There was an article in the Guardian the other day about blogging celebrating its’ tenth anniversary, the term coined in 1997. I do wonder if this diary is the UK’s longest-running blog. If anyone knows of a British online diary that ‘went live’ earlier than December 1997 and is still going today, please do tell me. It would be interesting to find out.

Am more penurious than usual. I could go into detail, but reading about other people’s lack of money bores me to tears. Suffice it to say that I write stiff letters to the various bodies and authorities who owe me and are dragging their heels, but take it no further. I suppose I could sit in some waiting room all afternoon and try to speed things up, or be put on hold on the phone for an hour, but really I’d rather spend this time doing something else. Stiff letters are my limit. I can pay the rent and just about eat, but anything else I have to be careful about.

I wonder if I’m the poorest person to book a table at the Ivy? I rather like the contrast of phoning the Ivy from a furnished bedsit where the larder only contains packets of noodles, 29p each from the corner shop. The booking was on behalf of Mr MacG, of course, but even so. There’s a certain tragic glamour to it all.

I mention to Rowan Pelling that I’m perhaps the most destitute person she knows. She buys me a few glasses of champagne and presents me with a full bottle of Hendricks Gin as payment for my DJ-ing stint a few months ago. This is at the Academy club in Lexington Street, Soho, and we’re here to discuss the Cambridge event on Saturday.

Haven’t been to the Academy before, but I love it. It’s one of those old-fashioned first floor Soho clubs which you have to know about rather than stumble into off the streets. Once you find the unmarked door, which could be to someone’s flat, you ring one of an ancient line of bells to be buzzed in and walk up a staircase past a ground floor sign on A4 paper pointing down the corridor, saying ‘Merchant Ivory Productions’. Yes, the same film company who make all those lavish costume dramas. I like the idea of ringing the wrong bell and ending up in some high-collared EM Forster adaptation.

Upstairs, the Academy Club turns out to be a lot like the Colony Room, with a cosy little bar area plus a few tables. Full of character and characters, with shelves of books, and a general air of unchanged 50s and 60s Soho. People at one table are playing a game of bridge on green baize. There’s a small terrier in a corner, which at one point lets out an unearthly yelp, presumably because someone’s trodden on his tail. It’s a noise only small dogs can make.

At one table, a man called Brock Norman Brock and another called Sam rehearse some songs for the Cambridge gig on accordion and banjo respectively, and it suits the Academy to a tee. I am told that one night here the tables were moved aside and Mr Brock wrestled the writer Sam North on the floor, half-naked, Fight Club style. Not over any disagreement, just for the members’ entertainment. Maybe that’s the next step for Beautiful & Damned – all-in wrestling. Or maybe not.

John Moore is also there for the meeting. I’ve been listening to the Jesus and Mary Chain singles compilation, and ask him which ones were his era. “April Skies“, he says. What a truly great song that is. And what great hair the band’s guitarist William Reid had: an impossible pile of gravity-challenging tousles.

Mr Moore currently writes for the Guardian music blog, who pay. I suppose I should really hustle and pitch to write a paying blog for some professional body too: my friend Rhodri Marsden does one for the Radio Times site. Or rather will be at some point – according to his personal blog, they’ve just put it back by six weeks. That’s the trouble with working for other people.

I’d rather just do this blog alone, where I choose what appears and where I’ve got uncensored control, and pursue some sort of sponsorship or patronage for the times I’m more hard up than usual. One idea suggested by a reader is setting up a Patrons Of DE page at dickonedwards.co.uk. People could become Diary Angels. The idea being, in return for their investment, I would promise to keep the blog up daily, and the patrons could have a say in the sort of things I write about. Within reason. And then when I do put out books or CDs or perform at events, they could get free or discounted copies. Maybe a minimum of £10 for a year, said reader proposes. Victoria Clarke has also suggested something similar.

Anyone who thinks I should just get a job clearly isn’t a regular reader. The World Of Work has never gotten on well with me, and the sentiment is mutual. Everything should be in its place. I may not be certain where my place is, but I do know where it isn’t. Being DE and writing about it has rather become my job. At least, at present.

So for now, here’s a Tip Jar in the form of a PayPal button. If you like this diary – all ten years of it – and you’re feeling kind, please consider showing your appreciation. Anyone sending £10 or more is automatically enrolled as a Diary Angel, and I’ll compile a list of names. Just like they do in fringe theatre programmes. You too can join Shane MacGowan and my parents in possibly the only thing they have in common.

Thank you!