The trouble with staying in bed because of a feverish cold is that – if you’re me – you get rather accustomed to staying in bed per se. And the negative voice in my head that’s been troubling me for most of my life says, ‘Why bother getting out of bed at all? What’s the use? What’s the point?’ And so on until the grave.

I wonder if the builders of the new Wembley Stadium feel like that.

‘So, why is the stadium so delayed?’
‘Well, what’s the point… when you come down to it…Oh, it’s all so fruitless…’

The blank slate of the day ahead. A world of possibilities, or a frightening abyss. Vote Dickon Edwards.

There’s a long list of things I could do with my waking hours. Indeed, many of them are tasks I’ve promised to do for others, or which others expect me to do. I may not have any money or source of regular income, but goodness knows there’s people of unkinder ages in unkinder climes who’d regard my circumstances as enviable, penury or no.

Just had a chat with Ms O from upstairs. She recommends I loaf around the Muswell Hill Road / Archway Road junction in the rush hour to view the long queues of commuters who have to make their tube to bus connections there. To get a sense of perspective: I could be doing that every day.

I’ve started attempting to get some exercise into my life. I do possess a pair of trainers, but purely for their intended purpose. T-shirt, jersey, M&S jogging bottoms, trainers. I’m not proud, but at least it’s the uniform for the job. Currently I run around Highgate Wood for about 45 mins, plugged into my very small Creative Muvo Slim MP3 walkman, listening to downloaded podcasts of Woman’s Hour. I now realise why many joggers have portable players: to minimise the embarrassment factor of being seen jogging at all. If people are giggling at you as you jog by, it’s okay. Because you can’t hear them.

****

Last Monday: to the Boogaloo with Ms Anna to see Bert Jansch, backed with Bernard Butler. I don’t know much about Mr Jansch, but Ms A is a fan and I’m happy to accompany her. This is the way I’m going out most of the time. I’m not keen on going to events by myself much at the moment. Given the choice between seeing a gig by someone I admire by myself, and meeting a friend or two in the pub or at a dinner party, it’s the latter every time. I’m starting to really crave friendly company when going out.

It’s actually a book launch-cum-gig (which the Boogaloo specialises in), to promote a new non-fiction book by Will Hodgkinson called ‘Guitar Man’. The tome is partly an account of the author’s own experiences in learning to play guitar from scratch in his 30s, and partly a portrait of the noted guitar players he tracks down for tips. Among the big names sharing his jolly guitar-related adventures are Roger McGuinn, Johnny Marr, Mr Jansch, and Mr Les Paul.

Mr H has that kind of curly mop which 2006 fashion smiles upon. If you’re born with curly hair, the trends of the times may persuade you to keep it short, even straightened-out, unless you want to risk being labelled ‘retro’ in some way. Though that’s never bothered ME, of course. Now, you’re allowed to let curly hair grow out with pride in the clubs and bars of Old Street. As long as you look more Marc Bolan than Miriam Margolyes.

Curly is definitely ‘in’, for now. Tick, tick, tick. That’s a Fashion Clock ticking, not a comment on head lice.

So, Mr H opens the event with a reading from his hair, sorry, book, and it does sounds funnier and more entertaining than a book about playing guitar could nominally have a right to be. He rightfully cuts the actual muso stuff down, concentrating on the quirky travel-writing, anecdotal side of his adventures.

I hear he writes for The Idler, and wonder if he’s related to Tom Hodgkinson, the Idler editor and author of the excellent ‘How To Be Idle’. Possibly a brother? There is a facial resemblance, but it could just be a coincidence… I wonder this aloud at the gig and am told that, yes, he IS the brother of Tom H.

Occam’s Razor in action there. Though not used to cut hair.

Despite his documented new guitarist skills, Mr H doesn’t play any music himself at this event. He instead introduces Mr Jansch and Mr Butler and leaves them to it. Their hair is comparatively minimum-risk and sensible: Mr J sports a thinning but entirely present crop – looking pretty good for a sixtysomething. Mr B has his usual floppy but tidy fringe – looking pretty good for a thirtysomething.

Glancing at 1965 photos from when he was called ‘The British Dylan’, it’s clear Mr Jansch cares as much about his appearance as his guitarist skills. Back then, he had a thick mass of sexy beatnik tousles framed with devilish sideburns. A very cool, very deliberate look. Likewise, when Bernard Butler first appeared in national press photos circa 1992, as the guitarist and tunesmith in Suede, his hairdo was definitely striking. It was floppy and girlishly long, as opposed to long in that rather tacky ponytail way that men who work in guitar shops (or comic shops, or advertising) have. These are men who understand the importance of beautiful hair as much as beautiful guitar playing.

I mention all this Good-Looking Guitarist stuff because the audience for this gig has a notably high female presence. Unusual for what you might presume is a rather blokish, Mojo-reader event. I’m not saying women only listen to records by good-looking, cool-looking men, but the aesthetic side of things must help.

And the two gentlemen do make a gloriously sweet and beautiful sound together. Mr J sings and plays a chiming acoustic, Mr Butler accompanies on electric. The latter employs his trademark indie-glam riffs and pronounced melodic flourishes (ie the Bernard Butler Sound), but carefully adapted in just the right way to suit Mr Jansch’s songs. And that’s about as ‘Guitar Player Monthly’ as I get.

I chat and drink for a while afterwards, with Ms Anna, Ms Shanthi, Ms Leigh, Ms Terri, Ms Lora, Ms Emma J, Ms Anneliese, Ms Red. A nice evening.