Thursday April 1st

I buy the new issue of Select Magazine because Charley’s in it, and choke slightly on my greased toast when I see they’ve made these pages “Netsite of the Month”. They can stay.

In need of cheering up, I stumble on a website for choosing baby’s names:

“The name of Dickon has made you serious-minded, responsible, and stable. You love the security of a home and family, you are fond of
children, and, as a parent you would be fair and understanding. Although you have good business judgment, you are not aggressive in your
dealings because you do not like to create issues. You would be successful in any position dealing with the public as you have a diplomatic and
tactful manner and possess a charming, easy-going nature which puts people at ease. People are drawn to you because they feel that you are
patient, kind, understanding, and responsive. You would be effective in a career or in volunteer work where you are handling people and serving
in a humanitarian way. While you are honest and responsible, one weakness that is paramount in your life is your lack of self-confidence and
initiative, which causes you to put things off and avoid facing issues. Generally speaking, you have few problems with your health; however,
there is a weakness affecting the fluid functions of the body. ”

Perhaps someone should tell them about me.

A female columnist in some rag I leaf through in the cafe bemoans David Beckham’s new quiff look. She writes “on behalf of all women everywhere”, begging men not to follow suit and spend more time at the mirror, in the bathroom, and generally on personal appearance, than themselves. Calamity! She concludes, “who needs a blond Morrissey?”. Curses! Rumbled!

GMTV runs a story on the world’s first male pregnancy. Later, the “father” pulls up his jumper to reveal a cushion, and the whole team cries “April Fool!”. Gordon Kennedy quickly puts on his “but seriously, folks” expression, and they cut to Kosovo. The viewer is seemingly left expecting Mr Milosovic to give the camera a knowing comedy wink.

At a club, a man with big glasses and a backpack follows me around the dancefloor. I do my best to shake him off, but he later comes up to me and says, “this is going to sound a bit direct, but do you fancy a fuck?”. “That IS a bit direct. Do I have to answer that?” “No.” “Well, then.”

He goes on to say he’s not a regular. I seem to always attract the tourists. If not geographical tourists, then social tourists. And of course, sexual tourists.

I might as well be dressed as a Beefeater. I should put a card in those phone boxes: “London’s Own, Big Dickon: He’ll Troop His Colour For YOU. Euros accepted.”

Someone tells me I look “androgynous”, but I protest. My shoulders are too broad. For a broad.

Jyoti writes about the importance of us getting on as people before working together on pop music: “If I do work with anyone now, it’s after I get to know them and think we can get on. Dry-recording is like dry-fucking : both sides end up frustrated, sore and confused.” I am appalled at his unlikely (and perhaps, personally revealing) choice of metaphor, but secretly impressed.

I haven’t had an e-mail that dirty since the time someone wrote and volunteered to split my colon in two. Presumably making it a semi-colon.