NOTICE:

I am doing a spot of guest DJ-ing at The Boogaloo tomorrow night. The night is called Interzone. Here’s the details:

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Friday 13/05/05, 9pm-1.30am, free b4 10.30pm then £5.
Interzone at The Boogaloo, 312 Archway Road, N6.
“Ros, Dickon and Shanthi playing the best post punk and new wave on offer:
Clash, Pistols, Blondie, Television, Buzzcocks, The Jam, The Cure, Devo, Echo & the Bunnymen,The Fall, Gang of Four, Joy Division, New Order, Pere Ubu, Siouxsie & the Banshees, Suicide, Talking Heads, Wire, Adam Ant, Bauhaus, Cabaret Voltaire, Depeche Mode, Magazine, Mission of Burma, Public Image Ltd, Kraftwerk. Gary Numan, Smiths, Altered Images, Human League, GoGos, B52s, Sonic Youth, Pixies, Jon Spencer, P J Harvey, Breeders, Pulp, Beck, 4AD, Creation, Interpol, Tom Vek, Maximo Park, Arcade Fire, LCD, Rapture, Le Tigre, Rakes….”

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Oh dear. I’ve never even heard of some of the above, let alone know their music. Tom Vek? Rakes?

For my part, I’ll bring some Orange Juice, Monochrome Set, Scritti Politti, Modern Lovers, Stereolab, Aztec Camera, late 70s Bowie and do my best. And I shall insist the music isn’t too loud.

I’ve taken the Comments function off this diary after some thought. Feedback is always useful, but I now am convinced I don’t want my diary to host discussions or – that dreaded phrase – Internet Chat. The danger of living mostly on the Net, rather than using it to augment real life. Like many people live on their mobile phones. A little backing off from the world is no bad thing for me, I think. This diary started off as secret yet public, and I rather want to return to that.

Wake up under the third Labour term and sigh heavily at the predicatability of English voters. The Greens once again failed to get a single seat, but at least my own MP here in the Hornsey & Wood Green constituency is no longer the pro-war Barbara Roche. The rabid axe-grinder George Galloway has gotten in, and that will make Westminster life more interesting. Anything for a slightly more interesting life I say.

Currently struggling with creating my own website at www.dickon-edwards.co.uk. DIY culture indeed. I fear the site may do strange things on different computers with different browsers, screen resolutions and so forth, but working out how to address that side of affairs baffles me. It would look a lot better and be created a lot quicker if someone else was doing it, but I simply can’t afford to pay a third party for what is, after all, skilled labour.

I know I could always ask a kind friend, but experience has taught me there’s a point where the friend says “sorry, too busy…”, and then disappears from my life entirely, leaving an out-of-date site I don’t know how to access. Fair enough that other people have their Dickon Edwards Phases. I have a Dickon Edwards Phase too. It’s just lifelong. My therapist would doubtless link this to my fear of relationships of any kind.

Favours can only go so far, and website maintenance is an ongoing job. So here I am, banging my head against the desk and generally getting upset. It’s as if I’m learning a foreign language from scratch, which is of course exactly what I’m doing. The site is so basic, yet getting to grips with ‘tables’, font sizes that won’t act strangely when viewed at different resolutions and generally understanding the Dreamweaver program, is for me the stuff of science fiction. I feel I need a life-jacket while the rest of the world is swimming past at high speed. Not uploading but drowning.

It’s a common theme in my life – watching the rest of the world and thinking ‘how do they do it, and why can’t I do it? What’s wrong with me?’ I’ve met many people – usually younger people – who take to computers and site design so naturally it’s as if they were performing simple arithmetic. Mind you, I also have certain friends who have been known to phone me up when they need a light bulb changing.

Anyway, I’ve set up a mailing list on the site, to announce events and projects so those interested don’t have to keep checking this diary. And today I have an event to announce:

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Wed 11 May, 7.30pm
The Horse Hospital, Colonnade, Bloomsbury, London WC1
Spoken word appearance at the launch for “DIY: The Rise Of Lo-fi Culture“, a new book by Amy Spencer. Event includes Online Journal Readings curated by Amy Prior. Dickon Edwards, one of the first online diarists in the U.K., reads excerpts from his diaries. Frances May Morgan, editor of music magazine Plan B, reads from her weblog. Amy Prior reads her new fictional story based on texts by a live journal community. 7.30pm. Free entry.
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Calling me ‘one of the first online diarists in the UK’ was Ms Prior’s flattering idea. I have no idea of the history of Internet Diaries, but I do recall that when I started this journal in 1997, before the word ‘blog’ started to appear, it was considered a very strange thing to do indeed.

Question is, as ever, how to convert this so-called achievement, and indeed my so-called talent per se into some kind of regular income. I heard that the inventor of the Web, an Englishman called Tim, didn’t make a penny from his creation. No surprises there. He did, however, manage to carve out a lucrative career on the lecture and talks circuit. I suppose I could try that – give lectures on my experiences as a public diarist, and on the Philosophy of Dickon Edwards. We’ll see.

I badly want to get on with Life, get off state benefits, and get on with some kind of career. I don’t want riches, just enough of an income to live on. I don’t want to get on the Property Ladder – I’m content living alone in a rented furnished bedsit for the rest of my life. This ambition must be pretty modest in comparison with what most people in the developed world want from life, and typically I think this alone means I ‘deserve’ a living. As if it’s a pact – I agree to take up as little space as possible in return for a career. Ridiculous.

The dreaded question is: what exactly am I good at? And good for? It’s an old concern, but I’m sick to the back, front and middle teeth coming back to it all the time. Am I sick of Being Dickon Edwards? No, just riddled with spiralling frustration.

A recent conversation with one of my many non-registered-to-vote associates:

Her: I would vote Lib Dem. If I was registered.
Me: You approve of Charles Kennedy, then?
Her: Who?
Me: He’s the leader.
Her: Oh, I thought it was Paddy Ashdown.
Me: I am entirely appalled at you.
Her: Well. But, then, you don’t know who the lead singer of the Zutons is.
Me: That’s true. But The Zutons are not affecting the way this country is run.
Her: But my life is arranged around gigs and music. The Zutons affect the way MY life is run. So what’s the difference?

I no longer wonder how Germany let the Nazis get in.

Had a Damascan conversion last week – I joined a political party for the first time in my wretched, fence-sitting life. The Green Party. I’ve been pounding the streets of Camden and Kings Cross this week, putting Green Party leaflets through doors.

I thought about who I wanted to get in on Friday morning. And then realised that whether Labour, Conservative or Lib Dem gets in, I won’t feel any different.

I understand why some people vote ‘tactically’, but I can’t do it myself. Ye Gods, there must be more to democracy than voting for Least Evil. I feel physically sick about the deaths in Iraq, and wish I could take back my vote for Labour in 2001.

I can’t vote Lib Dem, because I don’t believe in them. I believe in voting with my heart, and my heart does not belong to Mr Kennedy. His glassy stare doesn’t convince me one iota. And I believe in voting for a party you believe in, rather than the Least Worst of, here we go, Who Could Actually Get In. Oh, that dreaded phrase.

I feel sick, sick, sick, sick, sick about all three of the hypocritical opportunistic whelks. The last Labour campaign simply said, “Vote Labour, or wake up on Friday with Michael Howard.” Is that really what it’s come down to?

So, yes, after voting Labour for years, I’m now a Green voter and indeed a Green member. Apart from anything else, it’s criminal that the Greens don’t even have a single MP in Westminster yet, after thirty years of existing. An imbalance that badly needs correcting. I want to shake things up. I want things to be different. To be interesting. So that’s another reason why I refuse to vote for one of the Big Three parties.

I speak to my friends, and it turns out most of them aren’t voting at this election. For the most part, they’re just not registered. It’s shocking. Some of these friends go on protest marches against the war in Iraq, yet won’t sort out getting on the electoral roll. What a waste of time. March all you like, but politicians only really understand the ballot box – ask Mr Blair.

Voting Green is not a ‘wasted vote’. All votes are counted, and recorded. All votes that are counted are votes that count. There has to be a way forward. But not with any of the current top three.

If, Dear Reader, you share my admiration of the unique films made by Mr John Waters of Baltimore, MD, you may like to know that his latest movie A Dirty Shame has just been quietly and belatedly released in the UK.

It’s on at two West End cinemas till Thursday, then plays at ‘key cities’ around the country from May 6th.

Quick notice in my Ambassador for The Boogaloo capacity.

Tonight (Weds) at the Boogaloo there's the following event:

RIP IT UP AND START AGAIN: Postpunk 1978-1984
To launch the new Simon Reynolds book Vox N’ Roll presents a postpunk panel discussion chaired by Simon Reynolds, with Paul Morley (writer), Gina Birch (Raincoats), Jon King (Gang of Four) and Richard Boon (Buzzcocks manager). Plus screening of a 60 min video compiling footage of New Order, the Fall, Cabaret Voltaire, Pop Group, Magazine, PIL, Orange Juice and Josef K.
Arrive early as capacity crowd expected. Free entry. Doors 6pm. Event at 8.30pm.
Venue Address: The Boogaloo, 312 Archway Road, Highgate, London N6.

Note that Howard Devoto has had to drop out.

Update: Here's a related article by Mr Reynolds in last weekend’s Observer

Other recommended events in London tonight:

MOMUS + THE FREE FRENCH
Concert at Bush Hall, Shepherds Bush.
http://www.freefrench.net/

<b>THE BOOK CLUB</b>
Robin Ince's comedy & cabaret night. Includes Martin White, cult accordion hero. Venue: Lowdown At The Albany, 240 Great Portland Street, W1W.
http://www.lowdownatthealbany.com/

AIRPORT
Pop & indie club night hosted by uniformed DJs Alicat, Clare and Val. At The Roxy, 3-5 Rathbone Place, W1.
http://thefanclub.info/other.htm

CLUB CYNTHIA&lt
New pop & trashy electro night at the similarly affordable Trash Palace, with Kash Point DJ Scottee.
http://geocities.com/clubcynth/

Last night – to the London Review Bookshop in Bury Place. It's one of their occasional Shopping Evenings. The shop stays open for a couple of hours later than usual, lays on free wine, bowls of crisps and the like, and gives 10% off everything. Of course, once one's had a couple of wines, the temptation to spend more on books than one can possibly afford is overwhelming, but that's the idea. I look forward to their shopping evenings and save up in preparation, giving myself a limit: three books maximum.

After much browsing and agonizing over what to leave for another time, I go home with the following:

– <i>The Smoking Diaries</i> by Simon Gray. Memoirs and rantings from the playwright. It's a word of mouth hit I've always meant to get around to. Another excellent book of his, Fat Chance, covers the mid-90s debacle of Stephen Fry having a breakdown and walking out of Mr Gray's play Cell Mates, leaving the playwright to pick up the pieces. This has just been re-published too, in a similar jacket design to The Smoking Diaries. The success of both books is a good example of Life upstaging Art. But at least it's Mr Gray's life upstaging his own plays, rather than Mr Fry's. That's the trick – if someone is upstaging your work, the only solution is to upstage it yourself. I open it at random, and the sentence "my masturbation is sponsored by London Transport" leaps out at me. So naturally, I have to buy it.

In fact, this is my preferred manner of how to decide on any book purchase, and for choosing a book at the library. I read a few random lines, sometimes from the middle, sometimes from the start, and make my decision then. That way, I quickly know whether I want to spend part of my limited time on earth with the book or not.

Good writing is like a stick of rock – you should be able to cut into it at any point to find its message.

I also equate choosing what to read with choosing someone interesting or wise or entertaining to chat with, or rather listen to, at a party. Often with the added bonus of them being dead for some time.

– <i>The World of Simon Raven</i>, edited by Howard Watson. I'm already a Raven admirer, and this is another on my Must Get Around To List. It's an anthology of his non-fiction and autobiographies, packaged as a Humour Classic. I open it at random, and the line that leaps out is, "I loved Burgo; not physically, for no one, except the lady with the erectile clitoris, ever did that; but with my heart." So into the basket it goes.

– <i>Natural Novel</i> by Georgi Gospodinov. A curious new Bulgarian novel written in a fragmented style, which comes highly recommended by the bookshop. Random line: "I'm taking Salinger out in the train compartment. I'm not the talkative type and I see books as my shield against those endless conversations that always start with destination inquiries and flow over to kids and kidney problems."

Some previous evening – I find myself in a Tufnell Park room full of Czechs and Slovakians. They are all watching a Depeche Mode video with quiet intensity. Mr Dave Gahan uniting them like a kind of Basildon Tito.

****

Last night – to Brixton for Martin White's birthday drinks. On my way there at Brixton Tube, there are shouting touts for whoever's on at Brixton Academy (the band Interpol, I think). They loiter right by the station ticket barriers and are impossible to avoid. The Tube staff seem blissfully resigned to not doing anything about these intimidating, frightening, Awful Men. "Tickets! Buy or Sell Tickets!" is their mantra.

Idea for parody of that scene from Oliver!, where London street vendors' cries become the song 'Who Will Buy This Wonderful Morning':

"Who will buy my sweet red roses?Two blooms for a penny…"
"Ripe strawberries, ripe!"
"Who will give me their wonderful Direct Debit details? I've a clipboard of a charity brand… "
"Spliff? Weed? Ganja?"
"Minicab, mate?"
"Spare change?"
"BUY OR SELL TICKETS! BUY OR SELL TICKETS!"

Cut to Oliver Twist looking out of the window. He can't hear anything. He is blissfully hooked up to an I-Pod.

Back at Brixton Tube station, I am in my glasses and no make-up mode, which I like to think is Minimum Risk. Not minimum enough. As I exit the barrier, the tout I pass feels the need to adjust his ugly chant:

"Buy or Sell Tickets! Buy Or Sell Tickets!"

He sees me.

"Faggots Night Out?"

He shouts this comment loudly enough that the man in front of me, also attempting to exit the station, thinks it is aimed at <i>him.</i> He turns around and walks back to the tout. He is rather large. I wish I could see what happens next. But I have my head down and, as ever, am just trying to reach my destination without incident.

***

Weds night- Boogaloo Monthly Movie Quiz. Last one with Messrs Williams and Hupfield. The previous month my team actually won. But this time we go out at our usual placing of, oh, 10th place or something like that. Even after spotting the themes to Eyes Wide Shut, Boogie Nights and so on. Still, a fun time was had by all. Managed to get the Who Sung Which Bond Theme question right, of course. But ask me to recognise the theme to Blade 2 and I just giggle.

I put the previous win down to a combination of luck and a good amount of film fans on the table. The team then included Val, Clare, Alison and Adam – all four of whom are the dressed-up DJs at their new club Airport (every Weds 10pm-3am, at The Roxy, 3-5 Rathbone Place W1.).

Mr Adam works for Tartan Films, so lately he's been handling the UK business of films like The Woodsman and Palindromes, the new Todd Solondz. If a new movie has got paedophiles or serial killers, but with a quality 'indie' feel, it's probably a Tartan film. I'm rather a fan of the <a href="http://www.tartanvideo.com/" target="_blank">Tartan DVD label.</a> Last year they put out the likes of Capturing the Friedmans, Wisconsin Death Trip and Control Room. All three of which are highly recommended to you, Dear Reader. Must write about them in depth some time. Naturally, my first question to Adam was 'When are Tartan bringing out Liquid Sky on DVD'? No plans. Some problem with rights, apparently.

Team members this time were myself, the stalwart Dr Dave Kennedy, the dedicated Mr Martin White (who travels all the way from Croydon to do the quiz), plus Mr Wren Gullo and Mr Andy, Ms Silke and Mr Sam, Ms Amelia From-The-Dedalus-Book-Launch and – a pleasant surprise – Mr Ian Watson of How Does It Feel club fame. Turns out Ms Amelia knows Mr Watson behind my back, in some kind of writing-for-the-Guardian context. Mercifully, I make it a rule never to utter the expression 'small world'.

I sit down and think about all the people who've been on the quiz team since I started attending last September. Invited from all the different London Worlds I drift in and out of. Can one be defined by the sort of people one attracts – a Venn Diagram intersection labelled People Who Don't Mind Being Associated With Dickon Edwards? Well, they all seemed to get on with each other, and I think they enjoyed themselves. No one died. It's been a lot of fun.

This curious group has included:

– people from England, Ireland, Germany, Sweden, France, Australia and the US
– males, females and transsexuals in their 20s, 30s and 40s
– at least 5 people who play in bands or manage bands
– at least 5 workers in cinemas or video shops
– at least 3 playwrights who've actually managed to get their work performed in public
– at least 4 journalists who apparently manage to get paid regularly
– at least 6 DJs who know how to fend off requests from drunken Non-Regulars at their clubs
– 1 x editor of early Belle and Sebastian videos
– 1 x offspring of the man who wrote the song Blame It On The Boogie
– 1 x runner of a fan club for the TV series, Lexx
– 1 x runner of a fan club for the Kenickie offshoot band, Rosita
– 1 x actor from the 80s TV series The Tripods
– 1 x Suicide Girl (Suicidegirls.com being a kind of Playboy for the Marilyn Manson set)
– 1 x contestant on Channel 5's Make Me A Supermodel
– 1 x vocalist from the bands Blood Sausage and The Lies, on the 'Kill Rock Stars' label
– 0 x concert ticket touts

I need a job, and there appear to be no less than three job vacancies in the newspaper to take charge of a popular and enduring franchise. Previous incumbents have all been slightly silly white males.

I don't fancy running about all the time, so that excludes applying for the New Doctor Who or the New James Bond.

But I DO have a talent for being inexplicably popular with some people, while resented by others just for existing. And I spend most of my waking life in a befuddled state, wanting to sit down and fall asleep.

So, New Pope it is.

Feeling curiously fragile and anti-social lately. Well, more than usual. Extreme Garbo-itis. Trying hard to conserve money, which is rather whittled away when going out and buying drinks. Even two drinks an evening makes rather a dent in one’s resources when living on National Assistance. Which is a pity, as I keep being invited or alerted to all kinds of nice events.

It’s made harder now that I’m no longer working regularly at Archway Video. Still, I’m earning dribs and drabs by doing pleasant computer-based work for them, such as updating their website, typing work, compiling charts. All of which I rather enjoy and do so in the comfort of my own room whenever I like. Mr Benson has got me doing similar work for him too. I’ve just transcribed an interview he did with Quentin Crisp in 1996 for Gay Scotland Magazine, so he can put it on his website. I’ve been listening to his original interview tape for reference. Talk about work one can take pleasure from.

It’s such a cliché for writers to carp on about sub-editors distorting rather than enhancing their words, but the published article does contain a particularly baffling revision on the part of the magazine staff. In Mr B’s hand-typed manuscript, as on the tape, Mr Crisp quotes Saint Theresa:

St Theresa said, “We must treat all people as though they were at least better than ourselves.” Isn’t that a wonderful thing to have said? But God is so angry. All that power, and so mean with it. If I were God – and I never understand why I’m not – I should say, “Shop around, I don’t think you’ll find a better bargain than here.”

In the finished magazine, however, the quote reads “We must treat all people as though they were at least better than themselves.” Thus changing the whole sense of the saint’s message.

Perhaps the sub-editor thought ‘ourselves’ was a typo; that the quotation was just too humbling to be correct. Magazine Sub-Editor Finds Saint’s Words Too Saintly Shock.

And I’m back on the dreaded Life Laundry again, selling heaps of CDs and books on Amazon Marketplace rather than Ebay, where one can just look up the item, see what other people are asking, and muse on whether it’s worth selling your own copy, or just chuck it out.

Today, someone in Mottingham has bought my copy of Kylie Minogue’s Enjoy Yourself, original PWL CD version. I thought ‘Mottingham’; was a typo, but it appears to be somewhere dark in South London. They need all the vintage Kylie they can get down there.

Someone else in Dorset has just bought my copy of The Divine Comedy’s Promenade. It’s the original Setanta release, with a bonus 2nd CD EP of “A Promenade Companion”. I sold it for £5.99, a price off the top of my head, and it went within minutes of listing it. So I have a horrible feeling I’ve ripped myself off. I suppose I should obtain a Rare Records price guide, but I can’t be bothered. So it serves me right if I lose out. Moreover, I’m aware that just because one prices an item at what it’s worth, doesn’t mean it will actually sell quickly, or at all.

Still, I cheered up when I saw a book I’d purchased for 50p in some dusty basement currently listed on Amazon for £200 ‘Sandel’; by Angus Stewart. The bestselling novel of unconventional love, says the cover, by a photo of a solitary naked young man against a black background. “Coolly witty” – Sunday Times. “Bizarre, accomplished” – Times Literary Supplement. So says the jacket in 1970. Mr H thinks it would never get re-published in the Current Climate. Where Mr Jonathan King is regarded by some newspapers as several degrees worse than Mr Milosevic.

So, gushing over homoerotic rarities aside, I’d like to recommend the following events, even if I can’t attend them all myself.

Tonight: Mr Martin White, accordion master, playing at The Book Group, a comedy night hosted by Robin Ince at the Albany on Gt Portland Street. Also features the excellent comedian Dan Antopolski.

Thursday:Kash Point at Moonlighting, 10-3. Theme of which is Leigh Bowery Tribute Night. I rather thought every Kash Point was just that, but this occasion features the late Mr Bowery’s widow Nicola in her first Minty performance since, oh, 1892.

Friday: The Boyfriends at The Islington Bar Academy, N1 Centre. A very English, very London guitar band featuring some of the capital’s most charismatic male specimens.

Saturday: Kenneth Williams – TV Gems and Rarities, presented by Mr David Benson. 8pm, The Plough Inn Theatre, Wood Street, E17 / Walthamstow. Then Club Bohemia 8.30pm-2am, Buffalo Bar, Highbury Corner. If I go to the former, I’ll miss the marvellous band The Irrepressibles at the latter. I’ve seen them before, though. The singer has a wonderful falsetto croon, slightly reminiscent of The Tiger Lillies.

Being unsure how The Tiger Lillies spell their name, I check the Web and find an amusing unkind review of a Boston concert. It’s a fine example of how a bad review for some can be a good review for others. A good note to leave this entry on.

The Tiger Lilies [sic] weren’t much better-they were worse. A white-faced eunuch with an accordion strapped to his chest came out on stage and began singing falsetto songs about children masturbating and other trite Theatre Major shock matter that seemed more like an obvious (unskilled) perversion of a Tim Burton children’s book and Marlene Dietrich’s back catalogue than anything original or conceptually redeeming. Well, they are from Britain, so I guess they at least have some sort of excuse.