If you’ve never seen the video for Fionn Regan’s ‘Be Good Or Be Gone’, please do so now. Such a simple idea, so brilliantly realised. A perfect example of how to do something when you have little money, but lots of time.

And yes, I did say to him, ‘It must have taken ages to make…’ I bet he’s never heard that before…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pj66XgK3NvE

Sunday June 29th:

Day of the Liam Clancy concert in Greenwich Village. Venue is The Bitter End on Bleecker Street (between Thompson and LaGuardia, as they say). I manage to get Shane down to the Waldorf lobby in time for the scheduled lift to the venue, only to find Shane’s not the last one for once – Gemma Hayes emerges slightly later. So it’s official – Gemma Hayes is  more rock and roll than Shane MacGowan. By about two and a half minutes. We’re also accompanied by fellow guest singers Eric Bibb and Fionn Regan, whose song ‘Be Good Or Be Gone’ I’m rather a fan of. Immaculately dressed in black (velvet jacket, I think) and tousled of hair, he has the air of a young Donovan.

As it turns out, our group is the first one to arrive – the van with Liam Clancy and others is caught up in today’s Gay Pride March, while our driver manages to avoid it altogether. So not only do I fulfill my duty in getting Mr MacG to the soundcheck on time, but he’s actually one of the first performers to turn up.

Shane spends a lot of time backstage going over the lyrics to the songs he’s doing: ‘Red Is The Rose’ and ‘The Parting Glass’. At one point in the tiny dressing room (soundtracked by the clattering of the bar’s ice machine) some of Liam C’s band are working out the finer points of ‘The Broad Majestic Shannon’. Shane leans over and says, ‘Why don’t you ask ME?’. He wrote it.

While the film crew set up, I gaze around at the posters of ancient shows and photos of the many legendary names who’ve played the venue. Stevie Wonder, Woody Allen, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell etc. It’s New York’s longest running rock club. At the soundcheck I meet Tom Paxton, who is avuncular and funny and points up to one particular vintage poster on the wall. ‘This Week At The Bitter End: Joan Baez. Next Week: Tom Paxton’. It’s clearly from the early 60s. He first played here forty-eight years ago.

I’m also introduced to the club’s owner Paul Colby, who’s been running the Bitter End since 1968. He must be one of the oldest people there – I later find out he was born in 1917. Mr Colby looks at my suit and says ‘Ah, don’t forget you mustn’t wear white after Labour Day’. Liam Clancy himself is in his 70s but going on so much younger. His energy and spirit during the concert are really rather astounding. The filming goes on for some time, taking in three full sets, yet Mr C doesn’t seem to flag for a moment, very much possessed by his music. His band and all the guest singers are on top form, particularly Odetta – who was an influence on Dylan. And to think CBGB’s has come and gone since. New Wave? Lightweights.

Even though it’s a TV recording first and a concert second, the audience sing along freely and warmly, in the proper Irish folk tradition. The crowd range from Mr Clancy’s generation – in their 60s and 70s – down to young NY socialites and party girls, like the model Friday Chamberlain. The placed is packed, and Ms Chamberlain tells me she was offered $100 for relinquishing her seat at the bar. Shane comes on at the end, and sings ‘Dirty Old Town’ and ‘The Irish Rover’ alongside the Clancy numbers. When Shane steps up to the mic, the lady TV producer comes over to me, kisses me on the cheek, and tells me ‘you rock!’. I’ve done my bit: Shane’s made it here after all. Then all the guests unite for a finale of ‘Will Ye Go Lassie, Go’.

Afterwards, Shane hangs around to meet a few fans, including Tony O’Neill, who’s from an Irish family and recognises far more of the set list than I do. He was brought up on songs like ‘The Wild Rover’.

I end up with Shane, Mr Keane and many of the crew in an all-night Irish bar called Swift’s, on East 4th Street between Broadway and Bowery (you can tell I keep notes). There’s a table in the corner where various musicians sit down and improvise together in the Irish folk style – some are from Liam C’s band, some are regulars at the bar. Shane even gets up to dance. Close to 6am, I’m visibly falling asleep mid conversation and am grateful when we all emerge blinking into the dawn.

Monday 30th June.

I get an unexpected extra afternoon in New York, as Shane can’t face travelling back so soon after the show. It’s not nearly as hot as it was on the Saturday, so I decide to walk into town as far as my feet will take me. I start at the Waldorf and eventually end up outside the enormous ‘Met’ museum of art. Which turns out to be closed on Mondays. Oops. Still, it looks nice from the outside. Story of my life.

En route I take a look at Madison Avenue, Columbus Circle, Central Park (with its maze-like ‘Ramble’ in the middle, The Lake, the huge rocks that students perch on like seabirds, the Belvedere Castle (I do love the word ‘Belvedere’), the Dakota Building, Strawberry Fields and the Lennon memorial, and the Natural History museum, with its muted lighting, merciful air conditioning, and stunning array of animal dioramas. Something of a contrast to the London NHM, which much as I love it, could use a bit more darkness. I think having windowless, darkened halls with lit-up displays definitely improves the museum experience. Perhaps it’s to do with the way senses are heightened at night, or the association with going to the cinema, or even storytelling around a campfire. It’s easier to pay attention in the dark.

(Am now trying to pare down my NY reports to notes and highlights only. Still not brief enough, I know. But stick with me, there’s photos at the end…)

FRIDAY JUNE 27th – conclusion.

9pm. Collected at JFK airport by Moira from the film crew, along with local driver Sydney, a charming, wiry – and wry – black gentleman of a certain vintage, in his people carrier. His radio is permanently tuned to a channel playing big band numbers: Sinatra et al, so this soundtracks the famous skyline looming into view. Which is, of course, exactly what I want.

First spotted detail of non-London-ness: road signs at junctions warning $350 penalties for sounding your horn. ‘I want to wake up in a city that always beeps…’ How is this enforced, though? Speed microphones?

Also: yellow taxis carring adverts on their roof fins, today for the movie ‘Wanted’, starring James McAvoy. So the first face I see in NYC is Narnia’s Mr Tumnus, with a six pack and a gun.

Check in at the Waldorf: plush beyond plush. There’s a series of huge lobbies and hallways you have to walk through before you even get to the main reception, which itself is like a 1930s Deco railway terminal. Good enough for Cole Porter, good enough for us. Rest of the evening (by now 10pm) spent in the lobby bar with Shane, Mr John from the Boogaloo (how strange it is to go halfway around the world and then be tapped on the shoulder by someone from your local pub) and Liam Clancy, plus the film crew. Shane back onto his White Russians. Liam Clancy says, ‘So your mother’s getting an MBE…?’

SAT JUNE 28th:

Morning: I wander outside. The heat hits me full in the face as soon as I leave the Waldorf doors, and I feel I can barely stand about 30 mins outside in the sunshine. Walk towards the Chrysler to get a close look – no signs of ghostbusters or winged serpents… Suddenly find myself next to Grand Central Station, so in I go.

By Grand Central Station I stood around and gawped. The recently restored concourse ceiling is incredible – zodiac signs, constellations. Why aren’t all railway stations like this? A temple to travelling, a celebration of escape, or the joy of arrival.

Afternoon: After the usual postponing and nagging, I eventually prise Shane out of his room and down to his first filmed appointment: singing and chatting with Liam C in the Waldorf’s Marco Polo Room. After that he seems happy to hang out in his suite with BP Fallon, DJ, photographer and something of an Irish rock ‘n’ roll Character, with a capital C. So I have a night off. What to do? Where to start? I need a guide.

I email Tony O’Neill, a friend since his days as keyboardist with Kenickie, Marc Almond et al, and who’s now an acclaimed author (latest novel Down And Out On Murder Mile, soon to be out on Harper Perennial). I know he lives in NY, and though we’ve remained in email contact, I haven’t seen him since a Crouch End party in about 2000 – a party which features in the aforementioned novel. ‘Hello Tony, er, I’m suddenly in town and tonight is probably my only free night here. Can you drop everything and come out and meet me?’

I’m in luck, and infinitely grateful. Tony and his wife Vanessa meet me at the hotel and offer me a tour of city bars. Do I want the posh side with the sights and the skyscrapers, or the seedier – admittedly artily seedy – Lower East Side, of Quentin Crisp and CBGBs fame?

I feel the Waldorf is splendour enough for one weekend, so off we go to (hope I’ve got this right): the Max Fisch bar on Ludlow (where the jukebox plays Journey, Foreigner and Air Supply – all of whom are apparently now cool), the wonderfully decrepit Mars Bar, The Pyramid (80s disco – where I’m told off for NOT dancing to Kim Wilde. Duran vids on rotation, ‘Lovecats’ fills the floor), The Cock (dark gay seediness – toilet door open to the dance floor to prevent naughtiness) and another called Sofie’s.

We also stop by CBGB’s, now a bookshop advertising a volume of rock photos with Sid Vicious on the front. And we pass the diner where Quentin Crisp used to eat every day. Or rather, the spot where it used to be: it’s moved across the road. This is typical Dickon The Tourist stuff – visiting places that aren’t what they used to be, or even where they used to be.

At one stage we walk down a side avenue straight out of Will Eisner, all fire escapes, low-rise blocks and rats jumping off beer crates to run across our path. Unlike their London counterparts, who tend to keep their distance from humans, these rodents aren’t yielding for anyone. ‘Typical New Yorkers,’ says Tony.

I rather like mice and rats. And I don’t even mind cockroaches. It’s just spiders and snakes I get upset about. Snakes can get knotted.

(Can’t decide whether that last sentence is terribly witty or just terrible.)

Second biggest detail of non-London-ness: having to show ID to gain entrance in all the bars. I’ve left my passport at the hotel, but for the most part the various bar staff and bouncers let me off, once they hear me say (in my best Hugh Grant voice) that I’m English and I just didn’t know. Terribly sorry, first time in the States don’t you know, splendid city you have here, have you seen Four Weddings, etc…  I still have to answer ‘What year were you born, and where?’. For the first time in nearly twenty years. The only bar that turns me away is Niagra, on 2nd Avenue.

Tony says the idea is less about proving one’s age, more about weeding out the sort of people who don’t carry ID. Or who forget to bring it. It’s a more psychological intent: to associate drinking with seriousness and responsibility. Given UK adverts for alcohol now carry the message ‘please drink responsibly’, without much effect on the binge drinking statistics, I wonder how long it’ll be before Britain follows suit.

But maybe there’s something in this measure towards a more conscious – if not more sober – kind of drinking. We end the bar crawl sensibly, ie as soon as we realise we’re getting to the stage of drunkenness where amnesia or severe hangovers is likely to kick in.

Third detail of otherness – you have to tip the bartender. Over the weekend I have this little ritual explained to me three times. But I still either over-tip, or under-tip, or haven’t the change to tip at all. I am useless when it comes to money matters as it is. In other countries, doubly so.

***

Some photos courtesy Mr O’Neill.

Tony, Vanessa and self at the Mars Bar:

Eighties dancing at the Pyramid, probably to Billy Idol at this point:

Ye Olde CBGB’s, now flogging a dead Sid:

And a Bowery-parked vehicle covered in images from rock album sleeves. Who lives in a van like this?

Friday continued.

So having justified my upgraded presence as the difference between Mr MacG getting to his show and not getting there, I enjoy my first time in First Class. Which in this instance includes silver service meals and – oh joy – Afternoon Tea with scones. Plus the Aer Lingus Premier Class Toiletries Pack, the highlight of which is a tube of L’Occitane Ultra Riche face cream. Shane lets me have his.

I sit back, grateful for the extra leg room and general pampering, and watch the airline version of ‘Michael Clayton’. An excellent film, if slightly marred by the censoring required for in-flight movies. One particularly clumsy moment comes during Tom Wilkinson’s remarkable performance as a lawyer who plunges (or ascends) into a seeing-the-light style of madness, reminiscent of Peter Finch in ‘Network’.

‘… An hour later, I’m in a BROTHEL in Chelsea and two Lithuanian redheads are taking turns KISSING ME.’

The words ‘brothel’ and ‘kissing’ are not only dubbed over something much stronger, but the voice doing the dubbing is clearly not Tom Wilkinson’s. Not by a long shot.

I’ve never understood this aspect of air travel. You pay all that money for a plane ticket, you’re defying the forces of nature, you’re living the dream of your ancestors, and yet you’re still not allowed to hear a single swear word. Not even on headphones.

***

Staying alcohol-free on the flight in order to reassure the cabin crew, I think of a quote by Jeffrey Bernard, when he sacked his accountant for drunkenness:

‘One of us has to stay sober. It sure as hell isn’t going to be me.’

***

In America. We’re at JFK, waiting in the queue for Immigration. The mother of the pleasant family standing behind us behind recognises Shane, and thanks him for all the pleasure his music has given them. I hope this bodes well for our being allowed into the country. I think of Sebastian Horsley recently turned away on account of ‘moral turpitude’ (I see Mr H has made the Wikipedia entry on the phrase: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moral_turpitude). But I also think of tales of certain zero-budget Sarah Records indie bands, refused entry for trying to pass themselves off as tourists, because the work visa needed for playing gigs was too expensive, or too awkward to organise in time. Carrying musical instruments alone was enough to get them turned away.

While we wait, Shane tells me he’s never had problems with Immigration in the past. He’s been to New York many times before. Well, there’s that song of his, isn’t there. Fairytale of.

He says the officials are often Irish-American, which helps. That’s it’s English old me who’s more likely to raise eyebrows. My appearance and voice is closer to Sebastian H than Shane MacG. I start to worry – as ever – and for a second I seriously wonder if I should attempt an Irish accent to help get me through. Then I think of Alan Partridge – ‘Dere’s More To Oireland Den Dis’ – and decide against it. Wisely.

But we go through with no problems at all. I have my face scanned by one of those little spherical cameras, and for the first time in my life I have my fingerprints taken. Seems a bit overly zealous, but I’m hardly going to complain at this stage. Inside leg measurement, DNA sample, I’m ready to give America whatever it wants. I’m all too English that way. And then we’re through. Another hoop.

As we pass, I note the young policeman’s name badge. Officer McCann.

(I’ve spent much of the past few days trying, and failing, to compress the NY trip into 500 words. It can’t be done. Well, not by me. Some stories refuse to be abridged. But I like a nice, rambling tale, the winding scenic route rather than the motorway. So I beg the reader’s indulgence on this one. What am I saying? I’m always begging the reader’s indulgence.)

Friday 27th June.

Beginning of the NY trip. I have been asked, at the shortest possible notice, to escort Shane MacGowan from Dublin to New York.

He’s agreed to be a guest singer at a gig in Greenwich Village on the Sunday, billed ‘Liam Clancy & Friends’. It’s to be filmed for DVD posterity, and it’s my duty to see he gets on the plane, turns up to the gig and to a filmed rehearsal and interview, then escort him safely back home. I also have to act as his unofficial assistant, though this is a duty that arises out of necessity more than anything else.

Fine with me. I’m happy to help. And more than happy to visit New York – and the USA – for the first time, not to mention first class seats on the planes, and a room at one of the most ornate and stylish hotels in the city – the Waldorf=Astoria. I’ll have my expenses paid at every step. All I have to do is look after Mr MacGowan, keep him happy, and keep those he deals with happy.

I say ‘all’…

This trip is so last minute that I don’t even know which airport I have to get to in order to make the Dublin rendezvous with Mr MacG. I have to await a phone call from the film company, the ones behind the Liam Clancy DVD.

Originally, Shane was meant to travel with his manager or a long-standing friend, but both can’t make it. Neither, it seems, can anyone else in the pool of his various associates. Illness, Glastonbury, expired passport, whatever. So it’s me they ask at half-past midnight on the Thursday night, if I can make a flight on Friday morning.

My only condition to Team Shane is that I must be back in Highgate by Wednesday evening. It’s my mother’s MBE investiture at Buckingham Palace on the Thursday. I can get out of most things, but not that.

The phone goes at 9am, and I receive my further instructions. My connecting flight is from Heathrow, and it leaves in two hours. Just as well I’m up, dressed, packed and ready. I panic somewhat en route, thinking I’ll never make the gate in time. But the combination of tube to Paddington, Heathrow Express, and those self-service check-in machines at the airport – plus a short delay in the flight itself, actually leaves me with an hour to spare. I really must stop worrying about these things.

The flight to Dublin has an unusually high ratio of screaming babies. At one bumpy point I hear screaming to the left of me and screaming to the right, like a midwifery Light Brigade. In fact, they create a curious stereo effect. There’s even a moment where the cries merge perfectly into phase with exactly the same pitch (B flat, possibly). It’s a pure, blanket, orange-coloured tone. I find this aural symmetry unexpectedly soothing, even nostalgic, reminding me of the days when you’d fall asleep in front of the TV to a test card whine. But it doesn’t last, and the babies break away back into Stockhausen-like dissonance.

Two thoughts:

1) Why is it that fairground rides have a child-spurning sign saying ‘You must be THIS high to get on’, but airplanes, which aren’t attached to anything on the ground and soar somewhat higher, do not?

2) Parents who bring screaming infants onto crowded planes full of nervous flyers should be strongly encouraged to slip their distressed offspring some kind of heavy, sleep-inducing draft (‘Thank You For Flying Herod Airlines…’). If this isn’t possible, maybe they could slip one to me. Triple vodka and tonic, say.

At Dublin airport, I experience the first measure taken to ensure Mr MacG gets on the plane: VIP Handling, Dublin style. This is actually a separate building away from the main airport, and I have to take a taxi out of the arrivals area to reach it. Inside, it’s like a small hotel. There’s a reception area where I sign in and show my passport, while my suitcase is taken to be put on the plane, in the manner of a hotel porter. I am all but saluted.  Then I’m led into a large private lounge, set aside purely for me and Mr MacG. Flat screen TV, tea & coffee, snacks, drinks bar, coffee tables, sofas.

In comes the man himself, worth so much money yet looking, well, like Shane MacGowan. Just as well, really. His jeans are covered in cigarette burns, and he’s swigging from a large and filthy plastic milk carton, containing something that’s doubtlessly not entirely milk. Prime suspect is Shane’s current favourite tipple – a large White Russian. Very large.

Soon a VIP Handling person comes to tell us our plane is boarding. We have to go through security like anyone else, except it’s our own personal security: a small room in the VIP block with the usual metal detector, switched on and staffed just for us two. No queues.

Then we’re escorted into a VIP Handling Taxi, driven to the departure gate, ushered up through a staff-only lift and corridors, shoved past the Economy passengers queuing at the gate (such a great feeling – airline-endorsed official queue jumping), and taken right up into the front part of the plane. Premier Class. Safe and sound.

Except not quite. I’m settling down in my seat thinking all is well, when the head of the Aer Lingus cabin crew comes over to me.

‘Mr Edwards? May I have a word?’

Like a naughty schoolboy, I am summoned to that dark little area by the cockpit where the crew live.

Mr Lingus lowers his voice to a stern whisper and actually wags his finger at me, reeling off his responsibilities as Cabin Crew Manager, his fears about Mr MacG, and why I must now reassure him then and there that There Will Be No Trouble. I clear my throat and deliver the Shane Will Be No Trouble, Honest speech, something I have a smattering of experience in, and in different languages too. I even offer to go without alcohol throughout the flight, if they’ll draw a blind eye (and a Premier Class blind eye at that) to letting Shane have everything he asks for.

I almost hear the ‘Dambuster’ theme swell when I get to the part about how it’s my purpose – and my priority – to keep everyone happy: Shane and the film company and Aer Lingus alike. This last point seems to properly allay his fears, and I’m allowed back to my seat. The plane takes off for New York with us on board. Thank God. One hoop jumped through.

As I settle back to refuse Premier Class champagne and ask for bottled water, I notice my stomach is in knots. It’s either anxiety about getting Shane through the various appointments ahead (Immigration next), or excitement about visiting NYC for the first time in my life. Probably both. Besides, champagne isn’t the best thing for an unsettled stomach.

Above: my crew pass from the Liam Clancy concert, which was the reason for the trip.
Below: boarding passes. Note scribbled-on upgrade, ensuring I’m seated next to Mr MacG. Which was the whole reason for my being there.

I didn’t take any photos on this trip. Took the camera, charged it with batteries, cleared space on the inner hard drive (digital cameras lack romance: I really want to say ‘loaded it with film’), but once I got there I just didn’t feel like snapping away. Hence the scans. I wonder now if this is through some kind of guilt, that I was really there to do a job – escorting Mr MacG to NYC and acting as his assistant – rather than be a tourist. Or whether it was to do with the fact that everywhere Shane went, strangers came up and asked to have their photo taken with him, and my ‘other people are your stunt doubles’ mode took over.

Ah well. You know what I look like. You know what he looks like. There’s photos of us together in the Tangier entries (Feb 2007, Dec 2005). What more do you want? You want photos of the new thing. Oh, how Western of you! You know what a guide in Tangier said to me? He wondered why Westerners can’t believe anything till they take a photograph of it. When they get to a wonderful sight, their reaction is not to just see it and enjoy the moment for itself, but to put a camera between themselves and the sight, to compromise the moment, to only believe it by recording it. And now they go to concerts with phone cameras to film it, even though they have paid to watch the concert in person. They are not watching the show, they are watching television.

And somewhere in there is the connection between developed nations with imperial pasts, and the undeveloped nations at their mercy. Never mind the law: possession is nine tenths of Western history. The possession of those who write it down or – better still – take cameras. The Western connection between seeing something nice, and wanting to own it. I think of those huge rooms at the V&A full of Victorian plaster casts of statues, towering columns and even doorways, from visits to foreign lands. ‘What a lovely statue you have here. Excuse me while I take a plaster cast… ‘

British history is meant to start when Julius Caesar wrote down his invasion plans. That always seemed rather unfair to me. But then, that’s the reason why I started this diary myself – to try and get one over on my own life, and on the passing of time. Write about it, tell the tale. That’ll teach it.

I also resent the power of photos over words, that were I to say ‘I saw Amy Winehouse today strangling a squirrel’, it wouldn’t have a fraction of the same power as my taking a photo of the incident and posting it here – it would probably even end up in a newspaper whether I gave permission or not, given the current media obsession with every tiny aspect of Ms W’s life. Who the hell do photos think they are?

All of which is probably more to do with my being a rubbish and forgetful photographer than anything else. Look, I just forgot to take photos, okay? I’ll make sure I’ll get some next time, assuming there is a next time. You never know with Mr MacGowan.

One thing I have learned from this is how to get to New York or anywhere else you want to go, with no money whatsoever.

1) Always keep your passport up to date and somewhere easy to find.
2) Be contactable.
3) Wait. Maybe years. But you’ll get there.

It worked for me in Japan in 1999 (playing guitar with Spearmint). Then Tangier in 2005, and now NYC.

** *

This Tristram Shandy-style digression isn’t entirely straying from the point. One of my most abiding sensations once the initial excitement of arriving in NYC had worn off was the sense of sheer pressure. That you’re supposed to see the sights, and you’re supposed to take photos. To not ‘waste’ the experience. To do the things you’re meant to do.

Which really means, to do the things other people expect you to do.

So no, I didn’t go to the top of the Empire State Building. And no, I didn’t visit the Statue of Liberty. I didn’t want to. Not at the time. You have to also remember I wasn’t expecting to be in New York at all, finding out on Thursday night just after midnight, and catching the Heathrow Express at 9am on the Friday morning. People who properly ‘do’ New York tend to plan it months in advance.

On the Sunday morning, I stayed in my hotel room and realised what I most wanted to do right then and there was watch the latest episode of Doctor Who. On my laptop, in my hotel room. So I did. Yet saying so seems a kind of obscenity, and one feels the need to go into a torrent (internet joke) of excuses. I didn’t watch anything else on TV while I was there. There was nothing on, anyway – just lots of endless news programmes about Mr Obama and Mr McCain  and some not terribly funny sitcom called How I Met Your Mother, starring the boy from Doogie Howser MD and Willow from Buffy. You’d have thought that turning on a TV in New York would mean instant access to the Simpsons or Curb Your Enthusiasm or The Wire, but they didn’t ever seem to be on.

If it helps, O cruel sightseeing-inclined reader, I WAS watching Doctor Who while eating breakfast. And it WAS at the Waldorf=Astoria hotel (note the double hyphen in the hotel name, often mistaken for an equals sign. Why do they have it? Because it looks nice.) And I DID have a Waldorf Salad, in the Waldorf. All while watching Doctor Who. That’s a stylish way of doing it, isn’t it?

Ironically, the episode in question – one of the most talked about TV episodes of anything this year, with a cliff-hanger that made the news – had Martha Jones phoning Capt Jack in Cardiff and saying she was in New York, confirming that the same apocalyptic goings-on in the UK were also going on there. ‘New York? All right for some,’ he replied wryly. Except of course, it wasn’t really New York. It would have been somewhere in South Wales, where they film the series, plus a bit of computer trickery. I, however, WAS really in New York. Watching people on TV pretending to be there. When I could have been going out and exploring the city. All right for some.

But that aside, I DID go out and explore and see things, or rather do things. Of course I did. I’m not a natural sight-seer, that’s all. I’m more of a thought-thinker, or a thing-doer. So I went out. And I did some things.

(TO! BE! CONTINUED!)

The Dandyism website has put the L’Uomo Vogue article online, with a translation:

http://www.dandyism.net/?p=970

Says the site:

Dickon Edwards, who doesn’t typically pontificate on dandyism itself but who is a fine example of a dandy rocker, was also included.

Not a typical pontificator perhaps, but I know my Brummell from my Baudelaire, and my Beaton from my Barbey d’Aurevilly. He said, in danger of seeking a thick ear. And I am acquainted with Lord Whimsy, if not the others in the piece. Not sure if I’ve ever properly ‘rocked’ either. That’s always been my problem. Not a  proper musician, not a proper dandy. Not a proper writer, either. I must be a proper something. Don’t answer that.

From the L’Uomo Vogue article itself, a rather flattering opening line:

The leading online rock-star dandy is not David Bowie or Bryan Ferry, but Dickon Edwards (dickonedwards.co.uk). The 36-year-old Englishman, who has sang in several bands, has earned admiration in Dandyland for his spare build, slim suits, and blond hair that is as authentic as his first name. Adding to his dandy credentials are his contributions to ‘The Decadent Handbook’ and an afterword to a new edition of Jerome K. Jerome’s classic, ‘Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow.’ Like the dandies of old, Edwards avoids responsibility, preferring to supplement his uncertain musical income by going on welfare rather than taking a job.

Interesting that they assume ‘Dickon’ is as artificial as my hair colour. They’re not the first. It’s like saying someone born Robert but better known as Bobby is assuming a fake name. Dickon is just a more obscure derivative, that’s all. The Richard is also there for the times I can’t be bothered to have the ‘Ooh, interesting name’ conversation.

I did try reverting properly to Richard a few years ago purely to make life easier, in the same way I’ve experimented with not being blond. But in both cases, it just wasn’t me.

And though I’m Richard on my passport, the medical services know me as Dickon, because they need to know the name most likely to bring someone out of unconsciousness. Dickon is my ‘coma name’. Though I realise if I ramble on any more in this hair-splitting mode, I’ll send the reader into one.

As to the bit in the article about my avoiding responsibility: well, it’s more that responsibility avoids me. I do keeping trying to find paid work, work which I think I can do fairly well, where I don’t feel a fraud. Most recently, I emailed all the newspaper blogs with offers of reporting on the Latitude Festival for them, seeing as I’m going to be there anyway, camping for the first time since I was a teenager, and in a white suit too. I thought that would be a vaguely interesting and entertaining perspective: certainly less dull than your average festival report. ‘The Festival Flaneur’, it could have been called. But no one at the broadsheets was interested. Ah well.

Besides, responsibility is all relative. I speak as someone who’s just had to escort Shane MacGowan onto a couple of planes.

Back in Highgate. Utterly tired and shattered and jet-lagged and aching.
I have tales to tell, Shane-shaped and Dickon-shaped. Will write more as soon as my brain starts working again. And when my eyelids stop drooping.

It’s Mum’s MBE ceremony tomorrow, at Buckingham Palace. Not a bad excuse to give when telling people in NYC why I can’t stick around too long. ‘Oh you know how it is…’

So I’m in the car – well, a people-carrier – being driven with Mr SMG from JFK to NYC proper. It’s about 9pm, and as the Empire State, the Chrysler and the rest of that most heart-stopping of skylines looms into view, I think of all the songs…

I start singing, half under my breath, half indulged by Shane, and Moira our host and Sydney our driver.

Singing.

‘We’ll take Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island too…. Um, dum dum dum-dum do…’

Pause. Think. Another song.

‘They sentenced to me twenty years of boredom… For trying to change the system from within…. First we take Manhattan – then we take Berlin!’

(Still haven’t been to Berlin yet.)

‘Hey Manhattan, doobie-doo…’ (Prefab Sprout).

But most of all, the one song that dominates my over-excited, no-longer-a-USA-virgin brain, is the very, VERY silly ‘America’ song from A Bit Of Fry And Laurie. Maybe because I know all of the words. All three of them.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=z4tDP-yMwXI

Thursday, early afternoon: I’m spending a few hours trying to update the three-year-old DE website gallery with the fruits of more recent shoots by Phoebe Allen (2008) and Gillian Kirby (2007). For each photo I have to make a thumbnail for the menu, which links to a medium-sized version for the website, which in turn links to the full high-res version for magazines to use. Very much a teeth-pulling learning process for me, and terms like ‘PHP’ still make me boggle blankly with technophobic incomprehension (if indeed it’s possible to boggle blankly).

As soon as I upload the first high-res photo into WordPress’s new Media Thingy, the site throws a fit and goes down. It’s back up within minutes, but in those minutes Lawrence G phones to invite me out. So I take the Universe’s hint, admit defeat, and escape into town. The photos will just have to wait.

I spend an entirely pleasant Thursday afternoon with the lovely Mr G and his equally lovely Russian fiancee Mr Fyodor, taking the river boat to the Tate Britain, where we gawp at the gigantic Burne-Jones ‘Death Of Arthur’, newly on loan. Mr G and Mr F got engaged via that Jules Verne-esque installation which lived on the South Bank recently: a huge and pretty two-way mute videophone connecting London and New York. Lawrence used cue cards.

In the evening, I DJ at Club D’Amour, in a venue called Volupte, off Chancery Lane. I follow on from Tricity Vogue and her band – and her opera glove action – who do a jazz-swing set featuring versions of ‘Trust In Me’ (from The Jungle Book), ‘Sweet Dreams’ (as in the Eurythmics song) and ‘Club Tropicana’ (as in Wham).

As I walk back to the tube – joined briefly by Lawrence, Fyodor and their young friends – when my mobile rings. Would I like to accompany Mr MacGowan to New York, and could I do so in the morning…?

Now it’s Friday evening. I’m typing this in my room at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, NYC.

The Chrysler Building is outside my window. So, New York is real after all.

Back by Weds.