I write this wearing prescription contact lenses for the first time in my life. The brand is Johnson & Johnson Acuvue 1-Day. I chose daily disposables as I'm terrified of getting an infection, I like the convenience, and the brand was recommended as the most comfortable. As if I’m somehow going to plump for the leastcomfortable choice in order to save money. When it comes to sticking a foreign body in one's eyes on a regular basis, I rather feel comfort features highly in the equation.

At the opticians, I swear, struggle and sigh for what seems an aeon as the staff kindly teach me how to stick the things in and fish them out. At the time, it seems difficult to believe millions of people go through this farce every day. Then a few days later I get used to both the process and the sensation, and it's now as easy as falling off a bisexual. Like most things in life, it's just a matter of getting used to it.

I don't intend to wear the things every day, but it's nice to have the option. Some days I’m in a Clark Kent (or, as Mr Gullo remarked, Dr Strangelove) glasses mood. Other times I rather enjoy seeing the world a little out-of-focus. Without glasses or contacts, I can still read books, and my near-sightedness isn’t (yet) prominent enough to endanger my life when, say, crossing the road.

I always think of Dusty Springfield conquering her stage-fright by deliberately giving concerts without optical correction of any kind. She didn’t fear the audience because she couldn’t SEE the audience.

Short-sightedness can also be the forgetful narcissist’s alibi. If I'm on the street or in a large crowded party or club, not being able to see too well can help remove accusations of deliberate showbiz blanking.

"I waved at you, but you didn't recognise me. You've forgotten who I am, haven’t you?"

"Not necessarily. I literally can’t see who you are. Not in this light… without contacts… from this distance… (delete as cowardly applicable)."

In the kingdom of the wined, the short-sighted man is king.

Last night- to Snowy Brixton to DJ at Mr Slocombe's Offline club. The venue is The Dog Star, and I am essentially playing music to a large pub room. Apparently there's lots of Goldie Looking Chain fans present, fresh from the group's Brixton concert.

I'll always associate GLC with family members. My brother played me their music in his car as we drove to our grandfather's funeral. Shortly after that, I was with my father in Piccadilly Circus when we got caught up in a fake "protest march", which was really a publicity gathering for the new GLC single. I don't think I'll ever forget the sight of my 60-something father standing trapped and utterly confused on the street as throngs of waggish young people pushed past him with banners proclaiming "Your Mum's Got A Penis" (the name of the single).

The club Offline is part of the Urban 75 people-power internet community, and there's footage from Reclaim The Streets marches projected on one wall of the club. Rather works well with my set of Blow Monkeys and Olivia Newton-John songs, I think. I do now regret not going on the big London anti-war march in a nice suit, with a banner featuring a still of Charles and Sebastian from Brideshead Revisited, captioned "WAUGH NOT WAR".

One girl at the venue helpfully tells me I am "a complete 80s looking man", though she doesn't mean it nastily. She just wants to say something to me, and thinks this is the best thing to say. She herself is sporting the kind of white-person-dreadlocks and t-shirt look which equally lends itself to snap judgements, one might say. Protestor chic. I wonder what the connection is between protest marches and caucasian dreadlocks? It must rather single you out to the police. Though even my own hairdo is trouble enough for some people. I've been followed around by security guards in some London shops. Even when I'm wearing a suit and am without make up, a big coat or even a bag. It must be the Deliberately Unconventional Hairdo.

Not unconventional enough, that's the trouble. I read that Pete Burns of Dead Or Alive once used his exotic appearance to shoplift with impunity, simply because security guards were <i>terrified</i> of such an electrically androgynous peacock.

I imagine the shop security guard's thoughts. "I'm not stopping and frisking THAT. It might LIKE it. And I might like it too."

Walking through Euston tube corridors on my way home, I am stopped in my tracks by a poster advertising a new album by the artist 50 Cent. The image is of a half-naked young man, presumably Mr Cent himself, showing off the kind of oiled, rippling, ultra-muscular torso more at home on the sleeve of an Ian Levine Hi-NRG compilation. His cap reads "G-Unit". Indeed. Mr Cent lately annoyed the gay world with some unkind comments he'd made. I suppose here he's making up for it in kind.

Such an arrestingly sexual image. I may have to buy this album for all the wrong reasons.

Worrying news about the esteemed Mr Edwyn Collins.

I shall be DJ-ing this Thursday at Offline, a free-entry cabaret club in Brixton. In addition to the dancefloor goings-on, there's spoken-word poetry, acoustic performances, videos, and presumably some kind of bar.

Venue address: The Dogstar, 389 Coldharbour Lane, near Brixton tube, London SW9 8LQ.

My set is just after 11pm, following Mr Lester Square, who was in the Monochrome Set, and preceding Offline host Mr Mike Slocombe, who also was in the Monochrome Set (drumming on the Dante's Casino album). It's a Monochrome Sandwich for Mr Edwards.

I will be playing – what? I'm still not sure. But I'll ensure it's worth braving Brixton In The Snow for. Dickon's Winter Warmers.

I wonder if they like Olivia Newton-John in Brixton? I may be killed. Still, what a way to go.

Please come if you can, Dear Reader.

More details:
http://www.urban75.org/offline/

As aesthetically pleasing snow falls upon Highgate, I walk home past a snowball fight between three teen boys. As I pass, they hit the small of my back with a snowball.

All very traditional, except that this happens at 2am at night.

Perhaps they're worried that the morning sun and urban activity will melt their ammunition beyond use (as the IRA phrase goes). That at 2am it's now or never for snowballing in N6 this year. Perhaps they're a bit drunk, coming back from a party.

Whatever the reason, I am immensely relieved that a single snowball is the limit of their attack, and walk quickly past, head down, not stopping, not reacting. Had this been daylight, there would be less fear involved. Snowballs or no, a group of shouting young men in a deserted street at 2am is still just that.

Age offers no complete protection for those that resemble Playground Fair Game. Whether 13 or 33, I am eternally at the mercy of the shouting teenage boys.

Technology, technology.

I want to purchase a new compilation album by the Queens Of Noize with many intriguing London underground pop artists on it, such as Simon Bookish and The Pipettes. But it appears to be only available on something called "iTunes".

Whatever iTunes is, I can’t use it. I have Windows ME. I don’t have an iPod, while I’m at it. I feel a bit angry about this. Second-class citizenship for not having the right zeitgeisty gadgets. I’ve acquired a mobile phone. What more does the world want?

Some indie artists I like also put out exclusive material on limited edition 7" VINYL only. In 2005. Why? It’s like releasing a new movie on VHS only.

I am ready to give these artists my money, but they can’t provide me with a normal CD.

Perhaps it’s a form of tease or caprice on their part. But for me, my reaction is to just switch everything off and curl up with a nice book. I can just about work those.

If Mr Isherwood were writing today, the play based on his life would have to change its title from "I Am A Camera" to "I Am Also A Mobile Phone."

Everything is connected in the news. Arthur Miller dies, out of protest at the disappointing first episode of "Nathan Barley".

Charles and Camilla to wed, in tribute to Little Britain's success. Ikea opens a new store in North London at midnight, and as people are hospitalised in the ensuing rush, Julia Roberts has twins: Ikea and Barley.

A crazed dream where Heat Magazine's staff are visited by three non-celebrity ghosts in the night. The next morning, the lives of Ms Jade and Ms Kerry are removed, replaced by pictures of John Donne and the words "No man is an island…. Do not send to ask for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee".

(I always think of the joke I heard from John Cooper Clarke. "No man is an island… Except the Isle Of Man.")

Then it's the M word. Miller = Marilyn. Radio 4's Front Row only mentions his marriage in the context of whether he referred to it in his plays. This isn't good enough for newspapers, who print pictures of Ms Monroe as if it was her that died, not him. Husband of Marilyn Monroe Dies. Plays? What plays?

Attention must be paid. But, Mr Miller, you should have asked, "Is it the <i>right kind</i> of attention"?

That dreaded phrase: Best Known For.

Ikea customer interviewed on radio. Why was it so important to get a cheap sofa in the middle of the night?

"Well, it seemed like something to do."

It all seems like something from "Nathan Barley" itself. Drunk on the zeitgeist. "As the flatpack crushed his skull in the midnight chaos, his last words were, we think, a Little Britain catchphrase. Death Of A Sales-Obsessed Man".

My main criticism of the NB programme is that Chris Morris and Charlie Brooker aren't referred to themselves. When Mr Barley introduces himself, the response would really have been, "Oh, you mean, like the TV Go Home character?". It's a satire that can't quite be real enough. Mr Barley refers to Freddie Starr as the original Bill Hicks. These are real names. So why can't he say "Freddie Starr – he was the original Chris Morris"?

It was the same with The Fast Show's Colin Hunt. An office bore whose conversation was made entirely from repeating TV comedy catchphrases. But he never did any Fast Show catchphrases. Pick and mix fiction. A satire on real life that can only make specific references to real life.

This makes NB more traditional than, say, Lee and Herring's TV comedy, where Mr Herring would point at his colleague and say "Hey look, you're that Stewart Lee off the television."

Still, NB made me laugh a few times. You can't expect much more from a comedy. A critic would ask: but was it the right kind of laugh?

Last Thursday. I DJ at How Does It Feel To Be Loved, Ian Watson's internationally-renowned 80s indiepop + 60s-pop club.

It's now too popular for the Buffalo Bar in Highbury Corner, so Mr Watson is trying out new venues. Tonight it's The Phoenix in Cavendish Square, round the back of John Lewis in Oxford Street. A nice little place with very comfy sofas.

The only slight on the evening is a common one. Non Club Regulars. Possibly local workers, or regulars to the Phoenix if not to HDIFTBL, just in there for a drink after work.

Now, it'd be fine if they kept quiet. If they accepted finding themselves in someone else's little world. They could either decide the music isn't for them, and go somewhere else for a drink where their ears are unassailed by McCarthy songs played loudly. Which, I think it's fair to say, is pretty much every other bar in London. Or they could stay out of curiosity, the unconverted happy to be preached to.

My only real complaint is with the more arrogant of the breed, who actually bother the DJ. Who think that the Club is Wrong. Always the bane of the specialist club DJ. These are the ones who approach me to say:

"Can't you play something more danceable?"
"Can't you play something less gloomy?" (after The Chills)
"Here's one – can you play some Japan? Do you get it? Do you?" (points at my hair)
"Got any Motorhead?" (oh, the Non Regular Trying To Be Funny! My sides!)

What I should say is, very gently, "I'm sorry this music isn't to your taste. I believe other London clubs and bars are available. This club is for people who have paid to hear McCarthy played loudly."

What I really want to say is, "Do you park in disabled spaces too?"

But of course, this only occurs to me several days later.

Still, the majority of those present seem to enjoy dancing to my DJ set, and I really enjoy myself playing it. The set is as follows (not in order):

The Blow Monkeys – It Doesn't Have To Be This Way
Belle and Sebastian – Women's Realm
Shirley Bassey – Spinning Wheel
The Smiths – Ask
The Bodines – Therese
Echo & The Bunnymen – Seven Seas
The Chills – Heavenly Pop Hit
McCarthy – Keep An Open Mind Or Else
Spearmint – Sweeping The Nation
The Pastels – Simply Nothing To Be Done
The Sundays – Here's Where The Story Ends
Vaselines – Son Of A Gun
Shangri-Las – Give Him A Great Big Kiss
Lesley Gore – Sometimes I Wish I Were A Boy
Nancy Sinatra – How Does That Grab You Darlin'
Wedding Present – Why Are You Being So Reasonable Now
Supremes – Come See About Me
Velocette – Get Yourself Together
Chairmen Of The Board – Give Me Just A Little More Time
Morrissey – Pregnant For The Last Time
Darling Buds – Burst
Supremes – Stoned Love
Aztec Camera – Oblivious
B & S – Boy With Arab Strap
Frank Wilson – Do I Love You
Sea Urchins – Pristine Christine
Stereolab – Ping Pong

Afterwards, I drink too much wine and end up falling asleep on the night bus home. Wake up in some North London wilderness. Catch another night bus back. Fall asleep again, miss my stop. Wake up back in Central London again. Catch another northbound night bus. This time, Mr Taylor Parkes gets on and ensures I alight at Highgate.

I really must enforce my new rule of One Drink per night. Apart from anything else, I'm starting to really prefer sparking mineral water over wine. And it's cheaper.

<img align=left src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v600/Owen/backs.jpg"></img>
My friend Mr Laurence Gullo (<LJ user=tzarohell>) is performing in Hackney this Sunday evening, telling a story via his beautiful shadow puppets. I shall be involved too, possibly narrating. The music has been specially selected by Mr Martin White (<LJ user=martylog>).

However, we desperately require an extra puppeteer. If you're free and willing, or just want more details, please email Mr Gullo asap at:

alienlovemessiah@gmail.com

Much thanks.

Event information:

Hanky Panky Cabaret (MC: Xavior)
Sun 13th Feb 2005
From 9-Midnight
At Bistrotheque,
23-27 Wadeson Street,
London E2
Directions: Walk up Wadesdon St away from Hackney Rd, and it's the first doorway on the left.

Things I have learned this weekend:

Whenever Brian Eno and David Bowie chat these days, they tend to speak in 'Pete And Dud' voices, as in the flat-capped Dagenham characters from Peter Cook and Dudley Moore's 60s TV sketches. (from Alan Moore interviews Brian Eno, "Chain Reaction", BBC Radio 4).

The director of the video for Abba's Knowing Me Knowing You was Lasse Hallstrom, who went on to direct The Cider House Rules and Chocolat. (from 100 Best Pop Videos, Channel 4).

I keep seeing references to 'Chocolat' wherever I look lately. An old lady at the Lyric Hammersmith cafe suddenly sat herself at my table (while plenty of other tables remained empty) and talked about it. I keep noticing the movie and the Joanne Harris book on shelves in shops, as if it's calling to me. Perhaps I should see it.