Definition of “pretentious”: Something vaguely original or interesting that one doesn’t like.

For the flip side, a quote picked up by my Uncle Mike:

“Just because I don’t understand you, doesn’t mean you’re artistic.”

I have no general education beyond GCSE level, and none of my 9 GSCEs was in Art. One couldn’t study Art as an Admirer, as I would have wanted it, only as a Practitioner. This didn’t stop me from educating myself. Thanks to being the son of art teachers, who ensured I had words like “esoteric” crowbarred into my vocabulary by the time I started primary school, and thanks also to the crash course I received osmotically working at Kenwood House (I can now happily drone on about the life and works of Vermeer, Rembrandt, Turner, Gainsborough and Reynolds to anyone who’ll listen and many who won’t), I like to think I know a little bit about art AND I know what I like. The arrogance of the auto-didact rears its aesthetically ugly head.

A few weeks ago. A call comes from the Institute Of Contemporary Arts. Would I like to be part of a living piece of art there? For money. I am terribly excited. I rather like the ICA. At last, I think. My chance to be the new Gilbert and George and get paid for something I think I could do. My heart leaps.

A day or two later. I am shown into a small deskless meeting room at the top of the ICA building, up far too many winding narrow stairs. There is a lift, but it looks older than Canada and not nearly as friendly. I pass a small army of backpacked foreign students sitting in the corridor chatting loudly in non-English. A common sight in London, almost heartwarmingly reassuring. They might well be there by mistake.

Half a dozen strangers are in the room with me. They are mostly students of art or philosophy with time on their hands. The artist, Mr Tino Sehgal, is seeing an awfully large amount of people to be in his work, and I am just one of many. Not a good sign for me. That he also needs to deal with his potential Art Performers via a staff of Small Busy Women With Smaller Busy Phones is a give-away. This is a major, professional operation. There is Money involved, and one can’t argue with Money. When I gave talks about the paintings at Kenwood House to groups of bored local schoolchildren, they suddenly perked up when I mentioned how much money the Vermeer was worth.

If Mr Sehgal uses me in his Art, I am told, I shall be paid by the hour, including rehearsals. But the right people have to be found. It is a job application like any other. Except not like any other.

The ICA woman who leads me into the room sits on the floor in one corner, falling into that common duty of many a PR, PA or other tireless administrative wheel-oiler: that of The Chaperone. She is fetching and parading human specimens for Mr Sehgal to peruse, taking them safely out of his sight afterwards.

Mr Sehgal is young, dark and casually dressed. He speaks with real passion and belief, though admits he is still not quite sure about what this Art piece will eventually turn out to be.

What IS definite is this. The art involves no paintings, no photographs, no films, no special lighting. Not even a light bulb going on and off. It is about using hired hands to be the art themselves. Choreographed performance and discourse with the Visitor. The visitor will wander into a bare room at the ICA and find a handful of Tino People coming to life and walking backwards towards them. The Tinoettes then start talking among themselves about the visitor. “What do they want? The Purpose Of The Art Is…”. They will say the same Art Phrases over and over again, as one, starting in a whisper. If the Visitor does not respond, they will fall to the floor in slow motion, in sync, slowing down the phrase as they fall. Or possibly none of the above.

Immediately I am in a dilemma. Part of me thinks this sounds all too much like a lazy parody of Modern Conceptual Art. As imagined by an frightened ignoramus in order to ridicule it. A sitcom writer’s idea of Modern Art. An embarrassing episode of Only Fools And Horses where Del Boy visits an Art Gallery.

Another part of me goes a step further and genuinely fears that Mr S is an actor, and this is all a set-up for an amusing late-night reality TV show at my expense. Made for Channel 4, or more likely, E4, by the likes of Dom Joly or Adam and Joe. Or Muriel Gray – again. I actually look around the room for hidden cameras, and when I get home, check the web to see if this Tino Sehgal really exists. He’s for real, all right, and he’s terribly acclaimed. I blush at typing this confession, and hope Mr S takes my doubt as a compliment. I think he thrives on doubt, actually.

Once I’m convinced that Mr Sehgal is not a living piece of someone else’s idea himself, I want to encourage and praise his courage, because to do otherwise means lining up with Pavlovian whelks like Brian Sewell, Richard Littlejohn, or that wretched government minister who described one year’s Turner Prize entries as “cold, conceptual bullshit”. Ridicule, as Mr Ant pointed out in the popular 80s song “Prince Charming”, is nothing to be scared of.

I enjoy a lot of things that dare to be regarded as pretentious, egregious, cod-intellectual drivel. (Unkind Reader’s voice: You can smell your own, Mr Edwards).

I admire the interesting and unusual, the thought-provoking, the challenging and the experimental. One of my favourite films of all time is “Liquid Sky”. My favourite film of 2004 was Mr Von Trier’s “Dogville”, with its black theatrical space, lack of set, and actors miming the absence of furniture or props. I also am a fan of Ms Emin, Mr Warhol, Mssrs Gilbert & George, Mr Beckett, Mr Jarman, and Mr Robert Wilson, among others.

So why does my stomach turn Cartesian Cartwheels as Mr Sehgal describes his piece?

Two words which always give me the screaming ad-dabs.

Audience Participation.

In my mind’s eye, Mr Sehgal is saying “I’ll get this side of the audience to sing “London’s Burning, London’s Burning”, and THIS section to sing “Fetch The Engines, Fetch The Engines.”, and THIS side to… Dickon, are you getting your coat?”

I’m also reminded of those museums where out-of-work actors are employed to dress up in period costume and play a part. My heart sinks if I see one, and I try to side-step them in such places. My leisurely day out to a museum or gallery has suddenly become a stress-filled game of Avoid The Actor. “Oh, God,” I think. “Please don’t talk to me in your silly attempt at a Victorian Accent. You’re not Lord Elborough, inventor of the Patent Steam Water-Radio, you’re Dave Davison, Equity Member (Clean Driving Licence, Dance: Jazz and Tap), in a bad false beard. Who once appeared in a 1998 episode of The Bill, or possibly Casualty, and is currently Resting. I’m glad that doing this means you’re earning money based on your skills, but please don’t approach me…! Give me panels to read, guides to digest, even one of those audio guides, but leave me alone to enjoy the Art and the History by myself, quietly, and in my own private space. Life is stressful enough.”

Back at the Art Audition, Mr Sehgal asks me what I think an innocent visitor might say when they find themselves with a gaggle of paid Tinoettes advancing backwards upon them asking questions.

I reply, “SECURITY!”

This gets a laugh from some of the other applicants, but not Mr S. It is my turn to explain:

“My worry is that you might have a problem with the dreaded English Reserve and their Fear of Embarrassment.”

“That’s not MY problem,” he snaps back.

I want to reply “I rather think it IS your problem”, but say nothing. I feel he doesn’t want to understand me. Which seems a mite unfair as I’m doing my utmost to understand HIM. But one must never ask for reciprocation of affection. That way, Dear Reader, lies misery.

“Anything else you want to ask?” he says.

“Will you be there to keep an eye on us?”

“No, I’ll be there to do that”, says the Chaperone in the corner suddenly. I suppose she’s the Stage Manager to his Director.

In the days after this encounter, I feel I’d better decline the job. Although I could do with the money, and it would make an interesting diary entry if nothing else (a common justification for much of my uneasy decisions in life), my heart and stomach says I’d rather not. I could see myself faring badly in my role, failing to keep a straight face, bumping into my fellow Tinoettes, giggling, falling over, getting beaten up.

I consult friends. Some say it sounds fantastic and unique, do it. Others say it sounds deeply embarrassing for all concerned, you’ll regret it, don’t do it. Perhaps this is how Professor Greer felt before agreeing to go into the Big Brother house.

In the end, Mr S decides for me. I get a call from an ICA apparatchik chick. Thumbs down, into the lion pit. He doesn’t want me.

In the way that it’s better to resign than get fired, I feel a bit hurt, my pride a little dented. But I put it down to, once again, the position being for a good Art Performer, not for a good Dickon Edwards.

Perhaps he thought my appearance is too visibly that of someone who wants to be Living Art. Perhaps he thought I was mocking him at the audition. I wasn’t – I was more uneasy about his expectations of visitors (though I suppose that IS a kind of mockery: a lack of faith).

Perhaps it was my dreaded Default Expression of Aloofness, something I don’t do on purpose, that he took exception to. As if I were silently sneering “I can see right through you, Mr So-Called Artist.” Which I wasn’t, but I know that’s something I do. Or perhaps he could discern, from just looking at me, my propensity for Frank Spencer-style clumsiness and a tendency to play the clown. Albeit the sad clown. Perhaps he could also tell that I’m very bad at working within a group, and at following group choreography. So it’s for the best in the end.

I later hear that Mr S has hired Mr Tim Chipping. Alan Bennett says good art should make you want to put it under your coat and walk out with it. Well, I’ve met plenty of people who’ve wanted to do that with Mr Chipping. Good luck to him and Mr Tino.

When I mention this sorry tale to an unkind acquaintance, he replies “You applied to be a piece of Living Art – and failed! YOU! That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” And laughs that kind of forced laugh that represents deliberate cruelty rather than spontaneous joy. I laugh with him. That’s the only way to react.

I am convinced more than ever that it all comes down to Comedy, to Humour, to Wit in the end. As Ms Laurie Anderson says, if you MUST create performance art or conceptual art, use humour. Take the mickey out of yourself. Send it up. If you can, make people laugh intentionally, rather than nervously. Even if – especially if – the laughter is tragicomic, bittersweet and wry. And don’t involve audience participation – you may not “have a problem with that”, but the terminally English do.

I’ve been to see Shakespearean tragedies, and found the audience laughing at anything vaguely resembling humour. People want to laugh. Being serious is so much easier than being funny. And so much safer. Best be funny on purpose.

Then again, could it be that the laughing little boy in the story of The Emperor’s New Clothes just had bad taste?

When I wrote about treating 2005 like a blank slate, I wasn't quite expecting my computer to take me literally.

Four days ago my hard drive broke down completely. And the last time I made any CDR back-ups of data was January 2004.

Just got the machine back from repairs, fitted with a new drive. On top of losing all kinds of original text, images and stored emails I'm now £110 pounds poorer, and I have to go through the long process of re-downloading all the updates and programs I use on my paltry dial-up connection.

Apparently, Data Recovery services exist even for a hard drive that "the BIOS doesn't recognise" (my quotes to indicate I don't want you to think I know what I'm talking about). But such services are upwards of £500. Is what I lost worth that much? I have no idea – I can't remember. That's why I used my computer to remember things for me. And now this has happened. It's as if my PC has argued that, as I failed to get much writing done during 2004, it's taught me a lesson by effectively wiping the year, Jim Carrey-and Kate-Winslet-like, from my memory. Thank goodness for web diaries.

So, Dear Reader, if you've been expecting an email from me, I could well have lost it. <b>Please get in touch again</b>. My profuse apologies.

This time, in addition to making more regular CDR back-ups, I'm starting to favour the less frustrating medium of (whisper it), pen and paper. Pocket diaries, address books, notebooks and <i>cahiers</i> courtesy of Moleskine, the stationary fetishist's brand of choice. I realise this probably makes me far more of a fashion victim than if I started to wear jeans around my ankles, but so be it. I do like my stationery.

For the first time in 4 years I eschewed spending Christmas alone in Highgate to be with my parents in Suffolk. My choice. No real reason other than it'd been a while, though the passing of my last grandparent in 2004, coupled with my brother's choice to spend Yuletide in New York, had a little to do with it. The time was spent in a gentle haze of indulgence, with the only lucid moments invested in helping my father and mother with their computer-related queries. I'm hardly a PC Support Engineer, but I do know how to write instructions for slightly advanced e-mail usage in Edwards Parent-ese.

I'm back now, renewed and revived, full of optimism, energy and ideas. I intend to have a creative and productive 2005. Best get on, then.

A recent theme of mine has been Better Late Than Never. Many people are still wishing each other Happy New Year even though it's January 3rd. So I hope this belated Seasonal Message will not seem too out of place.

For me, 2004 was the year of The Distracted Catalyst. I procrastinated for most of it, and didn't really do very much at all, at least in terms of being able to point to things I'd created. Yet I found myself helping to make things happen for other people. Bringing people together, even if only as a talking-point. Something some people had in common was being acquainted with me (I hesitate to write "knowing me" – and therein hangs a therapy session or ten). This comes as much from a decade of flitting about in different London scenes, at the intersection of different Venn diagrams of social circles, never quite committing to any group of friends in particular, rather than anything else. Myself as the Littlest Hobo of London life. Which comes with its own attendant pros and cons.

There was Scarlet's Well, a band I love whose live incarnation I had a hand in forming, even if it meant myself being dismissed after months of rehearsal. Still, it was a decision I couldn't help but agree with. They needed a very good guitarist, not a passable Dickon Edwards. And I enjoyed every rehearsal immensely. They may have seemed bad value on paper: I only had the one concert with SW as a guitarist. But as a fan this was far, far, better than playing no concerts at all. And seeing the rehearsals in terms of regularly playing music with people I adore and admire, in terms of delighting my heart; I'll always feel the dividends.

Putting SW on the same bill as Gentleman Reg was my idea of a mini-Meltdown festival. I helped to drag Gentleman Reg over from Canada and play his first London dates, because I wanted to see him in concert and couldn't afford to go to Toronto. Like SW, I got out of bed and did something about the new music I do like, rather than moaning about all the new music I didn't. Something I'm particularly proud of.

In 2004 I was made the first Ambassador of my local pub, The Boogaloo, Archway Road, which hosts all kinds of events from secret gigs by Bright Eyes to literary readings by Jake Arnott. I gave spoken word and solo performances, as myself the Songwriter, as myself the Flaneur, as Jerome K Jerome and as Quentin Crisp. In all cases I came away realising it's best to learn the words beforehand rather than read from notes, to douse the nerves and promote articulacy. More work to be done, then. I discovered this year that both my mother and my late grandfather have given after-dinner speeches to rooms of hundreds of strangers across the country, and in my mother's case, across the world. So it's something I'd like to at least keep trying, if only to carry on this slight family tradition. I may even enrol in a class.

Which brings to me the fiction-writing evening course I attended. It came as a shock to the system at first, feeling back in the classroom for the first time in years, wondering if I have to revert to Schoolboy Dickon too (answer: no, but it's hard not to). Regardless, the benefits of a regular tuning-up of the mind – and of having to read one's efforts to a room of strangers and getting instant feedback – can't be underestimated. The same goes for starting weekly therapy sessions, which are doing me good, if only because they're easier on the nerves than taking a cold bath every Monday morning. They have much the same mental effect.

Helping out at the best-stocked video library in North London has made me watch far more decent films than ever before, and introduced me to ones I'd otherwise never see. One can't beat the feeling of being taken by the hand of great film-makers, to be lost in their world for a couple of hours. I'm constantly discovering such new worlds, new gems to watch: the place is a treasure trove.

Achievements I suppose I can point to included writing the Afterword to a Proper Published Book, a new edition of Jerome K Jerome's Idle Thoughts Of An Idle Fellow. Again, something that delighted me immensely as a fan of the book, an indulgence which I hope others can enjoy. The actual Afterword was a brief text, but I did work quite hard on boiling down what I wanted to say into the word count, and was pleased to see it quoted in the Evening Standard. Never be afraid of conciseness. Something I should apply to my diary entries, to make them more regular and less like clichéd buses.

I found this first tentative dip into the waters of the London Literary Scene, intriguing and exciting. One publisher told me I was too young and glamorous to be an author (even at 33), and that I'd make more money and have more admirers at my feet if I started a rock band. Ho ho. Well, that chapter hasn't quite closed. I do intend to get the third Fosca album done this year, write songs for others, plus the much-mooted Dickon Edwards Songbook – A Tribute To Myself project launched upon the world with as much jolly cultish PR as I can hustle. After that, well, we'll see.

I have such ambivalent feelings about the current music scene. Visiting my parents, I spy the Scissor Sisters album in their collection, next to Peter Skellern. It's official; my parents are more in touch with pop music than me. My father was born in 1936.

I definitely still love all kinds of goings-on out there, from the last Kylie single to many of the underground acts appearing at London clubs like Kash Point. Whether I want to Join In myself right now I'm not so sure. I realise more than ever that Music only matters to those to whom it matters. And today the worlds of fiction or of writing for radio, stage, TV or film seem more appealing. As long as they are offshoots of Being Dickon Edwards. The plan is to write regardless, and see what form it takes.

On New Year's Eve 2004 I wasn't so keen on all-night celebrations, and instead went to the Boogaloo for a couple of drinks. From 11.45pm to closing at 1am. As I live across the road, my environment changed in seconds from a quiet state of lying on my bed reading, to a room full of loud people. But the overall feeling was one of friendliness, not aggression. Sure, it was New Year's Eve, and the long-term sincerity of such friendliness is in doubt. But I do think recent world events injected a modicum of perspective into the proceedings. One that Life is to be celebrated, enjoyed and made the most of, if one finds oneself lucky enough to be in possession of the stuff. A little hedonism, some indulgence, but mixed with productivity and of doing things worth doing. And above all, channelling all feelings toward others into niceness, politeness, consideration and kindness. Even if – especially if – doing so goes against one's default character traits.

The temptation so many times during the year was to feel what I'm ashamed to admit was quiet envy. An entirely useless emotion unless one acts on it. Do something about it, or be quiet, goes the inner voice. Take those energies you're wasting on resentment and spend them on doing something creative, positive and kind.

Not just envy of others being able to get things done, either. I have to confess I've been envious of others going to a place or event that I'd like to have been to myself. But then, I'm not those people. One can't be envious of people who aren't oneself. Apart from the shocking bad form in polite company, it just makes no sense. The response when one hears about such jaunts should never be a sulky "Wish that was me", but "Good for you, tell me all about it." Likewise hearing of the success of others. Be happy for them, and if one feels resentment bubbling under the surface, convert this negative feeling into a positive, constructive one.

So I still have not yet been to New York, Berlin or Toronto, at the risk of comparing myself to the moss-gathering Mr Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life. But I have made all kinds of new friends from these very places, who were kind enough to come to London instead.

As for New York, well, lately it's been rather easy persuading Witty Americans to leave their country and go to London (or anywhere else). One silver lining of the state of things.

It's the same with affection: easily tangled up with the Resentful Ego. One must never give purely in the hope of receiving. Never send a Christmas Card purely because you want one back for yourself. Likewise a birthday present. Likewise a kiss. Likewise the thought of a kiss. If one has affection to show, one must show it in the politest and most gracious way. And one must never, ever, stand by the letter box waiting for a reciprocation, a requitement, something in return.

The news that enormous sums of money have been quickly donated by the UK public to help victims of the Indonesian tsunami is a good illustration. It proves that people don't need a bad charity record in order to spontaneously give millions for a good cause. I hear that Mike Read is making such a record anyway. Forgive him, his ego took a bit of a battering in 2004 with his "Oscar Wilde" musical closing in one day, and needs a bit of feeding.

Singing the phrase "Feed Our Egos" along with the Band Aid 20 song is the only way I can cope with hearing it. Why else are they applauding themselves at the end of the record? No one would dispute the Good Cause, but why does a Good Cause have to equal a Bad Record?

Just give, if you feel the need to give. Let the applause come as a surprise – and from someone other than yourself. Or if you must do something to raise money or awareness, do something useful rather than pointless. Make a good record.

In the case of Band Aid 20, I'd have preferred a "Sunscreen Song" style hip but thoughtful spoken-word piece educating people about the cause. It would still have gone to Number One, and radio listeners would have come away learning something more about the Sudan situation, other than there's some "clanging chimes of doom". Or failing that, a four minute silence.

Ms Rowling's two little Harry Potter charity spin-off books are actually worth buying regardless. Mr Morrissey's PETA-supporting compilation of his favourite obscure records is at the very least, a curiously eclectic pop compilation. Don't sit in a bath of baked beans (the equivalent of the charity record) for a Good Cause. Spend the same time and energy on doing someone's garden for charity (I'm thinking of my time in the Cub Scouts during charity Bob A Job week), clean windows, give up smoking forever. Charity really shouldn't go hand in hand with Embarrassment.

Now, I realise that this lesson of striving to be positive, constructive, kind and giving rather than negative, judgemental, unkind and expecting to receive; is bordering on the clichéd. But it's a lesson I'm addressing to myself as much the World. And it's one I admit I still have to learn. A self-confessed narcissist has to battle with their own Resentful Ego all the time, to convert its ugly clamour into something pretty and useful to everyone.

You are my witnesses. That I can type these words in my Highgate bedsit and they'll be read across the world by friends I've met and friends I've not yet met, is something I'll never take for granted. Thank you for reading. Hope you'll stick around.

If "It's A Wonderful Life" were to be re-made in 2005, the closing message would have to be:

"No man is a failure while he has friends. Even if they're mostly on the Internet."

A happy and productive 2005 to you all.

Dickon Edwards
Highgate, London N6.

A Very Merry Christmas to all my readers.

Photo of Mr Dickon Edwards by Ms Kim Cunningham
Taken 17th December 2004 at The Boogaloo, 312 Archway Road, London N6 5AA
Red Wine by The Boogaloo
Suit by Cenci of Monmouth Street
Hair by Ms Anna S of Camden Town

Films watched recently:

Dogville: More Hollywood names taking their mainstream fans to Foreign Film Land, at the risk of causing them to walk out. This time Ms Kidman, Mr Caan and Ms Bacall drag us into the world of writer and director Mr Lars Von Trier, of Danish “Dogme” fame. He’s very keen on Rules and Disciplines in making Art, is terribly angry about unkindness and hypocrisy in American society, and is an unabashed admirer of the allegorical plays of Mr Brecht. Come back, O average popcorn muncher!

The film is shot entirely on an enormous abyss-like black theatre space, representing the small fictional 1930s US mountain town of Dogville. No set and minimum props, but plenty of close and far camera angles, hand-held shots, quick cutting, overhead views, zooms, and so on, all to make this much more than just a filmed stage play. Rooms and walls marked out on the floor in white lines like road markings, with labels in capital letters: “THE OLD WOMAN’S BENCH.” “CHUCK AND VERA’S HOUSE.” And, significantly in one corner, “DOG”. We hear the barks and the doors opening and closing but the actors have to mime everything else. The lack of walls makes Dogville literally a transparent town, and means that while a scene is going on in one house, in the background the other residents are quietly getting on with their lives: sleeping, working, chatting silently. It’s a device which works particularly well during a harrowing rape scene. The film cuts to other houses or shops, but in the background the event is still horribly visual. As if the building in “Rear Window” were made from glass. Terrific acting from Ms Kidman, who I shall insist on remembering from the film “BMX Bandits”.

The wry, classic-novel-like narration is especially marvellous, and beautifully voiced by Mr Hurt. Powerful use of Mr Bowie’s song “Young Americans”, too. Dogville does take some getting used to at first, but all in all it’s a rather superb film.

Lost In Translation. After The Virgin Suicides, this confirms director Ms Coppola as a mainstream cinematic poet, with very much her own style. Dreamy detachment, sensual yet sexless, musings on Life, people moping about, confused and entranced by the world, by others, and by other worlds. And lots of appropriately atmospheric indie music. Last time, mostly by Air. This time, there’s the white noise melodies of The Jesus and Mary Chain, Kevin Shields and My Bloody Valentine. Indeed, melodies within white noise is very much the message of Lost In Translation. The night on the town sequence, including the Karaoke singing, is so terrific, I felt genuinely taken out of myself. No mean feat for me.

I think Ms Coppola’s favourite words are still very much Virgin and Suicide. Despite her married status and predilection for moping around in her underwear, Ms Johansson’s character is Ms Virgin, hermetically sealed from Life, and unusually for a film with a 15 certificate, there’s no sex scenes. Mr Murray, meanwhile, is Mr Suicide, ravaged with Enough of Life: drink, sex, money, marriage. Ms Johansson seems twelve, Mr Murray twelve thousand.

I hear that young female customers at Archway Video have rented this film, expecting to sympathise with Ms Johansson, only to return it and complain that it’s “boring”. Maybe because it’s a film about BEING a young woman, rather than targeted FOR young women. I think it’s also fairly pertinent that the writer is a woman over 30 rather than, say, the likes of Mr Nabokov. It does brilliantly portray the appeal of the older, apparently wise and experienced man to an angsty young girl, and yet manages to restrain from sleazy consequences in favour of a platonic, mutually life-saving exchange of opposite perspectives, in line with the film’s own theme of blissful but ambivalent detachment.

Despite the setting, the film is by no means about Japan. It more equates mixed feelings of being in a strange location, with mixed feelings about relationships, Love, Life and what to do when one is found in possession of it. It also reminded of me of my own trip to Japan a few years ago as guitarist with the band Spearmint. Like the film this also included a joyous time in a karaoke hotel. At one point, I even listened to My Bloody Valentine on my walkman as I gazed out of a bullet train window.

When Ms Johansson asks Mr Murray, “does it get any easier?”, she means coping with Life, another country where her character can’t yet speak the language. This reminded me of a time when during a Tokyo TV interview, Spearmint drummer Ronan was given some strange Japanese sweetmeat to savour, and after chewing for a long, long while, said “does it get any better?”

There was much laughter, but I read an enormous amount into this statement, half-joking, half not joking. It’s the feeling of being in two minds, which in his talk on Mr MacNeice’s poetry Mr Bennett describes as “the feeling most of us feels most of the time”. Half enjoying Difference when one experiences it, such as a strange exciting menu in a strange exciting land, half wanting to go home and eat a Mars Bar. Half wanting to take the plunge and do something adventurous with one’s life (the possibility of an affair with someone several decades away in age), half wanting to stay put and stick to the apparent comfort of the familiar.

The only letdown for me is the Oscar-winning script. It’s true that the Japanese characters are short-changed by the film, but then this is Mr Murray and Ms Johansson’s world, not theirs. Indeed, Ms Johansson’s American husband (Mr Ribisi) and his blond film star friend (Ms Faris) are also cruelly thinly-sketched as characters. The problem is when using these minor characters’ shortcomings to set the main ones into sharp relief. Entirely unnecessary, as Mr Murray and Ms Johansson are perfectly fully-formed and “well-rounded” enough already, both in the writing and in the acting.

One example springs to mind. The intended joke about Ms Faris booking her hotel room as “Evelyn Waugh” without realising the novelist’s gender. I’m reminded of a scene in the comedy “Clueless”, where the main girl, Cher, is asked by a boy she’s trying to impress what music she’s into. “Do I like Billie Holiday? I LOVE him!”

This works for Clueless, as it’s all part of Cher’s lovable, clothes-obsessed character. But in Lost In Translation, the Evelyn Waugh joke clashes with the film’s tone. It’s intended for Mr Murray and Ms Johansson to bond over feeling smarter than Ms Faris, but only made me think of them as cruel and sneering. For all we know, Ms Faris might be perfectly aware of Mr Waugh’s gender, and is just being a bit arch in private. We don’t get a chance to find out either way, and this is unfair in a film with so much empathy elsewhere.

My other slight reservation was Mr Murray’s character’s name: Bob Harris. UK readers of a certain age will be aware of “Whispering” Bob Harris, the toothy BBC DJ, music TV presenter and inspiration for The Fast Show’s “Jazz Show” presenter. I kept expecting Mr Murray to turn to the camera every time he was with Ms Johansson, and say “Great…!”

Still, it’s a US film, and one can’t check for famous namesakes in other countries when naming one’s characters. My own favourite example is in Woody Allen’s 1992 film “Husbands and Wives”, in which Mr Allen remembers a sexy young ex-lover of his having wild erotic tastes. The character is called Harriet Harman.

On balance, though, I found Lost In Translation to be a stunning, wonderful film. If Ms Coppola is reading this: you, madam, are an amazing director. But please let me be your co-writer on the next script.

Going to two free drink events on Thursday night, plus buying drinks on top of that, saw such an influx of alcohol to my system that I'm fairly sure the effects lasted for the next 24 hours. Friday morning I had a Euphoric Hangover. The feeling that I'd been drinking heavily the night before, but feeling strangely okay about it. Perhaps I was still intoxicated even after a night’s sleep. Wandered around Muswell Hill and Archway happily in the December rain (always cheers me up), getting lots of chores done. Booked long-overdue appointments with dentist, optician, scanned the Evening Standard piece, stocked up on Resolve (the UK's most popular brand of hangover cure) for the next time, bought the Christmas Radio Times, and at Woolworths bought more copies of Morrissey's prowling new single "I Have Forgiven Jesus" than I strictly need, to show my hardy approval.

It’s only £1.99 and features a rather excellent b-side: a joyous cover version of Raymonde’s "No One Can Hold A Candle To You", complete with the sort of 80s-indie style jangly guitar that one often hears at the club How Does It Feel To Be Loved.

Wonderful to see him last Sat on CD:UK, the ITV Saturday Morning kids' pop show. Dressed as a Catholic priest. Wonder what the Westlife fans made of him. I could be wrong, but the presenter Ms Deeley gave me the impression she'd suffered all those times of having to smile while introducing some depressing cut-and-paste boy band, purely for the moment when she could say "And now, Morrissey".

I do rather like the idea of A Morrissey Christmas. Perhaps he could do as Cliff Richard or Shakin' Stevens in the past, always relied upon to release a single for the fans in December. Why else release a final single from an album at the hardest time of year to have a hit, unless you like the idea of being a Christmas fixture? Indeed, the last time he released an album, "Maladjused", he quietly put out "Satan Rejected My Soul" as a Christmas single. Again, the last single off the album. Again, a great title to see in the charts.

He's playing Earl's Court tonight, and though I've been reluctant to attend concerts by ANYONE in such cavernous aircraft hangars of venues, I'm now tempted to go along and see if I can afford a ticket from a tout (assuming it's sold out). If anyone reading this happens to have a spare ticket, please do get in touch.

In the afternoon, I wrote up my diary, prepared a birthday card for Ms Jennifer Denitto, then trotted off to Archway Video to do some community service for them.

Very untaxing: the shop was comparatively quiet for a Friday. Must be down to what ambulance drivers call Black Friday – the last Friday before Christmas, and thus the most popular evening for office Christmas parties. People are going out to parties, not renting films. Warnings about police crackdowns on "binge drinking" all over the news today. I'm not sure what the distinction between "binge drinking" and just, well, drinking really is. One of those new buzz phrases. Give it a new name and perhaps we can make people getting drunk sound like a new disturbing trend. Those statistic stories on the news are often amusing. The other day I heard on the BBC that <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/4073775.stm" target="_blank">left-handed people are more likely to be violent than right-handers.</a> As a sinister southpaw myself who shirks from conflict and has never raised his hand to a fellow human in his life, I find this particularly amusing. Though having said that, I was curiously good at firing a rifle while a Scout, earning my Marksman badge at Colchester Barracks with flying colours. Perhaps THAT'S where my true talent lies: murder. Problem is, far too many names immediately present themselves as targets.

The hangover then mutated from Euphoric to Grumpy and Tired. At 8pm I put on the usual slap and went to the Boogaloo to have my photo taken by the lovely Ms Kim of the staff, for this year's digital Christmas card to my readers. Last year I was at <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/dickon_edwards/2003/12/25/" target="_blank">Somerset House, by the tree at the ice rink</a>. This year it couldn't be anywhere other than by the tree in the Boogaloo.

I posed with a glass of red wine, and chatted to Ms Alex. We discussed Mr Scott’s new magazine, The Mind’s Construction, with its rather good articles and sexy photos of Mr Bookish, Mr Pink Grease and Mr Scott himself, in full Cindy Sherman role-playing mode. Highly recommended.

Then, as I was about to make my way to Camden town for the house party of Ms Denitto and Ms Anna S (<lj user=my_name_is_anna>), I suddenly felt very shaky and broke out in a cold sweat. A reaction to the one glass of red wine? Delayed hangover from the night before? Whatever it was, my body wanted nothing more than to retire to bed early with ice cream, watching Have I Got News For You and Peep Show on TV.

Feel a bit better now. I must be more careful with the wine next time. Still, no ambulances were involved, and my left hand remained distinctly unviolent.

Last night – shame at last. A mention in the Evening Standard, between Mr Ozu the film director and Mr Elton John the pop singer. What bedfellows!

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/jeromestandard.jpg"></img>

I like the comment on Mr Jerome's "daft name" swiftly followed by the words "Dickon Edwards".

Attend book launch among the umpteen works on devilish Mr Crowley at Atlantis Bookshop, Museum Street. Book in question is a fiction anthology called <i><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/190351732X/dickonedwards-21" target="_blank">The Dedalus Occult Reader: The Garden Of Hermetic Dreams.</a></i> Edited by Gary Lachman. Mr Lachman is an American with glasses, short, slightly spiky hair and a rather nice dark suit and tie. I buy a copy of the book, get him to sign it, and natter to him briefly about Nerval, the lobster-walker I'm emulating on the front of the Dedalus Books catalogue, whom he's included in the anthology alongside Beckford, Balzac et al.

Afterwards, I read the book's author biog and note with interest that Mr Lachman was a founding member of Blondie, as "Gary Valentine". He wrote some of the group's songs including "I'm Always Touched By Your Presence, Dear", plus a memoir, <i>New York Rocker: My Life In The Blank Generation with Blondie, Iggy Pop and Others, 1974-1981.</i> He's also taught English Lit and Science, and managed a metaphysical bookstore. What a CV. I can't help thinking of the groovy Dean in the Simpsons episode where Homer goes to college. "I once played bass for the Pretenders…"

Nice man. Looks too young to have been the first bassist in Blondie. Must be the occult studies.

At the event I down free wine and falafels and meet Claudria Andrei, who I haven't seen for some time. She chastises me for being out of action for so long. Well, no more. Second diary entry in two days!

Lots of copies of the Dedalus catalogue on the counter, featuring myself and the plastic lobster. I also chat to my companion in the photo Anne Pigalle, and a young lady called Amelia (not Ms Fletcher) who says she last met me when I was "hanging out with Kenickie".

A lady asks me for my autograph. She wants me to sign the <i>catalogue</i>. I oblige, of course. I really must get an agent soon: this so-called ability of mine must be worth <i>something</i>.

I also signed copies of the Jerome book at the Boogaloo reading I gave the other day, including two for Shane MacGowan, who came up and asked. One for <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0330490087/dickonedwards-21" target="_blank">Ms Victoria Clarke</a>. A great feeling to give an autograph for someone far more famous than oneself, and a lyricist I admire too. He must hear his song Fairytale Of New York quite a lot around this time of year: it's generally considered <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/music/4101207.stm" target="_blank">the one Christmas pop song people don't grow tired of.</a> Wonder if they play it on the radio in New York?

After the Atlantis book launch, I attend the Boogaloo's second anniversary party, also doubling as the pub's Christmas party. Drink far too many free rum cocktails, spill wine on the bar, and eventually find myself in a corner with Kim and Sophie of the bar staff, singing Morrissey lyrics, ranting on about James Joyce and the Buffy The Vampire Slayer musical. Bedtime for Mr Edwards.

New diary discipline: shorter, more regular entries. Well, I'll try.

The more I put off writing up the diary, the more I think I can Get Away with it. Just go back to bed, do it tomorrow, the destructive part of me says. Do everything tomorrow, or the day after. Tomorrow doesn't exist NOW. Anything but now.

Mr Therapist is convinced that I am not, as Mr Tom Jones never intended it, unusual. In his professional opinion I'm not autistic or blighted by Asperger's Syndrome, the #1 syndrome <i>de nos jours</i>. Perhaps that's my dictionary fame to come:

<i><b>Dickonism</b>. Noun. A tendency to feel, after reading about the symptoms of an illness in the press, that one is riddled with it oneself.</i>

Mr Therapist maintains I'm an ordinary man with entirely treatable depression, who just needs help. And needs to admit I need help. This is somewhat of a disappointment as I'd like to be able to blame the Trouble With Me on some medical condition. Illness as absolution. Not guilty, your honour. Society's to blame. My parents are to blame. My illness is to blame. Not me. Here lies Dickon Edwards: it wasn't his fault.

Oh, how one is forever a sentence away from sounding like some ill-informed self-righteous newspaper columnist. (Reader's Voice: Why stop now?). I do envy those columnists in the tabloids: they only have to be self-righteous in a fraction of their broadsheet counterparts' word count. And probably with several times the readership for several times the fee. The central difference in style seems to be that in tabloid columns every other sentence is suddenly picked out and put in bold, underlined italics like so:

<b><i><u>And that's the trouble with young people today. </u></i></b>

My GP is more concerned with my hypochondria than anything else. I've asked to be tested for everything under the sun this year. The verdict comes back time and time again: depression aside, I'm fine. Could do with regular exercise and a better diet, but fine. And that I should seriously talk to my therapist about my hypochondria. I'll add it to the list, I reply.

O Mr Edwards. Such contradictions. Ill but perfectly well. A mess in a tidy shell. Childlike yet not suitable for children. Self-obsessed yet a mirror to others. Never quite part of a group, yet responsible for others coming together, whether by default or design. Proud and vain yet self-hating and nervous. Cynical yet anti-cynicism. Arrogant yet meek. Aloof yet desperate for company. Funny but tragic. Famous yet Unfamous. Reputedly Terribly Clever yet incapable of many basic human activities.

I search for an excuse for this, the first (I hope) in a series of entries that will draw on past events long overdue for coverage. Conveniently, one presents itself as a recent film I rented on DVD, much recommended by the Archway Video staff.

<b>21 Grams.</b> Essentially an episode of Casualty re-edited by a madman. A traffic accident and heart transplant result in characters getting upset, lives changing, relationships at crossroads, secrets revealed, convictions brought to a head, the ingredients of any hospital-based soap opera. Added to which are musings on what Life really means, and what really matters. The title refers to the weight apparently lost by every human body at death – regardless of their own weight, age, gender and so on. All very well. Except that this story is also told in a jigsaw of flashbacks and flash-forwards, cutting between perspectives and time. Some scenes last mere seconds. Blink, blink, blink.

The director is a Mexican gentleman, Mr Iñárritu. He is Foreign, and is therefore a Genius.

Now, the above was admittedly yet another attempt at a quotably arch but glibly offensive epigram to add to my Greatest Hits collection. You'll forgive me for being a creature of habit. I hasten to add that just because a film is made in a language other than English doesn't necessarily mean it's automatically brilliant. But I'm aware this is often an unspoken assumption with some people, particularly guilty monoglots.

Subtitle-phobes may be comforted to know that my German friend Ms Andrei says she can't stand most films made in her native language, and would far prefer to watch Mad Max 2 than anything by Mr Fassbinder or Mr Wenders.

On the DVD making-of documentary, Mr Iñárritu explains that the narrative of 21 Grams is fragmented "because we view LIFE in fragments". It's the sort of statement unquestionably aided by a foreign accent and its attendant hand gestures. For someone with English as a first language to say such a thing may invite accusations of pretentiousness. Or worse, risking an appearance in Private Eye Magazine's Pseuds Corner, an honour to which I secretly aspire. At least two Guardian reviews of the London band Selfish C**t have enjoyed mentions there this year. I also maintain that Ms Tracey Emin would get less criticism if she were from Iran. It's easier to be artier when you're a foreigner. Write that one down too, please.

21 Grams invites comparisons with another favourite recent film of mine, Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. Both films are made with Hollywood money, Hollywood actors and Hollywood distribution, but have a heavy-accented foreign director and a very art house, indie-flick, world cinema sense of style and narration. Again, it sounds enormously patronising to refer to a non-English language film as "world cinema" or an "indie flick", but while the default movie remains a Hollywood movie (will it ever be otherwise? a subject for a thesis or eight), one has to acknowledge the reigning perspective. My own life is a Cute British Indie Flick rather than a Proper Hollywood Movie whether I like it or not. Thank goodness: I couldn't cope with all the gratuitous explosions and car chases. I couldn't be a non-UK World Cinema film either: all that sex looks like hard work. The Dickon Edwards version of "Y Tu Mama Tambien" would have a U certificate and be translated as "I Get On Terribly Well With People's Mothers."

I rather like the idea of Eternal Sunshine and 21 Grams, two carrot-cake-in-popcorn-clothing movies, being the equivalent of sneaking a foreign film past the eyes of those who scoff, "I don't go to the cinema to READ."

But there's a risk: both have had customers at Archway Video delivering their verdicts as either "Absolute Genius", or "Pretentious Arty Drivel – I like Proper Films." It's a shame, but one has to be careful when recommending such titles. Some people are just popcorn fans through and through. I've also heard of customers who won't watch anything in black and white.

I once went with a very erudite man to see The Dreamlife Of Angels at the Finchley Phoenix. He walked out halfway through and waited for me in the lobby.

"I just remembered I really don't like French films," he said.

"Because of the subtitles?"

"No. Because of the French Film-ness."

21 Grams risks accusations of being Gratuitously Arty more than Eternal Sunshine, as there's no sci-fi element to the story to justify the narrative tricks. Likewise Memento using the protagonist's own amnesia as a stylistic device. Why is 21 Grams cut-up and fragmented like this? The only real answer is because it makes for a thoughtful, gripping film. For the first half-hour, the viewer is all at sea, trying to work out which bit goes where in the narrative. Then the film starts to settle down, and the satisfaction of finding out how the pieces all fit together is so great, I have to declare 21 Grams a work of supreme craftsmanship, and ultimately a downright engrossing experience.

It did remind me a little of the Love & Rockets comics by the similarly Mexican Hernandez brothers, which also tell soap-opera-like tales in disjointed narratives. Often a single panel will be a flashback for no apparent reason. It's the sort of thing that delights me but can infuriate others.

The movie features great performances from the three leads: Mr Del Toro is so good at Acting he converts it to Being. Ms Watts's part is pure melodrama: she spends the film either crying, kissing or snorting drugs. Incredibly, she does all these things without forcing the viewer to look at their watch once. The goofy Mr Penn is an actor I am normally not at all keen on, and I still tend to think of him as Mr Madonna From "Shanghai Surprise". Here, though, he is excellent, managing to bring a black comedic stripe to the proceedings, constantly smoking despite having a messy heart condition. His wife can't understand how he manages to keep his stock of cigarettes replenished while wandering around attached to tubes from a drip-feed apparatus. Neither can the viewer. And this is what gives 21 Grams and Mr Penn's performance that extra appeal.

The casting of his screen wife, Ms Charlotte Gainsbourg, is for me the film's sole let-down. We are meant to believe her character is utterly English, rather than the daughter of the world's most French Frenchman. But her accent doesn't convince. Indeed, at one point she sniffs "I Yarm Going Barck To LarnDarn". It is no wonder Mr Penn's character took to chain-smoking.

Flashback diary entries to come, then.

A lot to write up.

Last Sat lunchtime: interview for RARE FM to plug my various London performances. It's a student radio station based in what resembles an airing cupboard at UCL's Medical School Division of Infection & Immunity. The presenter Mr Jefferson seems nervous, and I wonder if he's nervous of me because of my defensively aloof attitude (something I do try to mitigate), or nervous for me as unproven radio material that might splutter and swear and libel members of the Royal Family within seconds of opening the fader; or just nervous about the temperamental equipment he has to operate while presenting a radio programme. Regardless, I am grateful to him for letting me loose upon his show.

Ideally one would have a separate engineer doing what I believe is termed "driving the desk", but this is community radio so it's naturally all DIY. Recognising the semaphore for "Can you keep talking while I try fiddling with these knobs to get it all working" is essential at such places. The room is actually slightly bigger and easier to get into than the studio of Resonance. There, one has to maneovre oneself up London's narrowest twisting staircase outside of the one in Gosh Comics of Bloomsbury.

No wonder so many local and community radio shows give out their phone numbers and email addresses all the time: one never knows if anyone is listening at all. Thankfully, a reader from Belgium writes in with kind words. God bless Belgium.

I punctuate my interview with some of my favourite music of the year, this being the time when the media starts compiling its Best Of 2004 lists. Lately I have developed an increasingly fogeyish pose of being out of touch of current chart rock and pop, yet am actually more in love than ever with acts such as Scarlet's Well, The Hidden Cameras, Client, and many of the artists featured at the club Kash Point. I play the following tracks:

<b>Hidden Cameras – Music Is My Boyfriend</b>
Taken from "The HCs Play The CBC Sessions", the first of their two albums released on Rough Trade this year. I chose this song particularly because it features prominent harmony vocals from Reg Vermue, aka Gentleman Reg. In Easter readers will recall I did a very John Peel-like gesture with Mr Vermue. I wanted to see him play in the UK, and no one else was getting him over here, so I did it myself. I helped to book his first ever UK live dates and supplied backing guitar. Had I the power to grant him a UK radio session, I would do so like a shot.

<b>Bishi – Uniform and Armour</b>
Taken from the Kash Point compilation album. A perfect pop song, from one of the many young stars in the London nightlife firmament.

<b>Client – Radio</b>
Another perfect glacial pop song. Should really be in the proper Top 5. All these songs should be in the proper Top 5.

<b>Morrissey – Let Me Kiss You</b>
This is where my Robin Hood approach falls apart, as Mr M has enjoyed much chart success and media life in 2004. That said, the Best Of list I glanced in some Magazine entirely overlooked "You Are The Quarry" in favour of some non-threatening trainer-rock groups that journos always seem keen to promote. I could write an entire book about how important Morrissey is to the world, now more than ever, but Mr Mark Simpson has beaten me to it. This song is my Single of 2004: romantic and arch, poignant and pure, subtle and sexy, and a rather 80s meld of jangly guitar and synthi-strings which is right up my cul-de-sac. And yes, I know, some of his 2004 b-sides are even better. But that was always the way. It will be good to see the words "I Have Forgiven Jesus" in the Christmas single charts.

At the radio station, I don't manage to play "How The Cypress Made Apollo" by Scarlet's Well. So it instead goes on my Vox N Roll set at the Boogaloo two days later. Of which, more anon.

Like cliched buses, I appear to have confirmed no less than three performances in London over one short period. Plus a radio interview.

Saturday November 27th
At 1.30pm GMT I shall be chatting about my world and works as a guest of Mr Jefferson on RARE FM, the London student radio station. I think one can listen to it on the Internet. More details about the station here

Then in the evening I shall be appearing at an event called Mildmay Cabaret: A Special Occasion. Mildmay Club, 34 Newington Green, N16 9PR. Buses: from Angel, 73, 476, 341; from Finsbury Park, 236; from Liverpool Street, 141.
“A dazzling night with over 15 local and international cabaret acts, musical, burlesque, comedy, cigar girls, to capture classic 1920s Berlin in this beautiful 1880s theatre.” I’m going on last performing some kind of spoken word piece written during the rest of the show, based on my observations and thoughts of the night. A kind of blogging without computers. Doors 7pm. Tickets £7 / £5. For more details, contact Mr Kevin Quigley at k_astral@hotmail.com or 07951 077661.

Monday November 29th
Mr Edwards Presents Mr Jerome K Jerome at The Boogaloo, 312 Archway Road, London N6 5AA. Onstage 9pm. I shall be reading from the new edition of Jerome K Jerome's classic of Victorian observational comedy, The Idle Thoughts Of An Idle Fellow. This edition is published by Snowbooksand regular readers will recall the book includes a brief Afterword from myself. There should be copies to buy on the night. An ideal gift for that difficult fop in your life. Or even your mother. Or in my case, an ideal gift for difficult fops in my life, my mother AND my landlady. In line with the “Vox N Roll” rules, I’ll be punctuating my short readings with a selection of chosen music. A kind of DJ-ing with literature and records. Free entry.

The previous performer at this venue was a Mr Conor Oberst of a band called Bright Eyes who I’m told have recently made Number One and Number Two in the USA Billboard charts simultaneously. Very nice of him to warm up for me.

Tuesday November 30th
I shall perform some of Mr Quentin Crisp's words at something called the Hanky Panky Kabarett. This is organised by Mr Xavior, he of the band DexDexter and slightly of the band Placebo, and who is also in that Placebo-related band in the film Velvet Goldmine. The event takes place 9pm-Midnight at Bistrotheque, 23-27 Wadeson Street, London E2. Tel: 020 8983 7900. For more details, email: hankypankykabarett@hotmail.com. Hmm, yet another Hackney art cabaret. Something must be in the water.

In indie music news, I see that the band Gene have decided to split up, with their last ever concert at the Astoria in December. I’m rather interested in going – Mr Rossiter the singer does have a certain something, and they were one of the more interesting groups from that dreaded Britpop slipstream. Elsewhere, The Wedding Present have reformed, and have just released their first single in 7 years. What can it all mean?

Mr Eddie N tells me he has found the edition of Italian Vogue featuring the photoshoot of various Kash Point club boys organised especially for the magazine. It appears very few of the people who turned up made the actual piece. The outraged shrieks of sundry men in make-up fill the London air. I too have been cruelly omitted from the magazine. Still, Mr Warboy was also at the shoot, and took a few photos of his own. They can be found here. The photo accompanying this entry is from that day. My buttonhole is an onion flower.