To Bethnal Green for the wedding reception and party of Ms Esther and Mr Paul. The venue is the local Working Mens Club, but despite my being a man in make-up allergic to most forms of work, I am allowed inside without there being any kind of anti-matter explosion. I am Worst Man at a wedding.

Bethnal Green at night initially seems scary. But then, I find most modern life scary, walking as I do with a fearsome tremble in my step, ready for the next attack from my fellow man. Very unfair on my fellow man, I know. And in the case of Bethnal Green I feel I owe the area a silent apology. The strangers I meet on the street from tube station to venue are far more polite and friendly than those in the apparently "safer" area of Muswell Hill. At the cashpoint on Bethnal Green Road there is an exchange of "After you", "No, after YOU" which goes on for quite some time.

To consolidate my faith in the better aspects of humanity, the reception is a rather joyous and extremely touching affair. In his Best Man speech, Mr Alex Kapranos remarks how the couple are genuinely, palpably, visibly, impressively in love, and this is something with which no one can argue. Real Love, indeed.

Early on in the evening, the DJs play The Glitter Band followed by The Smith's "I Started Something I Couldn't Finish" – a rather inspired segue, give the latter is a lesser Morrissey hit musically akin to the style of Mr Glitter's hits, as well as being appropriate to the noted lengthy engagement period of the couple. Certainly more appropriate than Freda Payne's "Band Of Gold", a song inexplicably popular at weddings, given it's about a marriage breaking up.

Performing live is Ms Sophie Heawood and her impromptu band, formed to sweetly serenade the newlyweds with "Chapel Of Love". Ms Sophie sat next to me at the wedding service (it was the only free seat) but thankfully appears to have suffered no ill effects. She is one of the visionaries behind the new magazine <a href="http://www.planbmag.com/">Plan B,</a> which I've promised to write for. I started some things, and unlike Mr Morrissey I do intend to finish them.

There is also a set from a chap called Ben who wears a cowboy hat and sings in a Leadbelly bluesy- country fashion. Despite, or perhaps because of the occasion, he decides to perform some gloriously inappropriate songs for a wedding reception. One is "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean", another is "Goodbye Cruel World", the unsubtle suicide song from Pink Floyd's The Wall (arguably the world's least subtle album as it is), and then <i>another</i> song from the same album, "In The Flesh", the one about a rock star whose Nazi-rally-like arena concerts have made him such a paranoid crypto-fascist that he wants anyone he doesn't like the look of shot at once. It all seems deeply incongruous at first, but it transpires that at least one of the couple is a fan of the album.

One observer might interpret playing such covers as a wry jab at the groom's newfound status as an internationally successful rock star (his band Franz Ferdinand are playing a cavernous arena near you), and a possible warning that he had better not let it all go to his head. On the evidence of this occasion such fears are entirely unjustified. Though Mr Paul and his bandmates are now no strangers to Top Of The Pops, this is not a Celebrity Wedding festooned with the rich and famous, just friends (and a few Friendster Friends) and family. Many here are worryingly skinny indie band types who clearly could do with a few extra slices of wedding cake.

I suppose the one person there, apart from the band, who IS a celebrity of a kind is the DJ Mr Erol Alkan, who turns up to play a wedding set, and he is someone regarded by some baggy jeaned magazines as one of London's most fashionable DJs. But, like the groom's band, he is neither outwardly different or embarrassed by such success, being undoubtably grateful – though, crucially, not boastful (only that way lies accusations of Selling Out) – for being able to make a living from doing what one enjoys and would do regardless.

Now, this is a position to which we all aspire, and goodness knows I aspire to it myself. Being finally, securely able to make a living from Being Dickon Edwards is really something I'm striving to do at present – the only vague "goal" I have beyond basic food and shelter. I am quite happy to reside hand-to-cheap-lipglossed-mouth by myself in a London bedsit for the rest of my life, where there is no room to swing even the skinniest indie form of cat. The world is a stage, and this is my dressing room. What matters to many thankfully doesn't matter in the least to me – owning a flat, speaking fluent Mortgage or Pension, making money, a, dare I say it, lifelong Love Life, or even a nightlong Sex Life. All those things are pursuits which other people seem happy to engage in and perpetuate, though they are as alien to me as terrorism, war and bungy jumping.

But I am happy for such people, if they are happy in turn. All I do want is to be able to answer the dreaded Frequently Asked Question, "What do you do?", with something approaching a confident and definite description. My interviewer may not be able to keep a straight face when I reply "I Am A Professional English Eccentric", but that doesn't matter. My own face must be deadly serious. In fact, what's important is that I am able to not stare at my shoes at this moment, as attractive as my shoes are.

Ideally, I could get paid for writing this diary for a publication (one which kindly puts its content online as well as existing in paper form), as it does seem one thing I find myself doing anyway, which strangers seem to enjoy. If I could get this diary sponsored by Prada, then my life would be complete.

But back to the wedding reception. When I said it was refreshingly devoid of Celebrities, I didn't for a second mean to imply that it was full of Ordinary People. Heaven forfend. Superstardom in the Warhol sense of the word has always been my preferred state of being. Though that's rather unfair on another act performing tonight, Mr Simon Bookish, who unlike many of those notorious peacocks draped around the Bacofoil walls of Mr W's Factory in all those silly films, actually has talent.

Mr Bookish is unlucky enough to have to suffer a day job, which he tells me is something to do with Amnesty International. From all accounts, it sounds like torture.

So the sooner he can make a living from his Art, the better. He not only is capable of singing for his supper, but singing for The Last Supper. Charismatic, engaging, and always a joy to watch, he is one act on "The London Scene" that I fully recommend. If anyone deserves to be on Top Of The Pops, it is Mr Bookish. I can imagine the bored parents of England spitting out their TV dinners in mock-outrage, secretly glad that the TV programme is once again sporting music where "it's just Bang Bang Bang" and "you can't tell if it's a boy or a girl". That, after all, is what Top Of The Pops should always be about. And what pop music should be about.

Tonight's Bookish Set includes a cover version of the homoerotic Franz Ferdinand song, "Michael", performed in his trademark style of intense electronica and direct interaction with the crowd. By that I don't mean he starts fights with his audience, but acknowledges their attention and repays it mutually, dancing with them, or to them, performing as if all that exists is that one location, that one point in time. It may be back to the office with him on Monday, but upon a stage, or in front of it – his real work is done.

Afterwards, Mr B remarks how strange it was singing "Michael" knowing that the person the song is based upon, the real Michael, is in the room. The muse in question is pointed out to me. He is wearing white dancing jeans – what else?

Another song on the Franz Ferdinand album is a similar example of the Artist As Magpie, taking from Life what should be preserved in Art, or in Song. It's the track "Jacqueline". When I first heard it, I wondered it it were based upon a Scottish indie girl called Jacqueline I've met a few times, whose old London flat is still in my address book. I am happy to have this confirmed by Mr Kapranos – it's the same girl.

Again, it's like the Warhol Superstars, immortalised in song by Lou Reed's Walk On The Wild Side, or by The Monochrome Set's "Goodbye Joe". "Michael" and "Jacqueline" are Franz Ferdinand song characters based on real people, but they also represent a modern archetype, a mini-scene, made up of stylish outsiders that are mini-celebrities in their own social circles (or even just "famous" for one other person), past and present. Social Legends, if you like. And it's the duty of The Writer, and The Songwriter to record this.

Whether it's Alan Bennett writing down the utterations of The Lady In The Van, or Christopher Isherwood making more use of Sally Bowles's life than she ever did, paying homage to The Secret Celebrity is a common theme in all the best art, music and literature. Mr Paul would, I imagine, have a Franz Ferdinand song written about him if he wasn't already in the band.

I try to use this public diary in a similar manner to Mr Isherwood, documenting not just my life, but the lives I see around me at the places I am invited to go. I often spend hours upon a single entry, and try to take pains not to write anything or photograph (badly – I Am An Out-Of-Focus Camera) anything I think might offend the people unwittingly dragged in. There's only been three occasions in this diary's seven year history that I have received requests to remove a reference to someone, and I've happily complied each time.

At the wedding party, I told Mr Kapranos about my diary. In the same way that (I think) he checked with the real "Michael" and "Jacqueline" if it was okay to immortalise them in song, I said I hope he didn't mind I'd written about the wedding. I added that if there was anything in my diary he objected to, I'd remove it at once.

To his undying credit, he shrugged and replied "You write what the hell you like, Dickon." Truly, a living saint. Franz Ferdinand records are available to buy now, folks.

For me, and I suspect Mr K understands this too, the greatest honour is to be written about, photographed, or even sung about, as has happened to me in the case of "Son Of Dorian Gray" by the band Tender Trap. One of the greatest sadnesses of my life was the time Momus told me he'd written a song about me… only to not release the thing. Even if it's unflattering, inaccurate, mocking or cruel, attention has been paid. Your mark has been made on the consciousness of an Artist, no mean feat in this world of a million distractions and corporate advertising inciting you to pay attention to anything but a person with no PR agent.

A quick glance at any magazine rack or TV channel will tell you that many so-called Real Celebrities fail to evince the slightest degree of anything interesting or intelligent whatsoever. Indeed, their careers are so carefully stage-managed, they cannot give a single answer in a single interview without a Press Officer being on hand to consult first, in case any signs of Personality are allowed to leak out.

Mr Warhol said in the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes. He was slightly wrong. It is now the future, and everyone is on television, which is an entirely different thing. As it is, that quote is so over-used and over-interpreted, that someone really should have shot him for saying that.

People who would make much better celebrities are, more often than not, entirely unknown beyond their social circle. Looking around and chatting to the people at the wedding reception, seeing "Michael", thinking about "Jacqueline", I could see many more such unsung superstar types in abundance. Perhaps they will all have songs written about them one day. Perhaps many of them already have.

In this sense, it was a Superstar Wedding indeed. It finished with the superstar couple themselves given a proper send-off outside their flat by the gathered crowd, covering them with rice and "Chapel Of Love" in a multitude of harmonies. Happy Honeymoon, Paul and Esther.