Someone writes to say they spotted me in a video for the band Readers Wifes (sic), looking very ‘Quentin Warhol’.

This would be the consequence of an afternoon spent in a South London bar earlier this year. I was part of an audience watching the group mime their song over and over again. No payment for this appearance: I think I attended the shoot partly because I heard there’d be free drink (which turned out to be just one free drink), and partly because I approve of the band. Tie-wearing male DJs in heavy make-up and tranny wigs who play the likes of Paul McCartney’s Coming Up at their club, Duckie. One of their songs has lyrics specially written by Julie Burchill.

I’ve not seen the video myself, but sometimes that’s the way things should be. A memory springs to mind of a BBC make-up girl I met a few years ago. Discussing my looks, I told her one reason I must never get fat is so I’m never confused with Boris Johnson.

‘Who’s that?’
‘You know, the buffoonish white-haired Tory politician, often on Have I Got News For You.’
‘Oh, I never watch TV.’
‘Really?’
‘No. I’m too busy making it.’

On the bus from Muswell Hill to Highgate, a large black woman with gappy, protruding teeth gets on, talking constantly, though it quickly becomes evident she’s by herself and is not talking to anyone in particular. Her utterances are a series of repeated phrases spat at each and every passenger in rotation, her head like an automatic lawn sprinkler.

‘You – you are all responsible. How dare you put children in care! You are all doing it. You killed my baby. You! You put children in care! Killed my baby. You all do it.’

Then she pauses, smiles sweetly at a man sitting near me, flutters her eyelids and asks him if he likes her necklace. He mumbles something minimal and kind. A moment later, she’s back with the shouted accusations, with no exceptions. The man is just one of Them once more.

I sit there impassively, trying hard to ignore the hard to ignore. But even this non-expression screams a certain passion. It’s the very English desire of just wanting to reach one’s destination without incident.