Monday December 7th 1998

“I don’t recognize you. I’ve changed a lot.”

My hair is now white (with a touch of peroxide-created blue rinse effect) with gold roots. I am striving to get the roots the same colour as the rest, but they’re strangely resilient this time. The blue rinse will come in handy for my next career as stunt double to Thora Hird.

The peroxide has also thinned my naturally thick (bordering on the curly) hair into a newly floppy fringe of white and gold.

“Bosie has insisted on dropping here for sandwiches. He is quite like a narcissus — so white and gold.”

After saying goodbye to my father at Liverpool Street Station, I wander around to the Freedom Cafe in a time-killing fashion, and pass something I’ve never noticed before, a memorial to Oscar Wilde. Tucked behind St Martin’s-In-The-Fields, in a pedestrianised little avenue used as a rat run by the rush hour West End workers on foot, is a bench-cum-mock-sarcophagus adorned with a bronze bust scuplture of Mr Wilde smoking a cigarette, as if he was coming out of his coffin to chat to the person who decided to rest their feet there. At it’s base is the famous hope-inspiring quote “we are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking up at the stars”. It’s just by a real gutter. And in the heart of Theatreland too, where hundreds literally spend the night in the gutter (and tonight it’s -6 degrees Centrigade), one aspect of Wilde’s London that is as depressingly (and needlessly) prevalent today. What with that and the non-PC cigarette, the sculpture reminds one as much of Wilde’s modern status as an icon of anger and defiance as much as one of wit and literary merit.

At home, I watch the news, and it turns out the memorial was unveiled only that day, by Stephen Fry and Lucian Holland, Wilde’s 19-year-old great-grandson who is currently considering changing the family name back to Wilde again, its disgrace having somewhat dispersed after 100 years. Or at least mostly lifted, as the Daily Mail gets all hot under the collar about the ‘controversial’ memorial: “If Wilde had been alive today, he would be on the paedophile register”.

Mark Partridge tells me that the young, floppy-fringed and Bosie-ish Master Holland reminded him of me. I am chuffed.

Laurence says it’d be best to get a visit to the sculpture-bench in as soon as possible. “Before that cigarette is broken off by some drunken stockbroker on a Friday night.” Mark P. has just taken a batch of new photographs of me around Highgate and Muswell Hill, but I would like to get a new shot of me chatting to Mr Wilde on his coffin. Or lying fully down on it, rehearsing for my own demise, perhaps. And then there’s the newly gilded Albert Memorial… In London, everyone is a tourist of some kind. If not geographically, then socially.

The new single by Ash rips off Mike Nesmith’s “Different Drum”. Is it just me who notices this? I am bored stupid by much music around at the moment. Another Wilde quote: “The idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.” Can anyone call Ash a dangerous idea? Orlando was definitely a dangerous idea, and I’m working on Fosca’s danger quotient… the make up and disco beats have to stay…

Steps are a tonic, though. Unabashed trashyness, the revenge of Pete Waterman. And Proper Music Fans are sent into paroxysms of indignation by them, which can only be a Good Thing. Steps will never make the cover of Mojo Magazine because to this particular strata of music fans, they clearly are a dangerous idea. Praise Steps! And pity Gomez!

The Air album is apparently this year’s equivalent to Radiohead’s “OK Computer” or Portishead’s “Dummy” or Bjork’s “Debut”: pure coffee table, London bar music. I do like it, but this stigma puts me off. Listening to such albums, I feel like a BBC2 documentary director stroking an imaginary goatee. I don’t feel…. middle class enough to enjoy such music.

Ashamedly, I am in torment about whether to get Tomb Raider 3 or not, purely because it features scenes on the London Underground. Curse this obsession with the capital and its imagery. Unlike books, films or music, computer games like this have no “cultural enhancement” factor at all. They are absolutely useless for anything else other than getting closer to the end of your life. What would the Queen Mother do?

For the Freedom Cafe event, I have my hair cut and styled (for free) by Soho Base, who decide to cement it into a horn-like quiff, a la “There’s Something About Mary”. But without the substance Ms Cameron Diaz’s character used. I look like a cartoon character. Which is entirely appropriate. Despite this, I am thoroughly upstaged by some of the other models there, who are cuter and wear a lot less clothes than me.

I go dancing at “Shimmy”, the new club run by Emmy-Kate and Marie, both formerly of the band Kenickie. They have clearly got their act together, because present is a photographer and writer from Minx Magazine. This, as far as I am aware, is a publication not unlike Just Seventeen, but with even more sex. I am asked once again if I admire Andy Warhol, and my shoes get photographed more often than the rest of me. It’s the Gucci loafers, you see. They’re starting to get a bit battered, but clearly haven’t lost their quality to impress. They were given to me two years ago by my neighbour, who works at Kenwood House, a stately home in Hampstead. He told me that the pop star Mr Mark Morrison had been filming a video there, and that the crew had left the shoes behind. Genuine Gucci two-tone loafers. My neighbour had no idea of my shoe size, but he clearly is magical is some way, because Cinderella-like, they fitted me perfectly.

For Cressida’s birthday we go to her local pub, the John Baird. It’s named after the inventor of television, Muswell Hill being the nearest shopping area to Alexandra Palace, where the first BBC television transmissions were broadcast.

LANDLORD: Closing time, everyone out.

[the Cressida Johnson party groans. They are the last ones in the pub}

LANDLORD: Come on. Remember ‘Andy Pandy’? Time to go home…!

ME: But didn’t you see that episode of ‘Andy Pandy’ where they had a lock-in?

Everyone else laughed far too hard at this remark, except the landlord. I thought I was going to get barred. I’m running out of places in Muswell Hill I haven’t been barred from yet.

I don’t mind the cold tonight: I’m in bed with “A Shropshire Lad”. Which, the blue plaque has it, was written in a house mere yards from this computer. When do I get my blue plaque? And what will it be for? “Here the bodies of the serial killer Dickon Edwards’ 47 victims were seduced and gruesomely murdered…”

No, of course not. That’d never fit on a blue plaque.

Laurence visits and plays me his Minidisc recordings of choirboys. He lends me a couple of videos: a bootleg of The Smiths live in 1985 and Quentin Crisp’s first television interview, in 1970, which I promptly dub onto audio cassette for permanence in my home. Both offer me great hope.
Quentin talks of death: “It can’t be long now.” Nearly thirty years later, he’s still waiting. Still in one bedsit, depending on the kindness of strangers. The only difference is the bedsit is in Manhattan, not Chelsea. And he’s become famous. After the 1970 interview, he was asked to write his autobiography, The Naked Civil Servant, which was made into a film, and the world finally recognised him for the star and velvet guru that he was. Is. I still hope to meet him one day, when my fare is paid to New York. I go wherever my fare is paid. Now more than ever!

Sex is the P.E. of adult life. And I’ve got a note from my mother.

Sex is a poor substitute for masturbation. (Internet users will doubtless agree.)

Contrary to popular belief, sex is not the adult compensation for having to pay rent.

Sex is only worth doing for any reason other than self-gratification.
In order to shut someone up.
In order to earn money.
In order to do research.
In order to pass the time.

Also: In order to talk about it to the world afterwards.
The time was when it was something you simply never spoke about. Now it’s everywhere, and people just do it so they have something to talk about to their friends, or to the poor wretch they have found themselves in a Relationship with. It makes sense.

Sex is worth reading about, hearing about, talking about, joking about. I was going to add for watching in films, but I then realised that all my favourite films’ least favourite moments are the sex scenes, if there are any. But sex is never worth doing for its own sake. Once you realise this, life is so much easier.

Celibacy and solitude (as opposed to loneliness) are raison d’etres for anyone interested in getting through this tiresomely unpredicatable stagger to the grave with as little fuss as possible.

Rejoice! For it will end!

Charley gets her picture in The Face magazine, in a feature on the band that’s currently paying her wages, Gay Dad. I’m not sure about the look of the rest of the band. Very Mansun. Corporate alternative rock. First single is limited edition only, building that fanbase, a familiar tactic to the careerist band process. See also Embrace, Stereophonics etc. It’s all getting so… repetitive.. Still, I’m happy for her, there are worst jobs. Wish I could pay her wages myself. She’ll be on the Fosca album, and promises to play whatever dates she can.

Turns out Mandelson was outed as long ago as 1987, so Matthew Parris wasn’t really outing him after all. The media just…. forgot.

Sarit’s Queeruption site has accounts of the recent event, including an arty photo of Fosca playing live.

It finally happened. I’m broke. The remnants of the advance I banked back in February when I left Orlando have run out. Gone on recording equipment, new instruments and their upkeep, Fosca rehearsals (not cheap when you have to hire drum kits and bass amps), umpteen taxis, computer equipment, countless expensive books (hardbacks sometimes), astronomical Internet-related phone bills, mobile phone costs, CDs and CD-ROMs, drink, concerts, cinema and theatre tickets. Ten months of living like an eccentric aristocrat (which I always felt I was meant to have been…), not having to worry about bills. Ten months of hospital bills, I call them, because they’re all attempts to stave off my depression with consumer indulgence. Shopping to cheer oneself up whenever one is extremely miserable. Which as you might imagine, is virtually all of my waking hours.

I suspect that with careful planning, I could have made the money last two or three times longer. But I never was one for careful budgeting. I’m proud to admit that a good deal of it went on treating poverty-stricken friends of mine. But now I’m as poor as they are. Actually, I’m better than poor. I’m in debt. Which looks better.

I’m fairly pleased that this now means a new order of discipline. Whether I like it or not. I simply have to get myself organised. I spent money like there was no tomorrow, but sadly there indeed does seem to be a tomorrow, despite all my apocalyptic concerns.

So now I have a genuine excuse not to buy people drinks or go to gigs I don’t really enjoy.

And I’m still deaf in my left ear. Doctor says it’s probably just a wax build-up. But it doesn’t prevent me feeling even more sorry for myself.

What I AM glad about is that I can’t put off selling all this rubbish I bought that clutters up my room. The vast majority of books, CDs and CD-ROMS that I really don’t need, but bought anyway to… cheer myself up. I’ll be glad to get the space back. And with all these scare stories about mobile phones and cancer, I’ll not be that sad to see the back of that either, if it comes to that.

And I’ll finally get in touch with the publications that want me to do some paid writing for them. And the modelling agency that popped a card into my breast pocket the other day. And follow up all those kind souls who offered to pay my fare to foreign lands.

And I’ll get some Fosca work done. Because there are no more distractions anymore. No matter how hard I want there to be.

Didn’t enjoy the Catpower gig much. Mainly because I was more concerned with my ear. Wanted hugging badly. I don’t mind not being kissed, but I crave hugs at times. It occurs to me that I’ve never had a massage. Ever.

What fresh hell…

G. was at the gig. Hadn’t seen him for months. “I’ve been looking for fuckable girls in this place, but there don’t seem to be any”.

The singer out of Catpower hides behind a curtain of hair for most of the gig, which riles my patience. I’m consumed with the urge to leap on stage with a trimmer set to No.1 buzzcut. Get the feeling many people are here just because they fancy the Suzanne-Vega-ish singer. Which is entirely fair enough, of course. It’s always been a good way to get people fancying you, being in a band. Mousey girls in indie circles tend to have no problem getting attention from boys, who are just grateful to see something female at all.

I get approached by a young stranger from Islington at the end. She’s not an Indie type, and wants me to explain the concept of Gigs. “What brought you here?” I ask. “It was recommended in the Evening Standard, which was only 10p today. So I thought I’d check it out”. It occurs to me how little music matters to some people. To real people. She asks me if I’m single. I can’t remember what I replied.

Jonathan glances at my video collection, which I hope to brutally whittle down shortly. “I’m not sure which is worse,” he says. “Triumph Of the Will or The Best Of The Beautiful South”.

Thursday November 13th – evening

I’m already regretting my “come terminal disease” archness below. I seem to have lost the hearing in my left ear. So it’s off to Catpower at the Garage with semi-deafness, Otex eardrops dripping down my neck.

Getting ready, I listen to the Field Mice compilation, “Where’d You Learn To Kiss That Way?”. It’s vitually everything they recorded for Sarah Records. The songs left out from the Sarah canon include a number of forgettable instrumentals, plus “Song Six”, “Think of These Things” and “You’re Kidding Aren’t You”.

I’m reminded of dropping in on Matt Haynes’ place in Lambeth last week. I’d just been to a poetry reading at the Imperial War Museum, and he lives round the corner, so it seemed silly not to finally pop round. The last time I visited him was when he lived with Clare Wadd in Bristol. She helped me move to London, before they both upped and followed my example, albeit separately. I still owe them far too much, both culturally and in the line of friendship. Their sheer selflessness and striving for independent integrity in, all of all place, the British music business, never failed to startle me.

And it did so again last week. Matt’s flat was strewn with cardboard boxes of Field Mice CDs, sleeves and booklets, all waiting to be individually sleeved and packaged by hand. By his hand, mainly, though friends have helped. It looked like a particularly twee episode of Starsky and Hutch. I offered to help of course, but he was having none of it. I asked him why couldn’t he sell the double, suavely designed album at £12 rather than £10, and pay a factory to do the business for him. “I don’t really trust them”, he ventured.

I asked him about choosing which songs to not include on the compilation, and he told me the lyrics of “Song Six” etc never really fully endeared themselves as much as the others. “Think of These Things” could be interpreted as worryingly possessive, almost stalker-like, being as it is a song about a boy wanting to possess every aspect of his girlfriend’s life. and “Song Six” is a little wince-inducing by going too far the other way: “they don’t see there’s a difference/ between a woman and a slave”. These are only minor niggles, but faced with the choice of a flawed three-CD album and a perfect double one, I think Matt/Clare/the band chose wisely. Two and a half hours is long enough of any band too, even the sublime Field Mice.

This is always the problem with “best of” compilations. More often than not, one’s favourite songs are left out. The new Culture Club compilation doesn’t include “The War Song”, which is a good thing, but it also omits “The Medal Song”, which is frankly criminal.

Which is why I bought yet another Supremes/Diana Ross collection. The new one is the first to include both 60s and 70s Supremes hits, plus Diana Ross’ “Doobedood’ndoobe, Doobedood’ndoobe, Doobedood’ndoo”, an early 70s solo song, and possibly one of the best ever songs with a worst ever title. I probably now have about 8 different albums with “Where Did Our Love Go” on them. Which is no bad thing, of course.

Thursday November 12th

After reading my Anti Pro Life rant below, I’ve just remembered what Pro Lifers do to their enemies. And what happened to Bill Hicks. No, what the conspiracy theory says.

If I die suddenly, you will see that there’s a full investigation, won’t you?

Saturday was spent watching the band Pansy Division at the Garage. Hot in from California, and the house is packed, though after chatting with the singer, the amiable Mr Jon Ginoli, it transpires they are spending their UK tour sleeping on floors. Touring on a small-to-medium indie level is so expensive and loss making that major labels put aside a fund called Tour Support for their bands, counted as part of the promotional budget. It means Orlando stayed in hotels or on sleeper buses when we were playing to three gerbils and a stamp book.

I buy a Pansy Division plectrum. With their own logo on it. Not a common article of band merchandise. I presume it’s to encourage gay kids to pick up guitars rather than get into boy bands or dance music. Or perhaps just because they really like the idea of having their own brand of plectrums. They put on a hell of a Show, as opposed to a Gig, complete with costume changes and charismatic stage banter. Pansy Division Live is an wonderful experience of glitter, jokes, and punky tunes even the grumpy, frumpy likes of me can mosh to. In my winsome way.

By way of distinct contrast, I spend the following evening at a classical piano recital, invited by a charming composer called Laurence Armstrong Hughes, who has a very fast walk. It’s a Percy Grainger event, he of the “English Country Garden” and maverick invention fame. One piece is written for 11 hands. To my disappointment, they didn’t produce a mutant Shiva-like creature from the wings, but instead crammed six pianists around three Steinways. I feel about classical music in the same way I feel about art: I get the sense I’m dwarfed by the sheer history of it, that I’ll never “catch up”, but that I can take the bits and pieces I like and enjoy them in my own way: Modern minimalists like Nyman, Glass, and Reich mainly, but I’m also an admirer of (and listen to) Chopin, Debussy, Mussorgsky, Mozart, Stravinksy, Beethoven, and today, Haydn.

After the show we crash the aftershow party. For a classical concert. It’s a different class of people, let me tell you… Outside, Westminster looks beautiful by night, and Laurence points out the balcony in Whitehall where Charles I stepped out to be executed. We also pass the Cenotaph, decorated with fresh wreaths from the Remembrance ceremony earlier that day.

After reading about where Edmund White got the title for his novel “The Farewell Symphony” from, I seek out the Haydn work in question and enjoy it immensely. The story goes that Haydn’s patron was overworking the composer and his orchestra to the point where the musicians were so eager to go home that Haydn wrote a piece where the players could walk off, one by one, during the piece, until there was just Haydn and his first violinist left duetting.

This is now an evergreen stage gimmick often used by bands, the singer going first, then the guitarist, and so on until either just the bassist and drummer or even merely the drummer, are left alone on stage to finish the song. Fosca #1 did this a couple of times. It’s always an entertaining and memorable way to end a show, as long as the rhythm section don’t decide to end with an excruciating ten-minute “jam”…

The end of year polls are already out, and it’s not even halfway through November. Still, I venture my own choices:

1998:
Best Single: Lauryn Hill “Doo Wop”
Best Album: Trembling Blue Stars “Lips That Taste of Tears”
Best Compilation: The Field Mice “Where’d You Learn To Kiss That Way?”
Best Film: “The Last Days of Disco” and “Love and Death on Long Island”

“Public NME”, the gossip column, mentions Orlando for no other reason than to be nasty. Erstwhile journalist stalkers that are to be avoided at parties, goes the gist, presumably by Mr Mark Beaumont, whom for some reason has always had it in for me and/or Orlando. Once again, I sigh but feel flattered that I don’t even have to go out to get into gossip columns, that I made a mark in his world, even if it is that of whipping boy.

The thing is, I still am a stalker of journalists. Here I am, obsessed with my own press, naming the anonymous hacks, putting it in my diaries, wasting time and energy on the negative. Will I never learn? No. When Orlando started, it was all part of the plan. Tim and I loved the tales of the Manics keeping dossiers on individual music journalists, and then of Menswear taking such buttonholing and press obsession to the level of an art form. If the Richey thing hadn’t happened, would the Manics be on the same level as Menswear today? Examine and discuss.

And I have to plead guilty to the other count, that of being the sort of person to avoid in public. I was filmed today for an interview that features as part of a project by another journalist, Mr Jonathan Selzer. It was about, fittingly, the personae assumed by people who use the Internet to be more “themselves” than they are in real life. He laughed at my badger jokes, which was nice. When it came to checking the recording, I flinched, even grimaced at the sight of my own face, nattering away on the TV. I can’t stand looking at myself move about and speak, if truth be told. If my double got on the same Tube carriage as me, I’d have to get out at the next stop. If I saw myself in the street, I’d have to cross the road to avoid a conversation.

And I’d definitely avoid myself at clubs and parties. So who am I kidding?

This kind of self hatred is only tempered with a thin veneer of vanity, to keep me afloat, to avoid facing the void. The make up, the bleach, the suits: it’s all correction, and protection, not decoration.

This is my predicament: a vain, self obsessed narcissist that hates his own guts, his own image and wants to die, but doesn’t have the courage to take the easy way out. (“come, o terminal illness!”) I’m in love with my reflection, but only when it shows the bits of me I prefer. The edited highlights.

This is what makes me, in essence, a ridiculous, tragic, doomed figure.

I always was a bit of a drama queen.

Wednesday November 11th

I spent last Friday evening at Popstarz, a club that takes place weekly at the Leisure Lounge, a huge hangar like underground space in Central London. An expensive night out, but there are three main rooms, an indie one, a trashy disco one, and a quiet “chill out” one. In other words, you can actually have a conversation there without shouting directly into someone’s ear, dance if you want to dance, or go into another room if you want to dance, but they’re playing something you don’t like.

Like Club V, it’s another gay indie night (though you can dance all night to 70s and 80s disco if you want), but one which feels it necessary to display in large yellow banners across the entrance “PLEASE RESPECT THAT THIS IS A GAY CLUB”. As if they’ve had Trouble there previously. Not nice.

I was there to meet Kate, a gloriously androgynous creature, brimming with style and immaculate dress sense. She used to be called Richard. She looks rather like the Jack Fairy character in “Velvet Goldmine”, though I suspect she’s tired of having this brought up. She tells me about the difficulties of getting a job, looking the way she does. There’s only one thing you can do if you find yourself born into an unusual frame, whether it be hermaphrodite, androgyne, transsexual, transvestite, or just odd to the conformist’s eye, and that’s get paid for being yourself. The Profession of Being, to which we really must all aspire before it’s too late.

Meanwhile, Agnes Apocalypse is in the air: reports of the armed forces being put on standby for New Year’s Eve, 1999, in case the Millennium Bug really does create all the unthinkable events the doomsayers forecast: massive failure of electricity, hospital life supports fail, traffic lights thrown haywire, missiles being launched. And then there’s the Global Economy Crisis. And Honduras lies in ruins. And today Mr Hussein is at it. Again. He’s a one, isn’t he?

Turn the pages: pop stars dropping babies like crazy, while Pro Lifers take the lives of doctors at US abortion clinics, and Jack Straw goes on about The Family. As if the solution to all this forthcoming death and misery is to reproduce yourself as quickly as possible. Babies are sacred, emotive devices used by tabloids to gain favour, to get the populace on Their Side. “Lesbian Moms: A Mockery of Motherhood”. “Mom Dies to Save Unborn Child”. “I Won’t Abort My Baby Because I’m Vegetarian, Says Teen Rape Victim.” As if infants or even foetuses have more use, more worth than fully grown human beings with proven qualifications, resources, training, experience, character, personality. “So what are you saying, that once someone reaches a certain age, they’re instantly off your Wish List?” (Bill Hicks).

Characters like Bridget Jones and Ally McBeal brainwash women into thinking they are slaves to their wombs, that the “biological clock” is ticking, that they’re not Proper Women without children. Childless women are branded, the inference goes, as “selfish”. As if blocking already crowded streets with pushchairs, and breaking the quiet of cafes with the sounds of howling and crying is somehow a far more philanthropic move. Yes, I know that says rather more about me than society, but you get the general idea.

People in the public eye, whether celebrities or subjects of Human Interest features, rattle tirelessly and tediously on about their new offspring being The Most Important Thing In My Life, when really such publicity hounds are talking about themselves. Be honest, kids are great copy, great press angles, great excuses for a spread in “Hello” magazine, great cries for attention, great boosts to the ego in convincing yourself that you’re a Good Person, and nothing else whatsoever. Babies are not beautiful. They all look like Winston Churchill chewing a particularly rancid dead wasp. They add a large side order of Stress to an already stress saturated existence. And I haven’t even mentioned the noise, the smells, the piss, shit, vomit and jam.

“Ah, but Dickon, you’re a MAN. It’s so easy for you to rant on like you do. You don’t know what it’s like to have a WOMB…” And this is it, of course I don’t. Which is why I love the respect Germaine Greer gets when she suggests sterilizing people after freezing their eggs and sperm in banks, only letting them have children when they can prove to the State that they’d make good parents. Exactly like people applying for adoption have to. Ms Greer goes on: you need a license for a dog, why not a permit for a child?

If I said things like that, I’d get into terrible trouble, so I tend to hold the coats and leave it to the feminists, stifling a “right on!” cheer under my cowardly Liberal breath.

But until I come back in my next life as a woman (and boy, you’ll have trouble shutting me up then…), of course I realise it’s as unfair for a man to persuade women not to have children as it is for Pro Lifers trying to stop women seeking abortions. Of course I’m Pro Choice when it comes down to it. It’s just that I can’t pretend this tabloid sponsored relentless rush to breed like there’s no tomorrow doesn’t depress and obsess me more than ever.

Such sprog-worshipping hysteria only really fuels the Pro Life way of thinking: Babies Uber Alles. It’s also a great way of Keeping Women In Their Place, something that people of both sexes still think is actually A Good Thing even in 1998. It’s one of the reasons that throughout the history of civilisation female artists, philosophers, scientists, musicians and so on are somewhat dwarfed in number by their male counterparts, that the Woman’s Section in bookshops is a Minority Section, when 51% of the world are female. It’s the reason for global patriarchy. Female emancipation starts from Day One with both A Room of One’s Own and the right to abortion. But apparently it’s not that obvious to some people, male and female. Actually, I wish it was just “some” people.

You’ll realise I’m not even daring to touch on the subject of religion here. That’s an even more fruitless rant. It’s glib and inappropriate to get into the subject of Faith if you’re an unbaptised heathen like myself that only has faith in the immediately obvious and apparent.

So I’m speaking only of what IS the immediately obvious and apparent to me. Of course abortion is no picnic. But compare it to spending the rest of your life compromised, living a lie, trying to convince yourself daily that you’re a Good Parent, that homelessness and poverty and Just Having A Really Rubbish Life don’t exist, and neither does the world population problem, baiting War and Nature to do some serious levelling even more. It pretty much comes out as the lesser of two evils in my book.

If this misguided trend of headlong reproduction for its own sake isn’t voluntarily, sensitively challenged on our own terms, we may find it gets curbed externally and brutally in the near, dark future. Something’s got to give. And that’s what really keeps me awake at night.

Oh, that and the thought of Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon. Yes, yes, all right.

Pro Lifers really astound me though. Going so out of their way (snipers?!) to stop people who have already made a pretty difficult decision, as if termination was just some kind of whim, one of someone’s funny little ways. All that campaigning throughout the century by feminists to get abortions available free to those that need them, and it means nothing to these self-righteous idiots. It’s not enough that in Catholic dominated countries, Ireland included, where abortion is illegal, dead babies are regularly found in litter bins, in rivers, in lay-bys. Pro Lifers don’t seem to make the connection at all.

It’s what keeps me going, you know. I can always set a Bad Example. “Don’t have children… they might turn out like Dickon Edwards”.

Or worse, they might grow up to be a Pro Life campaigner.

Nice Celebrity of the Week in my books: Mr Steve Coogan.

My brother Tom has recorded a demo solo CD under the name Son of Kong. Samples, instrumentals, breakbeats (whatever they are). He was always the technically astute member of the family. One track is based around samples from the series “I’m Alan Partridge”. It’s called “Norwich is an Attitude”. To trounce this, the track after that is an answering machine message from Steve Coogan, thanking him both in character as Alan P, and as himself, after Tom sent him a copy.

And so I’m shamefacedly reminded of all the letters and emails I have still yet to reply to, some of them months old. I’m really, really, really sorry, about this, everyone. Steve Coogan, proper celebrity, thanks my brother personally and there’s me, hardly a household name, hardly hard at it every night on a West End stage, and I’m too hopeless to reply to all of them. Please write again if you are out there expecting a reply. I’m trying to be better, honest.

You can buy the Son of Kong CD (which also won Demo of the Month in Mix Magazine) by writing c/o 27 Woodbridge Road, Ipswich, Suffolk IP4 4NX, UK.

I buy the new Billy Childish offering: “17% Hendrix Was Not The Only Musician”. Artwork, photos, poetry, fiction, music and manifestos, the latter about starting a war between Artists and Critics: “Only a pompous fool would de-sky a hawk, tack out its mortal guts, rummage around in its very entrails and then declare themselves to now understand beauty… The critic must be forced to his knees and made to apologise in public for his deceitfulness and the error of his ways… Under no circumstances should the artist ever strike the vile critic, even when being stroken.”

Sadly, I have a tendency to not only stroke critics, even chasing some critics with sycophantic unctuousness as if I need their approval (but I’m trying to put a stop to this particular character fault, not so much turning the other cheek but ripping it off my face and throwing it into the worldview of my detractors) but have actively befriended a few of those who have stroken my own putridly outsized head. My only defence is that I see these critics as quasi-artists in comparison to their more thick, ugly, two-faced colleagues. Certainly they’re more like artists than some of the artists they have to write about. One of my favourite writers, Dorothy Parker, was a critic. I think I’d have to part the Red Sea of Hacks here. There are two kinds: the Critics and the Basically A Good Person But Still A Critic Critics.

I understand one of the latter gaggle, Mr Andrew Mueller, formally of the IPC gang but now at the British broadsheets, reads these pages. We once appeared together on a national live radio discussion show talking about pop music. At one point he cited The Ronettes as a Motown group. I corrected him on air. “The artist should educate the critic”, after all. (Wilde). Hi, Andrew.

Actually, I tend to wince at the use of the term “artist” when describing bands and groups. Too American star-system for me. Too precious.

Billy Childish even once released a single with his band, Thee Headcoats, called “We hate the Fucking NME”. This week, he’s interviewed by the, er, NME. More proof that all you have to do to earn unconditional respect is to just not be young and new. Mitigating circumstances will always endear you to the British press and public. The Captain Scott syndrome. Such circumstances include your rhythm guitarist going missing (Manics). And being about for ages, ideally now past 30 (Pulp, Childish). And appearing to be thick and uncultured (Liam Gallagher). It’s easier to respect someone that you don’t think “sickening swine, they’ve got everyone, they’re superior, richer, better-looking, younger, more intelligent, more cultured and happier than me”. Mitigate just one of these criteria and the world is allowed to be yours.

Good interview, though.

I have only ever been an occasional critic myself, and even then only because I wanted to praise some otherwise overlooked gem. One aspect of critic life I find particularly baffling is their approach to each other. They’ll happily gossip away when artists get romantically involved with each other, but once an artist literally sleeps with the enemy, the critics close ranks around their own kind with the kind of protective furour not usually seen outside the White House. Very odd. Taylor Parkes (Melody Maker) and Lauren Laverne (Kenickie) were a fairly well-known couple in public while they lasted, but it was never mentioned in the press, only hinted at or skirted around with cowardly innuendo. Even Mr Parkes’ previous coupling with fellow critic Caitlin Moran was far more talked about in the press, not least by themselves, yet they were both in the same line of work. Just not on opposite sides of the trenches, one presumes. I’m reminded of those World War One American recruiting posters depicting the Kaiser as a savage, slavering mad-eyed ape dragging off a helpless damsel, with the slogan “Destroy This Mad Brute – Enlist”. The Kaiser and our own American-allied King George were, of course, close family cousins.

Similarly odd is the way critics will otherwise turn on each other, hating a band purely because they’re not keen on the other bands liked by the critic who likes said band. Much like me and my brother when we were growing up together: he got Frank Zappa, The Cult and Hendrix, I got New Order and the Smiths. We never crossed over territories, perish the thought. Likewise at IPC Towers, Critic A is averse to finding room in his heart for Critic B’s pet groups, and Critic B goes out of his way to slate Orlando for the same reason. This is a terrible shame to me, because I suspect Critic B, oh all right, Mr Ian Watson, has a record collection that is far similar to mine than Critic A, sorry, Mr Simon Price’s is. It’s a strange and sad set-up, but the saddest thing is it seems entirely natural and makes perfect sense. I just wish it wouldn’t. From this innate territorialism comes the dreaded Received Opinions and Not Okay To Like kind of taste-fascism that British critics swear by.

Even this week in Melody Maker, Orlando feature in a Kenickie-themed “Great Bands That Could Have Been Contenders” list. Denim, Strangelove, Northern Uproar… and Orlando are singled out by a sinister editorial comment replying to the writer (presumably Orlando-likers Peter Robinson or Ben Knowles…. oh no! I’ve outed them!) asking “you didn’t listen”. “Because they were shit – Good Taste Ed” is the addendum in parenthesis. The subtext is clear. “I don’t like them, and I forbid you to like them either”, says the anonymous oppressor of opinion, desperate to fit a square Consensus peg into a round Press hole. Spraying the room against the pestilence of Independant Thought. Why the need to go out of their way to preach such witless naysaying against one of their own kind? I can only deduce Orlando must have violently threatened their microcosmic world in some way, because we hardly threatened the real world. But isn’t that a good thing? To get a reaction? To strive for innovation? To provoke an emotion? Even a negative, inarticulate one?

Meanwhile, everyone else I know has long since wasted energy on worrying about such things: it’s just me. How hard I still reach out for the crowd-blending, ignorant Mediocrity of being Liked Across The Board! And how greatly it eludes my pariah grasp! Is it a crime to have not been born into a careful, unprovoking Embrace? Pity me on this cold Halloween night with not a press officer in sight to hurl onto the fire!

Friday October 30th

Two people phone me up. One wants me to model some clothes on World Aids Day (Dec 1st) at some staged charity event at the Freedom Cafe, the other requires me to sit on a stage with Patrick Strangelove, who wants to recreate his bedsit on stage and fill it with “visitors”. I say yes to both of them, always keen to try anything once (except paedophilia and morris dancing). Meanwhile I turn down separate requests for Fosca to play at Club V and the Poetry Cafe. Something is definitely askew in my priorities.

Ron Davies, former Welsh Secretary, when asked if he was gay: “I don’t want to get into that…. I’m aware of some of the stories and rumours in the newspapers….”.

Which of course means “yes”.

My old chum Matthew Parris (see previous diary entries) goes on Newsnight and casually outs Peter Mandelson, which is odd because he once wrote a piece on how outing was wrong. Clearly something has happened to change his views. A landslide election defeat of his old party, perhaps.

It’s strange the way sexuality is still a source of great umbrage among some of the famous, bringing to mind the saying “I’d rather be black than gay… at least you don’t have to tell your mother.”

This week Tom Cruise successfully sues, Jason Donovan-style, against such allegations. Considering what happened to Mr Donovan’s career after the court case, I’d start to worry about my future if I was Mr Cruise. Libel seems so petty if it’s not trying to do some general good, like the McLibel case, individuals battling against gigantic corporate powerblocks rather than idle gossip about self-important individuals. I plead guilty to the latter, of course. I still prefer being talked about at all than being ignored, even if it means people going about with fabricated ideas of myself that are twisted so far from the truth it’s ridiculous. I have never liked Kula Shaker, your honour.

I buy a book to cheer me up after being massively disappointed by “Velvet Goldmine”: “Manic Street Preachers – In Their Own Words”. If anything, I sometimes prefer reading Manics interviews than listening to their actual music. I occasionally put Morrissey under this category too. Towards the back of the Manics book is a page on other individuals talking about the band.

And there I am.

Not a bad quote either. I come out of it looking pretty eloquent next to Martin “Boo Radleys” Carr’s “The Holy Bible album is fucking awesome.”

Simon Price tells me I’m in his forthcoming Manics book too. The danger here, is of just being known for knowing others, or saying something about others. But again, it’s supremely better from the narcissist’s point of view than not being known at all. I recently advertised I was selling some of my “Theaudience” rarities on the bands’s internet fan-mailing-list. And I got several people asking me if I was That Dickon Out of Orlando. Not Orlando fans, just wanting to know.

I wondered, does Camille Paglia get this when she tries to sell her theaudience singles? Then I realised the solution. Don’t buy singles by theaudience in the first place. Some days I feel like selling my entire “collection” of CDs and records and tapes. All I need are The Supremes Greatest Hits. That’s all anyone needs, really.

And then Cressida says, “oh, my therapist’s husband has heard of you.”

Mad Old Charlie in the cafe yesterday: “you’ve got a great image. Image is 90% of getting there.” Getting where, exactly? Smelling slightly in a cafe?

So while I’m languishing, parasitically, on the back of other bands’ books on the shelves at Waterstones, this week Tim’s at HMV in a similar contex. Twice. I treat myself and buy four brand new, just-released CD compilations in one day, most of the songs on all four being in my possession already, but they are great compilations:

Diana Ross and the Supremes – “40 Golden Motown Greats”
Galaxie 500 – “The Portable Galaxie 500”
The Style Council – “The Complete Adventures of…”
The Field Mice – “Where’d You Learn To Kiss That Way?”

And there’s Tim in the sleeve notes to the latter two. Well, the Style Council “history” booklet “Mr Cool’s Dream Edition 3” is only available at HMV, but he gets a mention in its Genuine Acclaim of Previous Editions section. He’s in the Field Mice booklet proper, though.

It’s a strange feeling when you buy a book and you discover you’re in it.
It’s a strange feeling when you buy four CD compilations and you discover two of them have your ex in the sleeve notes.

Tim and I meet up for the first time in a while and “take in a show”. Comedy at Madame Jo-Jo’s, the site of Club Arcadia two years ago. More ghosts. He says he’s just done an interview where he describes me as Hank Kingsley to his Larry Sanders. Hank Kingsley, in “The Larry Sanders Show”, is a buffoonish sidekick. I take this in the same way I’ve taken other back-handed compliments in the past, having been described in the press as both a “likeable prat” and “sexy cadaver”. To be fair, I’ve always thought of myself as a sort of cross between Frank Spencer and Andy Warhol. I do all my own stunts. With neurotic style.

I personally prefer to instead think of Tim as Kate Beckinsale to my Chloe Sevigny in “The Last Days of Disco”. I take abuse of all kinds passively, from so-called friends and indeed so-called strangers, but I’ll triumph gently and quietly in the end. You’ll see.

Pete out of Pete-and-Amelia phones me out of the blue. For the first time.”Pop quiz. We’re racking our brains here. What is Republica’s main hit? The biggest one?”

“Ready to Go”.

“You’ve made a roomful of people very happy. Bye.”

I’m good for something in this world.

Friday October 2nd 1998

Pictures and thoughts on the recent Fosca gig at Brady’s in Brixton can be found here.

I’ve just realised that the photos don’t seem to line up properly in Internet Explorer 4 as they do in Netscape Communicator 4. If anyone knows why this is, please let me know. I refuse to go out of my way to let Mr Gates have any more power over my life than he has already. Fosca say: Choose Netscape!

Tuesday September 22nd 1998

One thing that definitely sets me apart from the Romo crowd.

They all either got to be extras in the new film “Velvet Goldmine”, or should have been.

I, on the other hand, should have been an extra in “The Last Days Of Disco”.

Dress code for the film (after re-seeing it tonight, this time with Clare Wadd):

Girls: Blusher, boob tubes, bitchiness.
Boys: Suits, side-partings, sardonicism.

I still can’t recommend it highly enough.

And then there’s the photos accompanying the new Josef K compilation on Marina Records: “Endless Soul”. I don’t know enough about this band. Just the lazy soundbites: early 80s Scottish New Wave /post-punk scratchy flicker-guitar group, who had connections with Aztec Camera and Orange Juice and Momus’ first band, The Happy Family. But what I do know is that they had Great Suits and Great Side-Partings. The sleeve to this CD matches my silver-grey suit. Which is mainly why I bought it. Obviously.

Clare is talking about a disturbing new trend in London gigs. People have been thrown out or barred entry to the Water Rats etc for carrying a copy of The Guardian with them, as if smuggling in a newspaper to read at a gig is worse than smuggling in a knife. Is Jonathan Aitken starting out on a new career as an indie venue promoter?

If I one day find myself in the privileged position of being able to influence such matters, I will actively encourage reading at gigs. Never mind some naff flyer, take a good novel along to a gig and get a concession.

The line-up for Friday’s one-off free Fosca excursion in Brixton:

Self (diarist): voice and guitar player
Charley (Frantic Spiders): guitar player
Deb (Linus): bass player
Caroline (Frantic Spiders): drum player
Rachel (care worker): keyboard player, singing
Cressida (care worker): singing, flute player, keyboard player
Fiona (second-hand bookshop manager): singing, keyboard player

I have a horrible feeling there might be more people on stage than in the audience.

Saturday September 19th 1998

Club Popstarz last night:

“What’s the new band sound like?”
“slow, quiet, weepy sad songs. Eyes closed. Me singing. Galaxie 500 covering Barbra Streisand”
“God, that sounds awful. I think I’ll kill you.”

Other words thrown at my ear that night:

“You look like Lily Savage’s husband. Bob Downe. God, you really do. God.”
“This is my best friend. She’s a stripper… She DOES wear a wig, though.”
“Who was that boy you were with at the Kenickie aftershow? He looked so like you. Can’t you get him in the band?”
“But WHY do you dress like that? WHY? You don’t HAVE to…”
“We’re doing a fabulous show, modelling, this is the choreographer. I’m costumes… I see you… AS A MARIONETTE!”
“Can I fuck you while my friend watches?”

I was so taken aback by the last request, coming as it did from a very urbane looking American who’d up till then been chatting about London weather, that I just ummed and erred. He was serious. Fortunately I was rescued by an Orlando fan who recognised me.

Archway Adrian (who indeed, has many arch ways) is going to be modelling in a new calendar. It’s called “Camden Boys”. I am not sure whether to believe this or not.

Went to First Out for the first time. My dad recommended it. How many people have gay bars recommended by their dad?

It’s at 52 St Giles High Street, which is that badly-planned little bit of London around (and under) Centrepoint. Bottles of Stella Artois £1.50, Spirits and mixer £1. Sarit says there’s lots of pricing competition in gay bars. Shame there isn’t in the clubs too. I daren’t think how much last night at Popstarz cost me. I was meant to meet Howard at First Out. It didn’t happen, so I propped myself up at the bar, alone, and got quickly, cheaply drunk. Swapped numbers with a beautiful blond Norweigan. Phoned him the next day. Number unobtainable. Took some pills.

Went to see Linus at the Dublin Castle. Support bands were one featuring Mario of “Mario’s Cafe” fame, that Saint Etienne song used in some advert recently; and one featuring Hannah from Hollywood, who were part of that Romo tour palaver. I don’t know if she recognised me. I suspect she did, which is why she blanked me. Ah, London. One day a real rain is gonna come…

Charley was there to save my soul. Archway Adrian too, friendly as ever. He offered to play in Fosca. Promises, promises, Adrian. Rarely returns my calls, but he’s forgiven. Everyone is so BUSY. Went to the Black Cap, and then to the Metro, yet another tourist indie disco in Oxford Street. Erol DJ-ing. Got maudlin and upset and paranoid. Took more pills. Thought seriously about cutting my arm up. New low for me. Ridiculous, so I phoned Simon. Picked up the guitar to stop myself crying. This really must end.

Theorised on Lesbian Mannerisms. We all know about stereotypical gay male mannerisms, the wrist, the flutter, the rolling eyes, but a lesbian equivalent? Not haircut, not dress sense, not taste, but actual mannerisms?

Charley and Sarit suggested tomboyishness. I call it Lesbian Energy. The little bargirl at First Out suddenly jumping when Chumbawamba come on the bar stereo. Sarit dancing at Club V. Charley demonstrating her guitar riffing style at Bar Vinyl, startling the girl behind her. It’s not tomboyishness, because no boy really acts like that: the unnerving sudden burst of violent energy, like spiders moving quickly after hours of stillness. I’ve only ever seen it in lesbians. I’m quite chuffed with this theory.

Working title for the album is “Friendship’s Death”, after the film with Tilda Swinton and Bill Paterson. More outsiders looking in on real life… Woolf’s Orlando, De Beauvoir’s Fosca… recognise a pattern?

So today I’m sitting in Jackson’s Lane, bleary and hungover, supping milky coffee. Then I notice Bill Paterson is at the table next to me.

I’ve completely reverted to using “Dickon” again, after a period of experimenting with “Richard”. I look in the mirror, and it says Dickon, so Dickon it is.

Charley is playing Brixton Academy in October. She’s supporting Mansun in the band Gay Dad, on tour with them too. So if you’re going to see Mansun, do get there early and shout out for her when Gay Dad play. Go on.