It’s been a while since I was held through the night. No longer. Say hello to my little friend.

He’s moved in along with his Brother, GSM Site Monitoring Unit, and Sister Leaflet.

It’s all so stupid, and it’s all my fault.

A while ago I did some paid work while neglecting to tell the Department For Work And Pensions. I knew I wasn’t entitled to the full dole while it was going on, and suspected I could probably have claimed Back To Work Credits, or Working Tax Credits instead, or a bit of a both. But I did nothing.

Why? Sheer depressive ineptitude. On top of which – my therapist thinks – there’s a dark, childish part of me that wanted to get into trouble. In a rather cowardly, pathetic, defaulter’s way. No action needed. A sin of omission. A cry for help. Society will come to me. And it will hold onto me. I walk through this world in a dream stance. Finally, I have physical proof it exists.

Certainly it wasn’t an attempt to knowingly defraud the system to my own advantage. I’m stupid, but not THAT stupid. While working, I was paying proper tax on the wages, and even I knew that this would show up against my NI number on the government computers. Then they’d sort things out for me, I assumed. They’ll work it out, and I’ll probably have to pay back an overpayment. I can’t think straight enough to sort out my benefits, said the depression, but they will.  They’ll take care of it.

Except by that time I’d run up an overpayment of more than £2000. And it turns out the DWP instantly prosecutes for debts above this amount, even when they’re being paid back.

Which is why this Wednesday I found myself in the City Of Westminster Magistrates’ Court on Horseferry Road, with a legal aid lawyer, pleading guilty to inadvertent benefit fraud.

I didn’t think it’d go as far as an actual punishment. It’s my first ever time in trouble with the law, at the age of 38. I was rather hoping for a conditional discharge, a caution, a fine, and a stern instruction to sort my life out.

To help my case, I provided the court with letters proving a history of clinical depression, for which I’m currently undergoing treatment. A letter from a mental health advocate from the charity Mind. A prescription of 20mg Citalopram daily. An hour with an NHS therapist every Wednesday morning. A certificate from the Expert Patient Programme which I went on earlier this year, which provides help and training in managing one’s long-term illnesses. Regular meetings with a supervisor from the NHS Working For Health programme, who specialises in finding jobs for people like me. She also ensures I’m claiming the right benefits at the right time. From now on.

Added to which, I was already paying back the overpayment. And I was contrite, I was sorry, I was showing remorse (just try and stop me), I was of ‘previously good character’, and I was pleading guilty. All of which pleased the magistrates. But, they said, the amount of the debt still meant a conviction with punishment. No exceptions.

Unpaid community work wasn’t an option, as I’d proven myself to be (a) rather bad at holding down regular work of any kind, and (b) clearly a fragile, child-like, sociopathic sort that makes darts pause in mid-flight. In fact, a tagged curfew was the most lenient option they could give me. The litter patrol was the next step up.

I’d gotten off lightly, they said. You’re lucky. You won’t hear from us again. Just stick to the curfew and it’ll be over. Well, except for the small matter of acquiring a criminal record. But, they assured me, it’s a statutory offence, not a dishonest one. That distinction should make things easier when applying for work, or getting into foreign countries. In theory.

They also fined me £100 for legal costs. And I still have to pay back all of the overpayment.

Last night, at quarter to midnight, a woman from a security firm wearing crime-scene forensic gloves came round to fit the tag. It’s waterproof, so I can bathe and shower in it. I just have to be at home from 9pm to 6am every night from now till August 25th.

I’m fine. Just angry with myself. And unbelievably sorry. I’m sorry to the authorities and the lawyers for taking up their time with this pettiness. I’m sorry to my loving and endlessly supportive parents for putting them through it too. And I’m sorry to the performers, staff and audience at my club night next Weds, who are now going to have to manage without the host and promoter. More of which in the next entry.

The security firm has me down as ‘Richards Edwards’ (sic). Somehow, that’s the most annoying aspect.

Monday eve. To the Gallery at Stoke Newington Library, for a private view with performances. And free Pimms and nibbles, which helps. Suzi L there too.

The gallery is a white-walled village hall shape, with its own surprisingly in-tune piano. I take a fancy to various photographs by Beth Thorne, Francis Brooks and Karin Nilsson, plus a rather good painting of a moose by an artist whose name escapes me.

One woman there is disappointed that I’m not the rich art collector that she assumed I was, given the way I dress (white suit and silk scarf today, 28 degrees C). I’m disappointed I’m not a rich art collector either, frankly. Certainly the minute My Ship Comes In, I’ll spend the surplus on art, rather than classic cars or second homes. Thankfully Beth makes 60p postcards of her work (available from www.lilyfrancis.co.uk), which is really what all artists should do from the off. It’s not real art till it’s on a postcard.

The performers include Vicky Butterfly, in jaw-droppingly beautiful burlesque mode: red petals, dancer’s ribbon, Mercury wing headpieces, Salome beads and straps. Her backing music is a piano instrumental of the Pixies’ ‘Where Is My Mind?’ I always tell people with knee-jerk prejudices about burlesque to go and see Vicky Butterfly first.

Also: an acoustic set from Harmony Boucher, a strikingly beautiful androgynous girl from Australia. Incredibly rich singing voice and stage presence. I happened to see her band a couple of weeks ago while I was running my club, Against Nature. They were playing the noisy indie night next door. Although I’m unlikely to enjoy indie bands these days, I have to admit they impressed me: colourful melodies, sparkling invention, infectious enthusiasm and self-belief. Only problem is their name: Bunny Come.

Still, after a while band names are upstaged by the band’s music, if it’s any good, and the name’s meaning dissolves away. I suppose Bunny Come is no less of a hindrance than Does It Offend You Yeah?, or indeed Selfish C***, both of whom managed to go places. Prefab Sprout are very much a wonderful band with an terrible name. As it is, it could be argued that all band names are embarrassing per se. Or, indeed, that all bands are embarrassing per se. So much about being in a band is just pulling off the appearance of confidence in the face of embarrassment. On paper, Keith Richards is a ludicrous man. U2 are ludicrous people. Anyone who does anything creative or gets on a stage is ludicrous. It’s Ludicrous Poppy Syndrome. The band I, Ludicrous had the most honest name in the history of music.

Completing the confidence over ludicrousness trick is an acoustic set from Kingfishers Catch Fire. William – also one of Beth Thorne’s photo models – on guitar and new member Hinako on tinkly piano. All very impressive in the Nick Drake & Kate Bush corner of things. They cover La Roux’s ‘In For The Kill’, and make it sound like This Mortal Coil’s ‘Song To The Siren’. It’s that good. But covers always worry me. I go up to William afterwards and warn him of the dangers: do a cover version too well and it can make whole groups into one-hit novelty wonders. I think of Candyflip’s baggy take on ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ (WHY do they spring to mind?) or that one who did ‘Mad World’ by Tears For Fears. Him. Or them. Whoever it was. If they ever had any songs of their own, too bad. Filed away with the one song, the focus forever pulled. Happened with Orlando a little, too. We covered Bacharach & David’s ‘Reach Out For Me’ at a few gigs. Cue people coming up to us afterwards.

‘That ‘Reach Out For Me’… That’s the best song you’ve ever written!’

Can’t believe how much time has elapsed since the last entry. If nothing else, putting on a club night forces me to connect with the real world and stops me spiralling into Olympic lethargy.

When organising things via email, I have found that a sound engineer often signs off with ‘cheers mate’, while a promotions officer tends to add little ‘x’s, even though I am not the former’s mate or the latter’s lover. PRs offering kisses sight unseen makes sense, but I wonder why more sound engineers can’t put kisses in their signature too. Heavy lifting shouldn’t necessarily preclude lightness of touch.

I once knew a camp young man who did the sound at a gig venue. He was sacked for apparently not doing a good enough job. Only thing was, his replacement, a more butch, blokier gentleman who favoured tour t-shirts and was no stranger to the phrase ‘you can really taste the hops’, didn’t make the PA sound any better, at least not to my ears. It was neither engineer’s fault: like so many small venue PAs, the sound system was a cheap mess of battered speakers, broken cables and dented microphones stinking of a hundred amateur singers’ gingivitis. There was only so much one could do. The venue manager just wanted to employ someone who looked more like a sound engineer, that was all. All jobs are acting jobs.

All of which leads me to an extremely late plug for tonight’s Against Nature. Here’s the details. I’ve worked out that I need 36 people turning up and paying full price in order to break even. Watch this space tomorrow to find out if I succeed. Better still, come along.

***
AGAINST NATURE
WEDS 7TH JULY 2010
A speakeasy for dressed-up dandies and vintage vamps. DJs provide a rococo mix of easy listening, showtunes, and exotic pop, punctuated by silent movies, eccentric bands and unconventional cabaret.

Performing live this month:

TOM ALLEN
The laconic comedian and star of ‘Bleak Expectations’ airs material from his new Edinburgh show, ‘Toughens Up’. http://www.tomindeed.com/

MR MISTRESS
Gender-blurring star of the boy-lesque scene, performing two separate acts.
http://www.myspace.com/cabaretwhore

OPHELIA BITZ
Performing as her alter ego, Mavarotti. Winner of the UK’s annual drag king contest, King Of The Castle. http://www.myspace.com/opheliabitz

Plus guest DJs SOPHIA WYETH and host DICKON EDWARDS

Doors 8pm.
Live acts 9.30pm-11.45pm.
Dancing to 1am.
Door charge: £5 before 10pm. £7 after.

DRESS CODE (optional but preferred): Vintage & dandy-esque.

VENUE:
Proud Camden (South Gallery)
The Horse Hospital, Stables Market, Chalk Farm Rd, London NW1 8AH.
Tel: 020 7482 3867.
http://www.proudcamden.com/