A Fosca rehearsal for the band’s first UK gig in 2 years goes well, with my brother Tom finally playing in a band with me after all these years. Our parents are happy about this, needless to say, and I hope the fans are too. He’s one of the best musicians I’ve worked with, regardless. New song practiced: “In-Joke For One”.

***

I now have a part-time job of sorts, in my capacity as Shane MacGowan and Victoria Clarke’s sporadic Gentleman Secretary and Impersonal Personal Assistant. Victoria is planning a new TV and book project where the pair chat to various famous names about the pursuit of happiness. They’ve employed me to send out her proposal-cum-invitation to all the illustrious names on their list, and Shane has bought me my own little phone and fax machine. Within minutes of setting it up, I receive two calls from an Indian call centre trying to sell me deals on One-Tel mobiles.

Although I bridle when referred to as the Pogues singer’s ‘New Romantic Butler’, despite looking exactly like one, yesterday he did ask me to fetch his socks from the third drawer.

Last night – to see Bob Dylan at the Brixton Academy with Mr MacGowan, Ms Clarke, and Ms Clarke’s charming sister Jo. Somehow, we arrive a bit late and apparently annoy family members of Bryan Ferry by unknowingly sitting in their seats while they’re in the bar or something. I consider making some remark about Otis Ferry invading the House of Commons, and that what goes around comes around, but think better of it. In case they set the hounds on us.

Shane: Dickon, do you want to get the drinks in? Hang on… Bryan!

Bryan Ferry: …. (visibly peeved with us and trying to watch the concert)

Shane: Oh… Bryan Ferry doesn’t want a drink.

End up being moved from a seat next to either Neil Tennant or a Ferry relative who looks like Neil Tennant, to a seat next to the singer from the Stereophonics. Fairly safe to say we’re not mutual fans of each other’s music, but he seems a nice boy and is rather handsome in the flesh. Unless it was just someone who looked like the singer from the Stereophonics. I could go on like this. I myself am just someone who looks like Dickon Edwards. And writes and speaks like him. I keep thinking of that Alan Bennett quote from the documentary where he’s sitting for a portrait.

“When people say, ‘just be yourself’. What they really mean is: imitate yourself.”

I suppose Mr Stereophonics and I at least agree on Mr Dylan, who obligingly does rather good versions of Like A Rolling Stone and All Along The Watchtower, dressed in a fantastic red and black suit and hat. I spy the Oscar for his song in The Wonder Boys propped up on an amp nearby.

*****
Previously – to the Boogaloo for a magazine launch party. Except there’s a bit of a problem: no magazine. Due to some publishing mishap, State Of Play, a new music publication impressively featuring the Fire Engines on the cover, has no physical state to play with. But the party goes ahead anyway. This is very London – a launch party without the launch.

Someone writes to say they spotted me in a video for the band Readers Wifes (sic), looking very ‘Quentin Warhol’.

This would be the consequence of an afternoon spent in a South London bar earlier this year. I was part of an audience watching the group mime their song over and over again. No payment for this appearance: I think I attended the shoot partly because I heard there’d be free drink (which turned out to be just one free drink), and partly because I approve of the band. Tie-wearing male DJs in heavy make-up and tranny wigs who play the likes of Paul McCartney’s Coming Up at their club, Duckie. One of their songs has lyrics specially written by Julie Burchill.

I’ve not seen the video myself, but sometimes that’s the way things should be. A memory springs to mind of a BBC make-up girl I met a few years ago. Discussing my looks, I told her one reason I must never get fat is so I’m never confused with Boris Johnson.

‘Who’s that?’
‘You know, the buffoonish white-haired Tory politician, often on Have I Got News For You.’
‘Oh, I never watch TV.’
‘Really?’
‘No. I’m too busy making it.’

On the bus from Muswell Hill to Highgate, a large black woman with gappy, protruding teeth gets on, talking constantly, though it quickly becomes evident she’s by herself and is not talking to anyone in particular. Her utterances are a series of repeated phrases spat at each and every passenger in rotation, her head like an automatic lawn sprinkler.

‘You – you are all responsible. How dare you put children in care! You are all doing it. You killed my baby. You! You put children in care! Killed my baby. You all do it.’

Then she pauses, smiles sweetly at a man sitting near me, flutters her eyelids and asks him if he likes her necklace. He mumbles something minimal and kind. A moment later, she’s back with the shouted accusations, with no exceptions. The man is just one of Them once more.

I sit there impassively, trying hard to ignore the hard to ignore. But even this non-expression screams a certain passion. It’s the very English desire of just wanting to reach one’s destination without incident.

Back from Radlett with Tom E, mixing the first few songs for the new Fosca album. One lesson learned: it’s all very well putting down 47 separate instruments on a song (I’ve Agreed To Something I Shouldn’t Have), but mixing the thing takes about 47 times longer. By the time you’ve finalised the correct treatment of Hank Marviny Guitar #3, you’ve forgotten all about Kevin Shieldsy Guitar or Jimi Hendrixy Guitar or Juno 6 Synth Pretending To Be A Glockenspiel #9.

The simplest song of the batch, Kim, contains more or less the same amount of instruments as the version we’ve been playing live, albeit with Tom playing my guitar parts due to my – as Mr Bowie says on the back cover of Hunky Dory – inability. Kim was the fastest to mix and, strangely, sounds the most impressive. It must be that we’ve given the song room to breathe.

It doesn’t help that some days I turn up to the studio telling Tom “make it sound like Phil Spector”, while on other days I say, “make it sound like Nico’s solo albums.”

Nico produced by Spector? Hmm. I suppose that’s more or less the Spector-produced Leonard Cohen album, Death Of A Ladies’ Man. Which Mr S and Mr C all but disowned.

I, however, rather like it.