Standing in the shower, I realise something has followed me in there.

By the plug hole, left of my feet, it's one of the many little yellow printed tags I've made for the World Cinema section at Archway Video. One tag for each director that the shop stocks at least three films by. Fans of non-English language films tend to follow a particular auteur's work, so filing the back catalogue this way seems to make sense. I've printed out about 50 such tags. My inner librarian is satisfied.

Thought: So many diarists I know are librarians. I've just realised why this is. Every diary keeper is a librarian of sorts. A diary, as opposed to a LiveJournal, is an attempt to put some sort of order upon the seemingly chaotic. Place a gentle order upon things. Make sense of them. Understand. Learn. And now, I file away foreign films just as I file away moments in my life.

I try to outstare the sticky label in the shower. Somehow it has survived a trip down Archway Road, a disrobing and a full night's sleep. What does it want? Is it a stalker? A reincarnated lover like Ms Kidman's new film, "Birth?" If her husband had come back as a sticky yellow label rather than a small boy, the film would have been far more interesting. Once again, Hollywood fails to ask my opinion and the world is a poorer place.

I read the label – its only true message to me. Which film director wants to share my shower so badly? Place your bets now, Dear Reader.

Staring back at me, Canute-like against the relentless swirl of water, is the word "BUNUEL".

Happy 150th birthday for yesterday, Mr Wilde. In the evening I toasted him at the Boogaloo with a few brandies and reading Mr McKenna's biography. I should really have carried a lily.

Aptly enough, I have been spending a lot of time recently with the Wilde-loving young man I currently introduce to friends as my "houseboy", Mr Lawrence Gullo. A 20-year-old androgynous artist and award-winning playwright from New York State: every home should have one. Fear not, Dear Reader, I shall refrain from adding what Mr Gullo's fellow countrypersons call Too Much Information about our relationship. Suffice it to say he is just what the doctor ordered, worth any amount of serotonin-enhancing prescription drugs. I shall recommend him to be made available on the NHS at once.

To those cynics who might suggest Mr G's status as a polyamorous American and registered FTM transsexual fits in conveniently well with the Jolly Universe Of Mr Edwards – he's like a character from a Fosca song – I can only answer, in an entirely unconvincing attempt at a US accent, "well, DUH".

Another American catchphrase I've been thinking about is "you do the math". Whether it will quite catch on over here remains to be seen, as the British abbreviate mathematics to "maths", plural. I'm reminded of a scene in the recent TV comedy series I'm Alan Partridge where Dan, a ghastly, pretentious businessman that the lonely Mr Partridge is trying to bond with, spouts the phrase:

Dan: You do the math.
Partridge: (unable to stop himself) "…ths"

******

Friday night – to the 291 Gallery in Hackney Road. The place is terrific: an echoey converted Victorian Neo-Gothic church with the highest ceiling of any venue I've ever played in. Apparently it was a former meeting place for Hells Angels, and they used to have bonfires in the main hall. I can well believe it. One gets a sense of vertigo just looking up.

I'm there to perform a short set of acoustic songs, as part of a bill curated by Ms Bishi, a star in the firmament of the London underground art-pop scene whose own debut album, when it emerges, will be promoted to the hilt in this diary.

I trot out a few ditties, but do rather feel too lonely onstage to be doing this regularly. I can't wait to regroup Fosca and perform with them soon. Plus there's the forthcoming series of Dickon Edwards Songbook shows that I'm planning, where different singers take turns to voice a song from my back catalogue, backed by myself and others. Tribute concerts to myself.

I stick around to catch Joan and Josephine, a splendid tranny band on ukelele and drums, followed by a mesmerising performance of opera-singing acrobats on ropes. Spot a few Hoxtonite people wearing Ironic Townie Chic. I suppose one has to say the word <a href="http://www.worldwidewords.org/topicalwords/tw-cha2.htm" target="_blank">"chav"</a> rather than "townie" now. Though I'm rather uneasy about that personally, as the term reminds me of tiresomely sneering Popbitch-style journalists and unfunny website builders.

Still, thanks to the tabloids, Chav has become the new definition of rough trade, and now features in the wording of some escort ads at the back of gay magazines. One imagines curb crawlers opening their transactions with the likes of:

"Hello young man… Want to earn a new pair of those lovely Nike trainers? Well, then, as the slogan goes, Just Do It…."

Afterwards, I cab it to the packed grand re-opening night of Mr Price's club Stay Beautiful, now at The Purple Turtle in Mornington Crescent. Where everybody knows my name. Though it's not quite enough when getting a drink. I want the crowd by the bar to part like the Red Sea, and the bar staff to instantly serve me. No chance. Spend far too long getting a drink, trying to avoid the swaying drunken couple on the barstools next to me, wielding their cigarettes dangerously close to my suit and eyes. I'm not the only one who hates this aspect of clubbing: one poor girl tells me she's just had her eyebrow singed by a particularly careless smoker.

****

Read an <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/comment/story/0,3604,1328663,00.html" target="_blank">article in the Guardian</a> by a particularly paranoid American playwright, Ms Carol Gould, who's convinced London is currently a hotbed of Anti-American feeling. It's taken from a <a href="http://www.frontpagemag.com/" target="_blank">right-wing website</a>, so one should really bear that in mind.

Citing an encounter with a <i>London minicab driver</i> as an example of blanket consensus rather undermines her argument. However, I do think she's right about the edition of Question Time broadcast a few days after 9/11, where a former US Ambassador was on the verge of tears, if not quite breaking into them. Whatever one thinks, it's really not tasteful to open a debate so soon after the event with a question along the lines of "Aren't the events of last Tuesday proof of the failure of American foreign policy?" As if the foremost thing on the victims' minds that day was the ins and outs of US foreign policy. The BBC subsequently apologised for the tone of the programme, and rightly so.

It's true that the screenings of Mr Michael Moore's films I've attended were packed with applauding Londoners, but that's really an indication of UK feeling towards Mr Bush and company (including Mr Blair), rather than his fellow citizens. I have heard the occasional anti-US arguments starting up between strangers when an American accent is overheard, but these were entirely on Night Buses, where the speakers were audibly intoxicated, and are therefore as much as as an index of general local feeling as the rantings of cab drivers.

I for one adore the company of Americans In London. They are so less guarded and reserved than the British, so less shifty and bitter, and they have such better teeth. If I die before visiting the Big Country, I shall be extremely annoyed.

*****

There are those among my readers who think one solution to my lack of drive and creative activity is for me to get a job, or a relationship, or both. They will be pleased to know I now have small measure of both in my life. As well as spending time with Mr Gullo, I am now investing a smattering of hours assisting my friends at Archway Video, a few doors down from The Boogaloo. Community service indeed.

This is undoubtably one of the greatest shops in North London, with a back catalogue of some ten thousand videos and DVDs. If it's ever been released on the format in the UK, and is half-decent, they probably stock it. Not just films, either. One can rent the complete 24, West Wing, Buffy, Angel, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Ripping Yarns, and this week, Little Britain.

I've been a regular customer for the best part of ten years. The shop is a casually-run independent affair and family business, slightly resembling the shop in Mr Cusack's film "High Fidelity", but with women. And videos. Very handy for those impetuous whims when one suddenly wants to watch the complete Fellini oeuvre, or "Plein Soleil", the original adaptation of The Talented Mr Ripley, starring the young Alain Delon instead of Matt Damon. The shop is an essential service to the North London film lover – like a National Film Theatre for the sofa. I'm only too happy to do my bit.

On Friday 15th, I shall perform a brief set as part of a cabaret called <b>"Candy is Dandy but Liquor is Quicker"</b>. Not sure exactly what I'll do, but it'll involve an acoustic guitar. The venue is a Victorian Neo-Gothic church, and I'm told acoustic guitars sound particularly wonderful there.

Venue: 291 Gallery, 291 Hackney Road, London E2 8NA. More details at http://www.291gallery.com
When: Friday, October 15, 2004. 10pm-early hours. I'm on at 10.30pm.

From the website:

"This month, 291’s late night cabaret is joined for a one-off spectacular event by Bishi (Kashpoint, The Siren Suite).
To celebrate the imminent release of her album she has selected some of her favourite friends and performers to entertain you for one night only. Other artists include Bishi, The $hit, Simon Bookish, Anat Ben David (Peaches, Chicks on speed), Rosie Cooper, Marlene, Dickon Edwards; Film: Norioko Okaku, Susanne Oberbeck; DJ’s: Sebastian (Silence is sexy, Caligula) and Jo Apps. Entry: £5."

"DISCLAIMER: Apparently some people don’t like nudity, ideas and a polysexual selection box of fun wrapped up in a beautiful church with a ribbon of love. So if you are of a delicate constitution, you’re probably better off with your jumbo crossword book. "

My own disclaimer to their disclaimer: it definitely won't be me supplying the nudity.

After my set, I'll be dashing off to the grand re-opening of Mr Price's club <a href="http://www.staybeautifulclub.co.uk" target="_blank">Stay Beautiful</a>. A difficult decision, as I'd love to stay and catch some of the other Hackney performers, but I've been in such a Stay Beautiful-ready mood ever since I heard it was returning to Camden. Must be nostalgia for its first venue in Inverness Street. Or possibly for the Camden clubs I frequented in the mid 90s.

====

Last Saturday I managed to cram three clubs into one evening. The excellent comedian Mr Stewart Lee performed his latest set at Monkey Business in Camden, and I dragged Mr Chipping with me. A packed room above a bar, standing room only. I don't go to many comedy gigs, and the comic on before him reminded me exactly why. Never mind Default Men, this was Default Male Stand-Up. His routine was entirely composed of cliched blokish observational comedy targets: a typical example being legalise-cannabis campaigners getting (yes, you guessed it), the "munchies". If no one's laughing, insert swear words and they might laugh at those instead. Ye gods. He appeared to be one of those men who think they're funny just because their girlfriend, pub mates or workmates humour them.

What is it about men thinking they're automatically funny? That's the opening line from my own proposed routine. I've already got the suits.

Thing is, he actually went down rather well. Tourist-heavy audiences like this one prefer their comedy re-heated, blokish, characterless and predictable. When Mr Lee took to the stage and made observational quips on his own act <i>as it was happening</i>, then came out with lines like "all football-watchers are evil and scum", "Gary Lineker is sexually aroused by children becoming fat and dying – I do believe it", along with equally unkind sniping at comedic sacred cows Eddie Izzard and Graham Norton; the response was mostly sparse, nervous laughter, compared to the majority approval afforded to the first comedian. His style is intelligent, sly and uncompromisingly unique. Rarely does he care about pandering to the archetypal pub room crowd – the Default Audience trying to bond with itself over easy, fake-common-ground humour, or even Ageing Student Deadpan humour beloved of Internet users (another bugbear of mine – I really should get this anti-comedy comedy routine onstage). Thing is, he actually does do toilet humour. It's just a drawn-out, lateral and deliciously deconstructed take on toilet humour.

Mr Lee is far too smart to be doing stand-up gigs. This is exactly why he should keep doing them. And why I strongly urge you, Dear Reader, to catch him at <a href="http://www.sohotheatre.com/comedy/" target="_blank">his Soho Theatre run next month</a>.

After this, I attended Crimes Against Pop in Highbury Corner for about half an hour, then onto the The Fanclub in Kentish Town. Danced to deathless pop at the former, found myself being whipped with a bar mat at the latter. The mat-brandishing perpetrator was a bald man in a suit and make-up (yes, Dear Reader, even I can concede it's possible to dress well and act stupidly). He turned out to be a member of one of the Fanclub bands. I confronted him about it in his dressing room, fuelled by a fraction of the Dutch courage he had.

Me: Excuse me. Stop walking away. Why did you whip me with a beer-soaked bar mat while I was innocently dancing to Hazel Dean? I don't even know you.
Him: Oh, just trying to attract attention…

Another idiot, a visibly drunk blonde girl, approached me within minutes.

Her: Aren't you in a band? Isn't your name Duncan or something? Dominic?
Me: (snapping) Buy me a drink.
Her: Sorry? Are you serious?
Me: Yes I am. You've approached me because you're drunk and I look like A Drunk's Fair Game. I've just been whipped with a beer-soaked bar mat by a complete stranger for much the same reason. If I must deal with drunken idiots, which is admittedly an occupational hazard for me, I'd like to be at least as drunk as they are.

She didn't oblige. But she did leave me alone.

I'm not usually this angry with people and feel terribly guilty as I type the above. It must have been the bar mat talking.

Snowbooks, publishers of Jerome K Jerome's "The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow", featuring an Afterword by Dickon Edwards, have kindly put together a mail order offer exclusive to readers of this diary.

For those interested in purchasing this classic of Victorian observational comedy, email <a href="mailto:dickon-offer@snowbooks.com">dickon-offer@snowbooks.com</a> to order a copy, and Snowbooks will provide a 10% discount plus <b>free postage and packing*</b>.

Alternatively, look out for it in Waterstone's, among the "3 for the price of 2" displays.

*For non-UK readers, p&p is free for surface mail, £4.50 for air mail.