For the first time in 4 years I eschewed spending Christmas alone in Highgate to be with my parents in Suffolk. My choice. No real reason other than it'd been a while, though the passing of my last grandparent in 2004, coupled with my brother's choice to spend Yuletide in New York, had a little to do with it. The time was spent in a gentle haze of indulgence, with the only lucid moments invested in helping my father and mother with their computer-related queries. I'm hardly a PC Support Engineer, but I do know how to write instructions for slightly advanced e-mail usage in Edwards Parent-ese.
I'm back now, renewed and revived, full of optimism, energy and ideas. I intend to have a creative and productive 2005. Best get on, then.
A recent theme of mine has been Better Late Than Never. Many people are still wishing each other Happy New Year even though it's January 3rd. So I hope this belated Seasonal Message will not seem too out of place.
For me, 2004 was the year of The Distracted Catalyst. I procrastinated for most of it, and didn't really do very much at all, at least in terms of being able to point to things I'd created. Yet I found myself helping to make things happen for other people. Bringing people together, even if only as a talking-point. Something some people had in common was being acquainted with me (I hesitate to write "knowing me" – and therein hangs a therapy session or ten). This comes as much from a decade of flitting about in different London scenes, at the intersection of different Venn diagrams of social circles, never quite committing to any group of friends in particular, rather than anything else. Myself as the Littlest Hobo of London life. Which comes with its own attendant pros and cons.
There was Scarlet's Well, a band I love whose live incarnation I had a hand in forming, even if it meant myself being dismissed after months of rehearsal. Still, it was a decision I couldn't help but agree with. They needed a very good guitarist, not a passable Dickon Edwards. And I enjoyed every rehearsal immensely. They may have seemed bad value on paper: I only had the one concert with SW as a guitarist. But as a fan this was far, far, better than playing no concerts at all. And seeing the rehearsals in terms of regularly playing music with people I adore and admire, in terms of delighting my heart; I'll always feel the dividends.
Putting SW on the same bill as Gentleman Reg was my idea of a mini-Meltdown festival. I helped to drag Gentleman Reg over from Canada and play his first London dates, because I wanted to see him in concert and couldn't afford to go to Toronto. Like SW, I got out of bed and did something about the new music I do like, rather than moaning about all the new music I didn't. Something I'm particularly proud of.
In 2004 I was made the first Ambassador of my local pub, The Boogaloo, Archway Road, which hosts all kinds of events from secret gigs by Bright Eyes to literary readings by Jake Arnott. I gave spoken word and solo performances, as myself the Songwriter, as myself the Flaneur, as Jerome K Jerome and as Quentin Crisp. In all cases I came away realising it's best to learn the words beforehand rather than read from notes, to douse the nerves and promote articulacy. More work to be done, then. I discovered this year that both my mother and my late grandfather have given after-dinner speeches to rooms of hundreds of strangers across the country, and in my mother's case, across the world. So it's something I'd like to at least keep trying, if only to carry on this slight family tradition. I may even enrol in a class.
Which brings to me the fiction-writing evening course I attended. It came as a shock to the system at first, feeling back in the classroom for the first time in years, wondering if I have to revert to Schoolboy Dickon too (answer: no, but it's hard not to). Regardless, the benefits of a regular tuning-up of the mind – and of having to read one's efforts to a room of strangers and getting instant feedback – can't be underestimated. The same goes for starting weekly therapy sessions, which are doing me good, if only because they're easier on the nerves than taking a cold bath every Monday morning. They have much the same mental effect.
Helping out at the best-stocked video library in North London has made me watch far more decent films than ever before, and introduced me to ones I'd otherwise never see. One can't beat the feeling of being taken by the hand of great film-makers, to be lost in their world for a couple of hours. I'm constantly discovering such new worlds, new gems to watch: the place is a treasure trove.
Achievements I suppose I can point to included writing the Afterword to a Proper Published Book, a new edition of Jerome K Jerome's Idle Thoughts Of An Idle Fellow. Again, something that delighted me immensely as a fan of the book, an indulgence which I hope others can enjoy. The actual Afterword was a brief text, but I did work quite hard on boiling down what I wanted to say into the word count, and was pleased to see it quoted in the Evening Standard. Never be afraid of conciseness. Something I should apply to my diary entries, to make them more regular and less like clichéd buses.
I found this first tentative dip into the waters of the London Literary Scene, intriguing and exciting. One publisher told me I was too young and glamorous to be an author (even at 33), and that I'd make more money and have more admirers at my feet if I started a rock band. Ho ho. Well, that chapter hasn't quite closed. I do intend to get the third Fosca album done this year, write songs for others, plus the much-mooted Dickon Edwards Songbook – A Tribute To Myself project launched upon the world with as much jolly cultish PR as I can hustle. After that, well, we'll see.
I have such ambivalent feelings about the current music scene. Visiting my parents, I spy the Scissor Sisters album in their collection, next to Peter Skellern. It's official; my parents are more in touch with pop music than me. My father was born in 1936.
I definitely still love all kinds of goings-on out there, from the last Kylie single to many of the underground acts appearing at London clubs like Kash Point. Whether I want to Join In myself right now I'm not so sure. I realise more than ever that Music only matters to those to whom it matters. And today the worlds of fiction or of writing for radio, stage, TV or film seem more appealing. As long as they are offshoots of Being Dickon Edwards. The plan is to write regardless, and see what form it takes.
On New Year's Eve 2004 I wasn't so keen on all-night celebrations, and instead went to the Boogaloo for a couple of drinks. From 11.45pm to closing at 1am. As I live across the road, my environment changed in seconds from a quiet state of lying on my bed reading, to a room full of loud people. But the overall feeling was one of friendliness, not aggression. Sure, it was New Year's Eve, and the long-term sincerity of such friendliness is in doubt. But I do think recent world events injected a modicum of perspective into the proceedings. One that Life is to be celebrated, enjoyed and made the most of, if one finds oneself lucky enough to be in possession of the stuff. A little hedonism, some indulgence, but mixed with productivity and of doing things worth doing. And above all, channelling all feelings toward others into niceness, politeness, consideration and kindness. Even if – especially if – doing so goes against one's default character traits.
The temptation so many times during the year was to feel what I'm ashamed to admit was quiet envy. An entirely useless emotion unless one acts on it. Do something about it, or be quiet, goes the inner voice. Take those energies you're wasting on resentment and spend them on doing something creative, positive and kind.
Not just envy of others being able to get things done, either. I have to confess I've been envious of others going to a place or event that I'd like to have been to myself. But then, I'm not those people. One can't be envious of people who aren't oneself. Apart from the shocking bad form in polite company, it just makes no sense. The response when one hears about such jaunts should never be a sulky "Wish that was me", but "Good for you, tell me all about it." Likewise hearing of the success of others. Be happy for them, and if one feels resentment bubbling under the surface, convert this negative feeling into a positive, constructive one.
So I still have not yet been to New York, Berlin or Toronto, at the risk of comparing myself to the moss-gathering Mr Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life. But I have made all kinds of new friends from these very places, who were kind enough to come to London instead.
As for New York, well, lately it's been rather easy persuading Witty Americans to leave their country and go to London (or anywhere else). One silver lining of the state of things.
It's the same with affection: easily tangled up with the Resentful Ego. One must never give purely in the hope of receiving. Never send a Christmas Card purely because you want one back for yourself. Likewise a birthday present. Likewise a kiss. Likewise the thought of a kiss. If one has affection to show, one must show it in the politest and most gracious way. And one must never, ever, stand by the letter box waiting for a reciprocation, a requitement, something in return.
The news that enormous sums of money have been quickly donated by the UK public to help victims of the Indonesian tsunami is a good illustration. It proves that people don't need a bad charity record in order to spontaneously give millions for a good cause. I hear that Mike Read is making such a record anyway. Forgive him, his ego took a bit of a battering in 2004 with his "Oscar Wilde" musical closing in one day, and needs a bit of feeding.
Singing the phrase "Feed Our Egos" along with the Band Aid 20 song is the only way I can cope with hearing it. Why else are they applauding themselves at the end of the record? No one would dispute the Good Cause, but why does a Good Cause have to equal a Bad Record?
Just give, if you feel the need to give. Let the applause come as a surprise – and from someone other than yourself. Or if you must do something to raise money or awareness, do something useful rather than pointless. Make a good record.
In the case of Band Aid 20, I'd have preferred a "Sunscreen Song" style hip but thoughtful spoken-word piece educating people about the cause. It would still have gone to Number One, and radio listeners would have come away learning something more about the Sudan situation, other than there's some "clanging chimes of doom". Or failing that, a four minute silence.
Ms Rowling's two little Harry Potter charity spin-off books are actually worth buying regardless. Mr Morrissey's PETA-supporting compilation of his favourite obscure records is at the very least, a curiously eclectic pop compilation. Don't sit in a bath of baked beans (the equivalent of the charity record) for a Good Cause. Spend the same time and energy on doing someone's garden for charity (I'm thinking of my time in the Cub Scouts during charity Bob A Job week), clean windows, give up smoking forever. Charity really shouldn't go hand in hand with Embarrassment.
Now, I realise that this lesson of striving to be positive, constructive, kind and giving rather than negative, judgemental, unkind and expecting to receive; is bordering on the clichéd. But it's a lesson I'm addressing to myself as much the World. And it's one I admit I still have to learn. A self-confessed narcissist has to battle with their own Resentful Ego all the time, to convert its ugly clamour into something pretty and useful to everyone.
You are my witnesses. That I can type these words in my Highgate bedsit and they'll be read across the world by friends I've met and friends I've not yet met, is something I'll never take for granted. Thank you for reading. Hope you'll stick around.
If "It's A Wonderful Life" were to be re-made in 2005, the closing message would have to be:
"No man is a failure while he has friends. Even if they're mostly on the Internet."
A happy and productive 2005 to you all.
Dickon Edwards
Highgate, London N6.
