An enjoyable evening at <a href="http://www.trashclub.co.uk">Trash</a> last night. I went by myself, loafed around by myself, chatted to people I knew, took compliments from people I didn't, had my photo taken by a magazine, did a spot of people-watching, saw a live set by Gonzales, drank a little, danced a little, left by myself. That's the way to do it.

One person at the club (Swedish – naturally) said they recognised me from Sleazenation magazine, which is virtually Trash Monthly. So today I went to buy the issue in question to see for myself. I'm on page 22. A small piece, squeezed next to an article on yet ANOTHER of those garage rock bands, but I take what I can get. It's Distilled Dickon: soundbite-heavy, and containing all the bare bones of my philosophy of life. And clearly it was enough to be noticed by someone.

I shall endeavour to get it scanned forthwith.

Something for fans of my old group, Orlando.

Tim Chipping has put up a <a href="http://www.timchipping.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/earmedicine.html">webpage</a> where you can download rare songs, with some "liner notes" from him. They may not stay up there for long, and other tracks may be added in their place, so you're advised to bookmark the page.

Fosca played their last gig in their series of monthly London headliners the other night. From now on we're going to be like Only Fools And Horses: just special events whenever we feel like it. We're also concentrating on non-London shows and seeking out support slots with bigger acts.

The venue we played on Thursday was The Arts Cafe, at Toynbee Hall in Commercial Street, E1. I'd not been there before, but it's now my favourite small venue in London. Getting off at Aldgate East tube, the platform has signs to Toynbee Hall that are clearly part of the station's original 1930s decor.

There was more history to come. At the venue, there's a stairwell covered with posters of previous gigs hosted by "The Sausage Machine", legendary promoters of early 90s London concerts who appear to still put on gigs at the Arts Cafe. Fascinating stuff. The posters stretched back to 1991, perhaps earlier. Bands who became big, bands who didn't. Bands who gave up, bands who didn't: Ricky Spontane, and LOTS of Linus gigs (<lj user=andypop> must have a few memories).

Other poster of past gigs that you can see at The Arts Cafe… The Asphalt Ribbons (before they became the Tindersticks) supported by Huggy Bear. Bands who were hyped at the time as The Next Big Thing but sank without a trace, like Mint 400. A pre-fame Suede in a pub room for £2, who presumably featured Justine Elastica on guitar at the time. PJ Harvey third on the bill to Midway Still and The Becketts. I saw The Becketts in Bristol at about the same time. The most memorable thing about them was that they featured Paddy Ashdown's son.

The Arts Cafe itself proves that it is possible to have a civilized venue without being pretentious and chrome-laden. A proper stage too, rather than a corner of a bar on the same level where people can't see you if they're not at the front. Lots of paintings and artworks in the wall. A sound engineer called Percy.

"Where can we plug in?"
"The power points are behind the Art."

The gig was a much more celebratory affair than our last depressing show at the Garage. People actually turned up to this one. Even Rachel The Artist's Model who works at Archway Video.

[Archway Video: the greatest video rental shop in London… Missed "But I'm A Cheerleader" and "Robinson In Space" when they spent 3 days on the arthouse cinema circuit? Never seen "Liquid Sky", "O Lucky Man" or "Happiness"? Rent the videos here… They stock absolutely everything, mainstream to obscure. Lots of foreign language cinema. The complete Buffy and Angel videos. I Claudius. Brideshead Revisited. Every film by Woody Allen, Hal Hartley, Derek Jarman. But not that Aaliyah film "Queen Of The Damned", though. They deliberately refuse to stock that "on account of it being the worst film in recent memory".]

I managed to actually catch and develop a streaming cold <i>during</i> our set, but that appealed to my consumptive valetudinarian aesthetics. "When I grow up I want to be an invalid." Nothing like running mascara and a failing voice to add a bit of frisson to a concert. Luckily we currently do at least one number where I don't have to sing, in this case, the spoken word "Diary Of An Antibody", with Sheila and Rachel on vocals.

It was also National Poetry Day, so during the set I decided to recite an Ivor Cutler poem, "Breasts", in full:
<b><i>
"If your breasts are too big,
You will fall over.

Unless you are wearing
A rucksack."</b></i>

Looking at other LiveJournals, I notice that choosing to eschew a pseudonym seems quite unusual. My reason for plumping for "dickon_edwards" and not something like "kittenboy666" or "glitter_librarian" is that I want anyone looking for me on the Web to find me as easily as possible.

That, and because there is no need for a comedy pseudonym when one's own given name is comedic enough.

I once tried out one of those programs that's meant to elimate your computer of potentially offensive "adult" material, in case it discovered something lurking on my hard drive I hadn't previously been aware of.

It came up with hundreds of archived emails and text files. Because they all contained the word "Dickon".

It's happened elsewhere. I once got thrown out of an internet chatroom within seconds with the words "change yr nickname".

"But it's my given name. I went through school with it."
"change yr nick or B banned."
"It's NOT my 'nick'! Are you an American who's never been exposed to "The Secret Garden", by any chance?"
"wtf?"
"Never mind."

There's a collection of Peter Cook's writings out this week. Worth getting for the cover alone:

<lj-cut text="Photo here">
<img src="http://images-eu.amazon.com/images/P/0712623981.02.LZZZZZZZ.jpg"></img>
</lj-cut>

Alan Bennett wrote the following words about Mr Cook, words of hope from which I take great comfort myself.

<i>"One thinks of one of the stock characters in an old-fashioned Western: the doctor who's always to be found in the saloon and whose allegiance is never quite plain. Seldom sober, he is cleverer than most of the people he associates with, spending his time playing cards with the baddies but taking no sides. Still, when the chips are down, and slightly to his own surprise, he does the right thing.

"But there is never any suggestion that, having risen to the occasion, he is going to mend his ways in any permanent fashion. He goes on much as ever down the path to self-destruction, knowing that redemption is not for him – and it is this that redeems him.

"The message of a character like his being that a life of complete self-indulgence, if led with the whole heart, may also bring wisdom."</i>

You'll forgive this entry for being like one of those cover versions that say more about the singer than their own songs.

Recently I was interviewed by Sleazenation, a style magazine. At one point I told the interviewer that if Messrs Hussein, Bush and Blair all got their hair bleached and side-parted, and starting wearing eyeliner, the world would be a safer place. My contribution to the Stop The War cause. More Waugh, less War. I haven't been violent to anyone in my life, so it must work.

A glib remark, granted. And in the unlikely event of such makeovers actually happening, their unkind behaviour might not be mollified in the slightest. But at least Newsnight would look more interesting.

At one point during last Thursday's stint of the club night <a href="http://www.howdoesitfeel.co.uk/">"How Does It Feel To Be Loved"</a>, the Lloyd Cole hit "Rattlesnakes" was played. It filled the floor, in fact.

I stood at the bar and listened to its infamous chorus, smirking at the sheer nerve of the lyrics:

<i>she looks like eve marie saint in on the waterfront /
she reads simone de beauvoir in her american circumstance</i>

It then occurred to me that, while Mr Cole restricted such a reference to that one song, I'm in a <i>band</i> whose very name is taken from a De Beauvoir novel, amongst other sources.

I shall think twice before smirking at Mr Cole's estimable oeuvre ever again.

SOUTH KENSINGTON, last night. Mr S.P. Morrissey, 43, gave oral pleasure to Mr D. Edwards, 31, and divers others, on the second of his two dates at the Royal Albert Hall.

Before setting off, I quickly did a bit of web research on the support band, The Pony Club. Downloaded a few audio samples. Another singer-songwriter Irishman on Setanta Records using a band name, but essentially a solo artist. But not like Brian or The Divine Comedy. In fact, not my cup of tea at all. Which meant I could spend more time on my hair and leave a bit later.

I had bought a copy of NME to read on the tube, which apart from a begrudgingly kind review of a recent Morrissey US gig, and the gossip on Blur's current status, didn't take too long to read at all. I'm just not interested in the Henry Cooper Temple Clause and their ilk. Heard it all before, so, so many times before. Isn't rock and roll debauchery boring nowadays? Change the record, please.

I also made the mistake of taking said magazine into the venue with me, before realising that doing so was tantamount to wearing a Nazi uniform to a synagogue. So I hurled it in a corner and ran away.

I was pleased that my seat was right by the side of the stage, and at stage level, and not one of those loggia boxes, which, though more suited to the stylish, don't give one half as much of a good view. And I like to watch. Closely. Without having to brave the moshpit. So that's something to remember for anyone going to the RAH in future… get the side stalls if you can. They don't cost anything extra.

Just before the great man took to the stage, I racked my brains to remember who it was I saw at this venue last time I was here. Then I remember. It was Gene. Lately Belle & Sebastian also played the RAH. Both groups owe Mr M a certain something, I think it's fair to say.

And so on came the original and best. Up to the microphone, ready with the quips:

"Welcome to a night to forget."
"My parents are in the audience tonight … so no swearing. Leave it to me."
"Last night got some good reviews in the press. So we must be doing something… wrong. They described me as 'older and greyer'. As if I'm somehow meant to be younger and blonder."

The sound was superb, the band played well, and Mr Morrissey was in fine form, his quiff respectable, his voice soaring and stronger than ever, even doing (it seemed to me) a Harry Hill impersonation at the end of the opening number, "I Want The One I Can't Have", complete with head retracted into shoulders and stiff body movements. What are the chances of that happening?

For some reason, the set eschewed most of his 90s compositions written with the stalwart guitarists of his band (of over a decade and counting), Alain Whyte and Boz Boorer, apart from the grinding live favourite "Jack The Ripper" and a gloriously triumphant "Speedway". Instead, the set concentrated on airing five brand new songs, plus seven from the 1988 Stephen Street era, including a slightly truncated version of "Late Night, Maudlin Street". In the latter, Alain Whyte pulled off a nice take on Vini Reilly's shimmery guitar effect. For "Everyday Is Like Sunday", Mr Boorer played a banjo, giving the song a gorgeously warm and autumnal feel.

Of the unreleased songs, my favourite was the beautiful waltz number, "Mexico", which I have to say almost made my mascara run. Mr M told the crowd of his woes in still failing to get a new record deal, adding his particular disappointment that not a single UK label has made him an offer. I'm confused. I thought Geoff Travis had asked him to join his newly resurrected Rough Trade label, now boasting the likes of The Strokes. Was that just a rumour?

At one point, he introduced the band individually, including his lifelong friend Linder Sterling, who was at the side of the stage taking photos. Which pleased me no end, as I'd been listening to Ludus only the other day. She currently has a dark bob hairdo, by the way.

By way of thanking the audience for not minding being unable to sing along to all the new songs, he finished with "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out", played for the first time since 1986, and the ultimate crowd pleaser for a Smiths fan. For <i>anyone</i>. Worth the price of admission alone, as the cliché goes.

Afterwards, I gatecrashed the aftershow party, something I haven't done for years (honest). The guest passes had an extremely homoerotic photo of a topless Adonis-like boxer from yesteryear. Which looked amusing attached to all the various mums and dads and other family members of Morrissey and the band that were milling backstage. Lots of Irish accents in the air. Refreshingly few industry types. A few alternative comedians, naturally. Sean Hughes. Harry Hill. Stewart Lee, who said hello. As did Jake Shillingford. Bernard Butler chatted to Boz Boorer. Probably about guitars and alliterative names.

Morrissey himself wasn't in the throng of liggers, apparently busy talking to his family elsewhere, so I whiled away an hour in the backstage bar area drinking with members of C33X and King Cheetah, saying hello to Blossom Wright, who is currently Mr Morrissey's PA, and who used to come to Club Skinny during The Romo Days. I also spoke to Alain Whyte. Turns out he knows about my old band, Orlando. The tour manager kept telling me "that's a… really…. <i>interesting</i> look you've got there…"

And so to bed. Alone, naturally.

Philip Larkin was a miserable curmudgeon even when he was my age. Though he had being unrecognised (at the time) to blame it on. He muses on why he bothers writing letters to the few people who DO recognize his worth:

<i>"At thirty-one, when some are rich
And others dead,
I, being neither, have a job instead"</i>

I don't even have that. But I do have nicer hair than Mr Larkin.

According to Heat Magazine, there's yet another reality TV show coming up called "Fame Academy". Apparently it's a cross between Popstars and Big Brother. And the house the contestants will be in is… up the road from me. In Highgate Village, near The Flask pub, "next to Sting's house".

I had no idea Sting lived near me. In eight years of living here, I've never seen him ONCE at the 134 bus stop.

He must take the 210.