Happy 150th birthday for yesterday, Mr Wilde. In the evening I toasted him at the Boogaloo with a few brandies and reading Mr McKenna's biography. I should really have carried a lily.

Aptly enough, I have been spending a lot of time recently with the Wilde-loving young man I currently introduce to friends as my "houseboy", Mr Lawrence Gullo. A 20-year-old androgynous artist and award-winning playwright from New York State: every home should have one. Fear not, Dear Reader, I shall refrain from adding what Mr Gullo's fellow countrypersons call Too Much Information about our relationship. Suffice it to say he is just what the doctor ordered, worth any amount of serotonin-enhancing prescription drugs. I shall recommend him to be made available on the NHS at once.

To those cynics who might suggest Mr G's status as a polyamorous American and registered FTM transsexual fits in conveniently well with the Jolly Universe Of Mr Edwards – he's like a character from a Fosca song – I can only answer, in an entirely unconvincing attempt at a US accent, "well, DUH".

Another American catchphrase I've been thinking about is "you do the math". Whether it will quite catch on over here remains to be seen, as the British abbreviate mathematics to "maths", plural. I'm reminded of a scene in the recent TV comedy series I'm Alan Partridge where Dan, a ghastly, pretentious businessman that the lonely Mr Partridge is trying to bond with, spouts the phrase:

Dan: You do the math.
Partridge: (unable to stop himself) "…ths"

******

Friday night – to the 291 Gallery in Hackney Road. The place is terrific: an echoey converted Victorian Neo-Gothic church with the highest ceiling of any venue I've ever played in. Apparently it was a former meeting place for Hells Angels, and they used to have bonfires in the main hall. I can well believe it. One gets a sense of vertigo just looking up.

I'm there to perform a short set of acoustic songs, as part of a bill curated by Ms Bishi, a star in the firmament of the London underground art-pop scene whose own debut album, when it emerges, will be promoted to the hilt in this diary.

I trot out a few ditties, but do rather feel too lonely onstage to be doing this regularly. I can't wait to regroup Fosca and perform with them soon. Plus there's the forthcoming series of Dickon Edwards Songbook shows that I'm planning, where different singers take turns to voice a song from my back catalogue, backed by myself and others. Tribute concerts to myself.

I stick around to catch Joan and Josephine, a splendid tranny band on ukelele and drums, followed by a mesmerising performance of opera-singing acrobats on ropes. Spot a few Hoxtonite people wearing Ironic Townie Chic. I suppose one has to say the word <a href="http://www.worldwidewords.org/topicalwords/tw-cha2.htm" target="_blank">"chav"</a> rather than "townie" now. Though I'm rather uneasy about that personally, as the term reminds me of tiresomely sneering Popbitch-style journalists and unfunny website builders.

Still, thanks to the tabloids, Chav has become the new definition of rough trade, and now features in the wording of some escort ads at the back of gay magazines. One imagines curb crawlers opening their transactions with the likes of:

"Hello young man… Want to earn a new pair of those lovely Nike trainers? Well, then, as the slogan goes, Just Do It…."

Afterwards, I cab it to the packed grand re-opening night of Mr Price's club Stay Beautiful, now at The Purple Turtle in Mornington Crescent. Where everybody knows my name. Though it's not quite enough when getting a drink. I want the crowd by the bar to part like the Red Sea, and the bar staff to instantly serve me. No chance. Spend far too long getting a drink, trying to avoid the swaying drunken couple on the barstools next to me, wielding their cigarettes dangerously close to my suit and eyes. I'm not the only one who hates this aspect of clubbing: one poor girl tells me she's just had her eyebrow singed by a particularly careless smoker.

****

Read an <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/comment/story/0,3604,1328663,00.html" target="_blank">article in the Guardian</a> by a particularly paranoid American playwright, Ms Carol Gould, who's convinced London is currently a hotbed of Anti-American feeling. It's taken from a <a href="http://www.frontpagemag.com/" target="_blank">right-wing website</a>, so one should really bear that in mind.

Citing an encounter with a <i>London minicab driver</i> as an example of blanket consensus rather undermines her argument. However, I do think she's right about the edition of Question Time broadcast a few days after 9/11, where a former US Ambassador was on the verge of tears, if not quite breaking into them. Whatever one thinks, it's really not tasteful to open a debate so soon after the event with a question along the lines of "Aren't the events of last Tuesday proof of the failure of American foreign policy?" As if the foremost thing on the victims' minds that day was the ins and outs of US foreign policy. The BBC subsequently apologised for the tone of the programme, and rightly so.

It's true that the screenings of Mr Michael Moore's films I've attended were packed with applauding Londoners, but that's really an indication of UK feeling towards Mr Bush and company (including Mr Blair), rather than his fellow citizens. I have heard the occasional anti-US arguments starting up between strangers when an American accent is overheard, but these were entirely on Night Buses, where the speakers were audibly intoxicated, and are therefore as much as as an index of general local feeling as the rantings of cab drivers.

I for one adore the company of Americans In London. They are so less guarded and reserved than the British, so less shifty and bitter, and they have such better teeth. If I die before visiting the Big Country, I shall be extremely annoyed.

*****

There are those among my readers who think one solution to my lack of drive and creative activity is for me to get a job, or a relationship, or both. They will be pleased to know I now have small measure of both in my life. As well as spending time with Mr Gullo, I am now investing a smattering of hours assisting my friends at Archway Video, a few doors down from The Boogaloo. Community service indeed.

This is undoubtably one of the greatest shops in North London, with a back catalogue of some ten thousand videos and DVDs. If it's ever been released on the format in the UK, and is half-decent, they probably stock it. Not just films, either. One can rent the complete 24, West Wing, Buffy, Angel, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Ripping Yarns, and this week, Little Britain.

I've been a regular customer for the best part of ten years. The shop is a casually-run independent affair and family business, slightly resembling the shop in Mr Cusack's film "High Fidelity", but with women. And videos. Very handy for those impetuous whims when one suddenly wants to watch the complete Fellini oeuvre, or "Plein Soleil", the original adaptation of The Talented Mr Ripley, starring the young Alain Delon instead of Matt Damon. The shop is an essential service to the North London film lover – like a National Film Theatre for the sofa. I'm only too happy to do my bit.

On Friday 15th, I shall perform a brief set as part of a cabaret called <b>"Candy is Dandy but Liquor is Quicker"</b>. Not sure exactly what I'll do, but it'll involve an acoustic guitar. The venue is a Victorian Neo-Gothic church, and I'm told acoustic guitars sound particularly wonderful there.

Venue: 291 Gallery, 291 Hackney Road, London E2 8NA. More details at http://www.291gallery.com
When: Friday, October 15, 2004. 10pm-early hours. I'm on at 10.30pm.

From the website:

"This month, 291’s late night cabaret is joined for a one-off spectacular event by Bishi (Kashpoint, The Siren Suite).
To celebrate the imminent release of her album she has selected some of her favourite friends and performers to entertain you for one night only. Other artists include Bishi, The $hit, Simon Bookish, Anat Ben David (Peaches, Chicks on speed), Rosie Cooper, Marlene, Dickon Edwards; Film: Norioko Okaku, Susanne Oberbeck; DJ’s: Sebastian (Silence is sexy, Caligula) and Jo Apps. Entry: £5."

"DISCLAIMER: Apparently some people don’t like nudity, ideas and a polysexual selection box of fun wrapped up in a beautiful church with a ribbon of love. So if you are of a delicate constitution, you’re probably better off with your jumbo crossword book. "

My own disclaimer to their disclaimer: it definitely won't be me supplying the nudity.

After my set, I'll be dashing off to the grand re-opening of Mr Price's club <a href="http://www.staybeautifulclub.co.uk" target="_blank">Stay Beautiful</a>. A difficult decision, as I'd love to stay and catch some of the other Hackney performers, but I've been in such a Stay Beautiful-ready mood ever since I heard it was returning to Camden. Must be nostalgia for its first venue in Inverness Street. Or possibly for the Camden clubs I frequented in the mid 90s.

====

Last Saturday I managed to cram three clubs into one evening. The excellent comedian Mr Stewart Lee performed his latest set at Monkey Business in Camden, and I dragged Mr Chipping with me. A packed room above a bar, standing room only. I don't go to many comedy gigs, and the comic on before him reminded me exactly why. Never mind Default Men, this was Default Male Stand-Up. His routine was entirely composed of cliched blokish observational comedy targets: a typical example being legalise-cannabis campaigners getting (yes, you guessed it), the "munchies". If no one's laughing, insert swear words and they might laugh at those instead. Ye gods. He appeared to be one of those men who think they're funny just because their girlfriend, pub mates or workmates humour them.

What is it about men thinking they're automatically funny? That's the opening line from my own proposed routine. I've already got the suits.

Thing is, he actually went down rather well. Tourist-heavy audiences like this one prefer their comedy re-heated, blokish, characterless and predictable. When Mr Lee took to the stage and made observational quips on his own act <i>as it was happening</i>, then came out with lines like "all football-watchers are evil and scum", "Gary Lineker is sexually aroused by children becoming fat and dying – I do believe it", along with equally unkind sniping at comedic sacred cows Eddie Izzard and Graham Norton; the response was mostly sparse, nervous laughter, compared to the majority approval afforded to the first comedian. His style is intelligent, sly and uncompromisingly unique. Rarely does he care about pandering to the archetypal pub room crowd – the Default Audience trying to bond with itself over easy, fake-common-ground humour, or even Ageing Student Deadpan humour beloved of Internet users (another bugbear of mine – I really should get this anti-comedy comedy routine onstage). Thing is, he actually does do toilet humour. It's just a drawn-out, lateral and deliciously deconstructed take on toilet humour.

Mr Lee is far too smart to be doing stand-up gigs. This is exactly why he should keep doing them. And why I strongly urge you, Dear Reader, to catch him at <a href="http://www.sohotheatre.com/comedy/" target="_blank">his Soho Theatre run next month</a>.

After this, I attended Crimes Against Pop in Highbury Corner for about half an hour, then onto the The Fanclub in Kentish Town. Danced to deathless pop at the former, found myself being whipped with a bar mat at the latter. The mat-brandishing perpetrator was a bald man in a suit and make-up (yes, Dear Reader, even I can concede it's possible to dress well and act stupidly). He turned out to be a member of one of the Fanclub bands. I confronted him about it in his dressing room, fuelled by a fraction of the Dutch courage he had.

Me: Excuse me. Stop walking away. Why did you whip me with a beer-soaked bar mat while I was innocently dancing to Hazel Dean? I don't even know you.
Him: Oh, just trying to attract attention…

Another idiot, a visibly drunk blonde girl, approached me within minutes.

Her: Aren't you in a band? Isn't your name Duncan or something? Dominic?
Me: (snapping) Buy me a drink.
Her: Sorry? Are you serious?
Me: Yes I am. You've approached me because you're drunk and I look like A Drunk's Fair Game. I've just been whipped with a beer-soaked bar mat by a complete stranger for much the same reason. If I must deal with drunken idiots, which is admittedly an occupational hazard for me, I'd like to be at least as drunk as they are.

She didn't oblige. But she did leave me alone.

I'm not usually this angry with people and feel terribly guilty as I type the above. It must have been the bar mat talking.

Snowbooks, publishers of Jerome K Jerome's "The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow", featuring an Afterword by Dickon Edwards, have kindly put together a mail order offer exclusive to readers of this diary.

For those interested in purchasing this classic of Victorian observational comedy, email <a href="mailto:dickon-offer@snowbooks.com">dickon-offer@snowbooks.com</a> to order a copy, and Snowbooks will provide a 10% discount plus <b>free postage and packing*</b>.

Alternatively, look out for it in Waterstone's, among the "3 for the price of 2" displays.

*For non-UK readers, p&p is free for surface mail, £4.50 for air mail.

<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0860682633/dickonedwards-21/"><img align=left width=180 src="http://images-eu.amazon.com/images/P/0860682633.02.LZZZZZZZ.jpg"></img></a>Yesterday- I have to be in W2 at 8.30am. So, like any other good commuter, I rise at 6am and put on a suit and tie. Then, less like any other good commuter, foundation, mascara and lipgloss. Off to the tube station.

Once again, I'm an extra in a film. This time, it's <a href="http://uk.imdb.com/title/tt0421229/fullcredits" target="_blank">Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont</a>, an adaptation of the 1971 novel by Elizabeth Taylor.

From a description of the novel:

<i>"One rainy Sunday in January Mrs Palfrey, recently widowed, arrives at the Claremont Hotel in the Cromwell Road. Here she will spend her remaining days. Her fellow residents are a magnificently eccentric group who live off crumbs of affection, obsessive interest in the relentless round of hotel meals, and undying curiosity. There is Mrs Burton with her mauve-rinsed hair, her costume jewellery, and her drinking; Mrs Arbuthnot, bossy and arthritic; Mr Osmond with his risque stories, his endless stream of letters to the press. Together, upper lips stiffened, teeth gritted, they fight off their twin enemies: boredom and the grim Reaper. And then one day Mrs Palfrey encounters the handsome young writer, Ludo…"</i>

Today's scene is at a party in someone's (real) flat. Mr Pushaun, who I've met at various clubs, is in charge of recruiting suitable party guest-like people. And so here I am at 8.30am in a top floor Bayswater flat, pretending to chat while not making a sound, pretending to get drunk on coloured lemonade, practising the film extra art of being seen yet not being seen, in order to provide background decoration to the performances of Ms Joan Plowright, Ms Millicent Martin, and Mr Rupert Friend. The latter, who plays Ludo, is a beautiful young floppy-haired man with a passing resemblance to Mr Orlando Bloom. I'm sure <a href="http://www.contemporarywriters.com/authors/?p=auth9" target="_blank">Mr Paul Bailey</a>, the original inspiration for Ludo and editor of "The Stately Homo: A Celebration of the Life of Quentin Crisp", would approve.

Some of the other extras are from an interesting social scene: the Serpentine Swimming Club, who spend most mornings taking their natural highs from bathing among the waterfowl in the Hyde Park lake. They are a jolly, friendly gang of all ages, and their quietly exotic company provides a welcome relief from the usual long periods of waiting around during takes.

After spending the day pretending to be partying, I go straight to a couple of real parties in Mayfair. First, the album launch for glacial electropop duo <a href="http://www.client-online.net" target="_blank">Client</a> at Infinity in Old Burlington Street. A sold-out gig, but Mr Martin White and his chums are already there and have saved me a seat by the sofas. Client, in their yin-and-yang turquoise stewardess uniforms, manage to satirize the trappings of women in both pop music and the world of work, while putting on a winning full-length pop show. They are the feminist thesis you can dance to. The new album in question is called "City" and is highly recommended to all my readers. Support act <a href="http://www.thesohodolls.com" target="_blank">The Soho Dolls</a> put on an equally sturdy set of catchy synthpop with feral party girl attitude, including their delicious debut single "Prince Harry".

I then slink round the corner to Number 3, New Burlington Street to see more pop hostesses in uniform. This time, DJ nurses. Ms Val, Ms Clare and Ms Alicat have just relocated their excellent club <a href="http://thefanclub.info/popklinik.htm" target="_blank">The Pop Klinik.</a> to this afterhours drinking den off Regents Street. They are simply the most impossibly charming trio of DJs in town, always playing a marvellous selection of old and new pop records; following, say, Franz Ferdinand's Tell Her Tonight with Adam Ant's Dog Eat Dog. The club remains high on my list when asked to suggest unpretentious, affordable nocturnal haunts for those new to London.

Therapy session. The Problem is my current crippling refusal to connect or commit to, well, anything at all: the real world, people, love, sex, sexuality, writing, sensible money management, sorting out my past from my present and future, adulthood.

On the way back, my mind ablaze with reflection, I go Life Shopping.

I buy new bed linen for the first time in 14 years. The previous coverings were bought when I moved to Bristol in 1990.

Then… hair bleach, foundation, vanilla lipgloss.

I buy the new single from Client, "Radio". This turns out to be the unknown stand-out song I enjoyed when I last saw them in concert; it remained spiralling in my head all the way home. A superb slice of rain-riven, panoramic, velvet synthpop. Highly recommended.

<img src="http://www.client-online.net/client/radio.jpg"></img>

Weds – to the NFT to see <a href="http://www.us.imdb.com/title/tt0040746/quotes" target="_blank">Rope</a>. My favourite of Mr Hitchcock's films, indeed one of my favourite movies full stop; I'm surprised more people aren't familiar with it. So much to love about this film. Made entirely of innovative ten-minute shots, only cutting when the reel runs out. Hitchcock inventing a 1940s version of Steadicam to film it. Gay young men in suits (based on Leopold and Loeb) killing a fellow student purely for Nietschean supremacy reasons, then inviting the victim's girlfriend and parents to unwittingly dine from the body's casket. James Stewart, fresh from It's A Wonderful Life, as the arch school teacher they took too seriously. The beautiful young Farley Granger – a Uranist in real life – going deliciously to pieces over 80 minutes. 1948 Technicolor on the big screen, every frame looking as if it's painted. Forgotten just how Wildean and funny it is. Favourite line from the Lady Bracknell-like Mrs Atwater:

Mrs A: Do you know, when I was a girl I used to read quite a bit.
Brandon: Oh, we all do strange things in our childhood.

My companions for the film are two lovely, stylish Americans In London: Mr Wren Gullo (<lj user=tzarohell>) and Ms Jennifer Connor. Though it's fashionable to be unkind to the country at the moment, particularly its politicians and its companies, I do rather love the company of its people. Such positivity, such better teeth.

Ms Connor wears a scarf that was formerly a Christmas tree decoration. She is literally like that line in Mr Brel's song "Jackie": decked out like a Christmas tree.

To my delight, Mr Gullo tells me his aunt is the actress Patricia Charbonneau, who played Cay in the classic 80s lesbian film <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089015/" target="_blank">Desert Hearts</a>. I promise to make him a copy of the sublime Field Mice song, "So Said Kay", whose lyrics are based on quotes from the film; notably "Where'd you learn to kiss that way?", the title of the band's <a href="http://www.vh1.com/artists/az/field_mice/295809/album.jhtml" target="_blank">best-of compilation</a>.

Photos are taken at the steps of the Hungerford Bridge on our way home.

Mr Gullo and Mr Edwards:

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/WrenDickon-sep2004.jpg"></img>

Ms Connor and Mr Edwards:

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/JenConnorDickonSep2004.jpg"></img>

***

Thursday: To the Boogaloo with Ms Spivack (<lj user=my_name_is_anna>) for the launch of <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0233000704/dickonedwards-21/">the new Kirsty MacColl biography</a>. The author Ms O'Brien wears a striking Mary Quant-like black and white dress, and looks rather like a singer herself. She reads anecdotes from the book about Ms MacColl's life, and reveals that the sleevenotes for the mid 90s compilation Galore were based on a Shangri-Las sleeve, where journalists sung the girl group's praises. For Galore, Ms MacColl got her pop star friends to provide quotes, notably the following one from Morrissey:

<i>"Kirsty is a voice gradually added to a body. She has great songs and a crackin' bust. She is a supreme original but not – as far as I know – one of the original Supremes. Everything shows in the voice. The best of the last of. Furthermore, a full set of teeth. What more? NOT cursed."</i>

Ms O'Brien comments, "The 'crackin' bust' line must have caused confusion among some Morrissey fans. As if they weren't confused enough."

Here’s a jolly photo from my birthday a few weeks ago, posing with a copy of kiddie rehab classic The Secret Garden. Photo taken by Dr Adrienne Cullum at the club How Does It Feel To Be Loved, Brixton. My thanks to her and to Ian Watson.

That evening, I had a sense of a convergence of my personal history. On my birthday, I tend to dwell on my past and present regardless. So to be surrounded that day by people from different periods of my life somewhat intensified the sensation

Amelia Fletcher was DJ-ing, playing Kenickie at one point. In a nutshell, that’s my early 90s meets my mid 90s. It also occurred to me that the first time I met Ms Fletcher and Rob was again in Brixton, at a Heavenly gig, The Fridge, 1990. I got all the band members to sign a fanzine called The Fine Art Of Shoplifting. "Mathew is cool". "Yes, but only in The Fridge – Rob." It was the first of umpteen Heavenly gigs for me. Over the next four years, I would hitchhike around the country to see them play.

Others from my past that night at HDIF, equally at no invitation of mine: David Kitchen, who ran my old band Orlando’s mailing list; Claudia Gonson of the Magnetic Fields, who I fondly remember supporting The Divine Comedy at the Water Rats in 1996, with Ms Fletcher on guest vocals wearing an Orlando badge; Justin Pearce – my more recent past.

In the same room were Martin White, Jennifer Denitto, Neil Scott, David Kennedy – all from my present.

Dickon Edwards, This Is Your Life. Who are you now? Who were you then? Are you happy? Were you happy?

The story goes on. I’m neither the gushing indie music fan I was in 1990, nor the troubled music biz hustler I was in 1996. But there's remnants of those characters in my current make-up. The pun is definitely intended.

Amelia and Rob are now in the band Tender Trap. I've just been listening to their latest, highly witty EP on Elefant Records, "Como Te Llamas? (Tell Me Your Name)". I wouldn't hitchhike to see them anymore, but then I wouldn't hitchhike to see anyone any more. But I still adore Ms Fletcher, whose biography really must be written one day. And I’m looking earnestly forward to the next Tender Trap album.

Sample lyrics from the EP:

Indie girl seeks the same
I'll be wearing a check shirt and a denim skirt
And a hairgrip with a cat on it

– "Como Te Llamas? (Tell Me Your Name)

I don't know anybody.
Now I am disembodied.
I found affection here online.
Oh be my Catcher In The Rye
I'll be your Postcard singles

– "Friendster"

Last night – to the 269 Gallery in Portobello Road for a private view. I'm trying to go to more art shows and book launches, as opposed to clubs and gigs. There's usually free drink, conversation that doesn't involve shouting in people's ears, and they're over by 9pm. And one never feels as if one's too old to be there.

I grumble at having to go to West London, so it's just as well the exhibition turns out to be utterly marvellous. "Evolution: A Fusion of Fashion and Film" is a multi-purpose affair; serving as an art installation, a fashion retrospective and a fund raiser for a forthcoming short film, "Eye Of The Beholder." <a href="http://www.elizabethemanuel.co.uk/" target="_blank">Ms Elizabeth Emanuel</a> is the artist. Chiefly a fashion designer, her name is associated with many a celebrity wardrobe from the early 80s onwards. One memorable example being the wedding dress of Princess Diana.

One end of the gallery is decked out to resemble an abandoned film set, featuring a dingy room with a flickering table lamp. Negatives and photos are pegged on a clothes line, countless magazine clippings featuring Ms Emanuel's past creations coat the walls. There's a sewing machine, dresses on hangers and designers' dummies, notebooks covered in writing, pages from a film script, and an antique typewriter on a desk. The proposed film is a latter-day film noir-ish take on the Pygmalion story: male obsession with controlling female beauty; "Seven" meets "Vertigo". It's principally a manner of showcasing the designer's latest collection, but using celluloid and narrative rather than the catwalk.

The rest of the gallery is more conventionally decorated: prints of costume designs, digitally processed and coloured. Somewhat reminds me of the 80s airbrushing style: women looking like they're made of aluminium. Other prints are in sepia. Many have handwritten excerpts from the Pygmalion and Galatea myth down one side, like those Pre-Raphaelite portraits accompanied by passages of Tennyson or Shakespeare. Echoes of both the 1980s and 1880s pervade. All of which suits me to a tee.

I down several glasses of free champagne, but can't find room for the oysters. Discuss the problem of English Erotica with a nice chap I've previously met at the vintage dress club Modern Times, and enjoy the works of the other artist on the bill, Ms Louisa Elizabeth Loakes. These are silhouette-like photograms on wooden blocks of dragonflies and feathers, mostly in an antique-looking glass cabinet. Fits in well with the Victorian and sepia elements of the Emanuel show.

Pass the Boogaloo on the way home, realise it's only 10.30pm, and pop in for a drink. It's weekly music quiz night. Ed Mole and his team (Cat Rogers, Tim Chipping, Chris Stevens) are there, as is skinny Mr Bernard Butler and his. A lot less crowded than the last movie quiz night, despite the Radio 1 attention of a few weeks ago. I try to help, but all I can do is mistake a picture of Lol Tolhurst from the Cure for Jerry Harrison from Talking Heads. Scare off one of the pub's black cats with a library copy of the punctuation bestseller "Eats Shoots and Leaves". And so to bed.

An exciting package in the post. A copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1905005040/dickonedwards-21/" target="_blank">The Idle Thoughts Of An Idle Fellow by Jerome K Jerome</a>. With an Afterword by Dickon Edwards. A beautiful new edition of a Victorian comic classic. I recommend it highly, regardless of my contribution.

My literary début, then. The thought that I'm now in bed with Mr Jerome in the British Library, until the end of civilisation, thrills me immeasurably.

To order it from your local bookshop, here's the full details:

Title: The Idle Thoughts Of An Idle Fellow
Author: Jerome K Jerome
ISBN: 1-905005-04-0
Publisher: Snowbooks, London
Price: £9.99 (hardback only)
Date Published: 24th September 2004