Charley gets her picture in The Face magazine, in a feature on the band that’s currently paying her wages, Gay Dad. I’m not sure about the look of the rest of the band. Very Mansun. Corporate alternative rock. First single is limited edition only, building that fanbase, a familiar tactic to the careerist band process. See also Embrace, Stereophonics etc. It’s all getting so… repetitive.. Still, I’m happy for her, there are worst jobs. Wish I could pay her wages myself. She’ll be on the Fosca album, and promises to play whatever dates she can.

Turns out Mandelson was outed as long ago as 1987, so Matthew Parris wasn’t really outing him after all. The media just…. forgot.

Sarit’s Queeruption site has accounts of the recent event, including an arty photo of Fosca playing live.

It finally happened. I’m broke. The remnants of the advance I banked back in February when I left Orlando have run out. Gone on recording equipment, new instruments and their upkeep, Fosca rehearsals (not cheap when you have to hire drum kits and bass amps), umpteen taxis, computer equipment, countless expensive books (hardbacks sometimes), astronomical Internet-related phone bills, mobile phone costs, CDs and CD-ROMs, drink, concerts, cinema and theatre tickets. Ten months of living like an eccentric aristocrat (which I always felt I was meant to have been…), not having to worry about bills. Ten months of hospital bills, I call them, because they’re all attempts to stave off my depression with consumer indulgence. Shopping to cheer oneself up whenever one is extremely miserable. Which as you might imagine, is virtually all of my waking hours.

I suspect that with careful planning, I could have made the money last two or three times longer. But I never was one for careful budgeting. I’m proud to admit that a good deal of it went on treating poverty-stricken friends of mine. But now I’m as poor as they are. Actually, I’m better than poor. I’m in debt. Which looks better.

I’m fairly pleased that this now means a new order of discipline. Whether I like it or not. I simply have to get myself organised. I spent money like there was no tomorrow, but sadly there indeed does seem to be a tomorrow, despite all my apocalyptic concerns.

So now I have a genuine excuse not to buy people drinks or go to gigs I don’t really enjoy.

And I’m still deaf in my left ear. Doctor says it’s probably just a wax build-up. But it doesn’t prevent me feeling even more sorry for myself.

What I AM glad about is that I can’t put off selling all this rubbish I bought that clutters up my room. The vast majority of books, CDs and CD-ROMS that I really don’t need, but bought anyway to… cheer myself up. I’ll be glad to get the space back. And with all these scare stories about mobile phones and cancer, I’ll not be that sad to see the back of that either, if it comes to that.

And I’ll finally get in touch with the publications that want me to do some paid writing for them. And the modelling agency that popped a card into my breast pocket the other day. And follow up all those kind souls who offered to pay my fare to foreign lands.

And I’ll get some Fosca work done. Because there are no more distractions anymore. No matter how hard I want there to be.

Didn’t enjoy the Catpower gig much. Mainly because I was more concerned with my ear. Wanted hugging badly. I don’t mind not being kissed, but I crave hugs at times. It occurs to me that I’ve never had a massage. Ever.

What fresh hell…

G. was at the gig. Hadn’t seen him for months. “I’ve been looking for fuckable girls in this place, but there don’t seem to be any”.

The singer out of Catpower hides behind a curtain of hair for most of the gig, which riles my patience. I’m consumed with the urge to leap on stage with a trimmer set to No.1 buzzcut. Get the feeling many people are here just because they fancy the Suzanne-Vega-ish singer. Which is entirely fair enough, of course. It’s always been a good way to get people fancying you, being in a band. Mousey girls in indie circles tend to have no problem getting attention from boys, who are just grateful to see something female at all.

I get approached by a young stranger from Islington at the end. She’s not an Indie type, and wants me to explain the concept of Gigs. “What brought you here?” I ask. “It was recommended in the Evening Standard, which was only 10p today. So I thought I’d check it out”. It occurs to me how little music matters to some people. To real people. She asks me if I’m single. I can’t remember what I replied.

Jonathan glances at my video collection, which I hope to brutally whittle down shortly. “I’m not sure which is worse,” he says. “Triumph Of the Will or The Best Of The Beautiful South”.