Wisdom learned from club night promotion: the host can never quite enjoy the party.

I’m doing Against Nature one more time on Tuesday Sept 7th, then taking a break in order to find out what I want to do next.

Here’s the details.

AGAINST NATURE
TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 7TH 2010

A night for dressed-up dandies and vintage vamps. DJs provide a rococo mix of easy listening, showtunes and exotic pop, punctuated by silent movies, eccentric bands and unconventional cabaret.

Live On Stage:

SCALES OF THE UNEXPECTED
Vocal harmony comedy group who cram the back catalogues of Madonna, Abba and others into inspired and hilarious medleys.

KIKI KABOOM
Inventive and irreverent burlesque performer. Winner of Best Newcomer 2009 at the London Burlesque Festival.

ROSE WATT
Obsessive compulsive wit armed with ukelele and cupcakes.

THE SOFT CLOSE-UPS
Wry pastoral songsmithery courtesy David Shah and Aug Stone

Plus DJ & host Dickon Edwards.

Doors 8pm.
Live acts 9.30pm-11.30pm.
Dancing to 1am.

Door charge: £5 before 10pm. £6 after.

DRESS CODE (optional but preferred): Vintage & dandy-esque.

Proud Camden (South Gallery)
The Horse Hospital, Stables Market,
Chalk Farm Rd, LONDON NW1 8AH.
Tel: 020 7482 3867.
www.proudcamden.com

Catching up, filling gaps.

Sat July 24th: Afternoon: ‘The Habit Of Art’ at the NT, with Charlie M. Superb. Excellent play, stuffed full of different ideas rather than just one, just as the History Boys was. Charlie M prefers Alan Bennett’s intellectual, thought-provoking work like this, and isn’t so keen on the work that gets him dismissed as a cosy purveyor of Northern old ladies. I like it all.

Lead part originally written for Michael Gambon, and it shows. A grumpy old actor, who looks like an unmade bed yet is charismatic and funny and has a good voice for poetry. Pure Gambon. He needs to come back and play the role.

There’s a huge photo of Gordon Brown in the NT’s annual exhibition of newspaper photographs. With a hand sweeping back his hair, it’s meant to show Brown looking anxious and under pressure. In fact, he looks moody in a Mr Rochester way. Charlie M says she’s so attracted to the photo she can barely look at it.

Another huge photo is of what I take at first to be an emaciated elderly tramp. Turns out to be Alex Higgins, the snooker star. When I get home, he’s on the news. Dead at 61, looking at least 80. Am uneasy about the sense of guilty delight in the press: a satisfying riches-to-rags story. The price of success. But I suppose this comment is a delight, too: the joy of feeling superior to the media.

All comment is vanity, one way or another. Art takes the curse off comment, makes it feel less cheap. Which is one of the points of The Habit Of Art.

***

Evening: The Doctor Who Prom at the Royal Albert Hall with Anwen G. I spot a few fezzes, include one on the bust of Sir Henry Wood. Matt Smith turns up in character to perform a Steven Moffat-written mini-adventure, and demonstrates how good with children he is. The little boy he gets to help him save the world takes him utterly seriously, as only small children can do.

Our seats are right by one of the aisles used by various parading monsters, including a Cyberman and a Venetian Vampire. Karen Gillan (Amy Pond) performs one of her links right next to us. Nicholas Courtney (the Brigadier) is in the queue for guest tickets right next to me. So that’s us happy. We can be spotted in one of the BBC’s promo photos of the evening. I’m the blond-haired one in the linen suit, funnily enough.

The music is mostly Murray Gold’s soundtrack to the new series, punctuated with classical crowd-pleasers to fit the sci-fi adventure idiom: John Adams’s Short Ride in a Fast Machine, Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, Holst’s Mars, and Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. My ears are absolutely ringing after the last two. I didn’t realise just how noisy Mr Holst and Mr Orff could be.

William Walton’s comparatively subtle and laid-back ‘Portsmouth Point’ also gets an airing, apparently chosen because Murray Gold is from Portsmouth. I rather like the thought of young Doctor Who fans coming away with a new-found interest in William Walton. All very old fashioned BBC. ‘This’ll do you good!’

Actually, I come away from the evening with a new-found interest in Benjamin Britten, thanks to The Habit Of Art.

***

Sunday 25th July: Evening: The Ku Bar in Lisle Street to catch Adrian Dalton’s act. Mr Dalton is a post-op trans man whose drag alter-ego, Lola Lypsinka, pole dances in high heels. I get a catcall: ‘Oy, Jared Leto!’ Which would normally be a massive compliment, except I suppose they might mean Leto’s bleach-haired character from Fight Club after his face is smashed in.

A man from the audience is brought onto the stage. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen – it’s Charlie from last year’s Big Brother!’ Polite whoops. Charlie makes an unkind comment about the winner of his series, Sophie (had to look her up). One chaser of nano-celebrity sneering at another. All very modern.

***

Sat July 31st. Miss Red’s birthday party at Dr Strangebrew’s Tea Parlour, 186 Royal College Street, Camden NW1. Cannot recommend this place highly enough: cheap teas and homemade cakes in a 1960s treasure trove of vintage collectibles. Including two jukeboxes and a radiogram – which still works.  I am filmed for an in-jokey spoof ad on the shop, which refers to Miss Red’s recent appearance in an advert for Maynard’s Wine Gums:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRPtczeHBk4

Also at the party is Ms Cherry Williams, who turns out to be the seamstress who made Karen Gillan’s dress for Act 1 of the Dr Who Proms, as designed by Kate Halfpenny. A very London sort of coincidence.

More examples of Very London things. As we’re sitting outside the shop that afternoon, a young t-shirted couple approach.

‘Excuse me,’ the boy asks in a thick foreign accent. ‘Can you tell us where Amy Winehouse lives?’

Last call for Against Nature – the August edition. Time Out Magazine have included it in their Critics’ Choice list:

Here’s the details.

AGAINST NATURE
A speakeasy for dressed-up dandies and vintage vamps. DJs provide a rococo mix of easy listening, showtunes, and exotic pop, punctuated by silent movies, eccentric bands and unconventional cabaret.

LIVE ON WEDS AUGUST 4TH:
…A unique triptych of boho chanteuses. Oh yes!

ANNE PIGALLE
Legendary, globe-trotting Parisian singer and survivor of the ZTT Records scene, performing songs and erotic poetry from her new show, Amerotica. ‘As if Edith Piaf were booked in the bar in Star Wars’ (US Music Connection)
http://www.annepigalle.com/

PATTI PLINKO AND HER BOY
Eccentric, brooding songstress, channelling whiskey-soaked songs in the carnivalesque spirit of Nick Cave and Tom Waits. ‘A vivid dream of maddening, freakish talent.’ (The Argus)
http://www.myspace.com/pattiplinkoandherboy

OPHELIA BITZ
The sharpest razor-tongued wit in London: vocalist, ringmistress, compere and performance artist with a reputation for stealing hearts, drinks, and anything else not nailed to the table. ‘Bitz may have the voice of an angel but she also has the mouth of a filthy gutter slut.’ (Time Out)
http://www.myspace.com/opheliabitz

Plus DJ SOPHIA WYETH, spinning easy listening, showtunes, pastiche pop, and all that deviant jazz.

Mr Edwards regrets he is unavailable to attend in person, due to a slight disagreement with the Department For Work And Pensions. Please welcome instead guest host & promoter KEVIN REINHARDT.

Doors: 8pm. Live acts 9.30pm-11.45pm. Dancing to 1am.

Door charge: £5 before 10pm. £7 after.

NB: Latecomers may have to wait until an intermission between live acts.

DRESS CODE (optional but preferred): Vintage & dandy-esque.

VENUE:
South Gallery, PROUD CAMDEN,
The Horse Hospital, Stables Market, Chalk Farm Rd,
LONDON NW1 8AH.
Tel: 020 7482 3867.
http://www.proudcamden.com/

Night 1 of the curfew was Weds 28th, the day of my conviction.

Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court is an unhappy old building. Sad yellow walls, stairs like a 1970s leisure centre in Purgatory. Lots of brooding, broken people sitting around in the reception area, barely held together by their tracksuits. The only people in suits apart from me seemed to be lawyers. This is the pettier, half-arsed end of the legal system.

The courtroom turned out to be a drab, open-plan affair. Long tables and chairs, a coat of arms on the wall. Not even a proper dock. It was never explained to me who did what, why there was one man seated at right angles immediately in front of the three magistrates (the clerk of the court?), and another tucked towards the back of the room taking notes. No names of the magistrates, no names at all.

Myself, Charlie M – taking time out of her job to give me moral support – and my legal aid lawyer, Ms Malik from Hodge Jones Allen, entered in time to catch the end of the case before mine.

Which wasn’t going well. A red-faced fifty-something man – I saw him as a Del Boy-style stall holder – was shouting at the three magistrates. ‘I can’t pay the fine. You’ve already taken my stock. This is LEGALISED THEFT. You’re all THIEVES’.

Then he turned around and shouted directly at each person in the room. Including his own lawyer, and even me.

‘I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU SAY! THEY’RE ALL THIEVES. THIEVES, I TELL YOU!’

He had to be asked to leave several times.

As I looked at the trio of magistrates, I noticed that the man in the middle did all the talking, while the two women flanking him remained silent. I kept thinking of the day Orlando had to play a special mini-gig in an expensive rehearsal room, the type used for industry showcases. It was solely for the producer of Jools Holland’s ‘Later’. I’ve always resented the way success in music – like in all the arts – depends on fitting the tastes of a small but powerful group of critics, festival bookers, and TV & radio producers. Never mind the passionate letters from lonely teens in Leicester saying your album saved their life; if Jools’s producer doesn’t like you, you’re going down (the dumper).

Like the magistrate, the male producer came flanked with two silent females (possibly co-producers) and sat on a sofa to watch us play a few numbers. We were never invited on the show. In terms of one’s music career, it felt like receiving a court sentence. Or possibly a thumbs down in a Roman arena. Shame. I was rather looking forward to the boogie-woogie piano jam.

My sole contribution to the court proceedings was to stand up and give my name, address, and plea of guilty. Ms Malik did all the rest of the talking on my behalf.

‘This is a contrite young man…’ she said at one point. I was rather pleased with the ‘young’.

She appealed to them to give me a conditional discharge, but after consulting among themselves (a matter of 2 minutes), the magistrates said the amount of the overpayment made that impossible. So I got the curfew and the tag.

After the session, I wandered around Soho in a daze. I called my parents from the Coach & Horses. They were sitting by the phone with their stomachs in knots, of course. I’m not proud.

I considered keeping the whole thing a secret and inventing an excuse for not being able to attend my own club night on August 4th. But I soon ditched that idea as unworkable: far easier to just be honest. So the last few days I’ve been repeating the same words to shocked friends. I’m not quite bored with it all yet, but it’s getting there.

Night 1: Consolatory drinks at the Arts Club with Charlie M and her friends. No tag, but best not to risk it. Back home by nine. Typing up the same answers again and again to people on Facebook. Feels like coming out: you have to keep telling people until everyone you’ve ever known knows. At least Joe off the X Factor does it on the front page of the Sun. Maybe I should just take out an ad in Court Circulars.

Night 2: Thursday. Emma Jackson’s birthday drinks at the Flask in Highgate. Try hard to not make the inevitable answer to ‘What have you been up to lately?’ upstage the birthday girl’s bash. Back home by nine. A woman from the tagging company comes round at quarter to midnight. She gets down on her knees to measure my ankle and fit the tag. I think of scenes from the life of Christ.

Night 3: Friday. Am getting used to walking around with the tag. By a weird coincidence, I lost the feeling in one side of my left ankle last year. Nerve damage after an operation for varicose veins. So by putting the tag there, I can’t actually feel like anything’s changed. Not uncomfortable in the slightest.

I worry about the grey colour, though. It looks too ‘cool’. I am uneasy about appearing ‘cool’, and am careful to point this out when showing people the tag.

Ricky Gervais once suggested that the best way to stop youths collecting ASBOs as badges of honour would be to make the tag bright pink, with the words ‘Mummy’s Little Bender’ in a girlish font across it.

The back of the tagging firm’s leaflet says, in big and friendly lower case:

‘we are here to help you
if you need us – just call!!’

I stare at the double exclamation marks and think far too much about them.

It’s been a while since I was held through the night. No longer. Say hello to my little friend.

He’s moved in along with his Brother, GSM Site Monitoring Unit, and Sister Leaflet.

It’s all so stupid, and it’s all my fault.

A while ago I did some paid work while neglecting to tell the Department For Work And Pensions. I knew I wasn’t entitled to the full dole while it was going on, and suspected I could probably have claimed Back To Work Credits, or Working Tax Credits instead, or a bit of a both. But I did nothing.

Why? Sheer depressive ineptitude. On top of which – my therapist thinks – there’s a dark, childish part of me that wanted to get into trouble. In a rather cowardly, pathetic, defaulter’s way. No action needed. A sin of omission. A cry for help. Society will come to me. And it will hold onto me. I walk through this world in a dream stance. Finally, I have physical proof it exists.

Certainly it wasn’t an attempt to knowingly defraud the system to my own advantage. I’m stupid, but not THAT stupid. While working, I was paying proper tax on the wages, and even I knew that this would show up against my NI number on the government computers. Then they’d sort things out for me, I assumed. They’ll work it out, and I’ll probably have to pay back an overpayment. I can’t think straight enough to sort out my benefits, said the depression, but they will.  They’ll take care of it.

Except by that time I’d run up an overpayment of more than £2000. And it turns out the DWP instantly prosecutes for debts above this amount, even when they’re being paid back.

Which is why this Wednesday I found myself in the City Of Westminster Magistrates’ Court on Horseferry Road, with a legal aid lawyer, pleading guilty to inadvertent benefit fraud.

I didn’t think it’d go as far as an actual punishment. It’s my first ever time in trouble with the law, at the age of 38. I was rather hoping for a conditional discharge, a caution, a fine, and a stern instruction to sort my life out.

To help my case, I provided the court with letters proving a history of clinical depression, for which I’m currently undergoing treatment. A letter from a mental health advocate from the charity Mind. A prescription of 20mg Citalopram daily. An hour with an NHS therapist every Wednesday morning. A certificate from the Expert Patient Programme which I went on earlier this year, which provides help and training in managing one’s long-term illnesses. Regular meetings with a supervisor from the NHS Working For Health programme, who specialises in finding jobs for people like me. She also ensures I’m claiming the right benefits at the right time. From now on.

Added to which, I was already paying back the overpayment. And I was contrite, I was sorry, I was showing remorse (just try and stop me), I was of ‘previously good character’, and I was pleading guilty. All of which pleased the magistrates. But, they said, the amount of the debt still meant a conviction with punishment. No exceptions.

Unpaid community work wasn’t an option, as I’d proven myself to be (a) rather bad at holding down regular work of any kind, and (b) clearly a fragile, child-like, sociopathic sort that makes darts pause in mid-flight. In fact, a tagged curfew was the most lenient option they could give me. The litter patrol was the next step up.

I’d gotten off lightly, they said. You’re lucky. You won’t hear from us again. Just stick to the curfew and it’ll be over. Well, except for the small matter of acquiring a criminal record. But, they assured me, it’s a statutory offence, not a dishonest one. That distinction should make things easier when applying for work, or getting into foreign countries. In theory.

They also fined me £100 for legal costs. And I still have to pay back all of the overpayment.

Last night, at quarter to midnight, a woman from a security firm wearing crime-scene forensic gloves came round to fit the tag. It’s waterproof, so I can bathe and shower in it. I just have to be at home from 9pm to 6am every night from now till August 25th.

I’m fine. Just angry with myself. And unbelievably sorry. I’m sorry to the authorities and the lawyers for taking up their time with this pettiness. I’m sorry to my loving and endlessly supportive parents for putting them through it too. And I’m sorry to the performers, staff and audience at my club night next Weds, who are now going to have to manage without the host and promoter. More of which in the next entry.

The security firm has me down as ‘Richards Edwards’ (sic). Somehow, that’s the most annoying aspect.

Monday eve. To the Gallery at Stoke Newington Library, for a private view with performances. And free Pimms and nibbles, which helps. Suzi L there too.

The gallery is a white-walled village hall shape, with its own surprisingly in-tune piano. I take a fancy to various photographs by Beth Thorne, Francis Brooks and Karin Nilsson, plus a rather good painting of a moose by an artist whose name escapes me.

One woman there is disappointed that I’m not the rich art collector that she assumed I was, given the way I dress (white suit and silk scarf today, 28 degrees C). I’m disappointed I’m not a rich art collector either, frankly. Certainly the minute My Ship Comes In, I’ll spend the surplus on art, rather than classic cars or second homes. Thankfully Beth makes 60p postcards of her work (available from www.lilyfrancis.co.uk), which is really what all artists should do from the off. It’s not real art till it’s on a postcard.

The performers include Vicky Butterfly, in jaw-droppingly beautiful burlesque mode: red petals, dancer’s ribbon, Mercury wing headpieces, Salome beads and straps. Her backing music is a piano instrumental of the Pixies’ ‘Where Is My Mind?’ I always tell people with knee-jerk prejudices about burlesque to go and see Vicky Butterfly first.

Also: an acoustic set from Harmony Boucher, a strikingly beautiful androgynous girl from Australia. Incredibly rich singing voice and stage presence. I happened to see her band a couple of weeks ago while I was running my club, Against Nature. They were playing the noisy indie night next door. Although I’m unlikely to enjoy indie bands these days, I have to admit they impressed me: colourful melodies, sparkling invention, infectious enthusiasm and self-belief. Only problem is their name: Bunny Come.

Still, after a while band names are upstaged by the band’s music, if it’s any good, and the name’s meaning dissolves away. I suppose Bunny Come is no less of a hindrance than Does It Offend You Yeah?, or indeed Selfish C***, both of whom managed to go places. Prefab Sprout are very much a wonderful band with an terrible name. As it is, it could be argued that all band names are embarrassing per se. Or, indeed, that all bands are embarrassing per se. So much about being in a band is just pulling off the appearance of confidence in the face of embarrassment. On paper, Keith Richards is a ludicrous man. U2 are ludicrous people. Anyone who does anything creative or gets on a stage is ludicrous. It’s Ludicrous Poppy Syndrome. The band I, Ludicrous had the most honest name in the history of music.

Completing the confidence over ludicrousness trick is an acoustic set from Kingfishers Catch Fire. William – also one of Beth Thorne’s photo models – on guitar and new member Hinako on tinkly piano. All very impressive in the Nick Drake & Kate Bush corner of things. They cover La Roux’s ‘In For The Kill’, and make it sound like This Mortal Coil’s ‘Song To The Siren’. It’s that good. But covers always worry me. I go up to William afterwards and warn him of the dangers: do a cover version too well and it can make whole groups into one-hit novelty wonders. I think of Candyflip’s baggy take on ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ (WHY do they spring to mind?) or that one who did ‘Mad World’ by Tears For Fears. Him. Or them. Whoever it was. If they ever had any songs of their own, too bad. Filed away with the one song, the focus forever pulled. Happened with Orlando a little, too. We covered Bacharach & David’s ‘Reach Out For Me’ at a few gigs. Cue people coming up to us afterwards.

‘That ‘Reach Out For Me’… That’s the best song you’ve ever written!’

Can’t believe how much time has elapsed since the last entry. If nothing else, putting on a club night forces me to connect with the real world and stops me spiralling into Olympic lethargy.

When organising things via email, I have found that a sound engineer often signs off with ‘cheers mate’, while a promotions officer tends to add little ‘x’s, even though I am not the former’s mate or the latter’s lover. PRs offering kisses sight unseen makes sense, but I wonder why more sound engineers can’t put kisses in their signature too. Heavy lifting shouldn’t necessarily preclude lightness of touch.

I once knew a camp young man who did the sound at a gig venue. He was sacked for apparently not doing a good enough job. Only thing was, his replacement, a more butch, blokier gentleman who favoured tour t-shirts and was no stranger to the phrase ‘you can really taste the hops’, didn’t make the PA sound any better, at least not to my ears. It was neither engineer’s fault: like so many small venue PAs, the sound system was a cheap mess of battered speakers, broken cables and dented microphones stinking of a hundred amateur singers’ gingivitis. There was only so much one could do. The venue manager just wanted to employ someone who looked more like a sound engineer, that was all. All jobs are acting jobs.

All of which leads me to an extremely late plug for tonight’s Against Nature. Here’s the details. I’ve worked out that I need 36 people turning up and paying full price in order to break even. Watch this space tomorrow to find out if I succeed. Better still, come along.

***
AGAINST NATURE
WEDS 7TH JULY 2010
A speakeasy for dressed-up dandies and vintage vamps. DJs provide a rococo mix of easy listening, showtunes, and exotic pop, punctuated by silent movies, eccentric bands and unconventional cabaret.

Performing live this month:

TOM ALLEN
The laconic comedian and star of ‘Bleak Expectations’ airs material from his new Edinburgh show, ‘Toughens Up’. http://www.tomindeed.com/

MR MISTRESS
Gender-blurring star of the boy-lesque scene, performing two separate acts.
http://www.myspace.com/cabaretwhore

OPHELIA BITZ
Performing as her alter ego, Mavarotti. Winner of the UK’s annual drag king contest, King Of The Castle. http://www.myspace.com/opheliabitz

Plus guest DJs SOPHIA WYETH and host DICKON EDWARDS

Doors 8pm.
Live acts 9.30pm-11.45pm.
Dancing to 1am.
Door charge: £5 before 10pm. £7 after.

DRESS CODE (optional but preferred): Vintage & dandy-esque.

VENUE:
Proud Camden (South Gallery)
The Horse Hospital, Stables Market, Chalk Farm Rd, London NW1 8AH.
Tel: 020 7482 3867.
http://www.proudcamden.com/

Tuesday, 25th May. I take a towel with me on my typical peregrinations around London. It’s to mark Towel Day, the international celebration of author Douglas Adams.

More info on Towel Day at towelday.org

I start at Highgate Cemetery, just up the road from where I live. Mr Adams’s grave is covered in little offerings from fans. Pens, mostly, stuck into the ground.

(Am typing this up on Sunday, staying with Mum & Dad in Suffolk. Dad reminds me that there’s a passage about a planet of lost Biros in The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy. So that explains the pens.)

The towel I’m carrying is one of those sci-fi Lifeventure ones you can buy in camping shops. Light, compact, and it doesn’t become smelly. Being the technology buff he was, I thought Mr A would approve.

On a hot sunny day like this, walking around Highgate with a towel isn’t actually so unlikely. The cemetery is a short walk from Hampstead Heath, with its popular Mens’ and Womens’ ponds. Plenty of flip-flops and shorts on view today. Though admittedly, not on me: I’m using the towel to accessorize a linen suit and tie.

I’d like to say the towel’s getting me funny looks in the street, but with me it’s hard to tell.

Douglas Adams died in 2001 at the age of 49. That’s young enough, but the gravestone immediately to the right of Mr A’s puts these thoughts into perspective. ‘Eddie Steele Rosen. June 1980 – April 1999’.

Eddie was the son of the children’s author and poet Michael Rosen. After his death from meningitis, Mr Rosen wrote an account of his grief, accessible to young readers. Titled ‘The Sad Book’, and illustrated by Quentin Blake, it is beautiful, moving, and quite unique. Amazon link.

I walk around the cemetry and notice a few other recent-looking graves. Jeremy Beadle’s memorial is a bookcase, and he’s labelled for posterity as ‘Writer, Presenter, Curator Of Oddities. Ask My Friends’. Most people who recognise the name Jeremy Beadle would associate him first and foremost with ‘Game For A Laugh’ and ‘Beadle’s About’, rather than his huge collection of books or his work as a writer. But memorials are paid for by individuals, not by the masses. Like the ostentatious mausoleum of Julius Beer elsewhere in the cemetery, they can sometimes be final acts of defiance: pitting the private self-image against the public reputation.

Further along from Mr Beadle: another prankster of a kind. Malcolm McClaren, his grave freshly dug. The stone is topped off with the ‘MM’ coat of arms from the film ‘The Great Rock And Roll Swindle’.

(Forgot to get my towel into shot for these two.)

3pm. I move onto St Pancras station and place my towel over one of the many sculptures of elephants dotted around London at the moment. They’re to raise awareness of the plight of the Asian Elephant (More info at www.elephantparadelondon.org). This one is called ‘Dandi-phant’, and is decorated with images of dandelion seeds against a blue sky. Rather neatly, my towel matches it.

4pm, St Pancras Station, Gawper’s Bench. Being the name Ms S & I gave to the bench in Costa Coffee directly opposite the Eurostar Arrivals gate. Here one can sit for hours, munch away on a triangular slice of Chocolate Tiffin, and contemplate the miracle of the Channel Tunnel, that dream of Europeans for centuries. Or just eye up all the French and Belgian people getting off the train. I love the idea of the first London thing they see being me with a towel.

5pm. British Library cafe. Plus towel.

6pm. St Martin’s Lane. Another one of those elephants, ‘Figgy’. Plus towel.

6.15pm. Adelaide Street. Maggi Hambling’s Oscar Wilde sculpture. Plus towel.

6.30pm. Trafalgar Square. The current Fourth Plinth occupant: Yinka Shonibare’s ship in a bottle. Plus towel.

7.30pm. The London Library, St James’s Square, Piccadilly. Specifically the North Bay Reading Room. Even more specifically, the Rose Macaulay Memorial Corner. Plus towel.

Note my current selection of Library titles. Top of the pile is Douglas Adams’s ‘Last Chance To See’, for obvious reasons. The others are typical of the rare works one can borrow from the LL.

– ‘Creation Revisited’ by Pete Atkins. Praised by Richard Dawkins in ‘The God Delusion’.
– ‘The Poetic Museum’ by Julian Spalding. A personal account of the whole point of museums, how museums ‘work’, and the path of museums for the future.
– ‘Janet’s Last Book’ by Allan Ahlberg. A privately-printed book by the children’s author, dedicated to his late wife.
– ‘The Book of Masks: French Symbolist and Decadent Writing of the 1890s’ edited by Andrew Mangravite.

8.30pm. The Cross Kings venue, York Way, King’s Cross.  Wasim Ki. Plus towel.

11.30pm. Royal Vauxhall Tavern, Vauxhall. Bar Wotever. Debbie Smith. Plus towel.

1.30am. Bus stop, near Vauxhall Station. A couple from Bar Wotever, who chatted with me while we waited for buses. I give them one of my business cards with ‘flaneur’ as my occupation. Plus towel.

The first Against Nature took place without any deaths. The acts were all splendid, and it was lovely to see so many friends, many of whom I’d not seen for a while.

My main obstacle was simply getting a decent crowd to turn up. There were 35 paying people, which looked a bit sparse in a room with a capacity of 200, but then that was 35 more than I’d expected. It had, after all, only been booked with ten days to go.

The deal with the venue was that, on top of them taking the money from the bar, I had to also give them a flat fee of £50 from the door takings. In return, I got the room (a 200-year-old former horse hospital), with its own staffed bar and toilets and a fairly good-sounding PA with mics (though one or two of the cables were faulty and had to be replaced on the night), CD decks and a DJ mixer, a DVD player & screen, a dressing room, extra tables and chairs specially laid out, a security guard, a cashbox and float, and their PR services. They could also provide a sound engineer and door person, but I’d have to pay them extra. So I found ones who would do it for next to nothing. Or, as it turned out, for nothing.

The rest of the door takings I divided up among the acts and guest DJ. It was awkward to have to pay The Rude Mechanicals (who had to bring in all their amps and drums), Moonfish Rhumba, DJ Ally Moss and Barry & Stuart rather less than they usually get – B&S present their own TV shows on Channel 4, after all. But I hope they understood.

Thankfully Tricity Vogue did her set for free, as a belated (or early) birthday present for me. Ms Del Des Anges did sound tech duties gratis as a favour (and we both had to butch up and set up the PA from scratch, which was a shock), and Sarah Heenan took money on the door – in the cold outside – purely out of the goodness of her divine heart. I’m utterly grateful to them all.

I took no cash for myself. In fact, I lost money; through buying drinks for acts (the venue only provides free non-alcoholic drinks), buying a few props (silk petals, scented candles), and investing in my own DI box for the PA. Unless it becomes a sell-out night, Against Nature is going to be a pay-to-promote affair.

So, why am I bothering?

Because I get the chance to put on my favourite acts, sharing them with the world. Because coming up in July is a bill featuring a drag king singer and a ‘boy-lesque’ performance artist, alongside an eccentric indie band and a camp Eddie Izzard-esque comedian. I am confident there is nowhere else in the known universe with such a bill. If creativity is about Adding Unique Content, club promotion too can be a creative act.

And I’m doing it because I like the idea of carving out a little corner of Camden Town that is Dickon-shaped, for one night a month till September, if not forever.

And because, all the fiddly bits aside, it is Fun. I like Fun. I don’t know about you (I must stop saying this).

I shall definitely do it until September 1st. After that, either the venue will kick me out for not being fabulous enough, or I’ll find it too expensive or stressful or time-consuming to keep doing. Only one way to find out.

The experience has left me with a newfound respect for promoters and PR people at every level. It’s hard enough to persuade friends to come along to your event, let alone strangers.

In many ways, I am just the sort of person ill-suited to club promotion: I’m aloof, passive, stand-offish, lazy, and do not regard myself as a normal member of the human race. I believe the best way to persuade people to do things is to leave them alone and just… live in hope.

Perversely, I believe this is exactly why I should have a go at club promotion.

But Kevin Costner lied to me. If you book it, they will not necessarily come. You have to tell people. And tell them, and tell them, and tell them. It’s such a leap of faith.

I have also learned that the Facebook Events utility can be misleading. The FB event page for the May 5th night said 139 people had ‘Confirmed’ they were attending. Foolishly, I believed this would actually would be the case on the night. But then, more than a few of those who’d ‘Confirmed’ appeared to be near-naked young men and women, with model looks, perfect bodies and addresses in the Philippines. Looking further, their own list of FB friends seemed to be suspiciously meagre. I have learned that it you book it, there will be spam.

This time I’ve managed to inform about 20 different listings organisations, and have had posters and flyers printed. They look like this:

(Designed by Jo Bevan, image found by Maud Young: more favours from friends)

If you know of somewhere in London which would display a poster or provide a space for a small pile of flyers, please do get in touch.

Finally, here’s the listing for the next Against Nature, on June 2nd. Please pass it on. The live acts are superb and unique, and they really, really deserve an audience.

AGAINST NATURE
Weds June 2nd, 8pm to 1am.
Proud Camden (South Gallery),
The Horse Hospital, Stables Market,
Chalk Farm Rd, London NW1 8AH.
Tel: 020 7482 3867.
http://www.proudcamden.com/

Dickon Edwards (Beautiful & Damned, Latitude) curates a twisted speakeasy for dressed-up dandies and vintage vamps. Dance to a decadent mix of easy listening, showtunes, pastiche pop, and all that deviant jazz. Plus a suitably eclectic yet aesthetic gaggle of live acts. Every first Weds of the month in Proud Camden’s South Gallery.

LIVE ON WEDS JUNE 2ND:

THE MYSTERY FAX MACHINE ORCHESTRA
Singer-songwriter Martin White’s 20-piece ensemble, as featured on BBC4’s ‘Nerdstock’. “Wonderfully eccentric” – Time Out London.
www.themysteryfaxmachineorchestra.com

THE VICHY GOVERNMENT
Polemic spoken-word synthpop, purveyors of such albums as ‘Carrion Camping’.
www.thevichygovernment.com

CRIMSON SKYE
Burlesque performer of questionable sanity, fresh from her appearance as a guest star judge in this year’s Tournament of Tease.
MySpace: Crimson Skye

JINGO & BUTTERFIELD’S TALES OF THE EMPIRE
Victorian-themed improvised comedy, courtesy Fat Kitten Improv’s James Ross and Daniel Barker. Ripping yarns and tales of derring-do from the four corners of the globe.
Facebook: Fat Kitten Improv

Guest DJ: SOPHIA WYETH

Plus resident DJ & host DICKON EDWARDS

Doors 8pm.
Live acts 9.30pm-11.45pm.
Dancing to 1am.

I’ve put up a batch of even cheaper tickets at WeGotTickets.com
Door charge: £5 before 10pm. £7 after.

NB: Latecomers may have to wait until an intermission between live acts.

DRESS CODE (optional but preferred): Vintage & dandy-esque.

Facebook Event page

To the Roxy on Borough High Steet with Ms Shanthi and her friends Helen & Matthew. It’s a rather cosy lounge bar with sofas and a proper-sized cinema screen at one end, and it hosts all kinds of film events, art house and popcorn alike. Although there’s a membership scheme, you can just turn up and pay on the door. If I lived closer, I’d make it my local.

Tonight’s event is a screening of Patrick Keiller’s 1994 film ‘London’, with a Q&A from the director. It’s followed by the premiere of a similarly themed art piece, ‘LON24’, by The Light Surgeons.

‘LON24’ was made to be part of an installation at the newly refurbished Museum Of London, and is a giddy parade of very up-to-date images: distributors of free newspapers on the street, the Gherkin at sunrise, people getting in and out of modern buses and tube trains, and so on. It does use a lot of ‘Koyaanisqatsi’ style timelapse effects, though, which I find distancing. The slow and static style of Patrick Keiller’s films, coupled with their wordy narration by Paul Schofield, may render them relatively obscure and difficult to market, but it also makes them more personal; which I like.

Funny how speeded-up footage always feels anonymous, and never the work of one particular artist.

Well, unless it’s Benny Hill.

***
Although it’s been a while since his last film, ‘Robinson In Space’, Mr Keiller mentions that he’s in the editing stage of another: ‘Robinson In Ruins’. It was made during 2008, and covers rural areas of Britain that year.

‘I was asked to give it a… “tag line”, he says drily, wincing at the phrase. ‘So I supplied the following:

“A marginal individual sets out to trigger the collapse of neo-liberalism by going on a walk.”‘

He was going to make ‘London’ in black & white, but plumped for colour because ‘it brings out irony much better’.

With a nice sense of symmetry, ‘London’ covers the city from the perspective of fictional flaneur Robinson, and happened to be made in 1992, so we get his angry feelings before and after that year’s general election. It was the last time the Conservatives won until May 2010. And so here we are again.

Aspects of 1992 that ‘London’ reminds me about: the last sighting of bowler hats on older City workers, a Concorde flying over Heathrow, and the old Routemaster buses – although this week’s news says they’re coming back, with a sleek and futuristic redesign.

Most of all, though, I’d forgotten just how regular the IRA bombs were. The film features three: the major one in the City that blew out the windows of several skyscrapers, but also one on Wandsworth Common and one at B&Q in Staples Corner. As the narrator says, Londoners were so used to the devices by now, there were sometimes eight explosions in a single week that year, and people didn’t turn a hair. Even when the bombs actually killed people. There’s also an Eddie Izzard routine from about the same time where he remarks how Tube travellers just shrug at such news and re-jig their route home in their heads.

A London where eight bomb explosions in a week was no big deal. Today, it feels as distant as the Blitz.