George Melly dies. A truly great Character with a capital ‘C’. Met him a year or so ago, at a Mayfair dinner hosted by Maggi Hambling. He sang an impromptu bawdy jazz number a cappella for everyone in the restaurant. Impeccably dressed, of course: hat, striped suit, eyepatch. Having done the usual bit about saying how much I admired him, I asked him for a kiss on the lips, and he obliged. It seemed the best thing to do at the time. I’d read his books, so I thought about all the people – and all the parts of such people – those lips had met over the years. And what songs they’d sung, what conversations they’d had, what jokes they’d told, what wicked laughter.

Some news sources describe him as a jazz singer who also did other things, others as an author who also did other things. I think that’s a good sign. His various volumes of autobiography are a terrific read, though ‘Revolt Into Style’ is arguably just as essential, not least for the title. It’s certainly a motto close to my own heart.

Quentin Crisp: ‘Mr Melly needs to be obscene to be believed.’

***

Something I’d really like to see in real life: a dog running past with a string of sausages in its mouth, chased by an angry butcher.

***

Barely days since the change at Number Ten, and I already prefer hearing Gordon Brown’s voice on the radio, compared to Tony Blair’s. Mr Brown’s is a comparatively calming, sturdy and stentorian baritone, something of a tonic after a decade of his predecessor’s faux-ingratiating, nasal tones. Added to which the last couple of years had seen Blair’s speaking develop a strange system of pauses between every clause, if not every word. A statement. From Blair. Would sound. As if. It had been written. Like this.

If he had intended gravitas, the opposite effect was the case.

If both men were headmasters, Blair was one of those who ask the pupils to call him by his first name, who like to take off their jacket and tie at the earliest opportunity. Brown is more, dare I say it, old school. One almost imagines he’d be good at spanking. ‘This delights me more than it delights you.’

***

Trying out London libraries as ever, I visit the Barbican Library. I first visited the Barbican Centre on a school trip, shortly after it had been built in 1982.

Now it’s the 25th anniversary of the place, and the library – which specialises in music and the arts – has a small exhibition to mark the sounds of 1982. In a display case are various vinyl pop records from the year, including Laurie Anderson’s Big Science, Cherry Red Records’ Pillows & Prayers compilation, Scritti Politti’s ‘Asylums In Jerusalem’, The Jam’s ‘Town Called Malice’, Madness’s ‘House Of Fun’, Bucks Fizz’s ‘My Camera Never Lies’, Tears For Fears’s ‘Mad World’, Wah’s ‘Story Of The Blues’, Haircut One Hundred’s ‘Love Plus One’… and David Bowie’s ‘Baal’ EP.

I suspect even Dame Bowie himself has difficulty recalling that latter disc; it’s hardly one to dominate his obituary. The information on its display label mentions ‘Source: Wikipedia’. Considering this is a professional, government-funded library in the heart of London using the amateur Internet encyclopaedia which anyone can edit, this is a defining sign of 2007, never mind 1982.

It is funny how I have to put on a full suit and tie before sitting down to write, but I’ve remembered that this was also the case during my school years. I found it hard to settle down and do my homework or revision at home – unless I actually put on my school uniform. Or kept it on. My groovy, forward-thinking middle school, Stoke-By-Nayland, eschewed the traditional blazer and tie ensemble for a printed-logo sweatshirt affair. No ties, no jackets. It was the only thing I didn’t like about the school. As in adult life, I could never understand why progressive thinking had to mean dressing more casually.I’m still appalled when I see important, high-earning people like the head of Channel 4 make statements on TV (about Big Brother or phone competition fixing), dressed like Man At C&A. Whatever he spends his huge salary on, it can’t be clothes.

When dividing one’s budget, it should always be clothes make-up and grooming products first, then contact lenses (Focus Dailies seem to do it for me – stylishly curved little blister packs of disposable lenses), then taxis, then food, rent and everything else.

***

Am still feeling permanently sluggish – possibly battling off flu – but am cheering myself up enjoying recent editions of I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue. It’s still the funniest comedy show on the radio, despite or perhaps because of the advanced age of its regular participants (host Humphrey Lyttlelton is in his mid 80s). And still the most popular: the roaring audience applause of hundreds somewhat dwarves the polite clapping of dozens heard on other panel games.

Some favourite jokes:

‘In the late 1960s Soho was home to Jimi Hendrix, who overcame his dyslexia to become one of the world’s greatest rock guitarists. Sadly Hendrix died here in 1970 after choking to death on his own Vimto.’

‘I was always impressed by the notion that breaking a mirror is certain to bring you seven years of bad luck. Yesterday I deliberately smashed four, thereby guaranteeing I’ll live to be 114.”

And from the round about new definitions:

rambling – jewelry for sheep
fairy tale – beer made from ferrets
fuselage – not many that big
scum – it has arrived
iconoclastic – rubber band for securing religious paintings
gurgle – to steal a ventriloquist’s dummy
sex – what The Queen keeps her coal in
sycamore – not as well as I used to be
dunderhead – what a sculptor says after completing the top part of a bust
cruise control – Scientology

***

The Diary Angels page now carries a lovely new Beardsley-esque illustration from Lawrence Gullo.

***

Claudia’s flat is very quiet, though there are a couple of ticking clocks in this room. I sit staring at the blank page and listen to the day tick away. And I wish I knew what best to do with the blank page, and the blank day.

Still thinking about the whole nuts and bolts side of band life versus how much I want to play band gigs. This line of thinking can come across as grumpy-old-man-ism, and would be less predictable were I the better side of 25, or female. But the entry-level trappings of it all are really getting to me, to the point of tears: the world of rehearsal rooms with broken air conditioners leaking water into a trough, malodorous microphones that I suspect have given me flu (I forgot to bring my own mic again), broken microphone stands, identical young men in corridors (and in the press) with guitars and matching hairdos, who call themselves The Somethings, who prefer to join in rather than say something new. Easily-pleased young fans looking for new gods, who recycle the sounds of old gods with younger faces. Some call it classic, I call it cliched. Soundchecks. The balance in the monitors. The tragic sight of the slovenly-dressed lone man with a guitar on his back, on public transport, in trainers. It used to be a romantic sight: the troubadour, the folk singer. Now it’s just a typically blokish and ugly and workaday sight. No style to it at all. Just depressing.

I feel increasingly apart from that world. I wouldn’t go as far to say I think I’m above it all (though that’s probably what I do mean). I still enjoy listening to indie rock and pop records, but the fact is I just don’t enjoy watching the gigs as much as I used to. Tom Lehrer’s quote about rock being ‘music for children’ is becoming more and more relevant as I get older and the people at gigs and clubs get younger. And the gig-goers who aren’t young, who are my age and older, they depress me too. Because they have made more sense of their lives than I, with their partners and mortgages and incomes and futures and everything worked out. Well, more so than me, anyway. And if they’re my age and older and they HAVEN’T made sense of their lives, if they’re like me or even more worse off, well that’s obviously depressing too.

At Latitude, I suspect I’ll catch a few of the bands, though I probably won’t stay for anyone’s full set unless they do something visually unusual, like a costume change. I get bored so easily in the audience at gigs. All festivals should be like those Live Aid-style super gigs: sets of three or four songs only: the greatest hits only. Otherwise all that’s interesting is (a) the band coming onstage, and (b) waiting for the band to play a song you know and like. The rest is all so dull, dull, dull, dull, dull. It’s just some people playing instruments and singing. I know this is all rather missing the point, but this is the way my head is today.

I suppose what I’m really saying is: right now, I hate rock and roll.

Which begs the question: what do I want to do with Fosca? What’s the point of doing Fosca, if it’s always on this lowest rung? Do I even want musical success, in the rock band sense? Did I ever? Perhaps the August 1st gig will be the last gig, and after that perhaps I should concentrate on writing words rather than attempting to sing them or play them on a stage. It’s been fourteen years of playing indie gigs. Perhaps that’s enough. I don’t feel a burning desire to keep treading the beer-stained boards in the Thick Neck & Firkin-style venues forever, with promoters still asking me how many people I think I can pull. I’ve given it a go. I’m not sure I’ll miss it.

I don’t know. I’m quite an unpredictable, unreliable, capricious, whimsical, and amusingly hysterical sort of fellow. Which is what keeps you reading, doesn’t it, Dear Reader.

A reminder: Fosca are playing the Brixton Windmill on Weds Aug 1st, part of the Spiral Scratch club night. It’s our first headlining gig in London for a long time. Do come. We don’t play very often.

The Fosca Myspace page now features two new songs from the latest sessions: ‘Kim’ and ‘Come Down From The Cross’. We have one more mixing session with Alexander M, then the album is done. After that, the hunt for a suitable label begins. I’m wary of new indie labels who might rip us off: we’ve had our fingers burnt before. It would have to be someone with a track record. We also need to commission some decent CD and booklet artwork, so the album is worth owning aesthetically.

***

The Latitude Festival in Suffolk has booked me twice. Once as a DJ, one half of The Beautiful & Damned with Miss Red. We’re doing sets every evening from the Thursday (July 12th) to the Sunday, in the Cabaret Arena.

In addition, I’m now reviewing selected acts in the Literary and Film tents, for the Mean Fiddler’s Latitude website.

Only problem is, I now need to find accommodation for the Thursday night. My parents take over the Southwold cottage from the Friday. It seems silly to have to procure a whole tent and sleeping bag for one night only.

The writing job comes with a weekend ticket. This latter is rather surplus to my requirements as I’m already booked as a performer, with guest passes. So I need to somehow swap this ticket for accommodation on the Thursday. Any advice to the normal address, please.

***

Someone emails me to ask if I’m aware of Stephen King’s On Writing. Yes, indeed: it’s a truly brilliant guide to the craft. His sense of uncluttered, informal urgency is infectious, and it’s the only Stephen King book that the London Library will stock. Though I’m not so sure about the bit where he recommends writing to the sound of AC/DC and Metallica. For aural wallpaper, I’m more of an ambient and classical fan: stuff from Radio 3’s Late Junction, William Basinski, and so on.

***

Smoking inside public places is now banned. The nearby pubs now have buckets of sand outside their doors. The TV is riddled with adverts for helplines, nicotine gum and so forth. I don’t mind either way, finding the self-righteous rants on both sides a bit boring. I still smoke very occasionally, usually when I’ve had a few drinks and someone has offered me a cigarette. I like the close camaraderie of the shared smoke, but then I like close camaraderie of any kind.

***

On a tube train, I leaf through The London Paper – my personal rule is to never accept a copy from one of the notoriously pushy vendors, because I’m principled against the waste, the litter and the aggressive distribution of free newspapers in London. But picking up a copy on the train is fine, says my rule. Three articles in a recent issue are either about Facebook, or refer to Facebook. So at least Facebook is definitely useful for something: getting paid for writing umpteen articles about it.

***

Kate D works at a school in King’s Cross. She says teachers no longer ask an unruly class to shut up, as ‘shut up!’ is what modern children are constantly saying to each other already (as observed by Little Britain and Catherine Tate).

Instead, when teachers need to call a class to order, they clap their hands: the one sound that cuts through. Presumably kids don’t play clapping games anymore.

Too many mornings lately, I’ve woken up and thought, ‘What’s the point in making music or being in a band, or even writing the diary? Why can’t I just stay in bed all day, shouting at the radio, particularly when Vanessa Feltz’s phone-in show on BBC London is on?’ The utterly idle, nihilistic life, a life like an invalid, or hermit, or both, is far less costly to the nerves and wallet, and is indeed what I feel like doing with my day most mornings. Some talk about the joy of the ‘challenge’. I’m not one of them. I like everything to be as easy as possible. Life is too much like hard work. Fun is too much like hard work. Art is too much like hard work. And I haven’t even begun to think about actual Work.

At least, that’s what’s going through my head in the difficult waking hours lying in bed, feeling tired, sluggish, awful. Then I eventually get dressed, put on a tie, and start to adjust. Hours have already passed. Then I find one single chore that mysteriously expands to fill the rest of the day. Like the contents of a handbag, or traffic on a congested motorway after an extra lane has been added. All available space is filled before I know it. By the time I feel just about ready to face the day and get on with what I really want to do, it’s time for bed.

****

Sat eve: To the Lark In The Park venue in Islington, to see bands with friends in. Martin White’s Mystery Fax Machine Orchestra and David Barnett’s New Royal Family. Nice contrast in vaudeville: the former’s quiet, droll ditties versus the latter’s noisy rock cheeriness. It’s a gathering of many people I know, have known, or am getting to know, or am known to. Friends past, present and future. The promoter of the club night – Club Mental – used to write me fan letters in the Orlando days. She doesn’t anymore, suffice it to say. I don’t bring the subject up with her, in case she says what I would say: we all do silly things in our teenage years. But I still have the letters somewhere. Real ink on real paper. Writing to me was just her little phase. Beats sniffing glue.

Was I very different then, too? Am I worse now, or better? And her?

Not for me to say. But I’d like to think bits of me are better, bits of me are worse, bits of me are different, bits of me are the same. Some people have gone through Dickon Edwards Phases in their life. I’ve got one of those too, it’s just lifelong.

Anyway, this is all hypocritical, because I go through phases too, despite the more or less fixed appearance and aloof stance. It used to be bands I became obsessed with, then turned my back on, now it’s more societies, libraries, clubs, gatherings, social scenes.

Yesterday I suppose I was Ms Gillian Kirby’s little phase. She asked me – via Facebook, how very 2007 – if I would pose for a photo session for her. I live to be photographed, so I agreed. The afternoon was spent draping myself around the stone angels of Brompton Cemetery. I loved it, naturally. I suit cemeteries. Quiet tombs, wild flowers, the egos of the dead.

Am writing this with a headache caused entirely by slapping my hand against my head in extreme frustration. Which in turn is caused by the technical problems involved with agreeing to play a gig in a foreign country.

What I forgot is that one really needs a third party when organizing foreign gigs: a manager, or tour manager, or roadie or two. I need someone who’s not in the band to sort out the various technical and practical matters: money, flight cases, travel, dealing with the promoters and so on. I’m not too great at playing the jolly Team Leader role, father figure to grown adults: I can barely look after myself. I also find it hard to tell a fellow band member to do something where I think I know better. Because I’m not always sure I do know better.

A combination of Ryan Air’s ridiculously petty rules (they won’t let us put a keyboard on an empty seat that we’ve already paid for, because Tom’s wife was going to come along but now can’t, without us paying an extra £70 to change the seat name from ‘Victoria Edwards’ to ‘Keyboard’), combined with general annoyance that I should be getting on with learning lyrics and not worrying about flight cases, has now made me shout at the cat.

Sorry, cat.

Actually, as I’m writing this, the cat is sleeping by my side on the sofa. He’s making all kinds of hurt, groaning noises in his sleep. I do hope he’s not having bad dreams caused by me shouting at him. In which case, Ryan Air, I hope you’re happy now.

Next time, I must ensure we have a manager taking care of the fragile instruments and the fragile nerves. Even if we have to pay them, it’ll be worth it. I have to accept I’m just not the managing kind. In any sense.

Because it’s a small, fan-organised affair, we’re doing this Swedish festival gig purely for expenses. Oh, and as long as each band member gets separate bedrooms. That was my other stipulation. Sharing a room would mean actual murder, I’m sure of it. The stress of having to handle our own transportation and equipment handling, coupled with lack of sleep (check-in at Stansted on Saturday morning is 5 AM) and general worry about making our own way across a strange country is more than enough. Ms Woolf got it right: a room of one’s own. And indeed, a tour manager of one’s own wouldn’t hurt.

It’s such a cliche when bands moan about touring. Touring is fine when you have a bit of money and support in the mix: managers, roadies, drivers, hotels. Anything less than that can be a pain, but what makes it all worthwhile is the knowledge that we’ll be playing our songs on a far-off stage to people who care who the hell we are. That’s why it’s still worth it. Even on this shoestring, DIY level.

Incredibly, I still occasionally get people writing to me asking about how to make it in the music business. The answer is,  of course, if you want to make money, you must do anything else but make music. Be a DJ, a manager, a producer, a roadie, a lawyer. Especially a lawyer. Work for Ryan Air, and spout your merry laugh when you invent fees for the merest thing. I’m expecting them to add a ‘Complaining About Ryan Air In A Blog, Post-Glasgow Car Bomb’ tax on Saturday.