From the <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/arts/reviews/story/0,11712,1134445,00.html">Guardian review of the Franz Ferdinand album</a>:

<i>"… 'Michael' appears to be a love song aimed squarely at a man. This really shouldn't seem like a brave move in 2004, but it does. Morrissey and the Magnetic Fields aside, indie doesn't really do gay."</i>

The Guardian, however, does do ill-informed, myopic generalisations like this. I'm still appalled that The Hidden Cameras' album was omitted from many Best Albums Of 2003 lists in the press.

To Infinity, for the club White Heat. The venue is in Old Burlington Street, a short walk from Piccadilly Circus. An unusual location for a nightclub, surrounded as it is by Mayfair offices, foreign embassies, and the homes of the impossibly wealthy.

On my way out, I hear the roar of a large vehicle passing by the house. It is a gritting van. There's been much talk of a big freeze approaching, and as this time last year much of North London was left in gridlock due to icy roads, this year the councils are determined to make everyone know they're doing their bit, even though the climate is relatively mild, with not a snowflake in sight. An abundance of pink grit crunches underfoot as I make my way to and from the tube stations.

In Piccadilly, everyone is wearing their new winter coats and scarves. The sense of expectation in the air is palpable. It might as well be Christmas Eve. When it comes down to it, Londoners do rather like a little bit of snow, and feel cheated if an entire winter passes without any. Aside the gritting vans on Regents Street are more municipal trucks, this time with miniature cranes. They are taking down the last remnants of the Christmas lights. On January 28th.

After a brief "confusion" over the guest list, I greet the person who has invited me here, Miss Mira Manga. She was once the singer of a Reading punk-pop band called Disco Pistol and is now promoting bands at this club. She buys me a drink, which helps me calm down after my guest list "problem". Always a good idea. People should buy me drinks more often, you know. I'm not entirely joking! It's all very well them approaching me, saying "I like your look", but if they really want to appreciate my efforts in maintaining my appearance against the ravages of time, the restrictions of living on benefits, the pressures of fashion, and the London weather, the best way they could show it is by buying me a drink. I'm so poor at the moment, and chances are they're richer than I am. The sweetest words a human being can utter to another are not "I love you", but "What are you having?"

I suppose I could score the art of nightclubbing on a budget with a points system. If I have to pay my way in and pay for all my own drinks, zero points. If I am on a discount list, where I still have to pay something, one point. Getting in for free: one more point. Free cloakroom treatment: quite rare, so three points. Being bought a drink, or given a free drink voucher, not nearly common enough for me, so two points per drink.

Tonight was a discount list affair, after some argument, plus a welcome drink from Ms Manga. I had to pay for the cloakroom. So, a three points evening. Not bad, and it means I can go out again this week. Thursday beckons with C33X at the Spitalfields Arts Cafe, then Riviera F up the road in Shoreditch an hour later, then onto Kash Point in Soho.

Back to tonight. I arrive too late for the first band, Hypo Psycho. Oh yes. Apparently they are extremely young men with those fashionable hedgehog haircuts, who play ska music, and are managed by the same people as Busted. Busted are a chart pop band, I am reliably informed. You heard it here last.

Then, a group called Corporation Blend. I know, I know. More sinfully young boys, one in eyeliner and skinny tie, playing Stooges-esque rock that's so painfully loud, I start to wonder if I'm just getting old, or going deaf, or both. Thankfully, I see a few young girls in the audience with their fingers in their ears. Music like this is far more enjoyable to make than to listen to. Someone should gently alert bands of this ilk to this fact. But they wouldn't be able to hear the advice.

Finally, the act I've come to see, Simon Bookish. Mr Bookish is the stage persona of a charming young man called Leo. His live performance consists of just himself, a microphone, and a laptop belting out frantic electronic melodies. Resplendant in black judo trousers with red belt, black pinstripe shirt with red striped tie, a diamante brooch in the shape of a bunch of grapes, and a hand-sewn polka-dot 15th century clown's gown, he throws himself about the stage, and often into the audience, with such zeal that it's both thoroughly exhausting and invigorating just watching him. One man with the energy of a 74-piece dance troupe. One song appears to be called "Terry Riley Disco". Mr Bookish never disappoints.

Offstage, Leo tells me he dreamed about me today. While falling asleep at work. Ms Manga also mentions this to me:

Ms M: (slightly astonished at my lack of reaction) What do you think about that?
Me: Oh, I get told this a lot. It's never sexual. I think it may be the occupational hazard of having a cartoonishly distinctive look. Or, rather, an occupational perk. I'm also very easy to draw.

I also meet Isobel, a girl I first met while on tour with Orlando in Manchester, and am introduced to Lisa, who recommends I switch to Mac lipgloss, and tries some out on me there and then. I'm happy to oblige.

The club plays all kinds of impressively tasteful music, from Bowie to The Fall to The Postal Service to Tindersticks to My Bloody Valentine. The DJ who spins the latter, a track off the early 90s album "Loveless", must, I muse, be barely out of his teens. I saw MBV when they toured to promote that album. I feel terribly ancient.

In fact, most of the clientele at White Heat are extremely young, and more to the point, extremely not buying me a drink. I've used up my own meagre drinks budget for the night, so I saunter off home.

Standing on Tottenham Court Road, snow starts to fall after all. It's really very beautiful, and Richard Curtis could put the scene in one of his popular films.

But then Real, Unfair, Cruel Life crashes into the frame. A bearded man collars me:

Man: Excuse me. I'm not a beggar, but… I've just got to get to Leyton. I only need TEN pee. Just TEN pee.
Me: Here you are, then. (produces the coin)
Man: …. or a pound. Just a pound.
Me: You said ten pee! I don't have a pound!
Man: (walks off)

There's gratitude for you. Really, London beggars must learn a little consistency in their appeals. What can the unions be thinking of? I'm a London beggar myself, and all I ask is just one drink.

Or another.

At about 1 AM, I get off the night bus in Highgate and walk up Southwood Avenue. Everything is lightly dusted in snow, and it's still falling. I hope the bearded man managed to get to Leyton all right. Or at least, somewhere warm. I feel someone is going to turn London upside down and shake it at any moment, sending gossamer fops like me flying around Big Ben, and serve me right.

Taylor Parkes sees me from his window and calls me in. We sip Earl Grey and watch the live broadcast of "I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here". For readers outside the UK, this is an immensely popular TV programme where a group of celebrities are stranded in the Australian jungle. This year's party includes Johnny Rotten and Lord Brockett.

The screen features constant text messages from viewers.
One is "LORD B. UR SO FIT. LOVE STEVE X."

I shall be on an Internet radio show tomorrow (Wednesday 28th), sometime between 10.30pm and 11.30pm GMT, chatting to host Matthew Glamorre.

The show is Kash Krisis, affiliated to the club <a href="http://www.kashpoint.com/">Kash Point</a>, my favourite nocturnal den of the moment. The station is Resonance 104.4 FM. It's nominally a local London FM station, but I live in London and I can't pick the wretched thing up. One must go to http://www.resonancefm.com to listen online.

The success of the band Franz Ferdinand has been rather heartwarming. Recently, they've been all over the UK media, and have just had a #3 single in the Real Charts with "Take Me Out", despite its radio-unfriendliness in having a fairly unconnected "prologue" before the song starts proper. The radio stations simply clipped this part out altogether, making the single not only more instantly engaging in form, but no doubt more attractive to ruthless programme schedulers in length.

My readers might recall that last May, two skinny Scotsmen from the group appeared on my doorstep here in Highgate, asking for my services. Sadly, it wasn't my body they wanted, but my 1982 Juno 6 syntheziser. In return, they invited me to their concert at The Monarch in Camden, supporting The Futureheads. Despite being in a foul mood for no real good reason, or rather because someone spilt beer on my freshly-drycleaned suit, which on reflection is a <i>perfectly good</i> reason, I did nevertheless enjoy their set, which put me in mind of early Talking Heads, Monochrome Set, and Josef K.

Now they're proper pop stars. They are presumably freed from having to play the foul old Monarch again, or having to borrow instruments from foul old me again. I imagine they're now busy lounging in a big golden limousine, sipping nectar from the upturned armpits of Brewer Street rent boys.

I'm not sure what's happened to The Futureheads. Given they were headlining over Franz Ferdinand, and the latter are now Number Three, I presumed they were Number One, and gingerly tuned into Top Of The Pops the other week. But no, the prime position was occupied by some ghastly behemoth of a girl from the depressing TV karaoke talent show, Faustian Pact Idol.

Perhaps the Futureheads' turn is still to come. Their average age is, after all, 21, and youth on one's side is always an undeniable asset when trying to 'make it'. Franz Ferdinand, I hope they won't chide me for saying, are no inchoate ingenues when it comes to playing in bands. Their Rock Family Tree lineage includes the groups Pro Forma, whom I saw at Ladyfest the year before, The Karelia, and The Yummy Fur. That a member of The Yummy Fur would ever have a proper, Top 5 chart hit must rank up there with similar musings on White Town and Chumbawamba. But done it they have, and good for them.

A further vague connection of interest that I've only recently discovered, is that Franz Ferdinand singer Alex's former fops-in-suits band The Karelia had their album produced by Bid. Bid then covered one of their songs, "The Spell" on the first Scarlet's Well album. So it all fits. I was initially thrown by his change in surname, from Huntley to Kapranos.

I'm sure there's a good reason why he changed his name like that. Perhaps someone spilled beer on his suit.

Watching Mr Howard's strange fixed smile on TV, newly acquired since he became the Conservative Party leader, I try to recall where I've seen such a rictus before. And then I remember. Gollum in the Lord Of The Rings films, talking to himself.

I'm generally feeling better, not least because I've been recruited by a musical hero of mine, Pirate King Bid, also known as frontman for The Monochrome Set, to join the live incarnation of his current arcane pop band, Scarlet's Well. Not entirely sure what I'll be doing yet, perhaps a bit of guitar, bass, and vocals, but I'm happy to just share a stage with him and hold his plectrums if needs be. And also, to put about the call for other possible SW players. It's unlikely to be a full-time engagement, in fact I'm expecting it to help me cure my sinful apathy and fecklessness of late, and generate more activity with Fosca, with writing and with life in general.

I've sung the estimable praises of Scarlet's Well before, but if you're still not aware of the group's albums, released in stunningly beautiful sleeves by Siesta Records, I really must insist you investigate them forthwith. They're available online from http://www.siesta.es/

The world of Scarlet's Well often resembles to that of arch Victorian poetry, with some lyrics written by Christina Rossetti, but set to tunes somewhat more exciting than "In The Bleak Midwinter". If you think there should be more pop songs about water shrews, werewolves lurking in glades, parrots, pirate crews and jellyfish, and referring to a ship with words like "doxy" and "draggle-tail", I can't recommend the albums highly enough.

There's audio samples tucked behind illustrations at the band's own website, http://www.bid.clara.net/swell. Click on "Albums" to hear them.

While there, also click on "Live" to read Bid's open appeal for fellow musical musketeers for live concerts, even if not based in London. Do please pass on the information to any curious (in every sense) musicians you may know, as long as they are prepared to not wear trainers onstage. It's all very open-door and unfixed at the moment. Drummers and percussionists are particularly sought, I hear. It was ever thus. My acqaintances Ms Dornan and Mr White have already tentatively answered the call. I rather enjoy being Captain Bid's recruiting lieutenant.

All concerts, once booked, will naturally be included in this diary. Onwards and fopwards!

Still feeling ill. General dizziness, headaches, nausea, dryness and tightness in the throat as if I'm gulping for oxygen, blurred vision, disorientation, unable to concentrate, fatigue. If this is still that "carsickness virus", it's hanging around too long. This is on top of the usual depression.

So, off to the doctor's again on Tuesday. I won't leave this time until I've been tested for everything. Or I'll change doctors yet again. Last time, while in the waiting room, I leafed through a copy of Diabetes Today. So naturally I insisted on a test for that. They took a urine sample. Results – negative. But in the magazine John Peel talks about how he too was fobbed off with urine tests, and that blood tests are far more efficient, though the results take longer. He is, of course, now a diabetic. The fact he's twice my age and there's diabetics in his family (unlike mine) doesn't of course bother me. I now won't sleep till I get the absolute, blood test all clear. And while they're at it, I'll insist they test my blood for everything else I might possibly have. They shouldn't leave those magazines out for people like me. It's like those government announcements that there may be a terrorist attack. Exactly what are we expected to do? Just go about our lives as normal, just riddled with more anxiety than ever.

Still, I maintain I'm not ENTIRELY a hypochondriac, as there clearly IS something wrong with me. I DO feel ill and I don't want to be ill. It's stopping me from doing things, and I want to get better. So I prefer the term 'gossamer valetudinarian'.

Of course, my Lifestyle and general attitude are probably not helping. I have just realised that from December 23rd to January 2nd, a day did not pass without me not only drinking, but mixing my drinks. I never exercise, sleep at irregular hours from day to day, hide from the sunlight and eat very badly. If this is the sole cause of my ailments, fine. I just want to make sure it is.

Health consists of having the same diseases as one's neighbour. Drink is the poison that kills slowly, and life is a terminal squeak of experience bookended by vast eternities of nothingness. The spot on my lip has faded, so that's all that matters. I can go out. Best be ill in public rather than be ill alone. Cafes, bars and clubs beckon me away. Vast quantities of coffee or alcohol do make me feel better, after all.

I've been directly invited to a number of things and it'd be wrong not to go. It's always important to go where you're invited. That way, it's someone else's fault. "What are YOU doing here?" "I got an invite". Can you blame me? Don't answer that. I have limited finances, so I have to be selective with what I do of an evening, and with how many times I go out in a week. Direct invites therefore tend to swing it. I am the recluse who goes to parties.

So, tomorrow: birthday drinks for Lucy Madison in Islington, then onto the Buffalo Bar yet again for the Crimes Against Pop club. I never mind going to the Buffalo Bar. It's not too much of a dark hole, has nice sofas, and is a quick bus ride or affordable cab ride home.

On Saturday, birthday drinks for Darren Beach at the Boogaloo here in Highgate. Then on Sunday, off to the Great Eastern Hotel for "Modern Times", a 1920s / 30s/ 40s themed club that people have raved about to me for some time. Maybe for once that will be a club free from Nike-d up Default Men with trainers and bad beards.

Even <a href="http://www.kashpoint.com/">Kash Point</a> on New Year's Eve had an alarmingly high representation of them, along with the usual fantastically dressed. At one point, the DJs play the Divine Comedy's Europop, and it fits in perfectly with all the recent electroclash records. Not least the songs by Baxendale and Simon Bookish from the Kash Point album, both of which find eager appreciation on the packed dancefloor.

I enjoy performances by the likes of the excellent Gene Serene, who boldy carries on dispite there being a truly drunken woman also onstage, making whooping noises on the other microphone. No one removes her. Mr Glamorre is torn between keeping the dressed-down bores out of his club, and having a friendly, open-house, Utopian policy akin to Warhol's Factory, where self-expression is encouraged, not quashed, and Do What Thou Wilt shall be the whole of the law.

Thing is, how do you tell people off?

I feel in a similar dilemma a few nights before Christmas. At a pub in Tooting, a drunken woman starts dancing on the seat next to our table, and to no one's surprise FALLS directly upon me and Mr Rhodri Marsden. I feel the need to say something to the young lady, but, as I'm rather intoxicated myself, and we're in a pub, and it's nearly Christmas, I have no grounds to tell her off. Also, I have never told anyone off in my life, and wouldn't know where to start.

Thankfully our party includes Ms Jenny, who speaks fluent Drunk Woman, and gently but firmly convinces her to continue to "express herself", but quietly and away from others. And not on top of Dickon. That's all that's really required.

Back at Kash Point NYE, and when the group No Bra perform, singer Fanny (male, bearded) deals with a similar sozzled barfly heckler by rushing over and snogging him so violently that they both tumble over the edge of the bar. That's the way to do it. Discipline in character.

The beautiful Mr Patrick Wolf says hello to me. His bleached hair is now shorn off, leaving a natural, dark crop. I also meet the glamourous likes of Ms Chiara, Ms Misty, Mr James Ward, and Ms Alexa from Riviera F. And I stay till the very, very, end.

Thankfully, it transpires that Matthew Glamorre doesn't shrink from ejecting badly-dressed bores after all. Some hours into New Year's Day, after he's performed a solo medley of Minty songs (Plastic Bag, That's Nice, and Useless Man), he tells me, "I have thrown a lot of idiots out tonight. I ask them, "Did you pay to get in? Yes? Good, because you're leaving now." "

Ah, Default Men. They plague my every step, and kill my kind for our soft pelts. On the tube, recently. I am walking down a long station corridor, with a barrier separating the tunnel into two lanes of pedestrians. A man passes me on the other side, then on seeing me STARTS WALKING BACKWARDS along with me, trying to get eye contact. It won't work. Without my glasses, I'm short sighted. And I am near-blind with heavy mascara and eyeliner. And I never look unless invited to look. He doesn't call out. Later, I am sitting on the train while it's at a station. Another Default Man bangs on the tube window nearest me. I don't look. He walks off, the train moves on.

Back at Kash Point on New Year's Eve. I am pursued and cornered in the toilets by a gang of Nearly Default Men Trying To Be Funny, as they mean well and are just drunk and confused. One of them starts talking to me as if I'm David Sylvian. That's the joke. "Didn't you make Tin Drum?" "Didn't you and Mick Karn chase the same bird?". "Didn't you collaborate with… what's his name?"

"Ryuichi Sakamoto?" I helpfully supply.

"That's right!"

This is a new one: I am actually AIDING a detractor in making fun of me in front of his mates, in the gents toilet.

I don't mind. I find it faintly amusing, and it makes a good diary entry. Plus it's New Year's Eve, and I feel Kash Point is more My Place, safer ground than a tube station.

In the aisles of Muswell Hill Sainsburys, a few days into 2004, another Default Man with his Default Girlfriend chuckles and points at me. "Andy Warhol!". He says this <i>triumphantly</i>, as if I'm a walking "Guess Who I Look Like" contest.

This time, for the first time ever, I snap.

"Oh THANK you. No one's EVER said that to me before."

I feel instantly angry with myself for reacting that way.

"But you love it really, don't you?" says Laurence.

"I do want to be recognised", I whine. "But as myself."

"Perhaps you should put up posters of your face all over London. 'THIS IS DICKON EDWARDS'. With the web address of your diary."

We are at Waterlow Park Duck Pond, Highgate, London N6. It is 2.30pm on December 25th 2003. Like me, Laurence is spending Christmas alone. Feeding these ducks is my Christmas Day ritual. Like some English villages have their strange Wicker Man-like folk dances on certain days, I can't remember how I started doing this, or why I do it. But this year I am accompanied. Last year, Laurence had Roast Duck for Christmas, so his presence is poetically appropriate. We learn a way of seeing off any Default Gulls who muscle in on the meek mallards in make-up. You just clap your hands once, and the idiot gulls will fly away, while the ducks remain. Try it next time you're at a duck pond. After seeing "Finding Nemo", it's hard not to imagine the gulls' noisy cawing as "Mine!" "Mine!"

Laurence and I pull a cracker by the side of the pond. We both regret not bringing cameras to immortalise the occasion. It must have been a sight for the few others in the park on their post-Christmas dinner walks. Two grown men, by themselves, one of whom looks the way I do, the other is <a href="http://www.lah.freeuk.com/laurence.htm">a classical composer in his fifties</a>, pulling crackers on Christmas Day by a duck pond. It had to be done.

An email the other day from Kate P in Australia, who I always think of when seeing pictures of Sophie Ellis-Bextor. The same striking, angular beauty. Kate used to be a boy. She tells me how a club in a Sydney transsexual bar played Fosca, and she danced. I am delighted.

Shamefully, I am smoking on New Year's Eve. Tim C suggests, "Every time you want to take out a cigarette, take out a pen instead."

He is absolutely right. I haven't smoked since. I wanted to today, and instead wrote this entry.

This year has not, I admit, been the most visibly productive of my life. I released no records with Fosca, or succeeded in having any other written work published, save contributions like the one to Smoke Magazine. My diary went for weeks without entries.

It's true that I've been stricken with various illnesses, bouts of paralyzing depression, and general addiction to procrastination, but the chief excuse is a general fear of failing. Or rather, of producing anything that might be substandard. This, I now realise, is just not good enough. One must never be afraid of releasing material that might not be up to scratch. Writing anything is better than writing nothing. Work calls down work, just as apathy calls down apathy. As long as something is centred on Personal Truth, any idea of "failing" can only be based on the criteria of others. Criteria, which ultimately is irrelevant. This is your own life you're living, after all, not the life of others.

On the day the accompanying photograph to this entry was taken, at Somerset House here in London, England, I visited a retrospective exhibition in the building, which celebrated that great British children's illustrator, Mr Quentin Blake. His work, often best known through working with Roald Dahl, is sketchy and spiky and brimming with joy, energy, and wit. Yet, in that day's issue of Metro Newspaper, the exhibition was given a dismissive review. The critic, whose name fortunately escapes me in this season of forgiveness, attacked Mr Blake's work for being… spiky and sketchy. As far as the writer was concerned, Mr Blake's entire 50 year career (he'd been illustrating for Punch Magazine in the late 40s), was a complete waste of time. His crime was Being Quentin Blake.

This example of the way many are all too quick to race for blank judgement based on their own personal reflexes, for refusing to even try and see both wood and trees, to condemn Mr Pope for being Catholic, is a particularly insidious vice. It is one that exists in everyone, and one that must be resisted with great force. Mr Bernard Shaw pointed out that, contrary to the motivational saying, one should NOT do unto others as you expect they should do unto you: their tastes may not be the same.

With this in mind, I look back at the diary entries I DID manage to write and put on the Web this year. For me, they do constitute "work" of an equal value as any record or concert or properly published piece of writing. Leafing through past entries of 2003, the longer ones, I'm rather pleased with them. Otherwise I'd be feeling extremely jealous. It's not what one DOES that matters here, so much as what one THINKS.

I may have physically done very little in 2003, save from the occasional Fosca gig, not least the trip to Athens, but I've Been Dickon Edwards more than ever. The edges are a lot smoother. As long as one can keep that up, and put out as much work as possible (even if it's just diary entries) that springs directly from Being Oneself, one will never "fail". And this applies to anyone who too feels they are at the mercy of the Achievement Criteria of others.

Through self-awareness, comes self-belief. Through that, a way of dealing with the rest of the world. And then, of appreciating the work and lives of others more than ever. The paradox is this. Narcissism, once developed properly and for some time, skips hand in hand with Consideration. It is often those who think they are speaking as One Of The Crowd who are really selfish, self-deluding and blind to the ways of others. The House Of Commons is full of them.

The other paradox is that, in order to BE more and more, one must DO more and more. The edges will always need as much smoothing as possible.

And so, I look to 2004 with an eye on restricting my tendency of this previous year to fall through cracks in time and cracks in make-up. Enough is enough.

Dickon Edwards
Highgate, London N6

<i>Photo by Simon (<lj user=mzdt>)</i>

A Very Merry Christmas to all my readers.

<img alt="Somerset House, 23.12.03. Photo by Simon Storey" src="http://www.fosca.com/xmas2.jpg"></img>

Many thanks to <lj user=mzdt> for the photo.

A weekend of being laughed at.

I am standing outside the Astoria box office in Charing Cross Road. Inside, Hawkwind are playing. Outside I am getting cold. I have been standing here for one hour and five minutes.

What's the longest acceptable time to wait for someone?

I am here because Plan B Magazine want to illustrate my piece on the band Ackercocke with a photo of me and the band, together. I agree to this, replying, "just tell me where to be and when, and I will be there." Comes the response, "6.45pm, Sunday, outside the Astoria."

I am on time. The person meeting me, the band's press officer, eventually turns up at 7.50pm. She apologies for being stuck in traffic, and gets me into the comparative warmth of the Mean Fiddler, the smaller venue next to the Astoria, where an endless queue of heavy metal fans snakes around the block. Tonight, in concert: Arch Enemy and Ackercocke.

She goes away for a few minutes, comes back, and informs me that the photo shoot has already taken place, without me.

Thankfully, she buys me a drink. I watch Ackercocke perform, and catch a bit of Arch Enemy, another Black Metal band whose angle is having a female singer that can do that Satanic Growling as good as any man. It's an impressive party trick (how's that for damning with faint praise), but after a few minutes of their headbanging antics I've had enough. I feel miserable, unloved, and still have vestiges of flu. I want quietness. I badly need to go home and have a good cry. I only came to get my photo taken. I don't actually LIKE heavy metal music, after all. That, of course, is why the magazine think a piece about by me will make for a Good Read. Granted, I admire the likes of Ackercocke for their waistcoats-and-ties appearance and obvious mastery of their chosen craft. But, the individuals who admire it aside, and with a few exceptions, I believe that all Rock Music per se is a mistake. Heavy metal, doubly so. I shall enjoy saying these things in a rock magazine.

When I arrange meetings myself, something I insist on is that the location be somewhere indoors, where people can sit down. Ideally, a cafe or bar. Then, if one person is late, at least the other one can sit and drink and read and think, limiting the inconvenience incurred. This, however, is a rendezvous organised for me, rather than by me.

In this instance, owning a mobile phone would make my life a lot easier. I do possess a pager, so people running late can send me a message with their phones. But they rarely do. What instead happens is that I somehow have to phone their mobiles to find out where the hell they are. This means either badgering a passer-by to borrow their phone, something I can only do if I have the nerve, or, as I usually end up doing, trying to find a phone box that is empty and which works. And then I have to have about £9,000,000 in coins in which to call a mobile for more than a few seconds. On this occasion, I have 50p, which instantly is eaten by the Charing Cross Road phone box, without registering credit on the little screen. I am being laughed at from all sides.

Somehow, the pervading feeling is that it's all MY fault, for the crime of not owning a mobile phone. Indeed, when the press officer turns up, she says, "you really must get a mobile you know." As if me being on time at the time she specified, and at the location she specified, and owning a pager, is not enough. Somehow, it is MY fault that I have to wait outside a Hawkwind concert in the cold for an hour and five minutes, for a photoshoot that does not happen.

The thing is, it IS my fault. In 2003, the mobile-less person is just unacceptable. They are a prejudiced-against minority. Second-class citizens. You're at a disadvantage if you're not a chattering, yattering, space-invading, silence-intruding, bleeping and texting phone user. It doesn't seem right or fair, but that's the way things are.

Don't get me wrong – I like mobiles, and one reason I shun them is out of simple penury. If anyone reading this wants to get me one for Christmas, one that costs little to run, I'd be delighted and extremely grateful. I think they're amazing, powerful little inventions. But with power comes responsibility – a cliche, but a truism. Arguably the world's least heeded truism. A little etiquette is all I ask. Being aware of those physically around you. Not using a phone as a crutch. Only using it when absolutely necessary. Turning the wretched thing off if you have company in the flesh. At the very least, if you're a man, refraining from using it when standing at a urinal or peeing at a street corner. As if that latter spectacle isn't revolting enough already.

I have a general dislike of the telephone regardless, whether mobile or not. That rude, bullying, noisy yelping of the ring ring, the sound of someone who's not even physically present, the disembodied demanding priority over the persons and events that really are there. When I'm in a shop, about to be served, and the phone goes, the assistant will give the call priority over myself, even though I've taken the trouble to be there in person. Even the very first phone call ever made, by Mr Graham Bell, was a bullying, solipsistic, demand: "Mr. Watson, come here. I want you."

I am old enough to remember a world without mobile phones. You'll be amazed to learn that the world still turned. People still managed to somehow meet each other. When they did start to appear, mobiles were thought to be the status symbol of greedy, selfish young stockbrokers. Indeed, anyone in the music world seen with one was jeered at. I recall an early 90s story in the music press – David Gedge of The Wedding Present was seen using a mobile phone backstage at the Reading Festival. He was utterly pilloried. Now, it's the phoneless who get the jeers.

On the train to Nottingham yesterday – a designated Silent Carriage. As if every other carriage is ablaze with cacophony. Truly, a sign of these times. They used to have special non-smoking compartments. And then special smoking compartments. Now, everywhere is non-smoking, but noise pollution is the default way of life. Naturally, our booked tickets are in one of the other carriages.

At the Nottingham soundcheck, the sound engineer has trouble with our set up. "I'm not used to handling quiet bands."

During our last song, we are almost drowned out by the constant chatting, joking and laughing of the people at the bar, all of whom are in one of the other bands on the bill.

After our gig, the person who promised weeks ago to put us up for the night in Nottingham (one of the provisos of us playing) is nowhere to be seen and is not answering HIS mobile. We can't find anyone else who is willing to have us sleep on their floor. It's all very Christmassy. No room at the inn for Fosca.

Thankfully, the other band on the bill, Chris T-T, are saints in disguise. Incredibly, they manage to pack the three of us plus our instruments, into their London-bound van. We have proper seats, too. They even drop us off in Highgate. Not only do we have somewhere warm to sleep, but it's in our own beds. God bless The Chris T-T Band: Chris, Jen, John, and Johnners. Whenever I am in a foul mood (as I am right now) and start deciding that Other People Are A Mistake, I shall do my best to remember this act of kindness, and think again.

I mentioned that this entry was about being laughed at. As in the sense you feel laughed at when:

– Someone you arrange to meet is an hour and five minutes late, and leaves you waiting that long in the cold.
– Someone talks loudly through your quiet songs when you're performing, and they're one of the other bands on the bill.
– Someone has vandalised the payphone you're using, and your money is swallowed pointlessly.
– Someone who agreed to provide accommodation has gone AWOL, leaving you effectively homeless in a strange city for the night.

I forgive all but the unknown phone vandaliser. The mockery of the others was clearly unintentional. Goodness knows, there's plenty of occasions in the past when I've been hideously late for meetings myself. It wasn't the press officer's fault she got stuck in traffic. I'm sure our would-be host in Nottingham had a good excuse, too. It just doesn't change the way one feels when on the receiving end, though.

Also, Noise laughs at Quietness. Sly, shy Fosca smirks will never win over uproarious rock guffaws. Fosca's Nottingham gig barely attracts twenty people. The Arch Enemy concert attracts hundreds, possibly thousands of people, happy to queue for hours in the cold. Fosca make The Wrong Kind Of Music.

The meek will never inherit the earth. Just one carriage. But it's already been booked up. By Belle and Sebastian.

I mind being laughed at in the ways mentioned above. Yet, strangely, I don't mind at all when I'm laughed at in person, directly, for my appearance.

I do realise I look funny, have a funny voice, and funny attitudes. Just writing the words "I am standing outside a Hawkwind concert" can't help but solicit a small smirk. So when I am literally laughed at to my face, as long as there's no physical violence involved, I am entirely grateful for the attention. It is the only language, after all, I truly understand. Which is why those reading between the lines of this entry will suspect that the real reason for this whole burst of grumpiness is just because I was denied a promised photoshoot… How to vex a narcissist, indeed.

I want to finish this entry on Silence, Noise, and Being Laughed At, with something else that happened to me. It illustrates my other, preferred manner of being laughed at, and also suggests that, in some ways, Silence is still Golden. Or at least, a silent person can be considered Golden.

Sunday night, December 21st 2003. Central London. I am standing outside the Astoria. There are people milling all around me, but I am alone. It's nearly Christmas. I have to be here. I have been here for some time now. I feel ill, unloved, unwanted, laughed at, frozen by the weather, deafened by the laughter.

Whilst I wait, musing on whether Hawkwind have Samantha Fox with them, or Lemmy, or if they're doing "Silver Machine" (that's my sum knowledge of Hawkwind), three Christmas partygoers stop and point at me.

Girl: Oh! I thought he was a model! Oy! Look!

She beckons her companions over, and all three of them gather around me like I'm a sideshow attraction. Which I suppose I am.

Girl 2: Oh yeah! I thought he was a dummy!
Me: No, I'm just frozen stiff.
Girl 1: He's got make-up on!
Man: Go on. Do it again?
Me: Do what?
Man: Stop moving again?

I stare at the man and stop blinking.

Man (squinting): Oh…. yeah.
Girl 1: He reminds me of that 80s band? What's their name? No, they did that song? Oh yeah!

She sings, loudly, right in my face.

Girl 1: GOLD! ALWAYS BELIEVE IN YOUR SOUL! YOU'VE GOT THE POWER TO KNOW! YOU'RE INDESTRUCTIBLE! ALWAYS BELIEVE IN….! 'CAUSE YOU! ARE! GOLD!

She skips away with the others, still singing.

And do you know, she was right.