Pop into the huge Waterstones on Piccadilly. Am pleased to discover that on one counter by the tills are no less than two books with contributions from myself. The Jerome K Jerome ‘Idle Thoughts’ is there (now at half price), next to ‘The Decadent Handbook’, which is newly out. I mention this to the till staff, and they just stare at me warily.
Spend most of the day with Dad, whose forthcoming 70th birthday bash I’m DJ-ing at. His list of requests includes Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, all of which is expected. Less likely, at least to me, is a track by the Scissor Sisters. I first heard about them from Erol, the DJ at Club Trash, who gave me a CD promo just before they had a hit with their Bee Gees-esque version of Pink Floyd’s ‘Comfortably Numb’. I recall thinking they were yet another NYC club act, perfectly enjoyable but unlikely to appeal to real people, certainly not to those over 35. How wrong I was.
We attend the Mel Calman exhibition at the Cartoon Museum in Little Russell St. Calman was essentially a gag merchant who used a rudimentary, yet recognisably unique style of line figures, usually for single panels in daily newspapers. I note some of those on display:
Woman, to Man Reading Newspaper: “Look at me when you’re pretending to listen to me.”
Man to Woman: “I’ve got no subconscious resentment against you. It’s all conscious.”
Therapist to Santa Claus (on couch): “Why do you have this desire to GIVE all the time?”
I stop and buy the new Moleskine City Guide notebook for London, with cute leaves of removable tracing paper for plotting routes on street maps. I probably don’t really need it, given I already use the basic notebook along with their party-friendly skinny Moleskine Cahiers. But I’m an incurable notebook junkie.
Then to a Mervyn Peake show at a small working gallery called Chris Beetles Ltd, off Piccadilly. Peake’s illustrations for Bleak House are incredible: bringing the more outrageously Gothic side of Dickens to the fore. Interesting that many people still think of Mr Peake purely as the Gormenghast author, not the acclaimed artist and illustrator he started out as.
Then to a Soho screening of a rather odd US indie comedy about bestiality called Sleeping Dogs Lie, followed by a brisk walk to the Horseshoe pub in Clerkenwell for a gathering of Neil Scott’s friends, including Rhodri, Jen D, and Kate D. Martin White is an energizing, galvanizing presence as ever. As I arrive, I note our host is still yet to attend, and I make some allusion to the film Murder By Death. Turns out that’s what everyone else was saying before I got there myself. Well, it’s nice that we’ve all got an awareness of 70s Neil Simon spoofs in common.
