Fosca have a brand new song on a compilation album that’s just out now, “The Kids At The Club”. It’s been put together by former Melody Maker scribe and club promoter (and now label owner) Ian Watson, and is connected with his club “How Does It Feel To Be Loved”. There’s a been a healthy amount of praise for the album from quarters of the press and various radio DJs.

The Fosca song, “I’ve Agreed To Something I Shouldn’t Have”, is tucked away at the end, just before a wonderful track by the group Suburban Kids With Biblical Names, whose music manages to be as impressive as their name. The other bands include Tender Trap, whose singer Amelia Fletcher made me the man I’m not today, and I’m From Barcelona, a rather splendid Swedish indiepop choir named after a Fawlty Towers catchphrase. The video for their song is terrific and quirky in a Napoleon Dynamite way, or creepy in a Waco-esque religious cult way, depending on your mood. But do take a look at it at YouTube, it’s quite striking:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OwwbXHNGsjU

The Fosca song has far too many guitars on it, but works quite well as a grumpy pop anthem for strange children. I get to play a Wedding Present-like guitar solo at the end, too.

It’s going to be a while before the Fosca album proper comes out due to no small dilly-dallying on my own part, so this is technically the only Fosca release for the time being. I do hope you’ll buy it, Dear Reader. It’s worth buying. Also included is an eight page booklet, with sleeve notes and photographs from the first four years of HDIF.

Full details about “The Kids At The Club” and instructions for purchasing it online can be found at:

http://www.howdoesitfeel.co.uk/hdiflabel.html

To the offices of Tartan Films in Dean Street, where I interview Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe, the directors of the new film Brothers Of The Head. It’s on behalf of Plan B magazine, so I give them a sample copy, eager to get this interview thing right. In the interests of proper research, I not only see the film beforehand and take notes, but I also rent out their previous work Lost In La Mancha, the documentary about Terry Gilliam’s failed Don Quixote project. On top of that I go to the British Library and read the out-of-print Brian Aldiss novel that inspired their film. The original edition with Ian Pollock’s typically grotesque illustrations. And I go online and read every previous interview I can find with them.

Problem is, although I arrive at the Tartan offices with a notebook full of well-researched details and topics to talk about, I forget one important aspect of an interviewer’s technique: I forget to shut the hell up. Typically, I confuse a conversation with my need to show off if a clever phrase or theory about the subject pops into my head. Like those audience members at arts event Q&As who waste everyone’s time with a question that begins “Don’t you agree that…” and then rail off their entire idiotic thesis for five minutes.

I even interrupt them a few times – the one thing you should never do. Well, unless you’re Mr Paxman. And I don’t notice the dictaphone switching itself off halfway through. A common problem for the inexperienced interviewer, but even so. Yet another job I’m just not cut out to do, I suppose, though I do appear to be a slightly talented researcher. At least, they tell me I’m the first hack to ask them about their aborted late 90s Clive Barker film, “From Oz To 42nd Street”. Even their publicist hasn’t heard of it.

If I’m honest, I don’t feel any desire to interview anyone at all. About anything. I prefer imagining the subject is like most of my favourite authors and artists – dead for at least a century. And therefore is unavailable for comment. I’m happier reading press statements, books, other people’s interviews with the subject, and then putting my own interpretation on it, with a little obscure research thrown in.

Still, they called me the best-dressed interviewer they’ve had. Clearly they’ve yet to meet Kim Newman.

The more I think about it, the more I realise Brothers In The Head is something very special indeed, at least aesthetically and intellectually. “The Elephant Man meets Velvet Goldmine” would be a fool’s phrase for the poster (which annoyingly apes the Trainspotting design of ten years ago), but at least that’s a start when trying to describe what is essentially one of the strangest, most genre-defying films of the year.

See the film of The History Boys at Fox’s Soho Square screening room. Muscular security guards insist on confiscating everyone’s mobile phone on the way in, placing each phone in little polythene bags like evidence from a crime scene. It’s not clear whether such a measure is to prevent people disturbing others with their phones going off, or to stop them recording the movie and making bootleg DVDs. I’d have thought even the flashiest, latest type of phone isn’t enough to film a 2 hour movie to any degree of passable quality. So I presume it was because even well-known journalists – Hugo Young is there – can’t be trusted to switch their phones off.

I spy another familiar looking attendee who signs in as Peter-something in the guestbook, and I try to chat with him, thinking him to be Peter Bradshaw from the Guardian. He’s rather unforthcoming and stand-offish with me to say the least, even by London standards.

“I’m not really a film critic”, he says to me when I try to press him for his thoughts on the film.

“Yes you are!” I retort, thinking he’s joking and trying to joke archly back. “Your name is all over Archway Video’s World Cinema section! It appears on more DVD front covers than any director.” (which is true)

“I think you’ve got the wrong man. My name is Hitchens.”

I apologise profusely and back off. I’ve clearly got my Broadsheet Peters in a twist.

Still, I think it’s fair to say that annoying Peter Hitchens the Mail On Sunday columnist isn’t exactly difficult to do. I should be grateful he didn’t have me deported on the spot.

Watch ‘An Angel At My Table’, the Jane Campion film about New Zealand author Janet Frame. I’ve seen it before, round about the time it came out in the early 90s; but when I see a copy in the library on my way home tonight I feel an urgent need to watch it again. Sometimes the best books and films read you, rather than the other way round. I’m impressed by how much I can recall; it’s full of poetically vivid little moments that connect on a searingly personal level, for me at least. Something about the character of Ms Frame having this almost terminal anxiety and awkwardness, yet attracting attention with her beacon-like hairdo: a cartoonish bubbly mass of red curls. All my favourite writers have haircuts that can been seen from outer space.
The pivotal scene is her last attempt to be a teacher, in 1945. She stands at the blackboard about to begin a class, with a kindly school inspector watching amongst the children. She takes a piece of chalk and is about to apply it to the blackboard when she suddenly stops. Absolute silence. The children are waiting. The inspector is waiting. Time seems to halt. She stares at the chalk. Cut to a close up. It looks like the most alien object on earth. After this excruciating pause, she finally looks up and asks the inspector if she can be excused for a minute. And she walks out. Weeping, she walks out of the school grounds, and keeps going. She seems like the most ill-fitting and useless person on earth.

Receive an anonymous message regarding my previous self-pitying entry.

What do you think it says, Dear Reader, given my melancholy cri de coeur? Words of encouragement? Constructive advice? Perhaps even an offer of work?

Here’s what I get. It rather serves me right:

“35 on september the 3rd? my sister used to know you and reckons you are at least 5 years older than that”

Thoughtful letter in the post from Lloyds Bank. They’re going to charge me £35 for a returned Direct Debit. This would be for my contact lenses. £30 a month, and I just didn’t have the money this time. So no lenses, and I end up paying more money for nothing.

This is, I believe, how the debt trap works, how the poor are kept from getting out of being poor. “We are charging you for not having any money”.

I shall get on the phone and beg that they waive the fee, as I’ve done in the past. But I fear I’ve used up all my Get Out Of Jail cards with them. And with the world.

BT want an unreasonable amount of money from me too, ho hum. And Haringey Council refuse to pay me the increase in my housing benefit. Something to do with Rent Officer Decisions: the rent was fixed last March and has to stand for the year. So I have to find the extra £6 a week somehow. Or -whisper it – get a job.

I have to laugh at all this, really. I know it’s my fault for never taking money very seriously. But how can I, when banks charge me for being poor? As you know, Dear Reader, I shall maintain to my death that the world owes me a modest living. I’m Dickon Edwards. That’s my job.

My thirty-fifth birthday is on Sept 3rd. Continuing to live like this, depending on the endless kindness of friends and family, with minus money and bouncing payments just like when I was a student, is getting a bit tiresome for all parties, frankly. When considering life ambitions and choices, you’re meant to say “where do you see yourself in five years’ time?”

Well, I see myself as a poor, debt-ridden, frustrated, lonely, unfulfilled, bitter, anxious and unhappy man of 40, owning no property, living in a rented furnished bedsit. And that’s putting it nicely. Best to keep one’s hopes at ground level. That way, one can only be pleasantly surprised. And I live in a state of constant surprise. Dinner is a success!

The other day I was at my kind friends Charley and Kirsten’s place for a party. They’d laid on food and drink in their lovely Crouch End garden, and I was effusively grateful and happy for it all. There was one slightly upsetting point where everyone else discussed mortages and buying flats as a couple, and I have to confess I saw my life stretched out before me – and behind me – and I nearly started to cry. The drink probably had something to do with it. But I had no right to, of course. I’ve made my own narrow, single, haughtily eccentric bed, so I must lie in it. It’s a statement I’ve said before and must say again, daily. And without wishing to sound too Frank Capra about it, I’m rich in kind and funny friends, and will take them over an income any day. The lack of money is a bore, but I refuse to be judged as a ‘loser’ on that level alone. I can only ‘lose’ if I stop being the way I am.

Ah well, I shall just have to sell more of the possessions I never use, and make serious pitches for writing work. Paid writing work. And try to balance the budget a bit better. Which means not going out much.

Till then, I’ll get by, I always do. I’m not shackled to a day job I loathe and can pretty much do whatever I want to do every day, as long as it doesn’t cost money. I’m not in any physical pain, and whatever the news says, I’m unlikely to be shot at or bombed compared to being in the same situation in a less stable land. So I have no right to complain. I’m surrounded by millionaires here in Highgate. There has to be some way of channelling a small amount of that wealth in my direction, without resorting to illegality or trying to do some job I’m incapable of. Answers to the usual address. And no, I won’t do Boy George’s community service for him.

I continue to live as a beggar with a choice, and I’m not giving in now.

Am currently reviewing films for Plan B Magazine. It’s a fresh new world for me, and I rather prefer it to reviewing concerts or albums. Being of that world myself, I feel too involved to say anything unkind about a fellow musician or songwriter without it looking like professional envy. Writing about films seems easier, because it’s a world I’m detached from, at least on the levels of acting and directing.

What does tend to annoy me in a film is a poor script, because that’s the only contribution I feel a connection with, as a so-called born wordsmith. It’s pretty frustrating when I moan loudly in the cinema at a risible section of dialogue, only to see the film go on to win a Best Screenplay award. Which is what happened with that thriller about London immigrants, Dirty Pretty Things. Well, I stand by my opinion. It’s still a rotten script, even though it means well. You shouldn’t be given awards for good intentions alone. EVERYONE does everything with a good intention! Mr Bush doesn’t spring out of bed thinking “Ah, another day of being unkind to people from hot countries.”

I rather like press screenings. They’re usually in the one part of town: Soho. There’s no adverts to sit through. The sound is just about at the right volume. The screenings are at a civilised time: 12.30pm or 6.30pm. No one talks through the film or annoys you. Some screenings provide free food. Most of them offer free drink. And you can sit down, of course.

In the last week, I have seen six films. This is nothing for proper critics who have to review absolutely everything, with an average of eight new releases a week. But it’s a start.

My Plan B write-ups are anything from a 50 word preview in a column of new releases, to full reviews with interviews, as I’m doing for ‘Brothers Of The Head’, a visually unique ‘mockumentary’ about a pair of conjoined twins who become cult rock stars.

And no, I’m still not getting paid. But that’s okay, it is Plan B. So I’m also thinking of farming out reviews to magazines which do pay. This is common practice. Mark Kermode reviews the same films for about five different magazines or programmes, I notice.

Some quick thoughts on what I’ve seen so far.

DIRTY SANCHEZ – THE MOVIE
Non-fiction. Spin-off from late-night MTV series. “The Welsh Jackass” sums it up, but with more gross-outs, and more bodily fluids. “Like a paintball Saint Sebastian” says my notes at one point.

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
US indie flick, billed as a dark comedy. Dysfunctional family road movie with Toni Collette and Alan Arkin. Okay, but not as good as other examples of the genre, like The Daytrippers or Pieces Of April.

SNOW CAKE
A drama that looks cliched and sentimental on paper, but is actually terrific. Sigourney Weaver plays an autistic woman (Rain Woman?), Alan Rickman plays Alan Rickman, who turns up on the doorstep of her remote Canadian shack and befriends her. Both characters need to find ‘healing’ says the blurb, which rather irks. However, it’s actually genuinely moving and frequently laugh-out-loud funny, thanks to Mr Rickman and a witty script. I’d say this is Mr Rickman’s best film outing to date, in fact. It’s true he’s doing his usual sarky old Bagpuss act, but for once he gets to really explore this persona in a lead role, and it’s a treat to watch.

SCENES OF A SEXUAL NATURE
The joke is there’s no actual sex scenes, ho bloody ho. British ensemble drama filmed entirely on Hampstead Heath, effectively a compilation of short sketches about relationships. Great cast (Eileen Atkins, Ewan McGregor, Gina McKee, Catherine Tate, Adrian Lester), but the script is rather inert. Feels too much like a filmed Fringe play, and not a particularly engrossing one at that. Still, worth seeing for Catherine Tate in unusually understated mode, and Ewan McG playing gay, sunbathing by the Men’s Pond.

STARTER FOR TEN
Slight but enjoyable Brit coming-of-age comedy, with an impossibly boyish James McAvoy as a Bristol Uni student in 1985, competing for the affections of his Patsy Kensit-like teammate on University Challenge. The soundtrack is steeped in 80s pop, obviously, especially The Cure. Mark Gatiss has a hilarious cameo as Bamber Gascoigne, and Catherine Tate is droll as Mr McAvoy’s mother, clearly making her the Julie Walters of her generation.

BROTHERS OF THE HEAD
As mentioned above. The story about conjoined twins fronting a 70s British punk band is arguably upstaged by its own novelty factor, but it’s brilliantly realised, and a unique feast for the eyes. Features a terrific performance from Sean Harris (Ian Curtis in ’24 Party People’) as the band’s manager.

Yesterday – a productive afternoon at Tom’s new studio set-up in the countryside outside Hemel Hempstead. Pass his wife Vicky’s beautiful horse in the yard. The horse is having new shoes put on, by a man who I suppose would be called a blacksmith in the past, but is probably described these days as an Equestrian Solutions Manager. He has a white van and does call-outs.

In proper Joe Meek fashion, we record vocals in the bathroom. Rather pleased to finally find a synth sample that actually sounds like a glockenspiel rather than a poor impression of one, so now the album will have lashings of glockenspiel all over it. Suits me.

Evening – a heady night at the Boogaloo. I install myself – Lucifer-like – at the side of Mr MacGowan at the bar. He’s smoking ‘Sweet Afton’ cigarettes, which are named after a Burns poem and feature the poet on the box, but are actually an Irish brand. Burns’s sister Agnes moved to Dundalk, County Louth, and helped to build up a local following for her brother’s poetry. There’s a been a Burns Obelisk in Dundalk since the mid 1800s, near his sister’s grave. Always good to learn new things while getting drunk, I find. In turn, I teach an Australian girl that ‘blond’ is spelt without an ‘e’ when referring to a man. She’s amazed at this information, and thinks I’m making it up.

Babyshambles play a two-set secret gig. I finally meet the famous Mr Doherty, very tall and thin and beautiful. He is Liza Minnelli as a boy. As a band, Babyshambles are impressively tight and un-shambolic, certianly compared to other times I’ve seen them, and put on a rather entertaining double show. I’m not au fait with Mr D’s back catalogue, but I’m pretty sure they play a few Libertines hits: the ones that sound like the Jam. For the second set, Mr D is topless save for his silk scarf. They play a few reggae-ish songs, including a version of ‘A Message To You Rudy’, with a Rastafarian gentlemen called General Santana on vocals. Apparently Mr D met him in Pentonville jail.

Also meet the artist Peter Blake, the Clash & Big Audio Dynamite musician Mr Mick Jones, and Ms Sadie Frost. Who I suppose I should describe as a famous actress, but she seems happy to be better known for just being famous. All these people seem friendly enough to me, particularly Mr Jones. I chat about ‘Performance’ with him, as sampled on that B.A.D. hit. I also insist on discussing Mr Roddy Frame’s Beatles-y haircut in the video for ‘Good Morning Britain’.

A Derry-born chap from the band Vega 4, called Johnny I think, buys me a drink and keeps myself and Mr MacGowan company at the bar. I’d met him the night before, and rather embarrassingly introduce myself to him all over again tonight. He forgives me, but my poor memory for names and faces is getting so bad these days it isn’t true. Or rather, for names and faces that aren’t burned into my cultural consicousness like Ms Moss and Mr Doherty.

But then, celebrity is relative. My father would have recognised Peter Blake more than Mr Doherty, while the reverse is true for a lot of the young people in the room tonight.

The sitting room of the flat above the pub becomes a kind of green room for the gig. Mr MacGowan – who remains at the bar all night except to join Babyshambles in a rendition of ‘Dirty Old Town’ – tells me he’s worried that his rare video copy of Mr Anger’s Scorpio Rising might be snaffled, as he left it in the upstairs sitting room. It’s not the famous ones he doesn’t trust, or the friends of the famous ones. It’s the friends of the friends of the famous ones. The hangers-on of the hangers-on. So I go upstairs to move the tape to a safer location.

I open the sitting-room door to a rather memorable tableau. Ms Moss, dressed in a dinner jacket and black stockings, plus a black wide-brimmed hat (more Judy Garland than Playboy bunny, but with a bigger hat) is tap-dancing in the centre of the room while Mr Jones plays a guitar and sings ‘Should I Stay Or Should I Go’.

Drink too much, say too much, crawl across the road to my bed.

Monday – Write piece for Plan B on ‘Quadrophenia’, newly issued on a Special Edition DVD. Such a frustrating film. The only real schizophrenia on display is certainly not evinced by the Phil Daniels character, who doesn’t have much to do except get annoyed and resemble a meerkat in eyeliner.

No, it’s the film itself that has the titular split personalities – and not intentionally. It tries to portray the 60s Mod scene in a gritty, naturalistic manner, which are the bits which work. But it also suffers from its original brief: to adapt the Who’s slightly silly 70s concept album of the same name, and include its very 70s music. The Who in 1979 are a very different group to the Who of 1964, and bringing these split personalities together just doesn’t work. They should have let the 60s music do all the talking, and kept the prog-rock ‘Hooked On Bach’ synths out of it. Though the brass-section stormer ‘5.15’ is allowable. I’ll let that one through as an exception to the rule.

Leslie Ash’s Karen Carpenter hair is as wrong as the casting of Sting. Toyah Willcox’s boyish blond feathercut is more accurate for the period, but her character is curiously shortchanged. She has some kind of casual romantic bond with Phil Daniels’s Jimmy, but it’s not really explained. It doesn’t help that a lot of the movie is improvised, and the different actors – all still in their teens and needing to learn that improvisation is a team effort, not an audition – are desperately pulling at each scene’s corners. It’s often a schizoid mess, frankly.

Toyah’s character is called “Monkey”, which I used to think was a rather silly name for a girl until I saw the cover of last week’s Time Out Magazine. They’re showcasing people from their personal ads section with full photos, in a vaguely Reality TV manner. One is a short-haired woman who describes herself as “Munkee, 26”. I wonder if she’s a Quadrophenia fan.

Phil Daniels shouting “BELL BOYYYYYY!” rather recalls William Shatner’s similarly hammy outburst in “The Wrath of Kahn”: “KAHHHHNNNN!” I know it’s hard to be an angsty teenager and NOT laughable to others, but the thing is Mr Daniels does manage to be angry and serious in much of the film up to this moment. So it’s so disappointing that this moment comes late in the movie, when we should be feeling Jimmy’s alienation, not thinking he’s a risible Cockney meerkat in a nice suit.

Modern Mods from all over the world come to Brighton and London to do ‘Quadrophenia’ tours, which is great, but the film is frequently undeserving of such affection. A new Mod landmark movie needs to be made. One without Sting – who in Quadrophenia is clearly a New Romantic faking it in the Mod World. I know, we can smell our own.

Yesterday: Spend a nice day in the Reading Room. Enjoy some quotes in the museum literature about the space:

“Some are here because they hope these walls of books will deaden the drumming of the demon in their ears.”
-Louis MacNeice.

“That Happy Island in Bloomsbury”
– Matthew Arnold.

My favourite fictional references include, as ever, Three Men In A Boat. Jerome’s narrator goes to the Reading Room in order to look up the symptoms of a minor ailment. After consulting a medical encyclopaedia, he leaves the building a decrepit wreck, convinced he has everything from A-Z except housemaid’s knee.

I check my email in a nearby cafe during my self-imposed lunch break, and strike up a conversation with two men at a neighbouring table. It transpires they are organising the London International Cartoon Festival 2008, to be held in Museum Street. I ask whether they mean newspaper cartoons or the sort that move about on television. They say, “Both.”

Doubtless it’ll have something to do with the nearby Cartoon Gallery, a terrific little museum in Little Russell St that’s I’ve already visited twice this year. It covers everything from Hogarth and Gillray to Steve Bell and Giles, and includes the history of British comics too.

Speaking of which, I finish Alan Moore’s ‘Promethea’ comic series, which ends with a well-intentioned but rather preachy and dull hippy-ish rant about his interests in Kabbalah philosophy: how we’re all at one with the universe, and all part of the same cosmic consciousness, how time and death don’t really exist, and so on. I’m reminded of the children at the end of Philip Pullman’s trilogy suddenly spouting the author’s personal philosophy for living. And it doesn’t help that the best-known Kabbalah-inspired work in recent popular culture is Guy Ritchie’s Revolver, deemed the worst film of last year by rather too many critics.

Just give us the story, I say. Besides, ‘Sophie’s World’ does the ‘philosophy lesson as entertainment’ thing far better. ‘Promethea’ does have some terrific ideas and scenes, though, which is the sort of thing Mr Moore does best and should really stick to. At one point a lady FBI agent falls through the floor and out of the comic world itself, looking down on it from above and seeing the panel-by-panel structure that she’s been living in all this time. Ideas and beliefs should always be channelled into an entertaining linear narrative, I feel, because the reader needs a handrail. Otherwise you just get the feeling of being lectured, and there’s a reason why that term is often used pejoratively.

I go to Mark Moore’s Electrogogo club at Madame JoJo’s, mainly to see Gene Serene do a late night PA there. It’s been a while since I’ve gone out to a late-night club by myself, and the walk from Leicester Square is riddled with anxiety. Perhaps I’m in just an uneasier state at the moment, but I get such a sense of dread when going out by myself at night. I feel utterly exposed and at the mercy of the night’s louder, stronger denizens. It’s about 11.30pm, so I’m surrounded by drunken people exiting bars and venues, having already completed their night out. I’m stone cold sober, and all too aware of it.

None of your Promethea ‘we’re all part of the same consciousness’ here. Walking up Charing Cross Rd at night, I feel utterly at odds with every other person in this world. Stick THAT in your Kabbalah and smoke it, Mr Moore.

But once I’m at Madame JoJo’s, I calm down a bit. The door staff complement me on my appearance (white suit, a bit of make-up, cream scarf), and Mr Moore’s put me on the guest list. I feel safer, if not quite in my element.

I catch a bit of the band Coco Electrik, who have a rather full-on guitar/electro noise with a girl singer, and are pretty good at it. Meet a girl called Katy who has a feathered hat and says she remembers me from the Club Smashing days. Which is over ten years ago. Gene Serene is terrific as ever, her trademark streak of red across her raven hair still wonderfully intact, her performance full of attitude, but sincere rather than contrived for the music. She’s the Patti Smith of the London electropop scene. In one number, she sings while pretending to pluck the strings on a guitar-shaped shoulder bag.

I say hello to Ms Rhoda, pleased to meet someone I actually know, though tonight she seems rather caught up with her own romantic soap opera. Various attractively androgynous young things are there, all peacock hues and shifting genders, but the more I muse on THAT, the more depressed I get. If this were a movie I’d find someone I like who actually likes me back in the same degree, and we’d be together, and the credits would roll. But this is my increasingly desperate life. I know I’ve made my own narrow single bed and must lie in it, but I look on at the club, at the happy dancing attractive people, and think: it’s too late for me. I’ve had it.

After standing alone, stewing like this for too long, I leave the club and head for the bus stop. Bump into Grant The Club Promoter at the stop. He’s friendly and it’s good to always be able to find people to chat to like this, particularly when feeling fragile and exposed in the dark of Central London at 2am.

It’s not just my dwindling energy and dislike of nightbuses that puts me off going to other people’s clubs at the moment, it’s also the sense that I just don’t enjoy them as much as I used to. What are you supposed to DO there? I love dancing and chatting, but recently I have felt no inclination to dance while at a club, and have had enough of holding conversations that must be shouted directly into each others’ ears to overcome the noise. What I enjoy now more than ever is the company of friends, but preferably outside of crowds, clubs or concerts.

I feel I’ve forgotten how to have fun. Now there’s just a shroud of nerves and anxiety. I suppose I could see my GP about this, but I really don’t want to go back onto the dreaded paroxetine, or indeed any other kind of pill. So I’m reading and writing it out, in order to ride it out. Onwards and upwards, he typed with a heavy heart.

As Mr MacNeice says, I need to deaden the drumming of the demon in my ears. Which is where we came in.