Rachel W wants me to solemnly promise to avoid Big Brother completely this summer, for the sake of my general mental health. It became one of those addictions that one just keeps up without knowing why, like junk food that leaves you hungry and no less unhappy. We’ll see. If there’s someone I find attractive on it this year I will probably find it hard to resist.

What started out as a sober, social experiment where people were allowed to read books became a book-banning showcase for breast-enhanced blonde flibbertigibbets and shrieking TV wannabes. As the unusually sane former housemate Jon Tickle said on the brilliant “Big Brother – Where Are They Now” documentary, pleasant people who get on with each other make for bad TV.

Interesting to find out about Anna N, the sensible Irish lady from the first series who sang songs on her guitar about hating being on TV. She seems to have been barely off Irish TV ever since, as a presenter.

Upset and appalled to see the video footage of the Moscow gay rights attacks, on the BBC News site:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/6698173.stm

Peter Tatchell, Richard Fairbrass amongst others, punched full in the face by Russian fascist thugs while they’re just standing around talking to journalists about, well, how wrong it is to be punched in the face for being gay.

What’s worse is that the police have arrested the peaceful demonstrators, and not the thugs – even though the latter were caught on camera. And though it’s hardly on the same scale, I think of the times at school I was put in detention for being attacked by idiot bullies:

(A Suffolk classroom, sometime in the 80s. A lesson is in progress. Two boys, who do not wish Young Mr Edwards well, are sitting behind him. Within kicking distance. So they kick him.)

Me, aged 14: OW!
Teacher: Be quiet! One more word from you, Dickon, and you’ll be in detention.
Me: But –
Teacher: Don’t FUSS! I’m warning you.
(the boys kick him again)
Me: OW!
Teacher: Right, you’re disrupting the lesson. Go and stand outside the Head’s office. I’ll deal with you later.
Me: But it wasn’t me! Those two kicked me!
Teacher: Don’t tell tales. Get out. And stop whining.

I’m sadly aware that this isn’t a unique experience, and never understand the motivations of such teachers – do they genuinely believe a pupil is shouting in pain on purpose, or trying to stitch up some obvious bullies?

Perhaps they just don’t like the victims in question, dismissing them as milksops and whiners, and are pleased to find a reason to eject them. Just as Mayor Luzhkov of Moscow is a self-confessed homophobe, regarding homosexuality as ‘the work of Satan.’ He turns a blind eye to the local fascists, and instead arrests the likes of Mr Tatchell. Because to be punched in the face makes you a ‘troublemaker’.

It’s easy to make jokes about the singer from Right Said Fred, the “I’m Too Sexy” band, but I admire Mr Fairbrass far more than any more cool and with-it popstar of the day who plays anti-Nazi benefit concerts or Pride in the UK. Ask them to go on the annual gay march in Moscow and risk genuine fascist persecution, face to fist, and it’s a different matter entirely. I take my hat off to Mr Tatchell and Mr Fairbrass – gay men who make most straights look like, dare I say it, a bunch of poofs.

I’ve uploaded the final mix of “It Only Matters To Those To Whom It Matters” to Fosca’s Myspace page. It’s extremely catchy, features Tom’s guitar at its most spangly, NO KEYBOARDS WHATSOEVER (Kate borrows my guitar when we do it live), and has a big singalong chorus – you have been warned.

Listen:

www.myspace.com/foscatheband

Lyrics:
some shudder at the way you shrug off days / but it’s galvanised this idle stray
a photogenic ghost who’s lost on most / a secret caption: ‘Joy On Toast!’
well here’s a new twist upon trysting / have you ever stopped and considered
that many daily concerns can be adjourned / once you have learned
that
it only matters to those to whom it matters
it only matters to those to whom it matters
you’re musing if it’s worse to live than to rehearse
and is being ‘right’ all the time your curse?
needles in the park, the teenage watermark
lovers through the Brain, not through the Heart
there you go, scolding your shadow
in the hope that no one will notice
why you always carry a book
not as something to read  – but somewhere else to look…
it only matters to those to whom it matters
it only matters to those to whom it matters
(unabashed indie guitar solo)
oh save me, oh help me / from judging Life so easily
oh save me, oh help me / from judging Life so easily
it only matters to those to whom it matters
it only matters to those to whom it matters

The Swedish band Friday Bridge have released their excellent new album “Intricacy”, which features speaking and singing from myself on one song, ‘Pigeon’:

www.fridaybridge.net

Another Swedish band, This Year’s Model, have an album called “The Clock Strikes Ten” out soon. That’s the one with the CD booklet featuring short stories from myself, Jessica Griffin (as in The Would-Be-Goods)and Vic Godard (as in Vic Godard). Bid (as in Scarlet’s Well & The Monochrome Set) is also on the album. It’s very nice indeed to be in such company. My story contains the line “We could always mail it to Cliff Richard.”

www.thisyearsmodel.co.uk

Monday: A mysterious chemical odour is in my room. Paint, cleaning fluid, something like that. I tidy up the cupboard under the sink where the usual sprays and cloths are stashed, but can’t find any spillages. Still, it forces me to generally tidy up, and in the process I discover not one but three umbrellas I thought I’d lost. I open the window, but as it’s a rather chilly, windy and rainy Bank Holiday, it doesn’t stay open for long. When I do want to brave going outside, however, at least I’ve no shortage of brollies.

Later, I walk into the shared hallway and notice the odour is definitely stronger. So it’s one of those instances where one has to brave not just the sound of whatever music or shouting or drilling is going on next door, but the stench of whatever odiferously-charged home improvements they’re implementing as well. The price one pays for living near others. I am fuming at their fumes.

Writing this in producer Alex Mayor’s underground studio, in a complex near Hackney Downs station, evening of Tuesday May 29th. We’re working on the Fosca song ‘Kim’, which mentions Archway and vaguely chronicles certain London types I know, or have invented. My notes on the lyrics say ‘New Song – October 2003.’ Better very late than never.

It’s all been recorded by Brother Tom, but needs a good mixing. Rachel has said my vocal take on this one sounds a bit strangled at times, but when we play them back they sound fine enough. Well, as fine as I can be as a singer. I redo a section here and there, however.

I say ‘we’, but I really mean Mr Mayor. He’s doing all the work. I’m just sitting here typing. He says that down the corridor Darren Hayes’s new album is being mixed. The boy from the band Savage Garden.

As I write, Mr Alex is adding a woodpecker-like percussion sound. What do I think, he asks? I say I think it sounds like a woodpecker. I want more glockenspiel. If in doubt, add glockenspiel. He does, and it sounds much, much better. The woodpecker has been blended in.

The song now sounds a bit early Saint Etienne (echoey guitar stabs dotted around a blissful bass guitar riff, loops fading in and out), even a bit ‘Steve McQueen’-era Prefab Sprout. Kate D’s strings are a joy – a subtle arrangement within an arrangement. I panic at first when we can’t find them on the computer, and phone her in case she can pop into the studio to re-record her part.

“Um, it’s not really convenient… I’m laden down with shopping and am on my way home.”
“Oh, it’s okay, we’ve found them now. Fell down the back of the Pop Sofa.”

Plans for Fosca’s gig in Sweden now include the recording of our set with the possibility of release as a live EP on a Swedish label, perhaps even a live album.

Studio sustenance: I tentatively try Snack-a-Jacks crisps, Caramel flavour. I decide they’re essentially flattened-out cinema popcorn, sweet as opposed to sour.

I note for the first time that Snack-a-Jacks are made by the Quaker Oats company. I keep noticing Quaker-related things lately – my cottage in Sedburgh, Cumbria was next to St Andrew’s Church, which the Quaker founder George Fox spoke at. Before I go to the studio, I spend time in the Quaker bookshop and cafe in Euston Road. Going on Facebook for the first time, I note the first person I look at describes herself as an ‘Atheist Quaker’.

Lately, I’ve found myself keen to find out more about Quakers; it’s the one religion I’ve always been the most intrigued about. They’re anti-war, anti-aggression, anti-heirachy, anti-priests, anti-waste, anti Making A Fuss, pro-environmentalism, pro-honesty. They commune with The Divine in utter silence. Meditation with an centuries-old English tradition behind it, as opposed to a self-help fad. They see other religions as something to learn from rather than rival, and actually rent out their properties to other faiths when they’re not using them. And apparently, some Quakers really do describe themselves as agnostics or even atheists. That’s a pretty tolerant religion.

The Friends House on Euston Road includes a public garden. I like how this oasis of humanist reflection is on one of the noisiest streets in London.

Back from a day in picturesque Cumbria, DJ-ing with Miss Red at the wedding of the very lovely Allan and Polly Crow. The couple were visitors to the Beautiful & Damned club night. They enjoyed it so much, they employed us to provide the soundtrack to their nuptials. We’ve been booked for months.

We catch a ride up there on Saturday morning – Red with a full suitcase of vinyl, me with one overnight bag for my laptop and a dozen CDs. I meet the car outside Highgate tube station at 6.30 Saturday morning. Worried about oversleeping the night before, I find myself unable to settle in my own bed, and the anxiety stops me from sleeping at all.

The lift is courtesy of two kind friends of the couple, Ms ‘Ferret’ and Mr ‘Scoey’. Who don’t seem to mind a strange-haired stranger in a white suit falling asleep on their back seat too much. Or if they do, they don’t mention it.

When I next blink myself awake, the rainy flatness and motorways have been replaced by sunshine, dry stone walls with ancient red postboxes embedded in them, narrow lanes, sleeping ponies on the verge, towering hills and gentle valleys, wild bluebells, caravans, cobbled streets in villages, and more sheep than you can shake a sheep-shaped stick at. To me such hills are more like mountains: Highgate Hill is my idea of a ‘hill’. Though Cumbria is usually associated with the Lake District, this area is in the Yorkshire Dales; it just isn’t in Yorkshire.

Mr S the kind driver works for Warner Home Video, so naturally I ask him to hurry up and get ‘O Lucky Man’ out on DVD. Actually, sitting in my white suit and being driven up the full spine of England, I can’t help thinking of Malcolm McDowell driving around the 70s counties in his gold lame ensemble.

Myself and Miss Red have been invited to the marriage ceremony and dinner, but we politely ask if it’s okay to sleep it out quietly in our hotel rooms, so we’re sober and well-rested for our set later on. We’re here to work, after all, and want to do a good job.

Our rooms turn out to be a two-bedroom cottage in Sedburgh, owned by the Dalesman Inn. A whole cottage to ourselves. The guest book tells of ghostly sightings in my room, but if there are such ghosts, they give me a miss. I’m too tired to notice.

Fully refreshed by the evening, we’re collected by Roger, a local cabbie with long grey hair, spectacles and a beard, who likes to sing Willie Nelson numbers. In fact, he keeps a karaoke backing CD in his car stereo, and gives us a concert for most of the eight miles to the venue, Dent village hall. It’s like the opening of a film: pan down across green peaks and valleys to a lone car driving along tiny country lanes. The opening bars of Wille Nelson’s “Take This Job And Shove It” fade up, and we realise the singer is the driver of the car. Not singing over the original track, but against a tailored backing arrangement. Roger’s stage is his cab, his audience the sheep of the Dales.

Red and I arrive in the cobbled streets of Dent, spot the only building with tipsy people in gowns and morning suits smoking outside, and catch the speeches. All of which are utterly touching and life-enhancing. We do our DJ bit, a mixture of B&D favourites and anything else we think they’ll enjoy, and it all seems to go down well. Roger turns up towards the end, for whatever fare he’s been assigned, and insists on singing “Take This Job And Shove It”. We let him.

The next morning, a lady cabbie takes us all the way up the side of the hills to Dent Station, a tiny Toy Town-ish platform with a sign boasting its position as the highest rail station in England. The journey back to London involves changing at Leeds and Sheffield, eventually getting us into the plastic-sheeted St Pancras – currently undergoing its reconstruction as a new Eurostar terminus – at about 5.30pm. Funny how travel can be draining, even though you’re just sitting down for most of it.

Red manages to get some sleep on the various trains, and I wonder if her training as a musical actress helps. All that dancing must makes one’s limbs more flexible, more foldable, more conducive to finding a successful sleeping posture in even the most rigid and cramped of environments. You just pack yourself away.

My last regular DJ stint at The Beautiful & Damned, The Boogaloo is a happy occasion. Lots of friends, lots of dressed-up people. Let’s see who I can remember: Lawrence G, David R-P, Emma J, Adrian L, Lucy M, Vicky B and Beth and William, Shane MacG, Rhoda B, David B, Alex S, Jennifer C, Travis E, Anthony A, Seaneen M. And all the others.

I screen “Diary Of A Lost Girl”, the other big Louise Brooks movie. It’s released on UK DVD for the first time this very week. Impeccable timing, and as ever Archway Video get it in a copy for me to borrow.

The live act are Scales Of The Unexpected, a barbershop quartet who perform not just cover versions of known pop hits, but segue them together in such a clever way, it borders on Joycean wordplay. They get through what must be the best part of fifty songs in twenty minutes. And they can really, really sing, with proper falsettos and close harmonies. And they dress up. Even those of my friends who bridle at genre cover versions (like the Puppini Sisters) have to admit they’re impressed. Actually, the Puppinis are always worth seeing live, too.

So please do go and see Scales Of The Unexpected whenever they next play. Their website is here.

My final DJ set goes down well enough. Though I feel I’m trying to recreate past glories a little, which is one of the reasons why I want to give it a rest. I worry that I’m in danger of being ‘best known’ as Dickon The DJ. And once you feel you’re being Best Known For something other than what you DO want to be Best Known For, you have stop doing it.

Some people ask me if it’s the last Beautiful & Damned. To clarify, it’s MY last B&D at the Boogaloo for the time being. The club night itself – the name, the 1920s-leaning dress-up element, and the ‘anything goes, but only if it works’ concept – belongs to the Boogaloo venue, and not me. So people should keep an eye on The Boogaloo mailing list and website to see what happens. Perhaps they’ll get in other DJs and keep it going every month, or maybe it’ll just be Miss Red. I don’t know, but whatever happens, I don’t mind.

Admittedly, people have associated B&D as ‘my’ club night, and I should have made it more clear that B&D wasn’t ‘mine’, but the Boogaloo night at which I DJ-d regularly and helped to promote, rather than conceived outright.

So, the questions I’m now asked are:

a) Mr Edwards, are you going to return to B&D in the future?

Not sure. Not just yet, anyway.

b) So if you’re not doing that, why don’t you create a new club night, closer to Central London?

Answer: Never! I’m put off by the nuts and bolts aspect of being a club promoter. Worrying about enough people turning up, checking the listings are correct, doing flyers, keeping the venue staff happy, and so on.

c) What’s so hard about doing one night a month at the pub nearest your bed?

I just feel I’ve done it enough as a regular gig, and want to give it a rest. That’s all. One can’t keep doing the same thing forever. And when you find your heart saying “I wonder when this will end?” more often than not, it’s best to take a hint. Sorry if that disappoints those who like to see me DJ-ing, but one must be true to one’s heart.

d) Are you quitting DJ-ing entirely, then?

Oh, not at all. I’ll do the odd guest spot if I’m invited, sure, whether it’s The Boogaloo or elsewhere. The odd party. The odder the better. Not right now, though.

Thanks to all those who came to the club over the last twelve months. It’s been wonderful.

Here’s what I played last night, though not in this exact order:

flamingoes – i only have eyes for you
bert kaempfert – swinging safari
peggy lee- them there eyes
percy faith – theme from a summer place
puppini sisters – wuthering heights
puppini sisters – heart of glass
chordettes – mr sandman
cast of mary poppins – let’s go fly a kite
doris day – deadwood stage
alessi brothers – oh lori
dory previn – yada yada la scala
judy garland – trolley song
hoagy carmichael – ole’ buttermilk sky
liza minnelli – mein herr (from cabaret)
peggy lee – i could have danced all night (latin version!)
jacques brel – la mer
bobby darin – beyond the sea
louis armstrong – don’t forget to mess around (1926)
helen kane – I wanna be loved by you – (1920s)
nathan glantz & orch – don’t bring lulu (1920s)
gene austin – ain’t she sweet (1920s)
ella fitzgerald & count basie – sweet georgia brown
coon-sanders nighthawks – I’m gonna charleston back to charleston – (1920s)
frank sinatra – let’s face the music and dance
mel torme – right now
tom lehrer – the masochism tango
peggy lee – fever
louis armstrong – cabaret (1968)
doris day – move over darling
ute lemper – all that jazz
judy garland – get happy
louis armstrong – mack the knife (1956)
glen miller – in the mood
art landry – five foot two, eyes of blue (1920s)
cast of bugsy malone – my name is tallulah
rosemary clooney – mambo italiano
frank sinatra- new york new york
cast of a chorus line – one (finale)
dean martin – that’s amore
doris day – que sera sera

Thursday – to Highgate library with Miss Rhoda and Mr David B for what we think is a free talk on local London history. Which we’re all interested in. It’s billed as “U3A – A Sideways Look At History”. We take the “U3A” to be some kind of module code, like “101” in American colleges.

We walk into a small room upstairs in the library where half a dozen people are sat, not facing one speaker as I’d envisaged, but each other in a circle. In the style of Alcohol Anonymous meetings. It’s also immediately evident that the three of us are the only ones there under 75. We feel outrageously out of place, but being British, we try not to make a fuss and sit down anyway.

The lady in charge starts talking about, – what? All a bit vague. History in general, learning in general. And she talks about what U3A is. Turns out to stand for the University Of The Third Age. Initially I panic, equating this phrase with Scientology or the like. I start to look for an open window to dive out of; first floor or not.

Then it turns out to be an organisation that provides educational classes and discussions for those in the ‘Third Age’; the elderly and the retired. It’s safe to say Rhoda, David and I have some decades to go yet till we qualify. But we still sit there and listen, even though we clearly shouldn’t be there. They haven’t asked us to leave, and we haven’t politely made our excuses and left. Because it’s harder not to. We’ll just sit there and listen, we think. It’s only an hour. We could still learn something.

Because we’re in a circle, I try my best to look directly at the main speaker. Or at my shoes. And I try hard not to look conspicuous. Of course, I stand out like a sore …. six-foot younger man in a suit and bleached, parted hair among seven pensioners arranged in a close circle.

And then she starts to ask us questions. Not only is it not a talk by one person, it is a freestyle discussion group. Which I was really not banking on.

“I wonder what the young men think?” She says, and all eyes turn to myself and David. And I start to think about that open window again.

She asks us about history, learning, and could we please explain how that thing the Internet works? We have suddenly become representatives of everyone young ever. And we’re in our thirties. Though pretty youthful with it, if I say so myself. David B even more so than me.

I stare at my shoes so much, I think they may take out a court injunction on my eyes.

But I can’t get out of it. So I start talking about, oh, everything ever. I ramble in the manner of someone who knows what they’re talking about. About how to teach history to children. About how people learn more when they find out things for themselves, to not be left out of the current consensus. I use the example of The Cutty Sark fire, where thousands suddenly remembered their school trips to the place and hastily refreshed themselves about the ship’s history as a tea clipper, via the Internet and newspapers. Just so they can keep up in pub conversations. And yes, I once again manage to refer to that Tom Sawyer fence-painting scene, because I’m discussing why people do anything of their own volition. And how to use that in education. Like Peter Sellers in Being There, I am a fool who has stumbled upon wisdom. But only because I’m stumbling anyway.

I talk about how I grew up in Gainsborough country, but it took my working at Kenwood House in London, standing all day around some of his best portraits, to really take an interest in the painter’s work and life. How I used the Kenwood staff library to give myself a crash course in Gainsborough purely so I could talk about the paintings to visitors. An organic, useful approach to history and learning.

In fact, I speak for longer than anyone else there. Possibly including the lady in charge. This is my typical group reaction. I either dominate a group, or I shut up and stare at my shoes. I can’t do the give-and-take bit in the middle. I’m very good at giving the impression of someone who knows what they’re talking about. And well, I was asked. Ask me to speak about anything, and you’ll find me hard to shut up. You have been warned.

Some of what I say is – frankly – pretty damn pithy, unusual, pertinent and insightful. Other parts of my rambling are just that. Much like this diary. But I do it with 100% confidence. It has been suggested in the past that I could use this so-called ability to work as a tour guide or even an eccentric college tutor. Well, if I could get paid decently, I would.

Among the chatting about learning, I shut up for long enough to hear one of the older attendees explain why London post codes are numbered that way, apropos of nothing. It’s in alphabetical order of the district. Thus, Angel is N1, Highgate is N6, Wood Green is N22. Never realised that before. So I do learn something.

The hour passes quickly, and leaflets are passed out about how to sign up for the classes we’re obviously not eligible for, as we’re not pensioners. The three of us file out, and head for a drink at the Flask. We decide that the event was more interesting than not. Anything unusual is never a waste of time.

Thing is, this sort of sitcom-like mistake leading to an accidentally inappropriate attendance has happened to me before. At about the age of 16, I worked in an Ipswich bookshop. On one Saturday, I was sent to look after their stall at some kind of schools conference in the area. My boss drove me out there, we set up the stall (books of and about childrens’ literature) in a large hall, and she left me there for the afternoon, to collect me later.

No one bought a single book. It wasn’t that sort of conference after all. What it was was a debate on teaching young children from ethnic minorities, and the state of childrens’ books featuring non-white children as protagonists. Suffice it to say I had zero copies of said books on my stall: just your Narnias, your E Nesbits and your Beatrix Potters.

Chairs were arranged in a huge circle, facing each other. People took their places, papers were given out. All the people there were lady teachers, many from ethnic backgrounds, in their thirties and forties. I was a very white, very 16-year-old boy with spots. The only young person, the only male. I sat sheepishly at my book stall in the corner while they started the meeting.

I couldn’t get away. They couldn’t ignore me.

So they asked me to join the group.

An hour or so later, my boss came to pick me up. I explained what had happened, and why I hadn’t sold anything. She was both mortified and annoyed – clearly there had been a breakdown in communication somewhere along the line. A description of the event which wasn’t quite clear enough.

I can’t remember if I said anything at that meeting. I think I got away with my eyes taking it out on my shoes. I hope.

It occurs to me that I am somebody who is told off, but who rarely tells others off. Or at least that’s how it seems. I feel my innate passivity is sometimes exploited, because people know I’m not going to pick an argument with them. That I just want a quiet life. So they tell me off with impunity, because they can.

Again, there’s times I wish I could take, say, the Russell Crowe approach to disagreements. I’d like to tell many such people to just get stuffed to their faces, if not actually punch them. I want to turn the tables for once, have a raging rant at them, release a volley of character assassinations, tell them to get over themselves, say that actually they’re in the wrong here, or even just to say f— off, frankly.

“Dear Sir, F— Off. Yours, Dickon Edwards.”

But I’m not that sort of person. And they are. Except that these days I have found a way around it. It’s called ignoring the comments. Or saying nothing. There’s a quiet power to it, and I must really do it more often.

To such detractors: you’ll forgive me for deleting your ranting messages and mails in order to concentrate on my kinder, less grumpy readers and friends. Anyway, enough of me being annoyed by people being annoyed. So deep breath, group hug, move on.

Here’s a nice photo of me recording my vocals at Alex Mayor’s studio on Monday:

I should add that Mr Mayor the producer was wearing a nice silky waistcoat, and that his studio is located in deepest, darkest, dangerous Hackney. I like the idea of soft boys in hard places. Though like most places, Hackney has its perfectly nicer streets and gentler Victorian avenues. It doesn’t look like downtown L.A.; it only gets reported that way.

Here’s an older photo which I don’t think I’ve seen before. It’s by Claudia Andrei, so it must be from the last 3 or 4 years. I love my slicked-down hair here. It doesn’t always work so well:

Finally, I’ve been enjoying a couple of recent pop videos, which I heartily recommend looking up on YouTube.

One is “Tonight I’m Going To Leave It” by the Shout It Out Louds. A Swedish band, very classic Bunnymen. The singer pronounces his “s”s unusually, which I can sympathise with.

The other is “1234” by the Canadian lady songwriter Feist. A perky, skipping, clapalong sunshine pop song; with a truly amazing video that features impeccably organised dancers in primary colours, and a single take camera that swoops and swivels. It’s like an indiepop Busby Berkeley sequence. Perfect for cheering you up when you’re feeling a bit down or when, as in my case, someone has pointlessly gotten to you, when you were at your most fragile. I highly recommend the video as an alternative to Prozac.

So I delete the unkind mails rather than take them on, and I watch the Feist video for the umpteenth time. There are attitudes more people should have more often, and this video is one of them. Be nicer, or be nothing.

Tonight is definitely my last Beautiful & Damned for the time being. The club night was conceived by Mr O’Boyle of The Boogaloo, and ultimately belongs to him, so I leave it in his hands. I’m so glad to be able to take a break from regular DJ-ing. I’ve been doing it for about a year now, and want to put it aside for a breather. Occasional gigs as a guest DJ are fine, but I really need to get the Fosca album done, along with other pursuits.

Boogaloo last night – some sort of Scandinavian bands playing. Well-dressed, 60s style. Miss Red confirms our joint DJ-ing engagement at a Cumbria wedding this Saturday. Mr O’Boyle confirms my amicably being ‘put out to grass’ from B&D, as he puts it, so it’s good to get that sorted out. Mr MacG is kind to me once again. I tell him I have to go home to get something to eat, and he insists on taking me down the road to the Spanish-run fish restaurant. We are the only ones there.

In the news: Cambridge elects a Mayor and Mayoress who happen to both be male-to-female transsexuals. And who are a couple themselves. I think this is wonderful, though it’s a shame they’re Liberal Democrats. You can’t have everything.

Abiding memories of Keith Girdler that I feel I can share. A parting embrace by the steps to Leicester Square Tube, and some passer-by decides to comments sarcastically on us. “Oooh, can I have a hug too?” Well, that passer-by can get knotted.

Annoying that this is effectively yet another memory of a heckler, taking up space in my mind that should be reserved for nicer things.

Yesterday – to Hampstead Heath Men’s Pond for the first time. It’s an outrageously hot and sunny day, so it makes sense to go for a swim in the open air, under a particularly glorious blue sky. I walk down the leafy path and pull open a big, obscuring door marked ‘MEN ONLY’, feeling like I’m marking a rite of passage.

The Men’s Pond is an old-fashioned institution and is a lot larger than I’d imagined, the banks mossy and muddy, the water punctuated with ducks and moorhens. A handful of gentlemen there, of all ages, and the water is a lot less cold than anticipated. In some parts of the pond where the sun has been beating down for most of the day, it’s actually warm. Out of practice for years, I panic slightly as I get in and realise there’s no shallow end, but thankfully my ability hasn’t entirely deserted me, so no need for the lifeguard. Imagine that: I think the fear of embarrassment propels my desperation to keep afloat more than anything else. Never underestimate the healing power of potential embarrassment.

So although it’s a relief to discover I can still swim, I’m very slow with it and have to stop by the various duck-covered floats along the way. When I get out, my limbs suddenly feel like lead weights. A sign that I really am out of shape. But like the long walks, it’ll get easier if I keep it up. I promise myself to return.

Most of the men in the enclosure are not in the actual pond, but sitting around and sunbathing: some in the designated nudist area, some in the changing section where costumes are required. Men together, gay and not gay, young and old. Seeing teenage boys swimming together, away from women and girls, one can’t help thinking of those paintings by Henry Scott Tuke.

Last time I went swimming, it was a few years ago at the indoor pool at Archway. There were lots of women friends chatting in the Shallow End about life, and often about husbands. The Men’s Pond denizens do chat, but what I overhear is rarely about women. Tips on fitness, sport, work, cars, culture. But mostly they lie about quietly, naked or not naked. It’s an unique and uncommon London atmosphere, and I rather like it. Even if I feel like the palest, worst swimmer there.

The singer and songwriter Keith Girdler dies. Cancer. He must have been not much older than me. That’s him on the sleeve of SARAH 99, above. The one after my one with Shelley.

I have extremely fond memories of his band Blueboy, who existed on the labels Sarah and Shinkansen during the 90s. A fantastic band on record and in concert. I still know how to play ‘Popkiss’ on the guitar. All the way through.

For a while I knew Mr Girdler. We exhanged letters in the days people did such things. Then we got to know each other in person, a little. I could go into all kinds of naughty anecdotes, which would probably please him, but maybe not everyone else.

I find out about his death just after my first visit to Hampstead Heath Men’s Pond. He’d have certainly liked that.

Suffice it to say he represents more than a few moments of happiness for me, musically and personally. Oh, and he’s in a few of my lyrics – both Orlando and Fosca.

Actually, I never told him that. And now I wish I had.

I owe him.

I still have the letters.

God bless you, Mr Girdler.

Following on from the remark about all-purpose charity ribbons in the previous entry, I have to of course admit to my own cause celebres, like anyone else, based on my personal experience, interests and beliefs.

The one story in the news which I do follow and harbour passionate feelings about is the arrested transman case in Lahore, Pakistan.

A couple who married for love, Shumail Raj and Shezina Tariq, have been sent to jail. Their crime is merely being different. The 31-year-old handsome groom, Mr Raj (who looks vaguely like a Pakistani Jake Gyllenhaal), was born a woman, but after two sex-change operations he’s lived as a man for 16 years. The couple married to prevent Ms Tariq being forced into an arranged marriage with someone else.

Mr Raj initially went to the courts – Wilde-like- seeking protection from harrassment of his father-in-law, who was rather unsympathetic about the union. The father voiced the specifics of his complaint in return, and the courts got in a doctor to decide Mr Raj’s gender. He was declared legally female, despite his operations and male appearance (including a beard few biological men of my acquaintance could match). Now the judge has sent them both to jail as perjurers (“lying” that Mr Raj was male), and for committing “unnatural lust” – the court sees them as lesbians – which is also illegal. On top of which, sex-change surgery is against the law in Pakistan.

For an encore, the judge has ordered police to arrest the doctor who performed the gender reassignment surgery on Mr Raj and anyone who had sheltered the couple, including a charity worker. (Source: The Times)

“The couple told journalists that no boundary can separate them as they deeply love each other and cannot live without one another… They said that President Musharraf who believes in enlightened moderation must support them in such dire consequences… They have appealed to the International Communities to help them.” (Source: Pakistan News)

If this isn’t a human rights issue, I don’t know what is. Count me in on this one.

My credo is individualism against the crowd, style against fashion, standing out against fear of difference, being oneself against the odds. I view transgenderism as a truly noble and Utopian form of being true to oneself, and true to one’s heart when Nature gets its combinations in a twist. Changing one’s sex should be as easy and as affordable as changing one’s hair colour, and attitudes towards it should be no different.

Collector types who boast ‘some of my best friends are…’ are always depressing and should be slapped, but I am proud to know (and to have dated) transsexuals from all kinds of backgrounds and countries, and I support various transgirl and transguy-related causes and campaigns.

One of my proudest moments over the last year or so was when my manliness was brought into question by a typical shouting man, sticking his head out of a passing bus window (actually, he looked like an aging punk). I was standing at a bus stop with a young male friend who happens to have been born female. He had begun his course of testosterone injections that very day; I gave him a ‘Happy Puberty Day’ card.

That this passing heckler was shouting at me for looking effeminate, while my transgendered companion remained unjudged, pleased me enormously. Though I did consider asking to share his testosterone supply.