A Very Merry Christmas to all my readers.

Photo of Mr Dickon Edwards by Ms Kim Cunningham
Taken 17th December 2004 at The Boogaloo, 312 Archway Road, London N6 5AA
Red Wine by The Boogaloo
Suit by Cenci of Monmouth Street
Hair by Ms Anna S of Camden Town

Films watched recently:

Dogville: More Hollywood names taking their mainstream fans to Foreign Film Land, at the risk of causing them to walk out. This time Ms Kidman, Mr Caan and Ms Bacall drag us into the world of writer and director Mr Lars Von Trier, of Danish “Dogme” fame. He’s very keen on Rules and Disciplines in making Art, is terribly angry about unkindness and hypocrisy in American society, and is an unabashed admirer of the allegorical plays of Mr Brecht. Come back, O average popcorn muncher!

The film is shot entirely on an enormous abyss-like black theatre space, representing the small fictional 1930s US mountain town of Dogville. No set and minimum props, but plenty of close and far camera angles, hand-held shots, quick cutting, overhead views, zooms, and so on, all to make this much more than just a filmed stage play. Rooms and walls marked out on the floor in white lines like road markings, with labels in capital letters: “THE OLD WOMAN’S BENCH.” “CHUCK AND VERA’S HOUSE.” And, significantly in one corner, “DOG”. We hear the barks and the doors opening and closing but the actors have to mime everything else. The lack of walls makes Dogville literally a transparent town, and means that while a scene is going on in one house, in the background the other residents are quietly getting on with their lives: sleeping, working, chatting silently. It’s a device which works particularly well during a harrowing rape scene. The film cuts to other houses or shops, but in the background the event is still horribly visual. As if the building in “Rear Window” were made from glass. Terrific acting from Ms Kidman, who I shall insist on remembering from the film “BMX Bandits”.

The wry, classic-novel-like narration is especially marvellous, and beautifully voiced by Mr Hurt. Powerful use of Mr Bowie’s song “Young Americans”, too. Dogville does take some getting used to at first, but all in all it’s a rather superb film.

Lost In Translation. After The Virgin Suicides, this confirms director Ms Coppola as a mainstream cinematic poet, with very much her own style. Dreamy detachment, sensual yet sexless, musings on Life, people moping about, confused and entranced by the world, by others, and by other worlds. And lots of appropriately atmospheric indie music. Last time, mostly by Air. This time, there’s the white noise melodies of The Jesus and Mary Chain, Kevin Shields and My Bloody Valentine. Indeed, melodies within white noise is very much the message of Lost In Translation. The night on the town sequence, including the Karaoke singing, is so terrific, I felt genuinely taken out of myself. No mean feat for me.

I think Ms Coppola’s favourite words are still very much Virgin and Suicide. Despite her married status and predilection for moping around in her underwear, Ms Johansson’s character is Ms Virgin, hermetically sealed from Life, and unusually for a film with a 15 certificate, there’s no sex scenes. Mr Murray, meanwhile, is Mr Suicide, ravaged with Enough of Life: drink, sex, money, marriage. Ms Johansson seems twelve, Mr Murray twelve thousand.

I hear that young female customers at Archway Video have rented this film, expecting to sympathise with Ms Johansson, only to return it and complain that it’s “boring”. Maybe because it’s a film about BEING a young woman, rather than targeted FOR young women. I think it’s also fairly pertinent that the writer is a woman over 30 rather than, say, the likes of Mr Nabokov. It does brilliantly portray the appeal of the older, apparently wise and experienced man to an angsty young girl, and yet manages to restrain from sleazy consequences in favour of a platonic, mutually life-saving exchange of opposite perspectives, in line with the film’s own theme of blissful but ambivalent detachment.

Despite the setting, the film is by no means about Japan. It more equates mixed feelings of being in a strange location, with mixed feelings about relationships, Love, Life and what to do when one is found in possession of it. It also reminded of me of my own trip to Japan a few years ago as guitarist with the band Spearmint. Like the film this also included a joyous time in a karaoke hotel. At one point, I even listened to My Bloody Valentine on my walkman as I gazed out of a bullet train window.

When Ms Johansson asks Mr Murray, “does it get any easier?”, she means coping with Life, another country where her character can’t yet speak the language. This reminded me of a time when during a Tokyo TV interview, Spearmint drummer Ronan was given some strange Japanese sweetmeat to savour, and after chewing for a long, long while, said “does it get any better?”

There was much laughter, but I read an enormous amount into this statement, half-joking, half not joking. It’s the feeling of being in two minds, which in his talk on Mr MacNeice’s poetry Mr Bennett describes as “the feeling most of us feels most of the time”. Half enjoying Difference when one experiences it, such as a strange exciting menu in a strange exciting land, half wanting to go home and eat a Mars Bar. Half wanting to take the plunge and do something adventurous with one’s life (the possibility of an affair with someone several decades away in age), half wanting to stay put and stick to the apparent comfort of the familiar.

The only letdown for me is the Oscar-winning script. It’s true that the Japanese characters are short-changed by the film, but then this is Mr Murray and Ms Johansson’s world, not theirs. Indeed, Ms Johansson’s American husband (Mr Ribisi) and his blond film star friend (Ms Faris) are also cruelly thinly-sketched as characters. The problem is when using these minor characters’ shortcomings to set the main ones into sharp relief. Entirely unnecessary, as Mr Murray and Ms Johansson are perfectly fully-formed and “well-rounded” enough already, both in the writing and in the acting.

One example springs to mind. The intended joke about Ms Faris booking her hotel room as “Evelyn Waugh” without realising the novelist’s gender. I’m reminded of a scene in the comedy “Clueless”, where the main girl, Cher, is asked by a boy she’s trying to impress what music she’s into. “Do I like Billie Holiday? I LOVE him!”

This works for Clueless, as it’s all part of Cher’s lovable, clothes-obsessed character. But in Lost In Translation, the Evelyn Waugh joke clashes with the film’s tone. It’s intended for Mr Murray and Ms Johansson to bond over feeling smarter than Ms Faris, but only made me think of them as cruel and sneering. For all we know, Ms Faris might be perfectly aware of Mr Waugh’s gender, and is just being a bit arch in private. We don’t get a chance to find out either way, and this is unfair in a film with so much empathy elsewhere.

My other slight reservation was Mr Murray’s character’s name: Bob Harris. UK readers of a certain age will be aware of “Whispering” Bob Harris, the toothy BBC DJ, music TV presenter and inspiration for The Fast Show’s “Jazz Show” presenter. I kept expecting Mr Murray to turn to the camera every time he was with Ms Johansson, and say “Great…!”

Still, it’s a US film, and one can’t check for famous namesakes in other countries when naming one’s characters. My own favourite example is in Woody Allen’s 1992 film “Husbands and Wives”, in which Mr Allen remembers a sexy young ex-lover of his having wild erotic tastes. The character is called Harriet Harman.

On balance, though, I found Lost In Translation to be a stunning, wonderful film. If Ms Coppola is reading this: you, madam, are an amazing director. But please let me be your co-writer on the next script.

Going to two free drink events on Thursday night, plus buying drinks on top of that, saw such an influx of alcohol to my system that I'm fairly sure the effects lasted for the next 24 hours. Friday morning I had a Euphoric Hangover. The feeling that I'd been drinking heavily the night before, but feeling strangely okay about it. Perhaps I was still intoxicated even after a night’s sleep. Wandered around Muswell Hill and Archway happily in the December rain (always cheers me up), getting lots of chores done. Booked long-overdue appointments with dentist, optician, scanned the Evening Standard piece, stocked up on Resolve (the UK's most popular brand of hangover cure) for the next time, bought the Christmas Radio Times, and at Woolworths bought more copies of Morrissey's prowling new single "I Have Forgiven Jesus" than I strictly need, to show my hardy approval.

It’s only £1.99 and features a rather excellent b-side: a joyous cover version of Raymonde’s "No One Can Hold A Candle To You", complete with the sort of 80s-indie style jangly guitar that one often hears at the club How Does It Feel To Be Loved.

Wonderful to see him last Sat on CD:UK, the ITV Saturday Morning kids' pop show. Dressed as a Catholic priest. Wonder what the Westlife fans made of him. I could be wrong, but the presenter Ms Deeley gave me the impression she'd suffered all those times of having to smile while introducing some depressing cut-and-paste boy band, purely for the moment when she could say "And now, Morrissey".

I do rather like the idea of A Morrissey Christmas. Perhaps he could do as Cliff Richard or Shakin' Stevens in the past, always relied upon to release a single for the fans in December. Why else release a final single from an album at the hardest time of year to have a hit, unless you like the idea of being a Christmas fixture? Indeed, the last time he released an album, "Maladjused", he quietly put out "Satan Rejected My Soul" as a Christmas single. Again, the last single off the album. Again, a great title to see in the charts.

He's playing Earl's Court tonight, and though I've been reluctant to attend concerts by ANYONE in such cavernous aircraft hangars of venues, I'm now tempted to go along and see if I can afford a ticket from a tout (assuming it's sold out). If anyone reading this happens to have a spare ticket, please do get in touch.

In the afternoon, I wrote up my diary, prepared a birthday card for Ms Jennifer Denitto, then trotted off to Archway Video to do some community service for them.

Very untaxing: the shop was comparatively quiet for a Friday. Must be down to what ambulance drivers call Black Friday – the last Friday before Christmas, and thus the most popular evening for office Christmas parties. People are going out to parties, not renting films. Warnings about police crackdowns on "binge drinking" all over the news today. I'm not sure what the distinction between "binge drinking" and just, well, drinking really is. One of those new buzz phrases. Give it a new name and perhaps we can make people getting drunk sound like a new disturbing trend. Those statistic stories on the news are often amusing. The other day I heard on the BBC that <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/4073775.stm" target="_blank">left-handed people are more likely to be violent than right-handers.</a> As a sinister southpaw myself who shirks from conflict and has never raised his hand to a fellow human in his life, I find this particularly amusing. Though having said that, I was curiously good at firing a rifle while a Scout, earning my Marksman badge at Colchester Barracks with flying colours. Perhaps THAT'S where my true talent lies: murder. Problem is, far too many names immediately present themselves as targets.

The hangover then mutated from Euphoric to Grumpy and Tired. At 8pm I put on the usual slap and went to the Boogaloo to have my photo taken by the lovely Ms Kim of the staff, for this year's digital Christmas card to my readers. Last year I was at <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/dickon_edwards/2003/12/25/" target="_blank">Somerset House, by the tree at the ice rink</a>. This year it couldn't be anywhere other than by the tree in the Boogaloo.

I posed with a glass of red wine, and chatted to Ms Alex. We discussed Mr Scott’s new magazine, The Mind’s Construction, with its rather good articles and sexy photos of Mr Bookish, Mr Pink Grease and Mr Scott himself, in full Cindy Sherman role-playing mode. Highly recommended.

Then, as I was about to make my way to Camden town for the house party of Ms Denitto and Ms Anna S (<lj user=my_name_is_anna>), I suddenly felt very shaky and broke out in a cold sweat. A reaction to the one glass of red wine? Delayed hangover from the night before? Whatever it was, my body wanted nothing more than to retire to bed early with ice cream, watching Have I Got News For You and Peep Show on TV.

Feel a bit better now. I must be more careful with the wine next time. Still, no ambulances were involved, and my left hand remained distinctly unviolent.

Last night – shame at last. A mention in the Evening Standard, between Mr Ozu the film director and Mr Elton John the pop singer. What bedfellows!

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

I like the comment on Mr Jerome's "daft name" swiftly followed by the words "Dickon Edwards".

Attend book launch among the umpteen works on devilish Mr Crowley at Atlantis Bookshop, Museum Street. Book in question is a fiction anthology called <i><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/190351732X/dickonedwards-21" target="_blank">The Dedalus Occult Reader: The Garden Of Hermetic Dreams.</a></i> Edited by Gary Lachman. Mr Lachman is an American with glasses, short, slightly spiky hair and a rather nice dark suit and tie. I buy a copy of the book, get him to sign it, and natter to him briefly about Nerval, the lobster-walker I'm emulating on the front of the Dedalus Books catalogue, whom he's included in the anthology alongside Beckford, Balzac et al.

Afterwards, I read the book's author biog and note with interest that Mr Lachman was a founding member of Blondie, as "Gary Valentine". He wrote some of the group's songs including "I'm Always Touched By Your Presence, Dear", plus a memoir, <i>New York Rocker: My Life In The Blank Generation with Blondie, Iggy Pop and Others, 1974-1981.</i> He's also taught English Lit and Science, and managed a metaphysical bookstore. What a CV. I can't help thinking of the groovy Dean in the Simpsons episode where Homer goes to college. "I once played bass for the Pretenders…"

Nice man. Looks too young to have been the first bassist in Blondie. Must be the occult studies.

At the event I down free wine and falafels and meet Claudria Andrei, who I haven't seen for some time. She chastises me for being out of action for so long. Well, no more. Second diary entry in two days!

Lots of copies of the Dedalus catalogue on the counter, featuring myself and the plastic lobster. I also chat to my companion in the photo Anne Pigalle, and a young lady called Amelia (not Ms Fletcher) who says she last met me when I was "hanging out with Kenickie".

A lady asks me for my autograph. She wants me to sign the <i>catalogue</i>. I oblige, of course. I really must get an agent soon: this so-called ability of mine must be worth <i>something</i>.

I also signed copies of the Jerome book at the Boogaloo reading I gave the other day, including two for Shane MacGowan, who came up and asked. One for <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0330490087/dickonedwards-21" target="_blank">Ms Victoria Clarke</a>. A great feeling to give an autograph for someone far more famous than oneself, and a lyricist I admire too. He must hear his song Fairytale Of New York quite a lot around this time of year: it's generally considered <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/music/4101207.stm" target="_blank">the one Christmas pop song people don't grow tired of.</a> Wonder if they play it on the radio in New York?

After the Atlantis book launch, I attend the Boogaloo's second anniversary party, also doubling as the pub's Christmas party. Drink far too many free rum cocktails, spill wine on the bar, and eventually find myself in a corner with Kim and Sophie of the bar staff, singing Morrissey lyrics, ranting on about James Joyce and the Buffy The Vampire Slayer musical. Bedtime for Mr Edwards.

New diary discipline: shorter, more regular entries. Well, I'll try.

The more I put off writing up the diary, the more I think I can Get Away with it. Just go back to bed, do it tomorrow, the destructive part of me says. Do everything tomorrow, or the day after. Tomorrow doesn't exist NOW. Anything but now.

Mr Therapist is convinced that I am not, as Mr Tom Jones never intended it, unusual. In his professional opinion I'm not autistic or blighted by Asperger's Syndrome, the #1 syndrome <i>de nos jours</i>. Perhaps that's my dictionary fame to come:

<i><b>Dickonism</b>. Noun. A tendency to feel, after reading about the symptoms of an illness in the press, that one is riddled with it oneself.</i>

Mr Therapist maintains I'm an ordinary man with entirely treatable depression, who just needs help. And needs to admit I need help. This is somewhat of a disappointment as I'd like to be able to blame the Trouble With Me on some medical condition. Illness as absolution. Not guilty, your honour. Society's to blame. My parents are to blame. My illness is to blame. Not me. Here lies Dickon Edwards: it wasn't his fault.

Oh, how one is forever a sentence away from sounding like some ill-informed self-righteous newspaper columnist. (Reader's Voice: Why stop now?). I do envy those columnists in the tabloids: they only have to be self-righteous in a fraction of their broadsheet counterparts' word count. And probably with several times the readership for several times the fee. The central difference in style seems to be that in tabloid columns every other sentence is suddenly picked out and put in bold, underlined italics like so:

<b><i><u>And that's the trouble with young people today. </u></i></b>

My GP is more concerned with my hypochondria than anything else. I've asked to be tested for everything under the sun this year. The verdict comes back time and time again: depression aside, I'm fine. Could do with regular exercise and a better diet, but fine. And that I should seriously talk to my therapist about my hypochondria. I'll add it to the list, I reply.

O Mr Edwards. Such contradictions. Ill but perfectly well. A mess in a tidy shell. Childlike yet not suitable for children. Self-obsessed yet a mirror to others. Never quite part of a group, yet responsible for others coming together, whether by default or design. Proud and vain yet self-hating and nervous. Cynical yet anti-cynicism. Arrogant yet meek. Aloof yet desperate for company. Funny but tragic. Famous yet Unfamous. Reputedly Terribly Clever yet incapable of many basic human activities.

I search for an excuse for this, the first (I hope) in a series of entries that will draw on past events long overdue for coverage. Conveniently, one presents itself as a recent film I rented on DVD, much recommended by the Archway Video staff.

<b>21 Grams.</b> Essentially an episode of Casualty re-edited by a madman. A traffic accident and heart transplant result in characters getting upset, lives changing, relationships at crossroads, secrets revealed, convictions brought to a head, the ingredients of any hospital-based soap opera. Added to which are musings on what Life really means, and what really matters. The title refers to the weight apparently lost by every human body at death – regardless of their own weight, age, gender and so on. All very well. Except that this story is also told in a jigsaw of flashbacks and flash-forwards, cutting between perspectives and time. Some scenes last mere seconds. Blink, blink, blink.

The director is a Mexican gentleman, Mr Iñárritu. He is Foreign, and is therefore a Genius.

Now, the above was admittedly yet another attempt at a quotably arch but glibly offensive epigram to add to my Greatest Hits collection. You'll forgive me for being a creature of habit. I hasten to add that just because a film is made in a language other than English doesn't necessarily mean it's automatically brilliant. But I'm aware this is often an unspoken assumption with some people, particularly guilty monoglots.

Subtitle-phobes may be comforted to know that my German friend Ms Andrei says she can't stand most films made in her native language, and would far prefer to watch Mad Max 2 than anything by Mr Fassbinder or Mr Wenders.

On the DVD making-of documentary, Mr Iñárritu explains that the narrative of 21 Grams is fragmented "because we view LIFE in fragments". It's the sort of statement unquestionably aided by a foreign accent and its attendant hand gestures. For someone with English as a first language to say such a thing may invite accusations of pretentiousness. Or worse, risking an appearance in Private Eye Magazine's Pseuds Corner, an honour to which I secretly aspire. At least two Guardian reviews of the London band Selfish C**t have enjoyed mentions there this year. I also maintain that Ms Tracey Emin would get less criticism if she were from Iran. It's easier to be artier when you're a foreigner. Write that one down too, please.

21 Grams invites comparisons with another favourite recent film of mine, Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. Both films are made with Hollywood money, Hollywood actors and Hollywood distribution, but have a heavy-accented foreign director and a very art house, indie-flick, world cinema sense of style and narration. Again, it sounds enormously patronising to refer to a non-English language film as "world cinema" or an "indie flick", but while the default movie remains a Hollywood movie (will it ever be otherwise? a subject for a thesis or eight), one has to acknowledge the reigning perspective. My own life is a Cute British Indie Flick rather than a Proper Hollywood Movie whether I like it or not. Thank goodness: I couldn't cope with all the gratuitous explosions and car chases. I couldn't be a non-UK World Cinema film either: all that sex looks like hard work. The Dickon Edwards version of "Y Tu Mama Tambien" would have a U certificate and be translated as "I Get On Terribly Well With People's Mothers."

I rather like the idea of Eternal Sunshine and 21 Grams, two carrot-cake-in-popcorn-clothing movies, being the equivalent of sneaking a foreign film past the eyes of those who scoff, "I don't go to the cinema to READ."

But there's a risk: both have had customers at Archway Video delivering their verdicts as either "Absolute Genius", or "Pretentious Arty Drivel – I like Proper Films." It's a shame, but one has to be careful when recommending such titles. Some people are just popcorn fans through and through. I've also heard of customers who won't watch anything in black and white.

I once went with a very erudite man to see The Dreamlife Of Angels at the Finchley Phoenix. He walked out halfway through and waited for me in the lobby.

"I just remembered I really don't like French films," he said.

"Because of the subtitles?"

"No. Because of the French Film-ness."

21 Grams risks accusations of being Gratuitously Arty more than Eternal Sunshine, as there's no sci-fi element to the story to justify the narrative tricks. Likewise Memento using the protagonist's own amnesia as a stylistic device. Why is 21 Grams cut-up and fragmented like this? The only real answer is because it makes for a thoughtful, gripping film. For the first half-hour, the viewer is all at sea, trying to work out which bit goes where in the narrative. Then the film starts to settle down, and the satisfaction of finding out how the pieces all fit together is so great, I have to declare 21 Grams a work of supreme craftsmanship, and ultimately a downright engrossing experience.

It did remind me a little of the Love & Rockets comics by the similarly Mexican Hernandez brothers, which also tell soap-opera-like tales in disjointed narratives. Often a single panel will be a flashback for no apparent reason. It's the sort of thing that delights me but can infuriate others.

The movie features great performances from the three leads: Mr Del Toro is so good at Acting he converts it to Being. Ms Watts's part is pure melodrama: she spends the film either crying, kissing or snorting drugs. Incredibly, she does all these things without forcing the viewer to look at their watch once. The goofy Mr Penn is an actor I am normally not at all keen on, and I still tend to think of him as Mr Madonna From "Shanghai Surprise". Here, though, he is excellent, managing to bring a black comedic stripe to the proceedings, constantly smoking despite having a messy heart condition. His wife can't understand how he manages to keep his stock of cigarettes replenished while wandering around attached to tubes from a drip-feed apparatus. Neither can the viewer. And this is what gives 21 Grams and Mr Penn's performance that extra appeal.

The casting of his screen wife, Ms Charlotte Gainsbourg, is for me the film's sole let-down. We are meant to believe her character is utterly English, rather than the daughter of the world's most French Frenchman. But her accent doesn't convince. Indeed, at one point she sniffs "I Yarm Going Barck To LarnDarn". It is no wonder Mr Penn's character took to chain-smoking.

Flashback diary entries to come, then.

A lot to write up.

Last Sat lunchtime: interview for RARE FM to plug my various London performances. It's a student radio station based in what resembles an airing cupboard at UCL's Medical School Division of Infection & Immunity. The presenter Mr Jefferson seems nervous, and I wonder if he's nervous of me because of my defensively aloof attitude (something I do try to mitigate), or nervous for me as unproven radio material that might splutter and swear and libel members of the Royal Family within seconds of opening the fader; or just nervous about the temperamental equipment he has to operate while presenting a radio programme. Regardless, I am grateful to him for letting me loose upon his show.

Ideally one would have a separate engineer doing what I believe is termed "driving the desk", but this is community radio so it's naturally all DIY. Recognising the semaphore for "Can you keep talking while I try fiddling with these knobs to get it all working" is essential at such places. The room is actually slightly bigger and easier to get into than the studio of Resonance. There, one has to maneovre oneself up London's narrowest twisting staircase outside of the one in Gosh Comics of Bloomsbury.

No wonder so many local and community radio shows give out their phone numbers and email addresses all the time: one never knows if anyone is listening at all. Thankfully, a reader from Belgium writes in with kind words. God bless Belgium.

I punctuate my interview with some of my favourite music of the year, this being the time when the media starts compiling its Best Of 2004 lists. Lately I have developed an increasingly fogeyish pose of being out of touch of current chart rock and pop, yet am actually more in love than ever with acts such as Scarlet's Well, The Hidden Cameras, Client, and many of the artists featured at the club Kash Point. I play the following tracks:

<b>Hidden Cameras – Music Is My Boyfriend</b>
Taken from "The HCs Play The CBC Sessions", the first of their two albums released on Rough Trade this year. I chose this song particularly because it features prominent harmony vocals from Reg Vermue, aka Gentleman Reg. In Easter readers will recall I did a very John Peel-like gesture with Mr Vermue. I wanted to see him play in the UK, and no one else was getting him over here, so I did it myself. I helped to book his first ever UK live dates and supplied backing guitar. Had I the power to grant him a UK radio session, I would do so like a shot.

<b>Bishi – Uniform and Armour</b>
Taken from the Kash Point compilation album. A perfect pop song, from one of the many young stars in the London nightlife firmament.

<b>Client – Radio</b>
Another perfect glacial pop song. Should really be in the proper Top 5. All these songs should be in the proper Top 5.

<b>Morrissey – Let Me Kiss You</b>
This is where my Robin Hood approach falls apart, as Mr M has enjoyed much chart success and media life in 2004. That said, the Best Of list I glanced in some Magazine entirely overlooked "You Are The Quarry" in favour of some non-threatening trainer-rock groups that journos always seem keen to promote. I could write an entire book about how important Morrissey is to the world, now more than ever, but Mr Mark Simpson has beaten me to it. This song is my Single of 2004: romantic and arch, poignant and pure, subtle and sexy, and a rather 80s meld of jangly guitar and synthi-strings which is right up my cul-de-sac. And yes, I know, some of his 2004 b-sides are even better. But that was always the way. It will be good to see the words "I Have Forgiven Jesus" in the Christmas single charts.

At the radio station, I don't manage to play "How The Cypress Made Apollo" by Scarlet's Well. So it instead goes on my Vox N Roll set at the Boogaloo two days later. Of which, more anon.