<i>[My thanks to <lj user=automatique> for <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/automatique/79081.html">creating the current inevitable user picture of me</a>. Entirely unsolicited, naturally. I particularly like the Trooping The Colour goings-on in the background.]</i>

Thursday June 10th – To Jacksons Lane Community Centre to vote three times: for the London Mayor, for members of the London Assembly, and for the European Parliament.

British Democracy in 2004 is currently defined as the right to choose between Shifty, Shifty, Nazi, Looney, Obviously Shifty, Rich Person Possibly Running As A Tax Dodge, Lately Shifty, More Nazis, George Galloshifty, Liberal Shiftycrats, The Joan Collins Nazi Club, and the Green Party.

I place my Mayor Of London X next to Cuddly Ken Livingstone (whose first volume of autobiography was called "If Voting Changed Anything They'd Abolish It") , and put Green for everything else. The Greens are, The Observer points out, an established anti-war party, not one that becomes anti-war when it suits them, like the Liberals. I don't entirely agree with some Green policies, like being anti-Euro because the Euro is, they say, a tool of globalisation, and they're anti-globalisation. Funny how the Nazis and Greens can have some things in common for different reasons. And The Greens do have rather too many silly beards in their gallery of candidates. My second choice for Mayor is the Green's openly-gay, beard-free candidate, Darren Johnson. If London can't have Ken, a Gay Green Mayor would surely be the next best thing. Also, the Greens are endorsed by Peter Tatchell, Joanna Lumley and Twiggy. What a dinner party!

I know I should vote "tactically", which really means voting Liberal, but it's not what my heart dictates. What I really want to do is vote Labour. But not while Mr Blair is still in charge. So Green it is.

It is the first time in my life I've not voted Labour across the board. Mr Blair says that if people disagree with him taking the country to war, then "they know what to do at the ballot box". All the protests, marches and petitions mean nothing to him. With that in mind, I take him at his word and quietly register my own anti-war protest with a small pencil on a string. I hope Mr B notices, if as he implies, voting is the only language he understands. If anyone who goes on anti-war marches doesn't use their vote as well, they are whistling in the wind with those loud football whistles of theirs.

Friday June 11th- Mr Livingstone makes it in to a second Mayoral term, but only just. A frightening thought that thousands of people seem to trust Stephen Norris, the shiftiest Tory around. And that takes some doing.

The Greens lose an Assembly seat, and Mr Johnson gets less votes than his rivals in the BNP, Respect (George Galloway's new vanity party) and UKIP. Rather depressing, but I'm glad Ken's staying.

The best news is that the country-wide local election results are translated as a serious disaster indeed for Labour. Even the Deputy PM, John Prescott, admits that voters have shown their anger at the Iraq mess, and now Attention Must Be Paid.

Stereotypes would have us believe that voting is a pointless, unsexy, waste of time that the young eschew, while marching is more visible, done by dancing youths with dreadlocks who possibly don't wash after sex.

Today's lesson appears to be that, when it comes to political protest, dogs on strings are nothing compared to pencils on strings.

The worrying side-effect is the Conservative Party becoming a serious political force for the first time since 1997.

Strange echoes of last night's dream pervade, though I can't remember anything more. Something about The Pope being interviewed on Radio 4's Loose Ends, and a discussion about falling in love with buildings. The word "Archisexual". Image of someone in bed with the St Pancras Hotel. "Buildings are better than people. They don't let you down and tend to still be there in the morning."

Currently fighting off permanent fatigue. Heard that cutting down on caffeine, even cutting it out altogether, increases alertness and energy in the long run, and might help reduce my general anxiety and stomach aches. Haven't had any coffee, or caffeinated fizzy drinks, for some days now. Feeling more tired and work-shy than ever. Cold turkey? M.E.? Last Tuesday I insisted the doctor test my blood for pretty much everything under the sun. "We'll get the results next week. If you're clear, we then have to look at your susceptibility to believe you've got every illness you hear about." He takes my hypochondria very seriously indeed.

My grandfather died recently, and left me a little money. Not much, but enough to enable me to buy the £150 off-white Italian linen suit I see glowing with temptation in a Highbury menswear shop window. The shop stands out all the more as all the surrounding shops are all fast food takeaways. I try on the suit, and it fits so well it's not true. About time I had a decent, lightweight, light-coloured summer suit. I look at the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/weather/5day.shtml?id=2735">BBC weather forecast for Highgate</a> with some dread. Temperatures over 25C on the way. But I now have the suit to fight the battle. Keeping it clean will be the hardest thing, and I consider getting another. At the Hidden Cameras gig, John Moore tells me about £50 machine-washable linen suits in a shop in Chalk Farm. One can never have too many summer suits.

Monday May 27th. To the 12 Bar for the third Gentleman Reg gig. The 12 Bar Club has a tiny stage best suited to acts consisting of one or two people, ideally the archetypal solo acoustic singer-songwriter. Despite this, full bands with drummers often squeeze themselves bravely onto the platform, and when Justine Rutledge, another Canadian, performs here tonight, his keyboard player has to sit at the side of the stage, amongst all the empty instrument cases. While he's playing a delicate, alt-country style piano part, I sheepishly have to mutter "excuse me" and retrieve my guitar case from the side of his left elbow. I time it so I can act while he's not playing any bass notes.

Why bands with full line-ups put themselves through this awkwardness says something about the status of the 12 Bar as a much-loved venue. It's centrally located, in the shadow of the Centrepoint tower, by the junction of Oxford Street and Charing Cross Road. It's neither too touristy and off the music industry map like the Rock Garden, or too smelly and beery like the Monarch or Dublin Castle, though one does has to brave the smells of the alley outside, Denmark Place, which clearly doubles as a lavatory. The 12 Bar is just about trendy enough while being unpretentious and friendly.

More recently, the venue's expanded to take in a cafe in Denmark Street and a second bar area, with TV monitors so one can watch the acts while buying a drink. Thankfully, the two most unique aspects of the place, which anyone who's been there will tell you about, are still in place. One is the seventeenth-century blacksmith's forge, with its chimney next to the stage, a plaque proudly displaying its birth as 1635. I point out to Gentleman Reg he's playing a venue older than his country. "Do you have dates like that in Toronto?" I remark, surprising myself with an air of a Peter Ackroyd-like popular historian. Must remember to apply as a tour guide at Highgate Cemetery, in training for a possible future career to follow Messrs Ackroyd, Schama and Starkey as a Slightly Camp English TV Historian. "Dickon Edwards's Limpwristed London."

The other feature of the 12 Bar is a low balcony area where one can watch mere inches from the artist's scalp. I once saw Momus play here in the mid-90s, and now know the top of his head like the back of my hand. I think it's the same year I see The Magnetic Fields here, to promote the album "Get Lost". Just Stephin and Claudia. The next time they headline a gig in London, it is in the Queen Elizabeth Hall.

The 12 Bar performer in turn is at close eye level with the balcony viewers' shoes, seen through railings. Mr Rutledge's backing band know all about staring at shoes, as they are members of Mojave 3, who in turn were once called Slowdive. Along with Lush, Moose, Chapterhouse, and Ride, Slowdive were part of an early 90s UK indie scene nicknamed "shoegazing", because of the bands' tendency to perform sullenly without moving their eyes from the floor. Dreamy, fuzzy guitar music, heavily influenced by My Bloody Valentine, with lots of effects pedals, 60s haircuts, and nebulous, quasi-psychedelic lyrics about falling down in a breeze. Perhaps because of their name and wispy girl vocals, Slowdive were spotlighted as the quintessential shoegazers, often used unkindly as a personification of the whole scene by those aware of its music paper coverage. At the time, the Manic Street Preachers remarked "We hate Slowdive more than Hitler". Right Said Fred, in the proper pop charts at the time, told a TV interviewer in defence of their novelty pop status that "Well, we're not Slowdive."

Perhaps even Slowdive hated being Slowdive, as a few years later they re-invented themselves as Mojave 3, and played a more roundly unthreatening, alt-country-style music. Quietly acclaimed, annoying no one. Mr Rutledge's songs suit their playing well, and it's impossible to dislike a live slide guitar player.

When I play with Gentleman Reg, some of the chatter from people at the bar is so loud I can't hear my own guitar. I do something out of character, and which I disapprove of in other live acts: I tell a punter off. The garrulous culprit is a blond woman whom I can see through the bar doorway. Her lone natter is carrying from a separate room, and is drowning out my playing. As bad a guitarist as I am, I like to be at least given a chance to hear myself. On top of which, I have personally brought Reg across from Toronto to play these gigs, he's only on for a short set, and there are people other than me who have come to hear him. So I do hope any jury would support my decision to stare directly at the woman, put my finger to my mouth, and offer a deeply annoyed "SHHH!" at the top of my lungs. This is something I instantly regret, and expect her to shout back at me, or worse. But, to my surprise, she does in fact shut up.

For an encore in doing out of character things, I later make an ill-advised onstage remark. Reg introduces "Statement" and "Give Me A Chance" as songs featured on the soundtrack to the US version of the TV series "Queer As Folk". "Your British version is probably much better, though", he adds, speaking to me. "I don't know," I say, in an attempt at onstage banter. "Does your version have rimming in it?"

Silence in the audience. A word too far, Mr Dickon. I imagine mouths agape. Darts, had there been any, would have paused in mid-flight. Across the road in the Astoria, Skipknot and their audience of pierced Jeremys pause in mid-mosh and stifle a collective gasp. I feel like <a href="http://encyclopedia.thefreedictionary.com/British%20Comedy%20Awards">Julian Clary at the Comedy Awards.</a>

Sunday May 23rd. To Stockwell for a lengthy rehearsal with Scarlet's Well, then onto the second Gentleman Reg gig. Rather conveniently, Reg is playing Brixton tonight, a short bus ride from Stockwell. The venue is The Windmill, a delightful little place near the nineteenth century landmark of the same name. To my shame, I've lived in London for ten years and never realised there WAS a windmill in Brixton. As it's still daylight outside, I go to take a good, tilting look. The windmill is in a small park, with Brixton Prison on one side and a children's playground on the other. A group of small boys are playing football, and as I approach their ball falls over the separating railings and lands at my feet. I try to affect an air of jovial, avuncular mateyness, as I loosely imagine one is supposed to do in such situations. I make some remark about the prison and not being able to kick a ball to save my life sentence, and throw the thing over to them. They have become completely silent and are staring at me in utter terror. I walk back to the venue, glance over my shoulder and see they are still looking at me. I do hope they got to resume their game. Perhaps I represent the sort of Stranger they've been told to not speak to.

Inside the venue, the bar prices are refreshingly cheap – certainly cheaper than Highgate. A small stage is at one end, the main bar at the other. Somehow the place manages to have the former area in atmospheric darkness, the latter with enough lighting to chat and drink. People watching the band are unusually quiet, people at the bar can chat away happily without affecting the performance and being able to hear each other speak. It's a perfect small venue.

A jovial, fortysomething Irish gentlemen appears to be glued to a bar stool, his Scottish Terrier occupying the adjacent seat. The dog is remarkably well behaved. The Irishmen less so. He throws an unsolicited comment at every single person who walks by.

I get "You remind me of…"

"Oh yes?"

"…Jools Holland."

Perhaps it's my voice, I muse. Later, he collars me again.

"No, sorry, I didn't mean Jools Holland. I meant The Young Noel Coward."

"Well, I can live with that one a bit better."

During the rest of the evening, whenever I have to cross from the stage to the bar, somewhere in the darkness I hear an automatic "How yer doing, Noel?".

<i>Resume 7am-9am daily diary writing routine, after putting it off for some days due to an attack of the dreaded black dog. Backlog of activities to be cleared. Awake to hammering of rain against the window, which always makes me happy. Hurl myself out of bed, pull open the curtains to see Highgate leaves gratefully bobbing in the morning downpour. London is meant to be this way, though doubtless someone somewhere is flooded out of their home. City of extremes – all or nothing. Switch on the computer. To work.</i>

Saturday May 22nd. Play the first of four London gigs in five days. Having personally managed to get Gentleman Reg to come all the way from Toronto to perform his first UK concerts, I push my luck as a fan by e-mailing him in advance and asking if he'd like me to add a bit of supplementary guitar and backing vocals. He agrees to the first (on some songs), and I decide to spare him the second. Partly out of fear of squawking wrong harmony notes, which are all the more likely given we have no rehearsal. But mostly because Mr Reg Vermue's vocals need highlighting alone, I feel. Backing vocals can sometimes provide a sense of "mateyness" which isn't always appropriate for artists trading in loneliness, longing, and other personal emotions.

Saturday evening, and The Clerkenwell House is the first venue on this mini-tour of the capital. The surrounding streets are deserted, shops and offices closed in that strange weekend ghost town way parts of the City can resemble. I'm constantly fascinated by the on-off noise extremes of central London experienced by simply turning street corners, particularly in the tea time limbo between working hours and nightlife. The spaces left by people going home, the spaces to be filled by people going out.

I stand alone in Hatton Wall, EC2, with my guitar, peering at the door numbers, when a man passing along the other side of the street suddenly calls to me. "Clerkenwell House? Over there." He is the only other human in sight, and correctly assumes that, if I'm holding a guitar and looking lost in Hatton Wall, I must be seeking The Clerkenwell.

I make my entrance to the usual internalised applause. The venue is a trendy concourse bar with extremely comfy sofas surrounding a performance space marked out at floor level. Meet Mr V for the first time – slim, smiling, luminously blond. I joke about my being a wannabe albino, once compared to the besuited pink-eyed assassin in the Goldie Hawn / Chevy Chase comedy thriller, "Foul Play". My mistake – Gentleman Reg is not actually an albino, he's just often mistaken for one with his white eyebrows. "I sometimes feel I might as well be an albino," he adds. "I get the stares."

I also meet his manager, Ms Melanie, who has dyed bright red hair. In her first email to me, she says "I hear you're a bit of a character".

They are both charming company, all Canadian utopian optimism and tolerance, though I find myself frequently apologising for the detrimental attributes of London, which even they are openly frustrated by. The way tube trains are overpriced and under-developed, the way bars and clubs can be so expensive yet seldom appear to spend any of the profits on maintaining decent toilets, the way mobile phones run Londoners' lives like chirping electronic comfort blankets, yet to phone a mobile from a phone box costs an absolute fortune, the poor choice of food on offer, the extremes of things. In the longeurs dividing soundcheck from performance, I give them a list of recommended attractions to enjoy while on a low-budget stay in London, and reassure them that there ARE so many things one can do without spending much money. The umpteen free art galleries and museums, the countless parks and green spaces, the way one should look up whenever walking about to discover unique and frequently ornate architecture above the corporate franchise shop fronts. I'm intrigued that they most want to go to the Tate Modern – along with the London Eye it really has become an instant favourite attraction for discerning visitors and Londoners alike. Far better that than the tacky likes of Madame Tussauds. Though I have to break the news to Reg and Melanie that the enormous Weather Project installation (featuring a gigantic sun simulation and mirrored ceiling) is no longer at the Tate M. I recall that The London Eye was originally a temporary feature that became permanent through overwhelming popular demand, and it's a shame the same couldn't be done with the Weather Project, given its success.

I warn Mr V in advance that London gigs are typically saturated in audience chatter, and that he shouldn't take it personally if people talk throughout his sets. Londoners demand to discuss their fashionably baggy jeans. We have a quick impromptu rehearsal on acoustic guitars, and I add some six-string doodlings to the songs "Make Me Pretty", "Statement", "Give Me The Chance To Fall", "Untouchable" and "Anthem For Self-Confidence". I've managed to work out the chords and hooks by ear, referring to the album "Make Me Pretty" as well as <a href="http://www.justconcerts.com/concerts/concert.cfm?Concert_Id=190">a solo Canadian radio session available online</a>. Thankfully he allows this indulgence on my part as a fan, and his London sets begin with himself playing a few numbers solo, before I join him onstage. Reg's stage clothes are a matching grey waistcoat and trousers, shirt and tie. Along with my own usual besuited apparel, we look appropriately Gentlemanly.

<img align=left src="http://www.fosca.com/ladybench.jpg"></img>
<b>{I'm using more of Mr Hughes's photos to illustrate entries. Always helps to keep readers informed what one currently looks like.}</b>

Over the next few days, I can be found at London concerts, either as a spectator or performer, or both. Here's the full details.

GENTLEMAN REG – DEBUT LONDON GIGS

Angelic-voiced albino and Toronto indie troubadour Gentleman Reg, aka Reg Vermue, is playing his first ever London UK dates over the next 7 days. He's performing by himself, with the possible danger of back-up vocals / guitar from myself on selected songs.

Recommended album: "Make Me Pretty" (Three Gut Records). Echoes of Nick Drake, Cat Power and Sarah Records. More info at http://www.gentlemanreg.com . In addition to his excellent solo work, Reg is a member of fabulous Canuck homo combo The Hidden Cameras and sings on both HCs Rough Trade albums.

Those Gentleman Reg London dates (note FREE entry to first one):

Sat May 22nd: Clerkenwell House, as part of 'The Medicine Show'.
9pm. FREE. 23-27 Hatton Wall, EC1N 8JJ. 020 7404 1113. Chancery Lane or Farringdon tube.

Sun May 23rd: The Windmill, Brixton, with Charlemagne + Justin Rutledge + Denison Witmer.
7.30pm. £3. 22 Blenheim Gardens (off Brixton Hill), London, SW2 5BZ. 020 8671 0700. Brixton tube.

Mon May 24th: The 12 Bar Club. with Justin Rutledge + Ryan Bishop + James & Jason
7pm. £5. 22-23 Denmark Place (off Denmark Street), WC2H 8NL. 020 7916 6989. Tottenham Court Road tube.

Weds May 26th: The Spitz. with Scarlet's Well, Fiel Garvie and MPE Band.
7pm. £8/ £6 109 Commercial Street, Old Spitalfields Market, E1 6BG, 020 7392 9032. Liverpool St / Shoreditch / Aldgate East tube.

This last gig is headlined by SCARLET'S WELL. SW is the solo incarnation of ex Monochrome Set frontman Bid.
The show will be Bid's first UK gig in 8 years. Needless to say, I am rather excited about this. So excited that I joined the band. So with Gentleman Reg in support, it's possible I will be onstage twice that night. More SW info at http://www.scarletswell.co.uk

Last night- to the home of Ms Denitto and Ms Spivack in Camden, for a party. Enormous fun, in as much as I have fun. Discussed which season of "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" is best at one point. Typical party talk. Still, beats chatting about Star bloody Wars.

Annoyed that I missed Morrissey on Top Of The Pops. Apparently he wore a Jobriath t-shirt. Still haven't bought his album yet, out of my ludricous anti-following-the-crowd snobbery. I tend to shy away from Joining In with something everyone else does, equating it with eschewing the popular people at school and preferring to chat to the person in the corner with no friends. All very well, but applying that analogy to buying records or seeing films is just ridiculous. I still haven't seen Shaun Of The Dead or read the last Harry Potter for (mostly) the same reason. Why not? I approve of them, after all. Sometimes my own Robin Hood-like philosophy is my own enemy – why rush to follow the crowd and give to the PR-rich when others are starving, the voice in my head tells me. It's true that Morrissey doesn't NEED me to buy his album, but so what? That doesn't mean I won't enjoy it. Besides, I'm entirely happy for Mr M's impressive comeback into blanket popularity, even if his new album's reviews are more mixed than I predicted.

But the voice won out, and I instead bought the last Delgados album, on sale at £1.99. Partly because I genuinely love their recent material (especially "Come In From The Cold"), and so it's a bargain, but mostly, if I'm honest, for the feeling that they deserve my purchase power more than Morrissey. How patronising can one get? What skewed criteria. Today I will snap out of this madness and buy the Moz album. I'm additionally galvanised by reading this Guardian article on <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/editor/story/0,12900,1218921,00.html">What To Think About Morrissey</a>. Fair enough monitoring what the press are saying, but the implication is that one doesn't need to find out for oneself and make one's own mind up. There's a character in Whit Stillman's film Metropolitan who doesn't read novels, just reviews and literary criticism. That way he gets a clear idea of what the author intended, and an opinion to produce at dinner parties. All without having to read the actual novel. In one later scene, however, a copy of "Mansfield Park" is at his bedside. He's been shown the error of his ways.

There's nothing wrong with appearing to follow the crowd, as long as one stands out from it.

And besides, the child in the corner with no friends sometimes turned out to hate me.

The news is full of yet more appalling photos of US guards taunting or abusing Iraqi prisoners, or pictured smiling over their corpses. One is a sunny, white-toothed young female soldier, delighted to be posing over a body wrapped in plastic. I tell myself it's all a bit Starship Troopers meets Twin Peaks, in an attempt to stop myself feeling sick at the reality.

Still, there is humour to be found. The Commons had to be cleared when someone in the gallery threw condoms full of purple flour at Mr Blair. Despite all the lectures to the public of vigilence and security, the Honourable Members were utterly clueless as how to react, some sprawling out of the building in self-seeking confusion, some milling around in a bemused fashion. They appeared to have had no drill training whatsoever. It's said that Ian Duncan Smith, the sacked former Tory leader, was the only one who reacted swiftly, shouting "Sit down! Stay still!" No one paid any attention to him. Faced with possible death and being told what to do by Mr Smith, the MPs took their chances.

After other news of another intruder at Windsor Castle – again a benign one – one can't help thinking of missed opportunities. What if, say the newspapers. But there never is an If. From the man who fired a starting pistol at Prince Charles some years ago, to the "comedian" who gatecrashed Prince William's party, to this new intruder and the Commons condom-hurlers, our Royals and Leaders must project some aura of playful invulnerability. Help yourself to taking a pot shot, the effect seems to be, but you wouldn't try anything serious. The only thing that can kill a Royal, or depose a power-mad Prime Minister, is a drunk chauffeur or, in the case of Mrs Thatcher, other party members. Members of the public? Tug your forelocks, wear your silly fancy dress and throw your flour. It's all so English, and ultimately my feelings are ambivalent. I'm glad and sorry.

The Commons attackers were from Fathers 4 Justice, whose cause was also represented (albeit independently) by a man dressed as Spiderman holding up the traffic on Tower Bridge last year. All very well, but if you're convincing the world that you're a Good Father, dressing up in bad fancy dress, performing publicity stunts and wasting police time in a climate of potential terrorist attack do not immediately spring to mind as traits of responsible paternity. Giving the news reports, the protesters' grievances as fathers have been utterly upstaged in MPs' minds by the security implications. It's difficult to feel that their cause has been advanced.

And is the irony of rueful fathers misusing condoms lost on them?

<img align=left src="http://www.fosca.com/CamPic95.jpg"></img>Yesterday – A ghastly sunny day. Spend the first part of the day lying in bed wishing the world would go away. Thankfully, Mr Hughes comes by, and passes on the results of a photo session we had in Highgate the other day. Myself posing against trees, reading "The Lady" on a bench in Pond Square, loitering with arch intent outside the public lavatory, that sort of thing. I can never have too many photos taken of myself.

The Mens' loos in Pond Square are marked with a Camden Council sign in shockingly bad English: "GENTLEMENS". I wouldn't be at all surprised if this has been the subject of angry letters to the editor of the Ham and High.

On the way up to the village, a grey-haired man collars us. "Did you know this is the steepest slope in London?" he tells us for no reason at all. "It was on The Weakest Link".

I'm rather distracted by his baggy shorts, which advertise his lack of underwear from some distance. The effect of gravity on the ageing male body all too gruesomely illustrated.

Mr Hughes has brought his umbrella. He's just come back from Sri Lanka, where silvery parasols are quite common. One doesn't see people walking with them very often in London, which I think is a shame. We are two grown men walking on a hot London street, sharing a large tilted umbrella as a parasol. I get an extremely dirty look from a young black man as I pass, and enjoy it immensely. I feel like Audrey Hepburn at the races in My Fair Lady.

At one point, Mr Hughes grumbles about Ms Greer's recent book "The Boy In Art", which he'd been browsing. "If such a tome were written by a man, the police would be round in an instant."

We sit in the Gatehouse pub and watch the schoolboys emerging from fee-paying Highgate School in their appealingly old-fashioned blue and red uniforms, on this occasion coupled with camouflage combat trousers. It's clearly been a Cadets day. The pub has pictures of past alumni of the school including Mr Betjeman, and Mr Gerard Manley Hopkins. I didn't realise until now that Mr Hopkins strongly resembled Nicholas Lyndhurst from Only Fools And Horses.

Mr Hughes shows me a tree in a quiet corner of Hampstead Heath where he used to come and sit in his schooldays, some thirty to forty years ago. We languish there in the balmy afternoon, quoting Keats and playing I-Spy Cruisers with the occasional passing lone man, who passes again rather too often.

With birdsong the only background noise, it's difficult to remember we're in the middle of a metropolis. It's moments like this that remind me why I love London, and how best to deal with it on hot days if one is lucky enough to be one's own boss. The ability to quickly find a quiet leafy space, or in the case of the Heath an actual field, and settle down beneath the shade of a tree to read, write and think, or not think.

As regular readers may recall, last year I discovered the music of a Toronto band called The Hidden Cameras, and fell rather embarrassingly in love with them.

One of their number, who sings on both HCs Rough Trade albums, but sadly didn't feature in any of their UK live line-ups last year, is Reg Vermue, who also has his own musical life under the name of <a href="http://www.gentlemanreg.com/">Gentleman Reg</a>. I listened to a few audio samples on the web, and heard enough to warrant buying his two albums on Toronto indie label Three Gut Records, "Make Me Pretty" (2002) and "The Theoretical Girl" (2000). No mean feat, considering I've more or less gone off new music.

"Make Me Pretty" has rarely been off my CD player since I acquired it. Mr V's truly beautiful, gooey, angelic singing voice and sly, delicate arrangements really hit the spot with me. He's also a rather talented songwriter, and is the sort of artist I thought Cat Power and Bright Eyes would turn out to be, but weren't. "Anthem For Self-Confidence" contains a terrific, head-swaying chorus:

<i>I'm the one, I'm the one, JUST ADMIT IT, I'm the one…</i>.

Elsewhere on trumpet-swathed "You're So Alone", his lyrics touch on dilemmas not usually mined in the genre of pop music:

<i>Attractions to my girlfriends' boyfriends / There's a situation that ends / With them being the cutest pair you've ever seen"</i>

When I heard he wasn't coming to the UK with the Hidden Cameras, I decided take action and drag him across the Atlantic myself. I offered him a support slot at the Scarlet's Well concert on the 26th. <a href="http://www.chartattack.com/damn/2004/05/1302.cfm">Incredibly, he agreed, and booked a few other London gigs to maximise his trip.</a>

So, I feel absolutely honoured to be responsible for Gentleman Reg's first ever UK dates, which are as follows:

<b>GENTLEMAN REG PLAYS LONDON
May 22nd > Clerkenwell House, as part of 'The Medicine Show'.
May 23rd > The Windmill, Brixton, with Charlemagne, Justin Rutledge, and Denison Witmer.
May 24th > The 12 Bar Club, with Justin Rutledge.
May 26th > The Spitz, Spitalfields, with Scarlet's Well. </b>

On the 26th, he'll be onstage pretty early, circa 8pm.

Please catch him if you can.

Last weekend – to Brighton with Ms Andrei, to see a production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. A truly stunning piece of theatre. The show has taken on a kind of Rocky Horror Show following, complete with fans in the audience dressed up as characters. This detracts a little, I think, from the piece's superior literary depth. "Hedwig" could be set for A – level. The description of Gummi Bears looking out of their packet through its transparent window, fogging it up like "a Polish bath house" is a good example, as is the line "This is a new song, written for a man to sing. We're talking to Phil Collins's people. Then again, aren't we all?" I am the only person who laughs at this rather good joke.

Ms A homes in on a favourite shop with her nose. Lush, a jolly, smelly home-made soap store. Reminds me of the Body Shop, though without so much of their self-righteousness. Some of the products feature the face of the person who made it, in a cartoon style. One bubble bath soap is called "Waving Not Drowning". Another, specifically intended for scrubbing the posterior, is "Buffy The Backside Slayer". Most of it smells and looks like it could be eaten. Pots of face mask resembling ice cream scoops.

The train back is late, and we're forced to take night buses home. Never a favourite thing to do on a Saturday night. We were greeted with a surreal sight around Westminster – thousands of women (and a few men) in bras and baseball caps snaking around the pavements. At about 1am. <a href="http://www.walkthewalk.org/events/moonwalk/FAQ.htm">Turns out to be a breast cancer fund-raising event</a>, the Playtex Moonwalk. All rather cheering. At Trafalgar Square, a large lad snarls "Get out of my f—ing way" as he boards the night bus. I am reminded how much more afraid of men I am than of women. On balance.

Knots in the stomach. I feel so anxious, I could snap in two. No particular reason. Just general, lurking, creeping fear. Fear of other people, fear of the world, but mostly fear of the part of me that's holding me back. The therapy has brought this to the surface, but not tackled it. Yet.

A few comments and emails from people blaming or praising me for putting a Donations button on my diary. Often, the less complimentary unsolicited reactions and judgements I receive, whether for what I say, what I do, or how I look, say far more about the commentator than me. I'll be their mirror, reflect what they are. It was ever thus. ("Ye gods, he's comparing himself to Nico now")

I hear from a friend about a magazine he's written for. The publication has folded, and the contributors have not been paid. I suspect that any redundancy funds that can be found will go to other creditors first, with writers last in the queue. It's a common situation. The assumption is that writing well is less of a job than cleaning windows well, as if it takes no time, effort or skill to do. To some, writing seems too much like Fun, which it often is, and that's often the root of the prejudice. Writers don't need paying as much as payroll clerks, the reasoning goes, because they <i>want</i> to do it. It's like the fence painting scene in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0140620524/dickonedwards-21">Tom Sawyer.</a>

I <i>want</i> to do this diary. The fact is, it's one of the few things I've done in my life with some degree of success, in terms of unforced popularity. Yet some people would rather I did a day job badly than do this diary well. I've DONE umpteen day jobs in my time. You name it, I've done it. Shop work, telesales, catering, office work, museum work. I was useless at every one of them. Believe me, both employers and customers or clients alike are better off without me. I don't want to be on benefits all my life, though, and am trying hard to secure some kind of living connected to something I actually do vaguely WELL for a change, ie Being Dickon Edwards. Is that really so bad?

Ideally, I'd write a paying column for a national publication. "Twenty First Century Fop". Or, "The Friday Fop". But which one? I rather fancy something like The Lady or Tatler.

****
Anthony Ainley, who played The Master in Doctor Who during the 80s, has died. The epitome of the prancing, boo-hiss-style camp pantomime villain. There was never any need to justify his evil plans. As far as his Master was concerned, there was only ever one reason. Playing evil is so much <i>fun</i>. I'd love to appear in the new Doctor Who that's being made – but only as a baddie. I can see myself wearing black gloves and saying something akin to "I could play all day in my green cathedral". My performance wouldn't be any worse than Goldie or Tricky in those blockbuster movies they did. If someone can't act, get them to play a henchman. Bad being, as in life, much more easy to do than good.

****
Last Wednesday – to Wandsworth to be in the audience for a recording of a BBC4 TV programme, Battle Of The Books. Alighting at Wandsworth Town station at 10.30am, the South London streets are like a ghost town. More like a Sunday than a Wednesday. I suppose everyone is at work, and the criminals, dealers and murderers are all still in bed. Or perhaps the nearby prison puts them off.

I am here because (a) It's something I've not done before, at least for a debate programme; (b) The programme sounds interesting, and I can't get BBC4 at home; and (c) I am promised a free lunch.

Audience members are subjected to a debate on which of two books is "the better read". "Evidence" and arguments are put forward, and then the members of the audience vote for their choice.

The advocates arguing this pointless but enjoyable task are blonde presenter-without-portfolio Mariella Frostrup, who is heavily pregnant (cue Omen music), and chirpy big blokey comedian Kevin Day, who must be cheaper than Phil Jupitus. James Naughtie, of Radio 4's Today programme, is the chairman, and he clearly prefers the live chat element, resenting the times he has to read the autocue. The producer uses audience members like set dressing, according to what they're wearing, and they shove me directly behind the chairman. Most of my day is therefore spent studying his bald patch in detail. I could go on Mastermind and answer questions about it. I know the back of Mr Naughtie's head like the back of my hand.

The first debate is <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0552149519/dickonedwards-21">The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown</a> versus <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0099466031/dickonedwards-21">The Name Of The Rose by Umberto Eco</a>. The tenuous connection being themes of religious doctrine. One of the witnesses singing Mr Brown's praises is the writer of a fanzine-like volume about the ideas in the book, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1843171031/dickonedwards-21">Cracking The Da Vinci Code</a>. He has long hair, a beard, wears a big black coat and dark glasses. Indoors. No one is in the least bit surprised. The other, for some reason, is Egon Ronay, the famous restaurant critic. He is a small, stylishly dressed old man, who has a constant sly smirk as if to say "yes, I know you're all surprised I'm still alive. So am I."

Mr Ronay's presence as a pro-Da Vinci Code witness is even more baffling when he goes on to admit that the only thing interesting about the novel is its theories and concepts. As a novel, even an airport-lounge-friendly thriller novel, it's woefully substandard. Mr Ronay advises people to buy his fellow witness's non-fiction tome instead.

A food metaphor is cited: The Name Of The Rose is a four-course, filling meal, while The Da Vinci code is more like a Big Mac. Mariella Frostrup puts the case against the former by reading a "Rose" excerpt floridly describing a vision of hell. "Isn't that tedious?" she posits, wrongly. It's exactly the sort of thing I love. I am sold, and vote for Mr Eco's work. It loses to Mr Brown's, but only by one or two votes. On the station platform later that day, I spy a commuter reading The Da Vinci Code. For all its lack of literary worth, people genuinely do love it. The saying goes that bad books make good films, and the movie version is on the way. I think I'll give the book a miss and wait for the film. Big Macs just make me queasy.

I stay behind after the recording and volunteer to be filmed individually, for a Vox Pops comment on how I voted. This is a mistake, as it means that by the time I get back to the audience green room, all the food has gone. So much for my free lunch. Once again, it seems you mustn't be rewarded for what you <i>want</i> to do.

In the afternoon, the debate is A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess versus A Kind Of Loving by Stan Barstow. The tenuous connection this time is cult 60s novels detailing other worlds. The other world in Mr Barstow's book being the disappearing, pre-60s one in Northern England, as modern values creep in. One of the pro-Barstow witnesses is Jonathan Tulloch, author of The Gateshead Trilogy. He argues passionately and articulately, and is one of those rare writers who speaks like they write. His statements swing it for me, and include an anecdote about reading A Kind Of Loving while working in a biscuit factory, accidentally losing his copy in the machine, and then finding it years later in a charity shop still with a few crumbs buried in the spine.

I'm also put off A Clockwork Orange by Mr Day's tiresome dismissal of "Loving" as typical, dated, irrelevant, grim-up-North, trouble at mill, kitchen sink stuff. Which just makes him come across as an ignorant, even bigoted Southerner. See also people who dismiss Alan Bennett as twee, or Morrissey as depressing. Why don't you find out for yourself, one wants to say.

If anything, it is Mr Burgess's book I find dated, with its embarrassingly 60s Klingon-like slang. It's true A Clockwork Orange evocatively depicts the teenage male lust for violence, self-centred sex and destruction, but big deal, I say. Teenage boys can be thugs? You don't say! On this day, the newspaper covers feature a US civilian hostage in Iraq decapitated on film by his captors. Right now, one needs a book about violence like a, dare I say it, hole in the head.

"The book helps to UNDERSTAND violent people" say the pro-Burgess witnesses. No it doesn't. "Viddy well, o my droogs" Oh, get knotted. It's a silly cartoon sci-fi novel about ideas and actions. A Clockwork Orange is all about the head. A Kind Of Loving is all about the heart.

Sadly, come the vote, Mr Burgess wins over Mr Barstow. As he does in bookshops. A Clockwork Orange is currently available in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/014027409X/dickonedwards-21">TWO different</a> classy <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0141182601/dickonedwards-21">"classic literature" editions</a>. A Kind Of Loving can currently only be found in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0435125079/dickonedwards-21">a tacky schools hardback edition with an appalling cover</a> and unimpressive, minimum blurb. The sad fact is the one known all too well by both newspaper editors and the late Mr Burgess, who practically disowned ACW when it overshadowed his other novels so completely: violence, whether real or fictional, will always sell. One of the most popular films around at the moment is Kill Bill.

I find out that many of the other audience members have been hastily recruited from the local job centre. They are being paid to be here. I ask one of the programme crew if there's any chance I can get paid too, given I'm also unwaged and living on benefits. Even just the Travelcard cost would be a help. And, after all, I have contributed to their Vox Pops sections.

"Sorry", comes the response. "You <i>wanted</i> to do this. So we can't pay you"

I sigh. "It's like the Tom Sawyer painting the fence scene, isn't it."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. It's a book."