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."

My first published poem, "Alibi", is on the web as part of the webzine The Mind's Construction:
http://www.geocities.com/themindsconstruction/alibi.html

I suppose I'd like to think the poem is more Stevie Smith than Wendy Cope or Pam Ayres (the less fashionable Wendy Cope), in that I'm trying to get an element of depth and sadness in amongst the jokes. But who am I kidding? I didn't write it because I wanted to write a poem. I wrote it because I wanted that opening line to get out of my head and leave me alone. The poem wrote itself.

It's my first attempt at verse since winning "Highly Commended" in the Suffolk Free Press poetry competition circa 1986. My prize specimen then was a political comment poem about South African censorship. I grimace at the memory. Typical teenager aren't-bad-things-bad fodder. Still, people will always like Issues in their teenage verse.

I performed "Alibi" at Farrago, a poetry "slam" at Filthy MacNasty's Lit-Pub in Angel last Sunday. This is where you are given marks out of ten by various judges. Didn't even make the final round. Winner was a Spanish woman writing about the March Madrid bombings. Runners-up did equally serious stuff about Death or Love. But I think "Alibi" is entirely serious on one level.

In my sour grapes way, I think of how Oscar winning films tend to follow a formula – serious dramas about offspring being taken away. "What have you done with my husband / baby?", cue applause and trophy. Must feature crying. The fantastic Mr Murray losing out to the appalling Mr Penn. If it makes you laugh, it's somehow less worthy. Then again, who wants to be Worthy with a capital W?

Anyway, at the slam, I didn't perform it as well as I could have done, and they do take that into account in the judging.

Last night – to the Boogaloo, Archway Road. My "local" and the nearest pub to this computer, and to my bed. I'm fairly certain the landlord, Mr O'Boyle, reads this diary. Must ask him to confirm. The other day he emailed me, and I can't recall giving him my address. Turns out it's not me he wants, but a person who was part of a birthday drinks gathering I attended there, who borrowed a bottle of vodka from him. Anyway, I found out who it was, the person got in touch and repaid the favour, and all is well.

I meet strangers all the time who say they read this diary and, more often than not, they are not Livejournal Friends, ie "declared readers". There's no need to be – I only use LiveJournal as a handy format and certainly do not regard myself as a member of the LiveDrivel Community, perish the thought. This web diary was started in 1997, some time before "blogging" and LJ came into widespread use. If as some people think, "blogging" will turn out to be a fad, this diary will continue, perhaps in yet another format. It will only stop being when I stop being. I am given to moan that I have not yet been called upon to write or talk about the art of public web diaries for a mass media publication or programme, when others who have barely kept theirs going a year or two have, but that's a typical gripe of anyone who watches TV or listens to the radio and hears some "expert" reveal themselves as less informed than oneself.

A few years ago I heard a Radio 4 poetry programme about Ms Rossetti, where the presenter was standing by her grave in Highgate Cemetery. She mentioned the grave contained other members of that notable family, which is true, but including her brother Dante Gabriel, which is false. His grave is in Kent. It's not that minor an error – he and his paintings are arguably more well-known than Christina. What was particularly vexing about such an oversight was that the presenter described herself as standing there, in the cemetery, looking at the grave, with the appropriate rustling and birdsong in the background. Either she didn't bother to read the stone itself, or it was a BBC Sound Effects disc and she was in a studio, lying through her teeth. Regardless, she hadn't checked her facts. I wrote in and received a typically polite but insincere note apologising that my enjoyment of the programme was compromised. Nothing about admitting they were wrong and I was right, or how they got it wrong, or why they are getting paid for making badly-researched programmes while I'm on state benefits and know more about their subject than they do.

I then realised what I had become – the archetypal Radio 4 listener who writes in to "Feedback" and complains. The shame of it. I then sent a complaint note to myself. "Dear Dickon, what did you expect? That they'd write back and offer you a presenting job? Let it go. Stop griping and get on with getting things done that really need to be done." I haven't complained since.

By the way, I highly recommend this practice. For self-assessment of the mind, every now and then, write a letter to yourself, and post it first class. And not just on Valentine's Day. Try to be constructive, though. I've told myself to drop dead far too often. Like all poison-pen writers, I sent it anonymously. To myself. But I knew who I was. The handwriting gave me away.

So it's pointless becoming an expert on any subject if one wants to be called upon to dispense one's knowledge to the masses. They will find someone else with less knowledge but a better agent and better teeth. The only subject on which one can be a guaranteed expert to consult is oneself. I am the world's leading authority on Dickon Edwards. If they ask anyone else to comment on me while I'm still alive, and refuse to get me on, they will look very foolish. And for other subjects, the call will come when they DO want the Dickon Edwards take on something. I have an opinion on everything. Never mind White Van Man, here's White Hair Man. And if the call doesn't come, then I can just enjoy Being Dickon Edwards – my favourite pastime.

Although no one has asked me to dole out the benefit of my experience as a veteran Internet Diarist, I can still stop moaning and attempt to get paid for it. At the pub last night, I met an American called Erica. "Just to say, I read your diary", she said, and she mentioned yesterday's epic entry to prove it. I told her about my latest plan, to install a PayPal button, so people can donate money if they enjoy my diary and have more money than me, which is likely.

I think it's better to put it like this. Buy me a drink in the Boogaloo without leaving your computer, whether you be in Arkansas, Oslo, Wellington or, in the case of my friend Mr Parkes, a mere minute's walk from the pub. Not that he's ever bought me a drink. I shall put the button on the diary's <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=dickon_edwards">"About The Author" information page</a> tonight. Though people can already go to www.paypal.com and send money to my Hotmail address, as seen on the diary info page. PayPal accepts most debit and credit cards.

So if you like this diary, and feel like buying me a drink, please do so via PayPal.

£3 will get me a glass of wine, or a bottle of Magners cider, at the Boogaloo. Treat this diary as if you're with me in the pub. I will drink your health and promise to reply to any diary comment or email you send me. Cheers.

[diary entry finished 9am. Dear Dickon. Well done.]

Yesterday – a day of being stared at by middle aged men.

1040: first weekly psychotherapy session at the Tavistock Clinic, Swiss Cottage. This is my new routine for the next six months. The sessions are paid for by the NHS, and they pay for my bus pass, too. So I can gad about town the rest of the day easily. Having the session on Monday morning is ideal, as it sets me up for the week. If it were on Friday afternoons, I'd just be dreading it all week. The therapist is a rather stern headmaster-like fellow, 40s-50s in a suit. Today's session was really to see if he was "right" for me. I don't think it makes much difference, a listening stranger is a listening stranger.

The sessions are really me doing all the talking, with him putting in little guides and pointers, taking me up on things I've said etc. He asked me "you realised you may not be "Dickon Edwards" anymore after this treatment." I think he meant as in more of a Normal Person that speaks fluent Relationship, Mortgage, and so on, as if my foppishness is just an empty pose. A common criticism, but messed up as I am, by the age of 32 and having tried all kinds of attempts at Real Life, I like to think I have a vague idea of what the Real Me is like. I just need the courage of my convictions in order to channel it into making a living from Being Dickon Edwards, and beat the paralysing depression. So that I rise in the morning, write something that can generate an income (prose, poetry, articles, songs, fiction, drama, comedy, anything), and go about pitching and hustling to a potential publisher or editor. The ideas are no problem, and neither are the contacts. The real problem is the 90% perspiration bit. The work and the hustling. Just seizing the day and getting things done. And that's what I hope these sessions will do for me.

Therapist thinks one of my main problems is a desire to entertain, a fear of intimacy, and fear of other people in general. "You know so many people, but you don't have any <i>confidants</i>? Don't you trust <i>anyone?</i>" He's entirely correct, but I don't regard these things as problems. What's wrong with a desire to entertain? The things I say may make people laugh, but I'm always deadly serious. I'm after bittersweet, tragic, self-mocking smirks, not telling the one about my mother-in-law. I don't have a mother-in-law.

As for being celibate, one reason is I view sex as an entirely public act, for which I'd be badly cast, so it's pointless auditioning. As soon as the last coital gasp is uttered, the other person can't wait to get to meet their real friends (ie not their lovers – note distinction) or update their internet diaries with their blow-by-blow accounts. Pun intended. Sex is not a private act of love or even lust. It's done only so it can be talked out, thought about, used with guilt, used in writing, used, used, used. Ones underwear being taken down and used in evidence against you. A brief event indelibly haunting you for the rest of your life. Sex is, apart from anything else, appallingly bad <i>value.</i> This is all fair enough, so if you can't cope with that, and have not got the decency to kill the other person afterwards, like spiders, you shouldn't do it at all. Hence celibacy. I was careful to point out to the therapist that that last statement was a joke. I've been known to get in trouble for my jokes. But I'm only ever <i>slightly</i> joking.

But that says more about me than the world.

It's true I don't trust anyone. If I started to open my heart to anyone, they'd just retort with their own problems unhelpfully. No, that's unfair. I don't trust anyone, it's true, but I don't care if they go around gossiping about me – that's what I live for, after all. Gossip shouldn't be seen as an attack. It's a homage. My real worry is that I'd have trouble remembering which friends I've told which secrets of the heart to. I would see Friend A as The One That I've Told This To, Friend Q as The One I Told That To, and so on. It's just too complicated to remember. And also, I live in London, where people say "I'd love to listen to you, but I'm so busy right now… oh, there goes my mobile phone. It must be my boss / lover / dealer."

So this is what the therapist is for. I tell him I'm entirely happy being single and celibate until the grave, but he doesn't seem to believe this is possible. I come away from the session thinking it said more about him than me, but that's the way I feel when speaking to anyone. I'm the narcissist that's fascinated by other people. It's like that Wilde poem about Narcissus being stared at and loved by the pool, but only because the pool saw its own beauty reflected in Narcissus's eyes. I know plenty of people who think of themselves as Normal types, but are actually far more self-obsessed than me, though they'd deny it. False modesty being just that: false. I'm arguably the least narcissistic person I know. I am my friends' more unabashed mirror.

And that was only the first session. Six months of this, once a week. After which, the therapist may need therapy.

* * * *
Current ailments: bloated feeling, with sporadic unpleasant aches and pains in stomach and chest (or thereabouts). Have occurred since last Wednesday. That was, though, when I really did punish myself somewhat. Umpteen cigarettes and glasses of wine, binge eating, being sick, then a ghastly fry-up at the cafe the next day. Still, I haven't smoked since. Will see doctor if this goes on. Typically, I assume it's terminal and compare myself to Louis MacNeice when reading about him. Mr MacNeice wrote his best stuff in the late 50s, despite being labelled as a 30s poet. But then, the book says, "he hadn't much time left". Slightly odd death, he contracted pneumonia in 1963 from going down a Yorkshire pothole while recording sound effects for a BBC radio programme. That's devotion for you. I am extremely fond of BBC Radio, but one must really draw a line somewhere.

That phrase "not having much time left" resonates in my mind, and I feel every one of my 32 winters. My new aches and pains may well just be that, but they do make me think that if I were to die tomorrow, I'd be terribly annoyed more than relieved. Despite all my suicidal thoughts. So this, combined with the weekly therapy right at the start of the week, has galvanised me into getting done the things I really want to get done.

Thus, new daily routine – rise at 7, get a diary entry written by 9AM. That should set me up for getting other things done in the rest of the day. Two hours for a diary entry should be plenty. I like to take time and ponder over my writing, diary entries included. But It's already 9 as I type, and I've only spoken about yesterday morning. Thing is, when I do write something, it's usually because I've had thoughts of dying the next day. So the diary entry, article, song, poem, review, is often forged as if it were my last message to the world. The result is (I hope) something that can only be pithy and aphoristic, and therefore has the tone of Essential Reading. Why write at all if you don't consider what you're writing Essential Reading?

Here Lies Dickon Edwards – he was Good Value.

The only problem is, of course, being put off writing at all by fear of not coming up to scratch. So that mustn't happen. Better to write something than nothing. That thought has to take priority. But it all helps to get one's mind pointed in vaguely the right direction. And indeed, in the Write Direction.

* * * *

So, rest of yesterday. I swanned about on buses in London. Fairly mild May weather. Indulged myself in Borders and decided to treat myself to a luxury item. <A HREF="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1841954594/dickonedwards-21">"The Assassin's Cloak". Edited by Irene and Alan Taylor.</a> The latest edition is £9.99, which swung it for me, as the previous version cost £14.99. I sat in the shop and carefully compared the editions. Both are paperbacks. Exactly the same pages and content. The only difference is the older version's cover was made of slightly thicker card, extending to flaps on the inside cover. Five pounds for a couple of cardboard flaps, ultimately.

The book is a hefty anthology of diaries. I'm fascinated with The Art Of The Diary, and this is a superb reference tool worth owning rather than borrowing from a library. Like a LiveJournal Friends page made up of all the great and the good (and the bad) across the centuries, but with the highlights kindly selected for you. Mr Pepys never bored the world (and himself) with a "Which Lord Of The Rings Character Are You" poll. Though he did make some pretty dull entries about his financial accounts. The book's introduction cites the case of Mr William Soutar, the Scottish poet who was confined to his sickbed for 13 years, and could only sit in his room, read, and write. A good example that one doesn't have to go out having adventures, witnessing important historic events or going to celebrity gatherings to keep an interesting diary.

I can't help thinking that poor Mr Soutar would be regarded by some today as "not having a life". "Get a life" is an odious modern phrase frequently used by someone whose own life is rarely enviable. When people say "get a life", they really mean "get a life like mine". Completely forgetting that the criteria of others can't possibly apply to oneself. They just haven't thought it through. Indeed, therein lies the root of many a war and conflict. Dickon sums up the problem of the Middle East. People saying "get a life like mine – or die." Other people thinking they know what is best for others is fine. The problems start when they enforce such "advice".

I'm not saying that if everyone in Hot Countries On The News suddenly swanned around in bleached hair and suits burbling about Louis MacNeice things would be much better, but…

What am I saying? Of <i>course</i> things would be much better. No real work would get done, so infrastructures would crumble overnight, and the world would end, but what a party.

While in Borders, I also leafed through <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/080505894X/dickonedwards-21">The Wilde Album (ed. Merlin Holland)</a>. Incredible photographs. Wilde on his deathbed. Wilde and Bosie at a table in Paris after the prison years. Talk about uneasy body language. Bosie looking beautiful and cruel, surprise, surprise.

Also – a <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0747568553/dickonedwards-21">biography of Patricia Highsmith, "Beautiful Shadow" (by Andrew Wilson</a>). Author of Strangers On A Train and the Ripley books. She appears to have set the world record for Most Lesbian Lovers By An Acclaimed 20th Century Author, yet her books are mainly about gay men. Albeit murderous, anti-hero gay men. Photos of her various companions remind me of a few people I know – cat-loving boyish types with pageboy haircuts, one Berlin girl in male drag and uniform whose real preference is clearly the camera, never mind girls more than boys. Sad that she tried so hard to get herself "cured". Slightly shockingly for a lazy lunchtime in a bookshop, the spine of the book has a nude photo of her in her early twenties. One doesn't usually think of dead authors in the nude. It was taken by a gay German called Rolf, who was so taken with her boyish frame that they decided to try sleeping together. I think this must happen more often than you hear about – slender dykes whose frame is so boyish and haircut so handsome that gay chaps get terribly confused. The Lady Caroline Lamb effect. Problem is when getting down to the bedroom antics. Nothing boyish about <i>that</i> aspect of the female anatomy. Taxi for Lord Byron!

Posters in Oxford Street for the new Morrissey single. First new record by him in seven years. "Irish Blood, English Heart". As he gets older, the Irishness of his ancestry certainly has become more visible in his face and build. No longer the pale skinny bookworm of the 80s. Just that little bit more thick-set. By coincidence, I find myself thinking of a line from a song on his last album, "Trouble Loves Me", <i>"Otherwise, kill me"</i> Which is also a line in Mr MacNeice's poem Prayer Before Birth. "I am not yet born; O hear me… Otherwise kill me." Is Mr Moz quoting MacNeice?

Passed by the internet cafe on Archway Road, where I'd been a few days before to scan in a newspaper article. I'd left the piece in the machine. Kind young man of Far Eastern descent and whose first language is not English rushes out of the shop as I pass to give me the piece back. It's in an envelope marked as follows (sic):

<i>"Customer Forgot bring this Newspaper when he finished scanning he forgot get back he is gold hair."</i>

* * * *

Evening – invited to the LSE to see Pink Grease and Selfish C***. Vaguely enjoyable, though I find it hard to get excited about loud rock music concerts these days. Meet people I know, meet new people I've not met who read this diary, am spoken to by people I thought would blank me, am blanked by people I thought would speak to me. All in order, then.

Drink chocolate-flavoured Vodka Mudshake. One of which is heaven. Two of which makes one feel quite sick.

Pink Grease certainly dress up and make an effort to put on a gaudy rock show. They remind me a little of Plastic Fantastic. Just then, the singer of Plastic Fantastic, Stuart, speaks to me. I tell him I feel a little sorry for the PG singer, as his bandmates are doing their utmost to upstage him constantly. "I only wish my bandmates would have done that", he replies.

Generally, people here seem to love PG's live act, and their fans, comprising regulars to clubs like Kash Point and Stay Beautiful, are very well-dressed. Perhaps too well-dressed. A male photographer spies me and remarks, as if my appearance is something to reply to (which it is), "I was just saying to someone, this is one of those gigs where the audience are more interesting than the bands".

Selfish C*** follow, fresh from appearing in Private Eye's Psueds Corner twice running, and for once are strangely tame. By comparison with PG and their own gigs, at least. I saw them at Trash a while ago, and the show was riotous. Singer Martin is a charming, friendly, and very beautiful young man. Onstage, though, he adopts a Mr Hyde persona, and tried to cause as much aggression, mayhem and destruction as possible. Often, he throws himself into the crowd and starts fighting the nearest person. He's so skinny that it's fair to assume he'll be the one worse off in such an encounter, so it's all very enjoyable to watch. At Trash, a girl was standing by the stage holding three full bottles of Becks beer. Martin grabbed them off her, and emptied the contents over the entire front row of the audience, then chucked the bottles in after them. He then proceeded to jump into the crowd, and emerged with his slinky top thoroughly ripped to shreds.

After their Trash set, I saw the girl grab Martin at the bar and shout "Hey – you owe me three beers". "Yes, okay. Sorry. I get carried away". And he bought them for her. This is, I think, one of the best aspects of SC. Iggy Pop with a conscience. Rock and roll is all very well, but Niceness is the pinnacle. Niceness is the ultimate state of Rock. I am a SC fan. Ms Lucinda is wearing a white visor, in case Martin tries to spill beer on her. He grabs it and throws it into the distance. But I see her later with it on again. All very SC.

One SC song goes "PRO-PATRIOTIC! GAY-BASHING! PRO-PATRIOTIC! FOOTBALL WATCHING!" Not all football-watchers are gay-bashers, needless to comment, but one can never have too many anti-football-fan songs, I feel.

Ms L takes my photo at one point. This makes it a Good Evening in my book. If I go out and NO ONE takes my photo, it is officially a Bad Evening. One of Ms L's friends pinches my bottom. I only ever get this from men older than me.

Likewise, on the tube home, a middle-aged man in a suit cruises me. Vaguely like Matthew Parris, the Tory MP turned journalist. But not as good-looking. Follows me into the compartment. Keeps throwing me looks all the way home. An uneasy journey. Gets off at Archway. I stay on and think of what would have happened. But this is the Dickon Edwards diary, not Joe Orton's. Still, it's nice <i>somebody</i> can still want me for my body.

Stop in at the chip shop on Archway Road. Middle-aged American man gasps as I walk in and insists on taking my photo several times. We end up discussing poetry and translations of Rilke.

Well, not a bad diary entry. It's now 11.17. Ah well. My apologies, but it just poured out of me and I couldn't stop. Will try to be more brief tomorrow. I've compared myself to Louis MacNeice and Lord Byron. Solved the problems of the Middle East. Read about dead lesbian authors and bed-bound poets. Enticed the eyes of men much older than me, but no one else. Discussed Rilke with a stranger in a chip shop at midnight. A typical day.

Searching the web for a shop that sells the <a href="http://www.librarygiftshop.com/porofwritfin.html">Alan Bennett chocolates</a>, I find one which also peddles <a href="http://www.librarygiftshop.com/viwomape.html">Virginia Woolf finger puppets</a>. The blurb is as follows:

"Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) was a distinguished novelist, essayist, and critic and a central figure in the Bloomsbury group. Her writing explores concepts of time, memory, and inner consciousness, and is remarkable for its humanity and depth of perception. Suffering from frequent bouts of depression, Woolf drowned herself in the River Ouse in 1941. This finger puppet can also be used as a refrigerator magnet."

Alan Bennett's 70th birthday today. For someone who is arguably England's greatest living writer in terms of acclaim and public profile, the media seems to be keeping this strangely quiet. But perhaps it's at Mr Bennett's own request. As someone who's turned down knighthoods and CBEs, he doesn't like a lot of fuss made over the achievement of being Not Dead Yet. "If you live to be 90 in England and can still eat a boiled egg, they think you deserve the Nobel Prize."

There was one time where he did acknowledge an award, in order to refuse it. It was an honorary doctorate from Oxford University, which he declined publicly in protest over them naming a Chair Of Communication in honour of Rupert Murdoch.

Last Autumn, I went to a festival of Alan Bennett's screen works at the National Film Theatre. The tickets revealed it to be part of a larger TV festival, sponsored by Sky Plus. Which is owned by Mr Murdoch, of course. He'll always get you somehow.

Some Bennett quotes buzzing around my mind.

From Prick Up Your Ears. Kenneth Halliwell on Paul McCartney:

"He's my favourite Beatle. I've always liked him. The others are too… <i>instinctive.</i>"

From A Visit From Miss Prothero. The narrator:

"Miss Prothero didn't laugh. She vaguely flinched. She was one of those people who only saw jokes by appointment."

From A Lady Of Letters. Miss Ruddock:

"I sometimes catch myself thinking it'll be better the second time round. But this is it. This has been my go."

Last Tuesday – to The Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden. I've been there before, to see musical performances, to play board games with sensitive indie music fans, to get a drink and leaf through the cafe's books, but this is my first visit to actually hear some poetry. Including my own. It's an "open mic" event called Poetry Unplugged, where anyone can foist their attempts at verse upon a room of people. Naturally, such an audience is likely to suffer the worst doggerel in the world, but they might also witness something magical in embryo, and be able to tell the performer they would like to hear more sometime. Mercifully for all concerned, a slot lasts no more than five minutes.

In theory, it'd be better to go on earlier rather than later, before other speakers vanish after their own spots conclude. But then, even though they're watching, their thoughts may be too focussed on their own imminent performance to take in anyone else. I know mine were.

I was accompanied and emotionally supported by Ms Angel Dahouk, who works at the Poetry Society and who kindly bought me rather a lot of wine. Dutch courage is one thing, but in this case I just went from nervous to nervous and drunk. Still, I blurted out a couple of efforts, both of which had really been written that afternoon. Typically for me, I arranged the appearance first, then worried about what I was going to do later. Oh, I had ideas, all right. The ten per cent inspiration is never a problem. It's that other 90% I'm not so good at.

To ensure I got the work done, I went to the British Museum Reading Room in the centre of its Great Court, with the self-deluding notion that the ghosts of all those great writers who had sat and created masterpieces in that hallowed dome over the years would be channelled and funnelled through me. The reading room is now open to absolutely anyone, as long as they follow the rules – absolute silence, no food or drink, respect the studying of others. No membership or elitist application hoop-jumping necessary. Which is something that's always put me off applying for a British Library ticket – it's as if they're saying "How dare you want to LEARN? What, YOU? Prove you're not wasting OUR time. These books belong to the nation. So we don't want just anyone reading them."

Incredibly, at the British Museum, it's quite easy to find an empty desk. I think it must be the ban on noise and mobile phones. I'd extend this to people who wear trainers. Just for aesthetic reasons. Vote Dickon – guess what I'll ban first. There goes that deposit.

The place is, I imagine, noisier than the proper reading rooms at the St Pancras British Library, given that visitors to the rest of British Museum keep coming in and out to take a look (the space by the doors is technically part of the museum), and one can just hear the tourist hubbub of the Great Court outside reduced to a background Babel burble. But it's still admirably conducive to writing, when one thinks of its assets: none of the New British Library intimidation, and all of the Old British Library history.

Anyone whose mobile phone goes off is, I hope, ritually disembowelled on the spot. Silently. I find the tap-tap-tapping of the man with the laptop behind me slightly annoying. They should be banned too. Get one of those courtroom laptops with a silent keyboard if you're planning to word-process in public.

But I get the poems done, and the Poetry Cafe is the first to hear them. One piece, "Alibi", features me finally putting a stock phrase of mine to creative use. "Sex is the PE of adult life / and I've got a note from my mother". That's the opening line. Afterwards, someone comes up to me and says that's one of the best opening lines they've ever heard at "one of these sort of things".

I thought it would best suit a poem, partly as the line has a rhythm found more in poetry than song lyrics, but mostly because so many poets rattle on about their wretched lovers. Poets are notorious flirts, lotharios, nymphomaniacs. Far more interesting to write a poem about NOT wanting any of All That. Maybe it'll connect with people who have Dickon Edwards Phases. I have one of those. It's just lifelong. As ever, all I want to give to the world is something it can't get anywhere else. A sly smirk, some wry tears, joy on toast, pain on the rocks, Something Other, thank you and goodnight.

The piece wants to be described as pitched somewhere between Mr Larkin and Ms Stevie Smith, if I'm honest. Of which I prefer the latter. Ms Smith had better hair. And her brand of English Tragicomedy is more playful – there's more jokes. There should always be more jokes. As long as they're good jokes. When people go to see the most serious of plays, they still laugh at anything remotely jokey in the text. Not only does it give any serious message a more rounded form, it also is a good way of avoiding pretentiousness. If you must do something that teeters all too easily on the brink of pretentiousness, like spoken word, like poetry, for God's sake, use humour.

I don't prefer Mr Allen's early, funnier films. I prefer his later, funnier films. Because of the not funny bits.

So, a new experience for me. Hearing my words clear, not compromised by music or gig venue chatter. Strangers laughing at the funny bits – even if I wasn't entirely joking. Strangers shutting up and listening to what I'm saying. My appearance seems to make them think "my god, what's HE going to say…?". And so they listen. And not having to pack away a bloody guitar case at the end of it. I want to do this again.

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/spitz-340.jpg" alt="" align=left>
Here's the final MP3 single from the new <a href="http://www.scarletswell.co.uk/">Scarlet's Well</a> album. This song is called "Blubberhouses" and is written and sung by Bid. It's a prowling, Kurt Weill-esque portrait of the Mousseron butcher's shop. I rather like the line about "raw chicken… smelling like crocodile", inverting the cliché of unusual meat dishes (e.g. crocodile, or human meat) predictably described as tasting of chicken.

It also contains the origin of "Offal Manipulator", one of the higher ranks people can reach at the <a href="http://s6.invisionfree.com/Scarlets_Well/">Scarlet's Well Message Forum</a>, by posting regularly. Other ranks include "Scurvy Scum" and "Bilge Pumper".

Link: http://www.fosca.com/Scarlets-Well-Blubberhouses.mp3

<b>Blubberhouses</b>

<i>Down a greasy alley by the harbour
There's a foggy window in a bay
If you wipe away the dirt
With your filthy little shirt
Oh, you'll see what keeps the sailors all away
It's not the prices that sting
It's the look of the thing
Bright red, bright red, bright red mutton
Glowing in your hands
In a bowel-splattered apron by the counter
Lurks a tatty, gibber-ridden man
As he cackles in his beard
I try not to look weird
Thus, manipulate some offal in my hand
It's not the feel you mistrust
It's the mystical gust
Raw chicken, raw chicken
Smelling like crocodile
The sausages are standing to attention
On a chessboard made of little squares of silk
On the waxwork of a Prince
There's a wig of turkey mince
And some kidneys bobbing in a bowl of milk
And on a sign is writ neat
"Come to my garden of meat"
Give me, give me, give me your liver
Liver like it used to be</i>

If you like it, do investigate its excellent parent album, "The Dream Spider Of The Laughing Horse", out this week on Siesta Records. It's available to buy online from <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/B0001ZXOW0/ref=sr_aps_music_1_1/026-6467729-9354057">Amazon</a>, or <a href="http://www.siesta.es/pags/disco.asp?codigoSiesta=194">from Siesta themselves</a>.

There's a review in this weekend's Independent On Sunday newspaper, by Simon Price:

"Descended from Indian royalty (it's technically an offence for the Queen of England to step on his shadow), the man known only as Bid is minor indie royalty himself. The former leader of cult 80s heroes The Monochrome Set has been namechecked by the likes of Franz Ferdinand, whose Alex Kapranos is one collaborator on his new project, Scarlet's Well. With Bid's handsome croon alternating with Alice Healey's fragile tones, The Dream Spider Of The Laughing Horse draws on gypsy music, Francopop, showtunes, sitar psychedelia, and rolling indie-folk a la Belle and Sebastian. 3/5 stars."

All very good, but I should mention that the lovely Mr Kapranos's song in question, "The Spell", appears on the <i>first</i> Scarlet's Well album, "Strange Letters" (1999, Siesta). Still, for many that may as well be a new release too.

Tickets for the first Scarlet's Well London concert (May 26th, The Spitz) are available to buy online <a href="http://www.wegottickets.com/gig.asp?3025">here</a>.

Last night, I spent eleven hours in a nightclub.

The first eight or so of those were as part of a shoot for "Kash Point TV". I have no idea whether this is for cable, Internet or tea-towel, but I am grateful to Kash Point for letting me in free so many times, feel the club is the best in London, and am happy to help them out in any way I can. I trot along to the venue "Moonlighting" in Greek Street at 4pm, and do not leave until 3am.

During the shoot, I play a dancer in a video for the artist Crazy Girl, help out with a bit of make-up, button pushing, sound mixing, and even a spot of emergency microphone repair. I also perform a couple of short "Dickon Edwards – Letter From Hysterica" monologues to camera. I draw on my diary, but it quickly becomes apparent that writing to be read and writing for speaking to camera are very different genres indeed. This is my debut as a spoken word solo artist. Foolishly, I thought that the combination of being able to look striking and write striking things to read out would be enough. It is not. I am a mass of nerves, and will be quite understanding if my footage is not used.

But I will do it again, and do it better. It has made me want to work harder on the art of speaking in performance. I'm keen on trying one of those Open Mike nights at various London performance-poetry or alternative comedy nights. Dickon Edwards – stand up comedian? Why not. I'll try anything once, except bungy jumping and bestiality. Of course, I would be careful not to be one of those wretched two-a-penny blokey comedians who point out the difference between cats and dogs, the trouble with their girlfriend, or something to do with Star Wars. I would not certainly not try and appeal to the audience as if I was one of them. My own observational comedy would have to be along the lines of "Don't you really hate it when you're sawing up the body and the blood won't scrub off the walls?"

If I DID try something like that, I wouldn't tell jokes or even try to make the audience laugh. Just make their attention toward the stage vaguely worthwhile. Give people something memorable they can't get elsewhere. It would be more akin to Mr Alan Bennett's Talking Heads monologues, with Thora Hird as David Byrne. I think they call it character-based comedy. In my case, it would be as The Tragicomic Character Of Dickon Edwards.

I know comedy doesn't have to be funny – I have seen "Coupling". But I am an admirer of humour that is more unusual and engrossing than laugh-out-loud funny, whether it's the Kids In The Hall, the third series of The League Of Gentlemen, or the fourth series of Monty Python's Flying Circus. I still haven't seen "Nighty Night", but I am told it's My Kind Of Thing. I also enjoy the show-and-tell style of performance verging on anecdotal monologue, from the late Spalding Gray and Laurie Anderson's more wry pieces, to Dave Gorman, and Richard Herring's Talking Cock show.

It's true I am cruelly disfigured with a comedy speech impediment, and am given to gabbling, nervous stutters, and people asking me to repeat myself. But I was gratified to recently discover that, as unlikely as it could possibly sound, the poet Benjamin Zephaniah, lately in the news for refusing an OBE, has a similar vocal affliction to me. Yet he manages to perform his work fluently and articulately. So it's just a case of practising like mad. And then practising more. And then trying out the work at open mike spots. Perhaps that's how I should bill myself – Dickon Edwards: A Speech Impediment A Bit Like Benjamin Zephaniah's.

Back at Moonlighting, the Kash Point TV shoot finishes as the Kash Point nightclub begins, the last weekly KP ever. The club will return in the summer, on board the Tattershall Castle boat, but will be monthly, perhaps even members-only. I think this is entirely advisable.

I keep Mr Matthew Glamorre company as he puts on his own make-up, a process of titivation (not transformation, mind) which takes even longer than my own. Truly someone I can learn from. Tonight's Kash Point theme is Hat Night, with champagne and prizes for the most exotic form of Easter Bonnet. I myself wear a brand new top hat made personally for me by Bid. He once made hats for Alice Cooper.

Little Richard, one of the club's resident Superstars and described earlier in this diary as Kash Point's dancing Pillow-Biting Lobster, tonight wears an all-over hat suit. It is a creation of his trademark gaffa tape (does he buy the stuff in bulk?) and cardboard, dotted with silvery spaceboy domes and topped off with a long horizontal box enclosing his entire head and extending the best part of a metre before him. To speak to him, one has to press one's face against the end window of the headpiece's viewfinder and peer deep inside. Naturally, he spends some time on the dancefloor like this. Watching him drink a bottle of beer is a sight to remember.

The winning hat-wearers are a couple decked out in lights and arrows, but mention must be made of French Thierry wearing a colourful silky butterfly hat affair, and very little else below the neck. Likewise the gentleman with a gigantic foam letter "A" on his head.

Once again, having a costume parade packs out the club to the rafters, and I am told all sorts of horror stories going on at the door upstairs – even death threats from people refused entry. Mr Glamorre and his brave crew do their utmost to ensure the badly-dressed are directed elsewhere, but some always manage to slip in. Even a guest DJ does the equivalent of playing badly-dressed music. There is a strict ban on any four-four music one might get in Normal Clubs, and when the DJ puts on "Gay Bar" by Electric Six, Mr Glamorre storms onto the mixing desk, slams the fader down, and firmly tells the DJ , face to face and terrifyingly serious, "NO. SHIT." Quite right too.

What we do get towards the giddy end of the night is Mr G performing Minty's "Useless Man", which is always a sign he's in a good mood. And the last tune played at Kash Point Weekly is "One Singular Sensation" from "A Chorus Line". Perfect music for top hat wearers.

I make it back to my bedsit at close to 5am, thankful that my next appointment isn't until 3pm the next day, and in Highgate too.

I wake up at just after 3pm, realize the time in horror, and dash outside. Ms Claudia Andrei, photographer and author of <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1902588118/qid%3D1081537769/026-5023342-2176401">"Transgender London: London and The Third Sex".</a> who I have kept waiting, remarks that I look as if I've just crawled out of bed. She is entirely correct.

She brings an interesting bit of news for those who think I look vaguely like David Sylvian, the singer with the band Japan. Though I quite like his music, I am not an expert on it and have never made any deliberate attempt to emulate his 80s look. Or indeed anyone else's. But after the umpteenth such comparison, I can't help but be intrigued to hear that Ms Andrei has recently shown her photos of me to Steve Jansen, also of the band, who in turn has shown Mr Sylvian. The response from the latter was that he was "amused".

I wonder what Mr Sylvian thinks of "Coupling".