I've just seen THAT film today at Camden Odeon. Saving Private Aragorn.

DVDs are all very well, but I think the new LOTR films just have to be seen at the cinema at least once. I say this because I rented out the Fellowship the other day in prep for seeing the Two Towers, and on my little portable it's hardly the same.

I'm actually not a fan of the books, finding them turgid and silly, and taking themselves too seriously, though I loved "The Hobbit". And I associate them with rotten Roger Dean paintings and 70s prog rock bands, and tend to agree with that 80s Half Man Half Biscuit song:

"Mention the Lord Of The Rings one more time and I'll more than likely kill you…"

Hence my reluctance to watch the films.

But as soon as The Two Towers started, with that soaring opening shot of the snowy mountains, I nearly cried. I genuinely believed I'd been transported to another world for three hours. A beautiful world. How can it NOT all be real? When the lights went up and I was back in grimy old Camden, I immediately wanted to go back, and now fully understand why many people pay to see the films again and again, despite their bum-paralysing durations. I'd never dare to call such people sad. I believe!

Genius is a word bandied around all too freely, but in the case of Peter Jackson I feel it really does apply. Far more so than Tolkien. He IMPROVES on the books. I'd admired the bearded hobbit-like Kiwi director before, ever since seeing "Bad Taste", "Braindead" and "Meet The Feebles", three extremely original and inventive if gory and sick over-the-top comedy horror films that you have to have a strong stomach to sit through. But even then, it was clear Mr Jackson possessed that rare gift: a genuine talent to make the viewer believe the unreal is real. "Heavenly Creatures" proved that he could make 'proper' films where the actors don't take second place to the special effects, and I'd certainly recommend that film to anyone who enjoyed the LOTR films. It's about two New Zealand schoolgirls (including a then-unknown Kate Winslet) who romantically create their own fantasy world in order to escape their rotten circumstances in the real world, where the people around them are fools. A common feeling not restricted to teenage angst, of course.

And so Mr Jackson adapting the LOTR makes perfect sense. And goodness, does he do a good job of it. I know I'm somewhat late in adding my voice to the thousands that have said that already, but there you go. It's all too beautiful. LOTR has the Dickon seal of approval.

Warning: "The Two Towers" contains scenes of dwarf-tossing.

Never mind the pin-up features of Mr Aragorn, Mr Legolas et all, I am afraid to admit I even found Smeagol / Gollum curiously sexy.

By the way, fans of Orlando Bloom, and word has it there are a few, might like to know that he made his debut in the Stephen Fry film "Wilde" as a bowler-hatted Piccadilly rent boy, early on in the movie. He only appears for a few moments, and has one line, "Looking for someone?", but it's a pivotal scene, being the vital moment in Wilde's life when Wilde mentions (in his own words) that, at that second, "ice clutched his heart", and that seeing for the first time the boldness of rent boys on the streets of London, hit home to him revelatory thoughts of his own sexuality, if tinged with fear.

So there you go, Legolas The Elf "turned" Oscar Wilde. Who could blame him?

As the chimes of doom rang out on Dec 31st, I found myself sitting at a bar with a bearded Australian man rudely pushing against my left arm as he tried hard to get served. Happy New Year.

As you might imagine, I am not the most tactile of creatures. My noted ambivalence towards intimacy aside, I never know quite what the appropriate physical greeting is in any encounter with an acquaintance. Whom should one kiss on the cheek? Which cheek? Whom on the mouth? Who would prefer a handshake? A hug? Who would rather not have any contact with me at all right at this particular moment? Should I keep a database? I am a jack of all my friendships, master of none. New Year's Eve makes things even worse.

I am often accused of being stand-offish and unapproachable at clubs, but this is purely due to embracing my own personal solution to this dilemma of second-guessing what every one of my acquaintances expect of me: I choose complete, unbiased, default passivity. So people can come and greet me as they choose. Or avoid me as they choose. It's up to them. Parking myself in a corner or on a bar stool helps this stance, but the problem with the latter is strangers rubbing up against me as they try to get to the bar. An occupational hazard, I admit, but this particular man was pressing against my left side continuously for the best part of fifteen minutes. And I can't stand people pushing against me. I know no one particularly ENJOYS the sensation, kinky frotteurs aside, but my problem with tactility and the fact that I feel enough at odds with my own body, let alone other people's, makes it even worse.

The chimes of midnight had absolutely no effect on the man whatsoever: he still stood there, seemingly still trying to get served amid all the party-poppers and going off. All that was going through my mind was "This is nice, I enter 2003 with the sensation of discomfort and unease, physical as well as mental this time. I have always depended on the unkindness of strangers."

I quickly became annoyed at myself for thinking this, for being annoyed at him, not to mention annoyed at myself for not simply getting up off the bar stool and moving away from the man. He was still there five minutes later still trying to get served, and still pushing against my left arm. So I faintly tried to be friendly to him, and ventured a few words along the lines of "typical London bar staff, eh". But he then decided to push empty glasses over the edge of the bar in order to attract service, watching them smash and shatter on the floor. Including one of my glasses. Any sympathy I might have had for the man evaporated and I disassociated myself from him at once. As a rule, I will always speak to any stranger at all, but if they're displaying any possibilities of violence, I have to draw the line. He was clearly either a little drunk, or a little mad, or both. And perhaps the beard and Antipodean accent had catalytic properties: I've wondered about that ever since Russell Crowe at the Oscars.

Still, I've never quite enjoyed myself on New Year's Eve regardless, particularly not at the stroke of midnight. I find enforced jollity deeply joyless. After midnight, however, relief, or more likely resignation, tends to settle in a little. By the time I left the club I'd felt I'd had a pleasant enough time. It helped that several different people I'd not met before introduced themselves to me and said immensely flattering things about my songs and diaries. The kindness of strangers won, after all.

<lj user=seymour_> was kind enough to take a photo of me circa 2am:

<img src="http://darlingx.net/lacquer/sbnewyear/dickon.jpg"></img>

The Very Best For 2003 To All My Readers.

"What are you doing New Year's Eve?"

I'm going to <a href="http://www.staybeautifulclub.co.uk">Stay Beautiful</a>.

Just to clear something up, a few people have asked me if I'm DJ-ing there tonight. No, not tonight I'm not. That was their Christmas bash a few weeks ago.

But I did rather enjoy myself that time, and would do it again like a shot.

I now appear to be the Biggest Dickon On The Web.

So now, when people ask me in public for my email address, rather than scrabble for a pen and paper, I tell them to go to <a href="http://www.google.com">Google</a> and type in "Dickon", then press the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button. You get this very page.

Spend New Year's Eve-But-One at Trash, where the guest DJs, whose identity I'm not sure of but one of them was a man dressed as a geisha girl, played lots of nice 80s tunes. Made a change from all that garage rock. Erol played one of the original 70s disco numbers that Spiller & Sophie Ellis-Bextor sampled on "Groovejet (If This Ain't Love)". It wasn't Carol Williams' "Love Is You", but something else. I never realised that "Groovejet" sampled MORE than one old record in that one track.

This made Trash suddenly turn into Studio 54. So I really did feel like Andy Warhol, for once.

I'm rather getting to like those lop-sided asymmetrical Hoxton / Shoreditch / Electroclash haircuts now, which all the young things at Trash seem to be wearing, including even Erol. Very Dianne Wiest in Edward Scissorhands.

I'm not so keen on all the other current hair trends in London, to wit the Hoxton fins, the ironic mullets and mini-mullets, the "bed-head" messed and spiky look (mostly favoured by boys) and the new take on feather-cuts. And combinations of any or all of the above. And don't get me started on Bad Beards and badly unshaven boys. (sings) "It's Christmas time, there's no need to not have a shave…. "

But the "half today, half… indefinitely" look is very 21st century, I think. It looks like A HAIRCUT FROM THE FUTURE. Although unkind onlookers might remark, "well, it'll be nice when it's finished."

I suggested to Simon Price that he cut off one of his antlers.

Still on a "Xanadu" tip, the film where Olivia Newton-John wears legwarmers even when she becomes a cartoon bird, I asked <lj user=suicideally> if she thought legwarmers were going to come back, as one girl was wearing them at Trash, albeit rolled down around her ankles. Perhaps she didn't quite have the nerve.

Ally replied that said articles of clothing DID come back briefly last year. I must have blinked and missed that. Curses.

Retired to Emma Jackson's flat (ex-Kenickie, ex-Rosita), where she showed me a wonderful piece of merchandise from Rough Trade Japan. <a href="http://www.roughtrade.com/docs/docsaug00/licca.htm">an Indiekid Barbie Doll</a>. Accessories in the doll's box included miniature Rough Trade plastic carrier bags (!) and miniature vinyl records, including one by Rosita, and one by Spearmint. About the size of postage stamps.

"Dear George, Remember: no man is a failure who has friends."

And so, to all those LJ users who've added me as their Friend, I've finally returned the compliment. Mainly because I'm curious as to how you're all spending the festive season. All 64 of you. Whew! Let's see how long I last. Though I know that's peanuts for some LJ users who have HUNDREDS of Friends. How do you get the time to read all those diaries?

Anyway, thanks for reading me. I'll do my best to read you.

From the BBC News site's <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/showbiz/2567097.stm">list of celeb quotes of the year</a>:

"I think that if you're 30 and not thinking about marriage and kids, you're immature." Ben Affleck.

Happy New Year to all the blissfully immature out there…!

Was going to go out last night, but felt a bit fragile and instead plumped for staying in and watching a TV movie called "No Night Is Too Long" on BBC2.

How was it? Ruth Rendall (as Barbara Vine) adaptation. Bisexual murder thriller. Very Patricia Highsmith (Talented Mr Ripley, Strangers On A Train etc). Featuring Lee Williams, the supernaturally pretty young man on the sleeve of Suede's "Coming Up" album. Plus Marc Warren, who resembles a young Malcolm McDowell with hints of Niles Crane with better hair. Lots of gratuitous boy-on-boy action.

I rather enjoyed it.

As I look back over these past 12 months, I know that 2002 has been a curious year for me.

I converted my long-running diary to one of those "blogs", or rather a LiveJournal, and as a result have written more and been less lazy in my diary entries than before. The Comments feature has proven to be a lot of fun, and reminds me that as I type these entries, not only are people reading them, but they feel the need to respond publicly as well. Only connect, EM Forster said, and that old closeted queen would, I like to think, have approved of LiveJournal and the Internet. So, by converting my diary to this more interactive format, it's true I feel a lot less alone than I did a year ago.

With my band Fosca, we recruited the talented multi-instrumentalist Kate Dornan and made our sound a little more live, a little less programmed than before. We played one concert in London once every calendar month, plus a festival in Leeds and a club in Chelmsford, and released a new single and a 2nd album. I'm not sure that the 2nd album was received less well than the 1st or not. It depends on your criteria. John Peel didn't play it. No one reviewed it in the press apart from Simon Price in the Independent, bless him . We didn't get invited on a Swedish tour this time. Our proposed December tour of the US fell through. But then again, we've broken even on the costs and people have continued to pay to see us or buy our CDs. So the "dumper" doesn't quite beckon yet.

For my part, I remain extremely proud of the album, and nominate "Rude Esperanto" as the best song I've written to date in any of my bands. It's always a cliche when writers say their favourite own work is their latest, but it's a true cliche in my case.

2002 found me losing interest in the current pop music scene more and more, and taking more interest in the comedy and spoken word "scenes", for want of a better word. My grumblings about the NME were made entirely redundant when I realised that the publication's target market is 18-24 year-olds. And yet I still feel too young for the likes of Mojo, and I'm still not sure if I'll EVER be old enough for them.

But I'm made more aware that if you have something to say, wrapping it in music is all very well, but there's the problem that many people simply won't like the attendant musical style, or your performance. And despite my love of the song as a concise method of communication, I can't help thinking that it's about time I tried other formats. I'm not saying I'm about to write The Novel, but I do want to try something else.

As ever, I have taken more comfort in cosmetics and hair bleaching products than in music. But I'd never dare to say I'm shunning Real Life. I'm constantly excited in meeting people, old and young, old acquaintances and new, and hold true to that Quentin Crisp adage that if we find a person who is telling the truth about themselves boring, it is ourselves we are criticising.

More than ever before, I have found that the year has brought home to me the truth that the vast majority of immediate concerns and worries are worthless, and that it's important to worry less and live more, whether in real life or on the Net. It's all living.

In 2003, I have some ideas for new projects that I hope to see fruition, and will report on them as they unfold. All I want to do is contribute to the world what I can give more than anyone else, and contribute it to the best of my abilities. Whether that's writing, recording, or just standing in London nightclubs looking the way I do and imparting my broken wisdom to those who seek it, it's all good.

Dickon Edwards
Highgate, London N6

I like to spend Christmas alone. My parents are very understanding and allow me to do this. What happens is that they come down from Suffolk to London a few days before Christmas Eve, this year it was in the cafe by the side of Somerset House Ice Rink, and we exchange cards, presents, and so on. Then I spend the festive period here in Highgate by myself. On the 25th I phone my parents, then I go off to feed the ducks in Waterlow Park.

I think that if you're no longer a child, or don't have children, Christmas can be incredibly depressing. I remember the Christmas when I realised my childhood was over. I cried for hours. So now I take advantage of the quietness of the season, and so deliberately choose to take the Garbo option. I want to be alone. To take stock of where I've been, and where I'm going. If anywhere. To think about life. To think about my life.

Today, I had a small adventure. On Robert Elms' BBC London radio show, he announced that he'd forgotten to bring in his copy of the experimental composer Gavin Bryars' "Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet", the version with Tom Waits, with which Mr Elms signs off every Christmas Eve. It's an incredibly moving piece based around a sound loop of a (now dead) homeless but unusually teetotal tramp circa 1971 who would walk around the Elephant & Castle area singing the same song to himself over and over again:

<i>"Jesus' blood never failed me yet
Never failed me yet
Jesus' blood never failed me yet
There's one thing I know
For he loves me so
Jesus' blood never failed me yet
Never failed me yet
Jesus' blood never failed me yet
There's one thing I know
For he loves me so…"</i>

From Mr Bryars' own sleeve notes: " I copied the loop onto a continuous reel of tape, thinking about perhaps adding an orchestrated accompaniment to this. The door of the recording room opened on to one of the large painting studios and I left the tape copying, with the door open, while I went to have a cup of coffee. When I came back I found the normally lively room unnaturally subdued. People were moving about much more slowly than usual and a few were sitting alone, quietly weeping."

On the recording, the loop fills up the entire CD (75 minutes or so), gradually adding instruments one by one until a full orchestra is playing along. Then Tom Waits appears and sings along with the tramp in his own fashion.

Mr Elms appealed on air for someone to bring in their own copy to the studio. So I got on a tube and went to BBC London in Marylebone High Street. I mentioned to the producers that I'd been to the radio station before, when Orlando performed in session for Mr Elms when it used to be called GLR. I don't think they were that interested or impressed with this information, but they were grateful for the CD and my mercy dash, and gave me a bottle of beer. And I got to go on air for a few seconds.

Afterwards, I walked around Central London for about an hour, feeling less human than ever, and more like one of those angels from "Wings Of Desire" in my big black coat. Feeling apart from it all. Alone at Christmas, yet surrounded by people. Staring at them all as I go by, wondering about their lives. Walking through Bond Street, Oxford Street, taking a bus to Camden Town to buy a copy of "Monsiur de Phocas" by Jean Lorrain, as recommended by Alice ( <lj user=fadedglamour>) to me at Trash last night. Saying hello to Andy R ( <lj user=andypop>) there, shortly before he goes off to see his own daughter in Dorset. I buy some bleach at Boots with which to do my roots, then I go to Camden Odeon for my customary Christmas Eve film. This year, "Dirty Pretty Things", a movie about desperate illegal immigrants surviving in London. I enjoyed it, but there were a few aspects of the film where I found myself thinking I could have done a better job of the screenplay myself. I never used to think this before. Perhaps this means I'm becoming more of a writer. More likely, it probably just means I <i>think</i> I'm becoming more of a writer.

As I write this, BBC2 are showing a documentary about how people spent Christmas during World War II. So, a day where I'm reminded of the homeless, the refugees, and those living in more precarious times of old. Doubtless to add, with all my neuroses, lack of money, and lack of direction in my life, I do realise just how lucky I am tonight. I am safe, and warm, and sheltered, and watered, and fed. And in blissful solitude in lovely leafy Highgate. And I can do whatever I want. Or nothing at all. And I am extremely grateful.

Some might say it's a bit sad, even Scrooge-like, to prefer to spend Christmas alone, and to have no one to snuggle under the mistletoe with. Well, in that case, let this diary entry be my virtual kiss to you all. Or a virtual polite handshake, if that's what you'd prefer. MWAH!

A Very Merry Christmas to you all.