At Stay Beautiful last night, Simon Price played a theme set. Songs of two minutes duration or less. Nothing over 2 minutes. Afterwards he is exhausted. As soon as one song is running, there's barely enough time to get rid of the previous tune on the other machine, put it away, get out the next one and cue it up in time. But he managed it.

Me: Nice to hear "Shakespear's Sister" by The Smiths, but isn't that 2:09 (I'd been reading that Simon Goddard book), and therefore too long?
SP: Yes. I had to cheat a little by speeding it up slightly so it became 2.00.
Me: Why didn't you stick the set on two specially prepared CDRs to make it easier?
SP: Oh no! That would have been cheating.

A definite early contender for TV highlight of the year the other night. On "Question Time", David Dimbelby accidentally called Robin Cook "Robin <i><b>Cock".</b></i> In the middle of a debate on euthanasia, too.

You can watch it right now if you're bored and in need of some childish silliness. The whole edition of Question Time is online at:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/newsa/n5ctrl/progs/question_time/latest.ram

Mr Dimbleby's slip occurs soon after the 48 minute mark.

Here's DE at the <a href="http://www.howdoesitfeel.co.uk">How Does It Feel Club</a> in Highbury Corner last night, photo taken by Ian Watson:
<img src="http://www.howdoesitfeel.f9.co.uk/jandickon.jpg"></img>

I like the photo, a little more Norman Bates than usual.

At the cashpoint In Holloway Road today, someone behind me suddenly sings the chorus of Bowie's "Five Years" as they pass. I am rather chuffed by this. It's one thing to shout "Oi! Bowie!", it's another to sing one of his lesser known numbers.

And later, as I cross Archway Road, a girl sings the words "white as the snow…" at me and my hair. I'm not sure if that's an actual song or not. I hope not.

Contrary to what Mr Eliot said, April is not the cruellest month. It's January. The holiday season is over, and the year lies ahead of you, blank, virgin, unwritten like the snow, some of which has even made its way to temperature-controlled London. Highgate looks very pretty today.

For some this can be exciting: all things are now possible, now's the time to start.

For others, the slow nothingness of January can be terrifying and depressing. Some call it Seasonal Affective Disorder. After the "I'm H.A.P.P.Y" song, it was only a matter of time before some clot in a position of power turned the word "sad" into an acronym. So it had to be a syndrome or disorder. If it does exist, I'm afraid I've succumbed.

I'm meant to be seeing the positive side of this polarising month, getting things done, and heaven knows I have so much to do. Articles to write, emails to reply to (many apologies), musical projects to get going, non-musical projects to get going, chores to do, overdue financial things to sort out, new clothes to seek out and buy before my old ones finally fall apart (a new cheap three-button suit, mainly). I badly need to have a complete clearing out of my possessions: I want to narrow my collection of books, CDs, videos and so on down to the bare essentials. I don't <i>need</i> a huge book collection when there are libraries and most of what I have isn't rare. I don't <i>need</i> a huge vinyl and CD collection when there are mp3s and I am lucky enough to have an 80GB hard drive plus CDR-burner. In fact, I want to get rid of all my vinyl full stop. I need to do what that loud American woman on television (men are from Mars, women are from Venus, self-help books are from America) calls "The Life Laundry". She's annoying and heartless, but she does have a point. Cut down on your possessions before they possess you.

But I haven't started on any of that, because the negative side has gotten to me. It's mainly due to my old friends, Brother Depression and Sister Lethargy, outstaying their welcome once again. They paralyse me and I can't do anything at all. Letting the undone things just mount up so much I just stay in bed and hope they'll go away. All I want is to get things done rather than getting trapped in the cycle of spending day after in hiding from them, hoping the real world will leave me alone and pretend nothing unpleasant (like me) ever happened.

Looking at other diaries on the web, I realise the unhappy side of this time of year has a regrettably widespread effect. One diarist of my acquaintance has even posted what appears to be a genuine suicide note. Needless to say, I emailed them at once (I don't have their phone number) with all the emotive words I could muster to try and dissuade them. It's not the first time I've had to do that with people who write to me. Someone recently wrote in my diary's comments box that my journal attracts a lot of "desperate individuals". They meant it unkindly. But I've always found that aspect immensely flattering. I have several bulging folders of letters from unhappy sorts over the years (in the pre-email days) who have taken the time to write to me and bare their feelings. I haven't thrown any of them away. And even once I get this "life laundry" of mine underway, these letters will still remain far more precious than any book or record.

I hasten to add that doing anything rash and dramatic myself is currently out of the question: I haven't finished with this world just yet.

Apart from anything else, I'd miss the final Lord Of The Rings film.

So if that's true, I ask myself, then shouldn't I be getting on with the business of <i>living</i>?

I've just seen THAT film today at Camden Odeon. Saving Private Aragorn.

DVDs are all very well, but I think the new LOTR films just have to be seen at the cinema at least once. I say this because I rented out the Fellowship the other day in prep for seeing the Two Towers, and on my little portable it's hardly the same.

I'm actually not a fan of the books, finding them turgid and silly, and taking themselves too seriously, though I loved "The Hobbit". And I associate them with rotten Roger Dean paintings and 70s prog rock bands, and tend to agree with that 80s Half Man Half Biscuit song:

"Mention the Lord Of The Rings one more time and I'll more than likely kill you…"

Hence my reluctance to watch the films.

But as soon as The Two Towers started, with that soaring opening shot of the snowy mountains, I nearly cried. I genuinely believed I'd been transported to another world for three hours. A beautiful world. How can it NOT all be real? When the lights went up and I was back in grimy old Camden, I immediately wanted to go back, and now fully understand why many people pay to see the films again and again, despite their bum-paralysing durations. I'd never dare to call such people sad. I believe!

Genius is a word bandied around all too freely, but in the case of Peter Jackson I feel it really does apply. Far more so than Tolkien. He IMPROVES on the books. I'd admired the bearded hobbit-like Kiwi director before, ever since seeing "Bad Taste", "Braindead" and "Meet The Feebles", three extremely original and inventive if gory and sick over-the-top comedy horror films that you have to have a strong stomach to sit through. But even then, it was clear Mr Jackson possessed that rare gift: a genuine talent to make the viewer believe the unreal is real. "Heavenly Creatures" proved that he could make 'proper' films where the actors don't take second place to the special effects, and I'd certainly recommend that film to anyone who enjoyed the LOTR films. It's about two New Zealand schoolgirls (including a then-unknown Kate Winslet) who romantically create their own fantasy world in order to escape their rotten circumstances in the real world, where the people around them are fools. A common feeling not restricted to teenage angst, of course.

And so Mr Jackson adapting the LOTR makes perfect sense. And goodness, does he do a good job of it. I know I'm somewhat late in adding my voice to the thousands that have said that already, but there you go. It's all too beautiful. LOTR has the Dickon seal of approval.

Warning: "The Two Towers" contains scenes of dwarf-tossing.

Never mind the pin-up features of Mr Aragorn, Mr Legolas et all, I am afraid to admit I even found Smeagol / Gollum curiously sexy.

By the way, fans of Orlando Bloom, and word has it there are a few, might like to know that he made his debut in the Stephen Fry film "Wilde" as a bowler-hatted Piccadilly rent boy, early on in the movie. He only appears for a few moments, and has one line, "Looking for someone?", but it's a pivotal scene, being the vital moment in Wilde's life when Wilde mentions (in his own words) that, at that second, "ice clutched his heart", and that seeing for the first time the boldness of rent boys on the streets of London, hit home to him revelatory thoughts of his own sexuality, if tinged with fear.

So there you go, Legolas The Elf "turned" Oscar Wilde. Who could blame him?

As the chimes of doom rang out on Dec 31st, I found myself sitting at a bar with a bearded Australian man rudely pushing against my left arm as he tried hard to get served. Happy New Year.

As you might imagine, I am not the most tactile of creatures. My noted ambivalence towards intimacy aside, I never know quite what the appropriate physical greeting is in any encounter with an acquaintance. Whom should one kiss on the cheek? Which cheek? Whom on the mouth? Who would prefer a handshake? A hug? Who would rather not have any contact with me at all right at this particular moment? Should I keep a database? I am a jack of all my friendships, master of none. New Year's Eve makes things even worse.

I am often accused of being stand-offish and unapproachable at clubs, but this is purely due to embracing my own personal solution to this dilemma of second-guessing what every one of my acquaintances expect of me: I choose complete, unbiased, default passivity. So people can come and greet me as they choose. Or avoid me as they choose. It's up to them. Parking myself in a corner or on a bar stool helps this stance, but the problem with the latter is strangers rubbing up against me as they try to get to the bar. An occupational hazard, I admit, but this particular man was pressing against my left side continuously for the best part of fifteen minutes. And I can't stand people pushing against me. I know no one particularly ENJOYS the sensation, kinky frotteurs aside, but my problem with tactility and the fact that I feel enough at odds with my own body, let alone other people's, makes it even worse.

The chimes of midnight had absolutely no effect on the man whatsoever: he still stood there, seemingly still trying to get served amid all the party-poppers and going off. All that was going through my mind was "This is nice, I enter 2003 with the sensation of discomfort and unease, physical as well as mental this time. I have always depended on the unkindness of strangers."

I quickly became annoyed at myself for thinking this, for being annoyed at him, not to mention annoyed at myself for not simply getting up off the bar stool and moving away from the man. He was still there five minutes later still trying to get served, and still pushing against my left arm. So I faintly tried to be friendly to him, and ventured a few words along the lines of "typical London bar staff, eh". But he then decided to push empty glasses over the edge of the bar in order to attract service, watching them smash and shatter on the floor. Including one of my glasses. Any sympathy I might have had for the man evaporated and I disassociated myself from him at once. As a rule, I will always speak to any stranger at all, but if they're displaying any possibilities of violence, I have to draw the line. He was clearly either a little drunk, or a little mad, or both. And perhaps the beard and Antipodean accent had catalytic properties: I've wondered about that ever since Russell Crowe at the Oscars.

Still, I've never quite enjoyed myself on New Year's Eve regardless, particularly not at the stroke of midnight. I find enforced jollity deeply joyless. After midnight, however, relief, or more likely resignation, tends to settle in a little. By the time I left the club I'd felt I'd had a pleasant enough time. It helped that several different people I'd not met before introduced themselves to me and said immensely flattering things about my songs and diaries. The kindness of strangers won, after all.

<lj user=seymour_> was kind enough to take a photo of me circa 2am:

<img src="http://darlingx.net/lacquer/sbnewyear/dickon.jpg"></img>

The Very Best For 2003 To All My Readers.