machine, dresses on hangers and designers' dummies, notebooks covered in writing, pages from a film script, and an antique typewriter on a desk. The proposed film is a latter-day film noir-ish take on the Pygmalion story: male obsession with controlling female beauty; "Seven" meets "Vertigo". It's principally a manner of showcasing the designer's latest collection, but using celluloid and narrative rather than the catwalk.

The rest of the gallery is more conventionally decorated: prints of costume designs, digitally processed and coloured. Somewhat reminds me of the 80s airbrushing style: women looking like they're made of aluminium. Other prints are in sepia. Many have handwritten excerpts from the Pygmalion and Galatea myth down one side, like those Pre-Raphaelite portraits accompanied by passages of Tennyson or Shakespeare. Echoes of both the 1980s and 1880s pervade. All of which suits me to a tee.

I down several glasses of free champagne, but can't find room for the oysters. Discuss the problem of English Erotica with a nice chap I've previously met at the vintage dress club Modern Times, and enjoy the works of the other artist on the bill, Ms Louisa Elizabeth Loakes. These are silhouette-like photograms on wooden blocks of dragonflies and feathers, mostly in an antique-looking glass cabinet. Fits in well with the Victorian and sepia elements of the Emanuel show.

Pass the Boogaloo on the way home, realise it's only 10.30pm, and pop in for a drink. It's weekly music quiz night. Ed Mole and his team (Cat Rogers, Tim Chipping, Chris Stevens) are there, as is skinny Mr Bernard Butler and his. A lot less crowded than the last movie quiz night, despite the Radio 1 attention of a few weeks ago. I try to help, but all I can do is mistake a picture of Lol Tolhurst from the Cure for Jerry Harrison from Talking Heads. Scare off one of the pub's black cats with a library copy of the punctuation bestseller "Eats Shoots and Leaves". And so to bed.

An exciting package in the post. A copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1905005040/dickonedwards-21/" target="_blank">The Idle Thoughts Of An Idle Fellow by Jerome K Jerome</a>. With an Afterword by Dickon Edwards. A beautiful new edition of a Victorian comic classic. I recommend it highly, regardless of my contribution.

My literary début, then. The thought that I'm now in bed with Mr Jerome in the British Library, until the end of civilisation, thrills me immeasurably.

To order it from your local bookshop, here's the full details:

Title: The Idle Thoughts Of An Idle Fellow
Author: Jerome K Jerome
ISBN: 1-905005-04-0
Publisher: Snowbooks, London
Price: £9.99 (hardback only)
Date Published: 24th September 2004

Rent the DVD of Shaun Of The Dead. An absolute gem of a film, and I don't even like zombie movies.

At Archway Video, deliciously, it's several times more popular than Mr Gibson's Passion Of The Christ film, which kept it off the UK #1 spot at cinemas. Months later, I have to wait a week for a rental copy of SOTD to be free, while DVDs of POTC remain noticeably unloaned upon the shop shelves. Jesus is not for renting.

For Archway Road, SOTD is a local concern. The pivotal location, The Winchester pub, is based upon The Shepherds, now The Boogaloo, the nearest bar to this computer. Mr Pegg and Mr Frost, the film's stars, used to frequent the pub when they shared a flat in the area. The sole reason for the name change in the film is a plot device necessitating the acquisition of a Winchester rifle kept above the bar. The next pub along Archway Road from The Boogaloo is also called The Winchester, but this is an absolute coincidence which no one believes. Such is art.

I've read reports connected with the film that The Shepherds is now a theme pub or "gourmet pub", a description which really needs correcting. This was certainly many people's impression of The Boogaloo when it started, including my own. However, <a href="http://www.beerintheevening.com/pubs/comments.shtml/21/" target="_blank">anyone going there now</a> will tell you the theme corners have long since been knocked off; its gourmet menu, if there was one, indefinitely shelved. I think it's fair to say The Boogaloo has acquired its own lived-in character and soul, its own friendly, laid-back attitude. Perhaps a little of the Shepherds spirit has even percolated through from the walls. It's not The Shepherds anymore, but neither is it a soulless gourmet pub. Put it like this, The Boogaloo made the likes of me its First Ambassador. You can't get much further from "gourmet" than me.

The other day I was physically dragged in there by one of the regulars as I passed the building, who refused to let me NOT pop in for a drink. He's also an old Shepherds regular, so I mentioned that Shaun Of The Dead depicts the pub's previous owners John and Bernie as zombies. He thought I was joking. It's true. The zombie landlord gets a memorable scene in which he is beaten rhythmically about the head with snooker cues to Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now", before being thrown head first into the jukebox.

"Blimey. Did they make Henry (the Shepherds dog) into a zombie too?" he asked.

"No."

"Ah well." As if the film-makers missed an important trick.

I'll write more on Shaun Of The Dead another time, but for now, here's the answer to a Frequently Asked Question. I am indeed in the film as a zombie crowd extra, though you have to play "Where's Wally" to spot me. To save your eyesight, <a href="http://www.fosca.com/dickon-of-the-dead.jpg" target="_blank">here's the appropriate vidcap.</a> (Thanks due to Mr Chipping).

After looking over my old diary entries from 1997, written before the coming of blogs and Livejournals, a sense of nostalgia for my own writing has convinced me to switch the default comments box setting to "Screen All". Nostalgia for a website – it was always going to happen.

This is purely for aesthetic reasons: feedback is still very much welcome. The change will, I hope, loosen up my writing a little and render it more unguarded, more personal. As personal as I get, that is. Also, the screened box is a quick method of sending me a private message without resorting to email, so it's not as if I'm cutting myself off from the world.

===============

Watching the Mercury Awards ceremony on TV. Franz Ferdinand are wearing make-up and suits. They look fantastic. I'm so pleased they won.

Of the other performances, Belle and Sebastian's Stuart Murdoch is singing confidently and faultlessly, with in-ear monitors, while his band are polished and perfect. Quite a difference from the nervous, sometimes inaudible 1997-8 concerts.

===============

My thanks to all the kind readers who sent birthday wishes. I spent the evening of my 33rd anniversary of woe at How Does It Feel in Brixton, posing for photos with a copy of The Secret Garden. Met some people I've known on and off for a decade or more: Amelia and Rob from Tender Trap, Ms Claudia Gonson from the Magnetic Fields. Justin Pearce, who is now a MF fan and so was delighted to be introduced to Ms G. Greg from the Razorcuts / Sportique also wished me a Happy Birthday, which was terribly nice of him.

Jennifer Denitto's present was to drive me all the way home – something which I really treasured. Night buses are starting to prove such hard <i>work</i> for me, particularly at the weekend. It's the noise – teenagers carrying on their parties on the bus. Nothing new, so it must be me who's changed. No escape. The bus stops at every possible stop, crawls, stops. Crawls, stops. Interminably.

On a recent night bus trip, I had two girls sitting next to me, one on the other's lap, while they exchanged drunken banter with their red-cheeked male counterparts, drinking but not yet shaving. After a while, the girls grew tired of their seating arrangement and both decided to squeeze themselves onto my seat, pushing me up against the glass. Not even asking me if I minded. I didn't say anything, but I was in hell. At least on tube journeys one can switch to a different carriage. With night buses, I increasingly feel one is at the mercy of the less meek and the more drunk. It's a terrifying combination for a fragile fop old enough to be their slightly peculiar uncle.

Last night – with Mr Wren Gullo to the reopening night of the club Electrogogo, at the invitation of host Mr Mark Moore, once of S-Express.

The venue is called Zoo and is off Leicester Square, so one has to brave unwelcome attention from a few tiresome men in order to gain entry. Ms Sam, in her skin-baring French Maid From Hell ensemble suffers the most as we gather outside. I never understand how such men think. Do they honestly imagine they're going to meet with a favourable response?

Inside, Zoo turns out to be underground and MC Escher-like: chrome, neon, space-deceiving mirrors, unexpected changes in levels. A bizarre canopy festooned with lights covers the main bar. Two live acts on the stage. First on are The Modern, arguably the most 80s-like band I've ever seen. And from my gig-going lifetime, that's saying something. One keyboard player even does robot elbow dancing. Excellent pop songs, and a thoroughly enjoyable live act. I learn that the female singer is also a working actress, just back from filming a Miss Marple with Geraldine McEwan.

Then it's the turn of Mr Steve Strange, a genuine 80s New Romantic icon if ever there was one. Spiky black hair, semi-realised skeleton suit, Janet Jackson radio mic, more physical and macho than I'd expected. Looks a little like Mr Numan does these days. He performs a few of his Visage hits, ending with – what else – "Fade To Grey". This is a 2004 remix, accompanied by a young vocal group called DV8. Two boys, two girls. None of whom can have been born when the song first came out in 1980. Never mind that – one boy looks like he can't have been born when S-Express had their first hit.

Catch a nightbus from the stop on Trafalgar Square's east side. The stop has four hours to live. <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/london/3643654.stm" target="_blank">At 6.40am a dust cart ploughs into it, putting two people in hospital.</a>