I read with great interest the discussion in the comments box of my previous entry.

Please note I have a blanket policy of never deleting anyone else's comments on my diary, even if they ask.

Doing so ultimately looks like one can't take the heat, so to speak. Not to mention the height of hypocrisy for someone who admits they love being talked about. It's also vital to know how other people see me. I can usually learn something useful, often about myself, from virtually every comment.

My bottom line, and indeed, the line of my bottom, is as follows.

I accept, and am grateful of, my seemingly innate talent to attract unsolicited ejaculations of all kinds. Some think I'm God's Gift, some think I am the Devil. I can't take either seriously, of course, though if pressed I will always prefer the company of the former because they're simply less draining.

Last night, I was standing at a Kentish Town Road bus stop on the way home from the excellent club "Mole In The Ground". A passing group of about eight boys on bicycles shouted "Get him – he's wearing a nice clean suit!", and threw a full carton of <i>milk</i> at me. This surreal tableau is, I presume, what constitutes a drive-by shooting in the World Of Dickon.

The carton missed me completely. My detractors have always been such rotten shots. Perhaps they should have skimmed it.

Instead, it hit the window of Lloyds Bank behind me and exploded, leaving a big semen-like mess dribbling down the sign of the Black Horse.

Symbolism in action.

To the London School of Economics to watch the groups Client, Riviera and Vic 20. Not a drum kit in site. Keep music programmed, I always say. Soft Cell's "Memorabilia" plays over the speakers, the original version. It sounds like it was created yesterday. Matt Haynes whispers to me, "the future's not what it was…" Indeed, there are many people of a certain age who stand around at this gig smugly scoffing "I remember 1981 the first time around". But I for one am extremely happy whenever even a small part of the Real World resembles Dickon's World.

In my world, in the kingdom of The Blond, the one-fingered synth line is king.

Far better this than wanting to sound like The Stooges. Which all the other new bands insist on resembling, being unlucky enough to be saddled with real drummers and no synths. Though that doesn't stop many of these new rock groups still using their guitars like disco keyboards, the Electric Six being a prominent example.

Still, if it's The Law that all new bands have to either sound like Soft Cell or The Stooges, far better that than having to sound like Radiohead. Which every new band was obliged to do in recent years. Or worse, having to sound like Oasis. Which every new band was made to do in 1995. You have no idea of the <i>relief</i>! I fought in the Romo Wars, you know. On one side was Britpop and Oasism. On the other was Orlando. And arguably, Dubstar.

Dubstar were firm favourites of Orlando, both musically and as people. Their sound was genuinely original. Dreamy widescreen synthpop songs, Cocteau Twins-ish guitars, and Sarah Blackwood's sublimely English singing style. Although they had plenty of actual Top 40 hit singles, I felt the press and public never quite appreciated them as much as they deserved. I always associate their first album, "Disgraceful" with London memories from the mid-90s. The lyrics of the title track seemed to sum up myself and Tim Orlando extremely well, being the haughty music biz hustlers we were:

<i>I know why you came
This time that we've borrowed
Imagine us now talking tomorrow
We're not very big, but we're certainly clever
To go on together… well… what makes sense now?
Disgraceful… will we ever say no?
It's wine that we feel that drives us together
This hormonal vision that won't last forever
We're old enough now & we should know better
To go on together… well… what makes sense now?
Disgraceful… will we ever say no?
This match that I'm burning, two people still looking for something else</i>

Tonight, Dubstar are no more, but guitarist Chris is in the audience watching Sarah onstage, singing with her new band Client. She looks and sounds exactly like she did in 1995. I feel the years melting away.

At the gig, I recognise The One Out Of Depeche Mode That No One Recognises, as he is something to do with the evening's proceedings. The one with glasses that isn't Martin Gore or Dave Gahan or the one who left. Norman Stanley Amelia Fletcher, I think he's called. He resembles an entirely ordinary-looking, dressed-down 40-ish man, but it dawns on me that he must surely be a millionaire. If I were a millionaire, I would at least have the courtesy of looking like one.

To compound the sensation that tonight is 1995 all over again, I stroll into this gig without paying, just like myself and Tim always did. Albeit entirely accidentally: I had mistaken a fire escape for the front door. I tell the promoter Val this, and she doesn't seem to mind too much, presumably grateful that I've alerted her to this potential loss of income.

But I continue to act the freeloading, slightly tipsy, ersatz celebrity that I was in Orlando, because a few hours into the gig I am whisked off to the club Nag Nag Nag by some Friends Who Know Someone On The Door There.

Who needs relationships, or even money, when there's celebrity attention, even on a very minor scale? I have to admit I feel entirely at home with the idea. I feel it's My Place. I look more famous than I really am. I no longer have the nerve or stamina or youthful energy to gatecrash every vaguely interesting London event like I did eight years ago, and I can't use the Next Big Thing card I had then. But on the occasions where I act or am treated like a Superstar, at least in the tragic Warhol definition (eg Holly Woodlawn), I absolutely feel it <i>makes sense</i>. Because nothing else does.

Indeed, lately strangers have approached me to say that two distinct things spring to their mind on seeing my appearance:

1) The club, Nag Nag Nag
2) The band, Interpol.

I'm ashamedly not too familiar with Interpol's music, though I shall remedy this forthwith. But I have seen their photos and approve.

As for Nag Nag Nag, I had been there before the club became so ridiculously hip and popular, but tales of the queue around the block had rather dissuaded me from attending lately. However, if people insist on saying I belong there, then I should really go more often.

The Orlando feeling returns once more. The feeling one gets when walking up to the door of an extremely fashionable club (Nag Nag Nag currently is the Studio 54 of 2003 London), swanning past the head of a queue of people that extends around the block, watching the bouncers part like a Red Sea Of Big Men as I move among them, always looking straight ahead, acting like I own the place. And then getting in for free. Though I do have a genuine reason for being able to do this: I wrote a small praiseworthy piece on the club for a supplement on Hedonistic London that appeared in a recent edition of Time Out magazine. The club people hardly need any more write-ups, but they are kind enough to let me in for free. And I am extremely grateful.

Later, I am taken aside and asked to have my photograph taken. It's for a new club called The Egg that is starting up in Kings Cross soon. They want me to be on the flyers or some such publicity.

Them: Can you look away from the camera, and look really pissed off?

Me: I can look away from the camera.

There’s an article in the Guardian on “curated compilation albums”, citing New Order’s already-released “Back To Mine”, Morrissey’s forthcoming “Under The Influence” album, and a curious new series called “The Date Tapes”, based on personal compilations made with the sole intention of getting the listener to fall into the tape-maker’s arms.

Frustratingly, full tracklistings of the latter two are not yet available, as all the songs on shop-released compilations have to be cleared individually with the various licensees, a tiresome process which can ensue right up until the release date. This is where the proper hand-made comp tape (or “mix tape” as they say in the US) has the edge. Not only is it far more personal, but you don’t have to ask the wretched band’s permission to include their song. Some groups, like The Beatles, appear to be far too mean to let their songs appear on any various artist compilations at all, so that instantly compromises many “my favourite songs” selections.

As intriguing as finding out what songs Morrissey would want to DJ to the world with, it just wouldn’t be a patch on Mr M making a comp tape for you personally. Not only could he put on whatever he wanted without having to get clearance, but he could tailor it to whatever he thinks about you and what he thinks you alone should hear. And you could have fun reading too much significance into his selections. Does that song title mean something? Is he trying to tell me something with that song’s lyric? That’s the whole point of the home-made comp tape.

The Guardian article neglects to mention EMI’s “Songbook” series, a curious project of 1999 which comprised ten beautifully-packaged albums, each representing the choices of a fellow of cultish repute. It was a rum assortment: US cartoonists Robert Crumb, Gilbert Shelton and Peter Bagge jostling with the likes of writers Clive Barker, Hunter S Thompson, and Iain Banks, plus the Thunderbirds creator Gerry Anderson, illustrators Ralph Steadman and Savage Pencil, and the poet Ivor Cutler.

Why those ten men were chosen in particular, I have no idea. But the appeal of such albums can only be limited by definition. First of all, you have to be interested in the person doing the selection. And then you have to care about what they like to listen to. For instance, I quite admire Mr Crumb’s comic work, but I’m not in the least bit interested in his ragtime jazz record collection. If I was, I’d read an interview to find out just who his favourite artists were, and then go out and procure the records myself. Which I’d then enjoy far more.

The trouble with curator compilations is that they are made for no one in particular. More often than not, they can become the aural equivalent of some bore at a party telling you the entire plot of their favourite film. “Have you not seen it? Well, it starts with this man…” It never occurs to such people that the reason you haven’t seen that film is because you didn’t want to. They don’t care who you are. You are just a random pair of ears.

Proper, personal, home-made comp tapes (and now, CDRs) are a different matter altogether. I’m in the process of whittling down my possessions in general, but it will be hard to part with the many comp tapes made for me over the years. It’d be like throwing out old letters. Each one represents a time in my past, a place, a friendship. In fact, I’d rather part with most of my proper CDs and records than those tapes. The way things are going, I may well do just that.

If I were to make a comp tape for anyone right now, I would put all of “The Smell Of Our Own” by the Hidden Cameras, on Side One. And then put it on Side Two as well. It’s out today, in fact. Their new album. You really shoud hear it. Whoever you are.

Actual “date tapes”, however, are not my cup of tea. It’s interesting to glance at other people’s date tape selections, and to read tales of date tape woe, but the idea of making a tape purely to get the intended listener to rub up against you at some point in the near future is really not me. I wouldn’t know where to start, for one thing. But I do have friends who have confessed to using, say, certain songs by the Cocteau Twins as a form of musical Rohypnol. “Play this song to them, and they will be yours. It never fails”. I can’t remember which songs in particular they used.

Just as well. The words “seduction” and “Dickon Edwards” are not likely to crop up in any word association game.

The flu is still lingering, and I'm doing my utmost to be rid of it in time for Saturday tea-time, which is when <a href="http://www.fosca.com/">Fosca</a> play their first gig of 2003.

The venue is Notting Hill Arts Club, 21 Notting Hill Gate, London W11. It's one of those noted <a href="http://www.roughtrade.com/docs/rota.htm">Rough Trade "RoTa Sessions"</a> they have there.

Entry is free!

There's four bands on, in fact. Here's the schedule:
Doors 4pm
Matt Hill 4:40-5:00
Pale Horse And Rider 5:15-5:45
Anna Kashfi 6:00-6:35
Fosca 6:50-7:30

The cheapest drink at the bar is, apparently, a glass of champagne for £2.

I was interested in Mr Moore's phrase made during his acceptance speech, "Shame on you, Mr Bush. Shame on you."

I don't think that's something a British satirist or political activist would say. It sounded strangely inclusive, treating Mr Bush as an equal and a fellow American who has merely strayed from the path. If, say, Mr Tatchell were given an Oscar (for Best Citizen's Arrest Attempt?), I'm sure he too would mention the much-alleged illegality of both the War and Mr Bush's own elected status, but the phrase "shame on you" would sound very odd indeed. If you have utter contempt for someone, wishing shame on them seems strangely tame and polite. Yet on Mr Moore's lips, and while holding an Oscar, the phrase sounded a powerful, shocking indictment.

Mr Farrell is supernaturally good-looking in real life, despite the beard. Which surprised me as I'd only previously seen him in DareDevil as an evil bald villain, and couldn't understand what the fuss over him was all about. I now have an inkling.

Mr Martin is clearly still an extremely funny man. Why he can't make films as funny as "The Man With Two Brains" or "LA Story" anymore is therefore even more perplexing.

Such a shame that the entries for the Best Song category have to be original works written for a recent movie. So, rather than all those excellent Kander & Ebb 70s compositions from "Chicago" like "All That Jazz", "Razzle-dazzle 'Em", and "They Both Reached For The Gun", we get their comparatively forgettable "I Move On", just because it's new.

Mr O'Toole was rather wary of his Lifetime Achievement Award, seeing it as the Oscars' way of tidying you into the grave, their equivalent of placing a coin on the lips of a corpse. Still, if it makes people investigate "Lawrence Of Arabia" , "The Ruling Class", or "The Stunt Man", for the first time, it can only be a good thing.

One protracted part of the ceremony, being as it was the awards' 75th year, featured an onstage seated display of as many previous winners of Best Actors as the organisers could presumably rustle up. As the commentator moved from uneasy, fixed-smiling actor to uneasy, fixed-smiling actor, naming each one plus the films they won the award or awards for, one could hear the whispers across the world:

"Oh, I didn't know they got an Oscar for THAT film."
"Never seen that film."
"Never heard of that film."
"Where's Katharine Hepburn?"
"I thought she'd won more Oscars than that"
"Is she STILL alive?"
"Look at the state of her!"
"Who?"

I was tickled to see that one of the winners was "This Charming Man". Not the Smiths song, but a Danish live-action short film whose director was presumably a bit of a Morrissey fan. A suspicion which was confirmed during the "Other Awards In Brief" section of the highlights programme I watched, which showed a still of the 30-year old director at the podium, displaying an admirably Morrissey-esque haircut. I wonder if he thanked Mr M in his speech for the idea of the title?

No sign anywhere of my two favourite films of last year "24 Hour Party People", and "Kissing Jessica Stein."

The fever has now passed, thank heavens. I don't mind the other symptoms of flu so much, but it's difficult to enjoy life when it feels like someone has set fire to one's face.

Let me paint you a picture of my Monday.

A cluttered room in Highgate, the curtains closed, a narrow single bed on which the occupant, Mr Dickon Edwards, 31, is sprawled with one arm across his brow, trying to suppress his influenza-induced coughings. His hair, white as snow, is more flowing than usual, but more due to procrastination of a trip to the barber's than the result of any aesthetic intent. On the bedside table is a bunch of grapes, kindly provided by Ms O'Donoghue of Finsbury Park, at which he occasionally plucks with ivory fingers. He is listening to the recent Radio 4 dramatisation of "Brideshead Revisited", as well as readings of selected Evelyn Waugh short stories.

All the components of this tableau are either accidental, or entirely devoid of any deliberately aesthetic agenda, yet as he lies there, he realises just what a fictional character <i>manqué</i> he must sometimes seem.

Is this state of affairs a Good or Bad thing? He can't decide. It's true that many of those involved in The War, whether pro or anti, might think very low of him indeed. He is, after all, scant use to anyone. If more people were like him, it's true no one would get bombed. But it's also true that the Working World would grind to a halt. ("Hello, you're through to 24 Hour Emergency Plumbers… Sorry, but we can't deal with any burst pipes right now, due to the fact all our plumbers are too busy listening to Evelyn Waugh").

"Maybe that's just as well", he murmurs huskily to himself, and pulls the blankets over his head as Sebastian Flyte trots off to Morocco.

I feel like I'm dying. My face appears to be on fire as I type this.

I have a phlegmy cough, a nose that is at turns blocked and running, a headache, hot flushes and cold shivers, plus aching and fatigued limbs.

Flu-like symptoms.

So, yes, naturally, I think I've got <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/2871613.stm">SARS.</a>

Last year, when I had a similar bout of flu, I thought I had anthrax poisoning. Seriously. I am a world-class hypochondriac, something which tends to go hand-in-self-obsessed-hand with narcissism. Still, it doesn't help that all these scary viruses that make the news tend to have symptoms of common everyday illnesses. Now, bright blue spots on the forehead – that'd be more useful. Mystery illnesses are just so <i>thoughtless.</i>

I'm knocking back a bottle of Day Nurse, but if you have better remedies to mind, feel free to post them.

Otherwise, let the world know that I died with my mascara on.

Last night, in Whitechapel's Arts Cafe, I was privileged to witness a solo set by Joel Gibb, singer and songwriter with The Hidden Cameras, my new favourite band, the one that I've already rattled on about before.

Suffice it to say he was <i>superb</i>, holding the audience spellbound as he performed selections from the "Ban Marriage" EP, from "Ecce Homo", the 4-track self-released album that's already out, and from "The Smell Of Our Own", the forthcoming full-band album on Rough Trade which I shall review shortly. Sublime voice, sublime guitar playing, sublime songs. His raven hair was slicked and side-parted in a schoolboy fashion, which along with his glasses and quietly-muscular frame solicited comparisons with Clark Kent. Mr Gibb – truly a musical superhero. And that was without the full band and famed go-go dancers, the likes of which are pictured in this week's NME live reviews.

If that wasn't enough, the evening's DJ, Ben from Cornershop, played Tracy Thorn's cover of The Monochrome Set's classic "Goodbye Joe". As well as "There's A Kind Of Hush" by The Carpenters.

Which reminds me. I myself will be the special erotic guest DJ at the gently-legendary monthly club <a href="http://www.howdoesitfeel.co.uk/">How Does It Feel To Be Loved?</a> tomorrow evening. Playing 60s girl groups and 80s indiepop and anything else which vaguely fits. I think I'm "on" at 10pm-ish. Expect a feast of Supremes, Shangri-Las, Supremes, Hidden Cameras, Supremes, Orange Juice, Supremes, Morrissey, McCarthy, Supremes, Tatu and more Supremes until Mr Watson drags me giggling from the decks.

The club is at the Buffalo Bar, underneath the Famous Cock Tavern, right outside Highbury & Islington tube, and runs from 9pm to 2am. £3 entry. I think I'm on about 10pm.

Do come if you're in town and the mood takes you.

This entry was brought to you by the words "spindle" and "perineum".

Mr Baudrillard tells us that the Gulf War did not take place. That the reporting of it on the television and in the newspapers at the time made the people of the West "hostages to media intoxication", and that this has been the case with reporting of conflicts and terrorism ever since. I certainly remember never having heard of CNN until 1991, when the company's logo was indelibly attached to the endless hours of footage on UK news reports. Many UK viewers thought CNN was the new name for the USA.

Mr La Fontaine tells us, ‘the day there is real war you will not even be able to tell the difference".

Mr McLuhan tells us "the medium is the message".

As I glance around, it's difficult not to agree. Since 1991, the reporting of war has become so fast, so flashy, so sexy, so rabid, that War does seem first and foremost something made for telly. Like Richard And Judy, but less violent.

The band Coldplay are among those currently asking everyone to walk out of their jobs if the US and UK start attacking Iraq. Such General Strike-style sentiments are admirable, even revolutionary, and the thought of Coldplay going on strike has to be one bright side of the imminent conflict.

But I can't help thinking that, outside of those directly involved with the fighting, the only people whose withdrawing of labour would really Stop The War are those who work in the media.

If every TV and radio station and every newspaper suddenly shut down today, my impression is that Mr War would indeed Stop at once, and flounce off in a hypothetical huff to phone its agent. Along with Mr Schrodinger's unfortunate cat, the fridge light, and that wretchedly noisy tree falling in the forest.

I'm not saying that ignoring coverage of a war would make it go away. But it would call the bluff of all those slavering, overexcited news readers. If they and their colleagues just calmed down a little, I might be able to take what they say seriously.

It's easy for me to be an idling, narcissistic, powdered fop. I'm lucky. I've never known War outside of my TV set. If I find the news upsetting, I turn it off and go for a saunter in Highgate Wood, where there's squirrels and birds and trees and a little cafe where there is literally honey still for tea, and all is well.

But I do often wonder what would happen if events did affect me directly. If I had to deal with a personal them-or-us situation. If Mr War came to tea. Which is why one of my favourite films is <a href="http://www.plugincinema.com/plugin/articles/wentdaywell.htm">Went The Day Well?</a>, made by Ealing Studios in 1942. An unusual, unsentimental work, it tells the story of a sleepy, timelessly peaceful English village whose almost stereotypically cosy residents become cold-blooded warriors in order to survive a German invasion force. The violence in the film is, as you might imagine, childishly tame compared to the likes of "Saving Private Ryan". Yet the brutal acts it depicts are extremely affecting due to the Ealing Films context, amplified all the more by the absence of incidental music, the many bleakly comic moments, and the odd diversions of tone.

In one scene, two landgirls (women who took up farmwork because of the manpower shortage) are firing rifles from the windows of the village manor at approaching Germans on the lawn. One girl shoots successfully, then turns and puts her hand over her face at the sickening realisation she has taken a human life. "I… shot one," she says to her colleague.

"Good girl", replies the other girl, Ivy, a feisty Northerner. "You know, we ought to keep a score. That's one for you. Half a moment, now, I'll have a go. Missed him. Can't even hit a sitting Jerry."

Here's the movie's promotional poster. Ivy is on the bottom right of the group of figures:

<img src="http://www.britmovie.co.uk/studios/ealing/filmography/images/29a.jpg"></img>

The young actress playing Ivy is Thora Hird. Who died this weekend, at the age of 91.

The thought of Thora Hird gunning down Nazis is an amusing one to British TV viewers, as she was famous for being the UK's Most Lovable Old Lady. The Queen Mother of the TV acting world. So much so, that it's difficult to imagine her ever being <i>young</i> at all.

I note that other obituaries have all drawn attention to her portrayal of many a mother, grandmother, wife, for her roles in Alan Bennett plays and Last Of The Summer Wine, and for her presenting of the Sunday tea-time religious programme, Praise Be. Not to mention being the butt of many a gentle joke for her advertising Stannah Stair-Lifts in the back of the Radio Times magazine.

But her role in Went The Day Well, which is now considered a classic British film with serious academic books dedicated to it, appears to have gone unmentioned. Perhaps because it goes against the grain of her Definitive Old Lady persona. I have the film on video, and last night watched it again by way of a tribute.

And as I did so, I considered that here was Thora Hird at my present age, 31. Living in a time when War was something more than a flashy way of selling TV sets. Making a film about what would happen if Mr War knocked on one's own front door. Playing someone forced to kill or be killed. I think about the bravery of her character, and hope to heaven that if Mr War ever came to my street, there'd be someone like Ivy around.

Goodnight, landgirl sniper.

The motto in the BBC's coat-of-arms is "Nation Shall Speak Unto Nation".

LiveJournal's should be "Bored, Unhappy Soul Shall Lament Unto Bored, Unhappy Soul"

I'm aware that many LJ users post their grievances about Life while at work, being as they are in one of those writing jobs where the Internet is available for personal use when the boss is not looking.

But what if you can post such outbursts of despair in your actual work? Knowing that your boss never reads your work. Which is, of course, part of the reason for the despair.

Imagine you're a cricket fan with a talent for writing. To be one of The Guardian's live, online Cricket World Cup commentators must be a dream job, right?

<a href="http://sport.guardian.co.uk/cricketworldcup2003/overbyover/story/0%2c12864%2c914033%2c00.html">Read this opening paragraph and weep!</a>