Saturday March 6th

A shock of blonde hair, heavy black panda-eye make up, the Queen of the Mods, a thin but emotive and immeasurably English singing voice, an ambivalent cagey sexuality, a string of the hippest musical collaborative partners, song after song extolling the world of secret loves and frustrated longing…

But enough about me. Dusty Springfield died this week. For all our sins. In tribute, I consort alone with tears and a bottle of red wine and put on “Dusty In Memphis” at immense volume at 3am. My neighbours wouldn’t dare complain.

I seem to spend my life being indebted to immensely kind people called Tim. Tim Mauve answers his Finchley door in an immaculate tweed suit and lends me his reel to reel 8 track. Tim Burton from the pro-pop band Baxendale (named after cartoonist Leo, not actress Helen) and who also plays in the band Astronaut (and who also just happens to live three doors down from me) lends me his VS880. I lend the latter my copy of the Future Bible Heroes album (the US version on Rykodisc rather than the UK Setanta release, naturally), and he seems to be pleased. It’s right up his avenue: you have to complete word puzzles in order to work out the lyric sheet. His 8-track isn’t fully operational, though. Some faders are broken because he spilt treacle on them. A true sweet-toothed Pop Kid. His colourful house is festooned with pictures of Spice Girls, Kylie, All Saints, and he bought the Britney Spears single rather than the new Blur one. I joke that as soon as I leave, he tears them all down, revealing Ocean Colour Scene and Bob Marley posters. But no, Tim is… for real. Treacle included, sadly.

We talk about the sincerity of kitsch and camp, the fact that there are those who seem to have to choose between the likes of Belle and Sebastian and Mogwai and Steps and Aqua. You can swing both ways. It’s more fun. It’s all melodies and tunes, it’s all pop music. Life’s too short for irony. And ironing, too.

Actually, I don’t like Mogwai. No lyrics. Even Steps have lyrics. And they make the effort to dress up a bit. Or perhaps I’m being unfair. Perhaps Mogwai and Arab Strap normally walk around with neat flattering haircuts, well-toned and moisturised skin and nice clothes, only slapping on the big ugly sideburns and getting the stylist to give them a Slovenly Scottish Gritty Indie Guitar look, come the photo sessions?

Mark’s friend Abba, an American boy with a huge… Shirley Bassey collection, comes to stay, and keeps calling me Ridiculous Edwards. I tell him I don’t like football. “But do you like feet? Do you like balls?”

We visit Tommy and Taylor and play them a few of the new Fosca songs. “Galaxie 500 with Morrissey-ish lyrics?” In my defense, I proclaim that Galaxie 500 are my Beatles. Tommy mutters contemptously, “well, the Beatles are my Beatles…” We listen to the first Wings album and drink far too much black coffee. Mark thinks that Taylor looks like Damon Albarn’s sulkier brother.