Wednesday afternoon – to the Finchley Phoenix to see Performance (second time in four days), followed by Deep Blue. The former really does benefit from repeated viewings on the big screen. One can keep on spotting future echoes, symbolism, references and in-jokes. This time I notice the Mars Bars left outside Mr Jagger’s front door like milk bottles. An in-joke for those aware of the then recent story concerning Ms Faithfull and the local constabulary.

I also notice Mr Fox improvising with an eel. Lurking in long shot upon the House of Naughtiness’s kitchen table is a tank dominated by two gigantic gulping fish. As Mr Fox comes into the kitchen to exchange dreamlike dialogue with the decadent residents, he notices a long, black eel slip out onto the table. While continuing to deliver his lines, Mr Fox nonchalantly returns the creature to the tank one-handed, as if it’s something he does every day. Can Act While Handling Escaping Eels – handy to have on one’s CV.

Performance, now a staple of Best British Film polls, continues to be unavailable on DVD. Seeing it whenever possible in the cinema is the only way of noticing such details.

In honour of Mr Fox’s fish handling prowess, I stay for the Phoenix’s next matinee movie. Deep Blue is a 90 minute cinema version of the BBC TV series The Blue Planet. The most popcorn-compatible, child-pleasing footage from the programme is presented here: seals, penguins, sharks, whale-on-whale violence, and the otherwordly denizens of the inky abyss. Of this last category, we marvel at that toothy fish that’s part lamp-post, plus the transparent thing that confuses its prey by shooting out little delayed-action fireworks around it. One doubts very much that this creature makes the Star Wars laser noises assigned by the film, but no one is complaining.

Mr Attenborough’s aloof educational tones have been taped over and replaced by Mr Gambon’s dramatic, Dumbledore voice-over. His narration is also very sparse, with often the briefest of introductory lines for scenes lasting some time. Deep Blue is unashamedly more spectacle than education, so the bigger the screen the better. Interesting that it was once Disney who were synonymous with cinematic nature documentaries, lying to us about lemmings. Now it’s the BBC who rule the waves.

*******

Return home to an email from the organisers of the Boogaloo’s monthly film quiz. They’ve invited me to the next quiz on September 1st, and have already reserved me a table some weeks in advance at which to form my own team. I accept this kind offer, and start to worry about who I could get to accompany me.

Normally the quiz concerns itself more with popcorn than carrot cake, but on this occasion they will include some questions on art-house and foreign language titles, due to my presence. I am flattered.

Do I really prefer arthouse fare to blockbuster films? I keep a sporadically updated list of my favourite movies lurking on my computer for those times when people ask to be recommended something, or just want to know my preferences. Now would be a good time to peruse it.

There are so many films I enjoy that to narrow the list down one must include additional criteria. As well as being films one loves, they must be films one can also re-watch forever. On top of that, they must be films one is happy to be represented by. In the same way some people make a compilation of favourite songs in the hope of friendship. Or more than friendship. The List As Self-Portrait. What kind of a person am I? Well, here’s my favourite films.

In no particular order:

Rope
If….
O Lucky Man!
Liquid Sky
Picnic At Hanging Rock
The Boys In The Band
Orphee
Broadcast News
London (dir. by Patrick Keiller)
Metropolitan
The Naked Civil Servant (if one is allowed a TV movie)
Memento
Performance
Network
Topsy-Turvy
Cabaret
Brief Encounter
The Ladykillers (Ealing version)
A Matter Of Life And Death
Hannah and Her Sisters

Although some of the above aren’t strangers to an Odeon distribution, it’s true I’m generally not keen on Hollywood blockbusters with a fondness for Gratuitous Explosions.

I was appalled to discover the makers of the British film 28 Days Later deliberately included a scene in the first reel where a petrol station explodes spectacularly for no good reason. Its presence, according to the DVD audio commentary, was so the movie would be taken “seriously” by the young American moviegoing boys who rule the world. Only by featuring such an explosion could the film hold its own alongside the oeuvre of Mr Schwarzenegger. Or so the makers depressingly maintained. This revelation rather soured my enjoyment of 28 Days Later. Some DVD commentaries can make one enjoy a film more. Others can make one loathe to see anything made the same director ever again.

So I must now gather a team for the film quiz. I think I shall name it The War Against Gratuitous Explosions.

If, Dear Reader, you consider yourself a film buff and are willing and able to be on my team at the Boogaloo come the evening of September 1st, please email me. Oh, and there’s a couple of rules.

The first rule of Fop Club is you do not wear trainers.

The second rule of Fop Club is you DO NOT wear trainers.

Yesterday – to the Finchley Phoenix to see a double-bill of The Servant and Performance. I'm familiar with them both via TV, but Performance in particular benefits enormously from a proper cinema screening. I still haven't quite recovered a day later. Perhaps it's the effect of the current muggy state of the city, but by the time the credits rolled I felt as if I'd been personally romping around with young Mr Jagger and his jolly chums.

Both films take place within the confines of a sequestered London house in the 1960s. Both feature Mr Fox undergoing an identity transformation at the hands of his male co-star after an extended build-up. Yet no one would call this a James Fox double bill. He acts perfectly well, but is entirely outdone in terms of screen presence. The Servant belongs to Mr Bogarde, just as Performance does to Mr Jagger.

The "bullet through the brain" zoom shot in Performance is the kind of movie effect one sees all the time these days. But even the likes of Fight Club wouldn't feature a photo of Jorge Luis Borges popping out halfway along the brain trajectory. More's the pity.

Best line: Mr Fox on Mr Jagger's character. "He'll look really funny when he's fifty."

Just found out that <a href="http://www.phoenixcinema.co.uk/families/earlybird/index.htm" target="_blank">The Phoenix, god bless it, is showing Performance again this Wednesday at 1pm.</a> Tickets are £4 and include a free tea or coffee. I think I'll go. If I had a day job, I'd phone in sick to attend.

Actually, that's exactly why I was sacked from an office job in Bristol circa 1993. I felt like seeing a matinee of "Groundhog Day" far more than going into work. So I phoned in sick and chose happiness for that day. It wasn't the first time. Come the Monday, I was told to clear my desk. I'd do it again like a shot. I'm fairly certain no one died from insolvency documents not being typed up.

Doubtless some toiling readers will be appalled by that above confession. People tell me, "That's all very well Dickon, but I have bills, a mortgage and an ungrateful chinchilla to support. I can't afford to lose my job." Well, neither could I at that point. But I survived somehow. Once again, life is either a disaster or an adventure. So better make it an adventure.

It's true that if everyone who was unhappy with their job acted like me, civilisation would collapse at once. But oh, what a party!

Last night – to <a href="http://www.howdoesitfeel.f9.co.uk/club.html" target="_blank">How Does It Feel To Be Loved</a>, the Brixton version of one of London's friendliest and, as its name suggests, most downright loveable club nights. The Canterbury Arms turns out to be an appropriately lovely venue, much nicer and roomier than the Buffalo Bar. A well-lit sofa area by the bar allows people to sit and chat and enjoy South London pub prices. Oh, the relief on one's wallet.

I dance to <i>two</i> Orange Juice songs: "Falling and Laughing" and "L.O.V.E. Love". The Smiths' "Jeane" is played, as is "First Of The Gang To Die". Two Morrisseys, twenty-one years apart. Some Style Council, Felt, Echo and the Bunnymen. As I'm talking to guest DJ Mr Slocombe, who played on the Monochrome Set's "Dante's Casino", we hear that album's "House Of God". It sounds entirely at home in the club.

I arrive quite early, so I sit and listen to the likes of The Field Mice's little 1989 Croydon-made demo "Emma's House" booming out over a 2004 club PA. The song sounds to me as downright <i>soulful</i> as anything by Ms Franklin. Soulful as in the unflinching sincerity of the lead vocal, far more emotional than any ululating Pop Idol's attempts to "emote" across the octaves. Played in a club venue with only a few others in the room, it really does sound like the song is being sung directly, personally, to you. The Song as Confidant.

And that's more or less the club's brief. 60s soul and soul-pop next to soul-searching 80s indie and indie-pop. Having said that, it's pretty flexible. Le Tigre and The Yeah Yeah Yeahs manage to get aired.

One song turns out to be by Snow Patrol, and so must be fairly new. To my ageing ears, it sounds like very reminiscent of early 90s "shoegazing" indie disco songs, such as "Winona" by one-indie-hit wonders the Drop Nineteens. I rather fancy hearing "Winona" again, in fact. Later, The Buzzcocks are played next to The Strokes, and it's difficult to hear two decades between them. But then again, The Style Council and Orange Juice drew as heavily on their record collections then as Franz Ferdinand and Belle and Sebastian do now. Recycling is… nothing new.

For me, the venue's only shortcoming is the extremely sticky dance floor, making it impossible to skate and slide around in true Northern Soul style. Some flour or sawdust required, I think. Perhaps I should bring my own next time.

The next Brixton HDIF date is September 3rd, my birthday. Amelia Fletcher will be the guest DJ. So that's my birthday sorted out.

As I write, London is impossibly hot and humid. It's a difficult place to be right now for sun-avoiders like myself. Thankfully, I intend to spend tomorrow afternoon in a nice dark cinema. My nearest independent filmhouse, The Finchley Phoenix (patrons: Mike Leigh, Maureen Lipman) is showing a <a href="http://www.phoenixcinema.co.uk/films/sundayrep/index.htm" target="_blank">double bill of The Servant and Performance</a>. Two great 60s Dark London films, both of which I've never seen on the big screen before. Where else could I possibly spend the sunshine?

<img align=left src="http://my.so-net.net.tw/jetset/jpeg/dante_new01.jpg"></img>Feeling somewhat more at the mercy of others than usual. Last Tuesday I used one of those fee-charging Link cash machines found inside corner shops, because the nearest hole-in-the-wall style proper ATM is a long-ish walk or short bus ride away. Big mistake. The machine turned out to be malfunctioning, and debited my account £80 more than the cash it gave me. Given my hand-to-pouting-mouth circumstances, it's an error that hits one's life particularly hard.

A simple case of getting an automatic refund, you'd have thought. But no. I had to fill out out a "claim form" at my bank, and was told it could take 6 to 8 weeks before I got my money back, because an "investigation" was needed. Ridiculous – it's a faulty ATM machine, not a murder case. Though, needless to expatiate, thoughts of homicide were indeed not far from my mind when I was informed of this by the Lloyds TSB monkey behind her perspex cage. Behind her was a white board displaying that week's staff notices, including a trip out on Friday night to some club off Leicester Square. Bank workers are people too, apparently, with social lives and clubs to go to. They just don't want their customers to do the same. I visualize the staff passing around Barcadi Breezers and Malibu and Coke, bought with MY £80. In the corner are Samuel L Jackson and Gary Oldman, millionaire film stars who do TV commercials for Barclays. They are passing round my money, and laughing, laughing, laughing.

Still, I've learnt my lesson. I'll walk to the proper machine next time.

<a href="http://www.kashpoint.com/" target="_blank">Kash Point's</a> garden-themed night on the boat last week sold out in minutes. To make things worse, the normal door staff called in sick at the last minute, and DJs like Bishi were forced to do the dirty gatekeeping work. She was kind enough to get me in, but many didn't – even people dressed up. Typically, I found myself intimidated and felt up at the bar by a rude and pushy man, unshaven and dressed scruffily. How on earth did he get in, when those with better apparel and a nicer attitude are turned away? Did he swim in the Thames and clamber over the side of the vessel? Is he a stowaway?

When Matthew Glamorre takes to the mic, dressed in a huge flower-like headpiece reminiscent of Peter Gabriel's stage costumes circa Genesis 1975, he immediately launches into a tirade against one clubber whom most people can't see. Mr G's voice booms around the decks, so one just has to use one's imagination to visualize this unimaginative soul: "How the HELL did YOU get into MY club? You look AWFUL. I'm not JOKING. You haven't even BOTHERED. How DARE you." And so on.

No wilting flower, he.

I feel very bad that my acquaintance Mr Martin White was one of those turned away, and have suggested we attend my other favourite monthly club, <a href="http://www.howdoesitfeel.f9.co.uk/club.html" target="_blank">How Does It Feel To Be Loved</a>, where one can hear the Shangri-Las played next to the Weather Prophets. This is where I take visitors to London who don't want to go anywhere "too dressy". It's my yin to Kash Point's yang, and is starting to reproduce itself. There's now a South London version, held at the Brixton Canterbury Arms. The guest DJ this Friday is Mike Slocombe, drummer with the Monochrome Set circa "Dante's Casino", so I really must go, South London or no. I shall be more desperate than usual for people to buy me drinks.

"Dante's Casino" was, by the way, re-issued by Cherry Red a couple of years ago in a new woodcut-style sleeve, pictured here. Like the Scarlet's Well albums, it's worth owning for the artwork alone.

From Ms Jeremy Dennis comes this frame for <a href="http://www.caption.org/caption-cgi/hello.cgi/phoenix/" target="_blank">a collaborative Internet comic strip</a>, featuring a character based upon myself. I am addressing a troubled Red Riding Hood. Or rather, her alternative world cousin, Big Green Riding Hood.

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/starfishsolution1.gif">

It suggests an excellent first line to a story.

<i>"Hullo, Miss Hood", said the blond man walking a giant harlequin shrimp. "I understand you have a starfish problem."</i>

I'm reminded of that wonderful first line from Ms Macaulay's The Towers Of Trebizond:

<i>"Take my camel, dear," said my aunt Dot, as she climbed down from this animal on her return from High Mass.</i>

This ranks as my joint favourite opening to a novel. The other is from Mr Lewis's The Voyage Of The Dawn Treader:

<i>There was once a boy named Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.</i>

Wednesday – To a Kash Point garden photo shoot for Italian Vogue. The article is to be a ten-page feature about The Nu-New Romantics of 21st Century London, or some such. I'm too old to be considered part of any youth tribe of the moment, which is what I suspect they're after, but that doesn't stop me from mooching along anyway.

Despite the proximity of fashionable Ladbroke Grove, Highlever Road W10 is a standard English suburban street of identical 1960s semi-detached houses. There's a recreation ground and a cornershop around the corner, but it's otherwise entirely residential. HM Prison Wormwood Scrubs is nearby, just in case.

On a sunny July afternoon like today, most real people are at work. The street is hazy, humid and almost entirely silent. Almost, but for one door left significantly open, where garish synth-pop music spills out rudely onto the muttering pavement. I don't even need to check the door number.

Inside is a gaggle (is there any better collective noun?) of squawking young men, made-up and dressed up to the nines, tens and elevens. Their looks are placed somewhere between Charity Shop Cyber-Punk and Dysfunctional Dandyism. Everyone is titivating furiously before a couple of long mirrors, while Matthew Glamorre, off-duty, unshaven in shorts, supervises. Here, Mr Glamorre looks more like the healthy cyclist he is by day, than the gaudy nightclub impresario he's usually known as. When one Kash Point Kid turns up on a bike, Glamorre has an enthused discussion with him about types of bicycle.

Also out of make-up is Jason Atomic, whom I've neither seen out of warpaint nor in the harsh afternoon sunlight. That said, his clothes are entirely On Duty – homemade shirt and tie covered in his trademark graffiti. He's here to sketch the proceedings in his notebook, and I give my excuse as doing the same for the diary, with words rather than pictures.

The place is clearly someone's private house, probably the photographer's; with the kitchen, office and lounge all knocked through into one long room on the ground floor. I admire the owner highly for allowing his own home to be overrun by a stream of flapping boys of outlandish appearance. There's someone's curly-haired baby sleeping quite happily in a pushchair in one corner, clearly throwing in the towel in the solipsism and attention-seeking game. So there's some advice for parents everywhere. Want to get your baby to sleep? Fill the room with grown-up babies.

Before one mirror is a dressing chair, where one boy having his hair and face made-up. I arrive, of course, with make-up, hair and clothes as Model's Own. The seated boy is taking too long to be ready, so I hear "Let's do Dickon while we're waiting."

In the back garden, there's a huge floral arrangement to provide props and set dressing for photos. A white tarpaulin is set up within a wooden shelter by way of a backdrop. It's all natural light only, just as well on such a sunny day. A beaten-up, rusting pinball game lurks in another corner of the garden.

I am given a buttonhole from <a href="http://www.canoe.ca/HGGardening0407/26_onionflower-ap.html" target="_blank">an onion flower</a>. Perfect symbolism: the flower that can be delicious or upsetting. With too many layers.

I have brought a suggested prop – a copy of The Little Prince, because one acquaintance says <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/mal1/41995.html" target="_blank">last night she dreamed of me reading it aloud to people at a party</a>. One quote stands out for me, which covers several of my favourite themes, from transgenderism to assuring the world I believe in dressing up in order to be oneself, rather than dressing up for the superficial sake of it. The fox's secret. <i>"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."</i>

But then someone says, "Patrick Wolf's done a photo with that book". Curses. Away it goes.

Still, I enjoyed reading Monsieur De Saint-Exupéry's classic again, though sadly not aloud, on the long Tube journey there and back. I equally enjoyed the fact I was doing so in the sweltering summer heat, resolutely dressed in my black suit and tie. I was covered in even more make-up and hair products than usual, having to allow for the amount that would wear off in transit. I sincerely hope my fellow passengers – mostly tourists – enjoyed the sight. That's an advantage of the Tube over buses. With all the seats facing each other, one has a captive audience whether one likes it or not. Might as well give them something worth looking at on their stifling underground journey.

I get home, peel off my umpteen onion layers and sink into cat-like sleep. Which is a shame, as I miss the weekly Kash Point radio show on <a href="http://www.resonancefm.com" target="_blank">Resonance FM</a>. I'm told they played a Fosca track.

I'm somewhat upset by a few of the reactions to my Plan B piece. Really, I thought the article was the height of arm-flapping haughtiness and eye-rolling archness. It's called Letter From Hysterica, after all. But some people have taken it the wrong way. They must really, really like their trainers.

There I go again. I write that last sentence with, I hope apparent, a head-tilted smirk and an extending diva arm, and can't believe anyone would take genuine umbrage at the phrase. But clearly they do. So I immediately apologise.

Part of me sees myself like a character in the film Performance, holding a mirror up to my face and getting a reaction that says more about the onlooker or reader than about myself or what I've actually written. That's one idea for a future photoshoot, too.

But the other part takes such reactions as constructive criticism. I must make such archness more apparent in my writing when necessary. I can't use a "smiley", one of those Internet punctuation marks that indicates tone of voice. Though I like the idea of proper broadsheet columnists using them. A.N. Wilson ending a piece with a small symbol depicting a winking little face.

Proper Writing is meant to eliminate any danger of misinterpretation of tone, so on this occasion I have to concede the fault lies squarely at my door. Ultimately, I'm grateful for the feedback. If a reader has taken things The Wrong Way, I have to grudgingly admit the fault lies with me rather than them. There's irony when people react strangely to a piece about… people reacting strangely. But on the street my appearance is all I have, and people can make of it what they want. When I write, however, any reading that differs from my own is my own imperfection.

I read the piece now and still find it funny, or tragic, or tragicomic. If others read it and instead find it actually <i>offensive</i>, my reaction to their reaction is not to quickly sniff like one of those archetypal letters page correspondents ("were they even at the same concert?"), but to nod in quiet acknowledgement like a chided kitten with unique nodding powers. Certain readers with a strange love-hate attraction to me are always going to be annoyed with me whatever I say or do. I can do nothing about them. But the offended reaction of those who normally enjoy what I write must be noted.

For example, I find phrases like "Default Men offendeth mine eye" <i>extremely</i> amusing and nothing else. I'd never believe in a thousand years that anyone could take exception at such a statement. But some have. In the long run it says more about my writing than the reader. There's room for improvement. And it's not the first time I've offended some people with a comment or two I'd thought was harmlessly arch. It's not that I'm entirely joking, but a certain entertainment is always intended. Why are some people so annoyed with me? Why are they taking a man with fluffy hair so seriously?

I can only apologise to such people and had better make certain things abundantly, impossibly clear. I certainly never, ever, intend to be objectionable or offensive or solicit such a reaction. The cynical reader asks, "Why stop now?"

I <i>never</i> look down on people. Just sideways or up. Most people manage to hold down jobs, which is more than I can do – how could I possibly look down on the more humanly capable? To me, that's a self-evident absurdity, and therefore amusing. I am a thirty-two year old man living on benefits in a bedsit. Surely, if there's judgement to be done here, I am the pathetic one, I am the joke.

It's true I have my bugbears such as men dressing badly or not shaving, but I don't think any the worse about them as people. If I come across as snobbish or superior, I'm more like Mary Poppins declaring herself "practically perfect in every way" with otherworldly archness, rather than a denizen of The Real World saying the same thing to look down on others.

I don't live in the real world – can you blame me? I see myself as an alternative, an escape, a slightly ridiculous character from a different plane, floating about with my £3 mini-umbrella, sometimes bordering on the hysterical (in every sense), dancing with strange Americans in cartoon London puddles.

If I do possess an air of snobbery, then the snobbery is friendly, fluffy, playful and dreaming of magic. It's never intended to be unkind, judgemental or manifesto-forming. Some of my best friends are Default Chimney Sweeps.

I am incapable of violence, intimidation, bullying or shouting. Ultimately, I am Harmless. Can harmlessness cause offence? Perhaps I should save time and just become the misinterpretation. Become the unpleasant, angry, superior snob that some mistake me for.

But I can't. Because the truth is, the truth I need to make more apparent is, I'm more Julie Andrews than Julie Burchill.

I've written a piece for Plan B magazine about attracting attention. It's published online here:

http://www.planbmag.com/columns/archives/00000018.php

There's a rather amusing argument, or rather, exchange of abuse, in the comments section at the foot of the page. Most of the comments appear to be from males. Just call me the new Helen Of Troy.

I've been going out in London so much lately, and frittered away so much money, that I've had to impose a ban on myself leaving Highgate until my backlog of chores and promised writing is tackled to some degree of completion. There's also a backlog of things to write about in the diary, which I'll draw on when the previous day hasn't thrown up anything particularly interesting. I have a file full of notes and photos to consult, and I never leave the house without a pen and pocket notebook.

The two exceptions to this curbing of my social life are <a href="http://www.scarletswell.co.uk/" target="_blank">Scarlet's Well</a> at the LSE on Monday, and <a href="http://www.kashpoint.com/" target="_blank">Kash Point</a> on the Tattershall Castle on Thursday 29th. But that really is it. Anyone who badly wants my company can come up to the <a href="http://www.theboogaloo.org/" target="_blank">Boogaloo</a> and buy me a drink. Just as well Kash Point has gone monthly.

There are plenty of examples of great barflies of the past being able to balance work and play adequately. Francis Bacon would put in a good morning's painting before spending the rest of the day propping up the bar in the French House in unsubtle make-up. Dylan Thomas is another one. For all his much-documented Soho drinking sessions, he still got Under Milk Wood and all those BBC readings done. Even if he did once leave the manuscript of the former in the Admiral Duncan on one particular Soho pub crawl, fortunately retrieved the next day by a frantic BBC producer. That said, he never actually wrote a thing in London, instead going away to Wales for bouts of alcohol-free intensive writing when the deadlines approached. I can't afford to leave Highgate, so a writing holiday in Highgate it has to be. At least, until such time as I can multitask to a Baconesque degree.

There's other local attractions on my doorstep, though. As well as the Boogaloo, there's <a href="http://www.ents24.com/web/venue/16980/London/Jacksons_Lane_Community_Centre.html" target="_blank">Jacksons Lane Community Centre</a>.

<b>Last night:</b> To JLCC to see Richard Herring's new Edinburgh show, <a href="http://www.richardherring.com/hercules/" target="_blank">"The Twelve Tasks Of Hercules Terrace"</a> with Mr Martin White. Unfortunately, the box office misinforms us about the running order. So while we are happily chatting away in the Boogaloo across the road, confident of missing the other act on the bill, Mr Rob Deering, we are in fact missing the man we'd come to see. I refrain from asking for my money back purely because our tickets are free.

On being told of the staff's mistake, we do manage to sneak in and catch the last ten minutes of Mr Herring's set. I knew it was a preview of the Edinburgh show he hadn't yet finished, but I didn't realise just how unfinished. The comedian is clutching a microphone in its stand, not taking it out of the stand once, while reading entirely from notes in the other hand. Essentially, he is talking about what the show will be like when it's finished, and trying out bits to see if they work with audiences first. Quite a contrast from the slick multimedia show he'd last done, "Talking Cock", where he prowled confidently around the stage, radio mic somewhere on his person, delivering a well-crafted and memorised script with slides and little bits of seamless improvisation when deviation from the text is required.

It's true I'm fascinated in seeing the nuts and bolts of work-in-progress shows like this (or "scratch" shows as some arts centres call them), but feel I can't really comment on them until I've seen the completed version. On top of which, tonight I end up seeing only the last ten minutes of the draft version. So I see an incomplete version of an incomplete version.

You might ask, Dear Reader, why I wanted to miss the other comedian on the bill, even though his act was probably more finished, and that I'd not seen him before. Well, I'm funny about stand-up comedians. Given the choice between chatting with a friend of mine I've not chatted to for a while, and seeing a comedian I've not seen myself or had recommended to me, it's the friend every time. Most of my friends make me laugh more than most comedians.

On top of which, I have seen Mr Deering on television, presenting a programme about mistakes in Hollywood movies. He came across as a Chummy Young Bloke, which is a style I'm not keen on, you'll be vastly unsurprised to learn. I doubt very much he gets "Batty Man" shouted at him when walking around, though I could be wrong. Still, on this occasion I was exclusively psyched up to see Mr Herring and his tales of updating Mr Hercules's tasks, and gave Mr Deering the detriment of the doubt. So after the Herring set finished, I didn't stick around.

I've really not been at all lucky when seeing comedy gigs lately, at least not when accompanied by others. Tim Chipping and I went to see Adam Bloom and one of Parsons and Naylor at Crouch End King's Head. Both comics had their own shows on national BBC radio at the time. The show was cancelled due to insufficient audience numbers.

More recently, we both turned up at the Chalk Farm Enterprise to see Russell Brand. He cancelled.

Add to that this Richard Herring show of last night, which Mr White and effectively missed due to the venue staff not knowing what was going on in their own venue.

Yet, I've had no problems at all when going to comedy gigs by myself. I went to see the excellent Jo Caulfied at Comedy Camp the other week. She turned up, the audience was of a healthy size, and the venue staff didn't give me any misinformation.

I can only conclude that all these comedians and box office staff members are secretly jealous of me when I'm in company. They want me all to themselves, or not at all. Well, they're only human.

A new portrait by <a href="http://www.claudia-andrei.com/" target="_blank">Ms Andrei</a></a>.

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/dickoncemetery3.jpg">

Dickon Edwards, Highgate Cemetery, July 2004.