I’m about to scoot off to St Ives for three days. Some catching up is rather in order. First, a commercial break.

My small yet surprisingly powerful Session guitar amp is now up on Ebay, as sold by my brother. Used throughout my time in Orlando & Fosca. It’s just been fully serviced, ready for a new owner:

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=230520038872

Now then.

Weds 4th Aug:
Against Nature: August Edition, at Proud Camden.
I have to run the night by remote control: setting everything up, the sweets, the soundcheck, the silent movie,  then I dash off home by 9pm because of my curfew. Kevin Reinhardt does the stand-in promoter duties. Kind door volunteers: Sam C, Farzana F, Sarah H, Alex P, Kitty F. Del Des Anges (sound engineer) and Sophia Wyeth (DJ) also work their socks off for hours on end. I’m utterly grateful to them all.

It ends up being the best attended night of Against Nature to date (including the September one). And I’m not there to attend it myself.

Joe Atari sends me some photos he took.

Ophelia Bitz:

Patti Plinko:

Anne Pigalle:

Thurs 5th August:

Paid work! I do a one-off talk at the National Portrait Gallery on the subject of Queer Perspectives. I’m the guest speaker for Sadie Lee, who puts on the event regularly. Am wearing the tag, and wonder if this is some kind of first for the NPG. Or for wearers of curfew tags. The talk lasts 7pm-8pm, and I easily make it home in time for my curfew. The Northern Line is so much better than it used to be. Still need to write up the notes as an article.

Fri 6th August

To Wynd’s Shop Of Horrors on Mare Street. He’s asked me to DJ at a few of his events, in return for some framed original drawings by Stephen Tennant. I get to pick out the ones I want, settling on an illustrated poem written on Wilsford Manor headed notepaper, a Cocteau-esque portrait of a sailor, and one of Alexander the Great.

A few weeks later (Sept 21st), I hang two of them, using the picture rail in my room. Hanging framed art at home is the closest I feel to being properly grown up.

Back at the shop, I’m interviewed about dandyism by a Polish journalist, Kamilla Staszak. She takes a photo of me wearing the tag:

Fri 20th Aug:

I spend an hour or so collecting for DEC’s Pakistan appeal at Holborn tube, holding a bucket near the foot of the main escalator. It’s an official collection by TFL staff. Although I’m not a TFL employee, they’ve asked friends of friends to boost the numbers. Farzana F is a friend of the organiser, and she’s a friend of mine, so here I am. Quite touching when an old lady stuffs a £20 note into my bucket, while a 6-year-old girl runs over and puts in a penny, encouraged by her parents.

One very weird moment. A well-dressed man stands next to me and asks quietly, ‘Would you be prepared to sacrifice yourself for Pakistan?’

I say, pardon? And he repeats it. What on earth can I say back? Does he want a debate on the subject, right now? Or am I actually being….? No, surely not. And yet, I do have this history of strangers coming up and saying very unexpected things to me. Whatever it is, I want him to go away. I blurt out some words.

‘Um. I’m just collecting coins and notes… That’s as far as I go, I’m afraid.’

And he walks off.

Later, in the laundrette on Archway Road.  As I traipse out the door with my pressed shirts, a woman stops me.

‘Excuse me!’

I turn around. ‘Yes?’

‘You look like Superman.’

‘Right. Thank you.’

She doesn’t seem particularly insane, either.

Somewhere in all this is what, I suppose, my friend Shanthi calls my Unique Selling Point.

As part of my birthday present, Dad sends me a package of old and curious books and bookmarks. One vintage bookmark is an advert for toothpaste (or rather, ‘dental cream’), in the shape of the product itself. Double-sided, too.

The toothpaste company is ‘Kolynos of Chenies Street, London W.C.1.’ I’m looking at this at home when Charley S texts me with a proposed meeting point for tonight, close to where she works: Chenies Street. No signs of any toothpaste companies there today. Just the Drill Hall venue, home of gay plays and BBC radio recordings.

From there we walk to the Artspace Gallery in Maddox Street, Mayfair, to see an exhibition by the Stuckists. Excellent paintings, though frustratingly without any labels to indicate artist or title.

Still, Ella Guru’s Last Supper is unmistakable. It really should be put on permanent display at the Tate Modern, given it’s a chronical of all the Stuckist types – Billy Childish et al.

Close-up detail here.
Annotation by Ella here.

Ella’s portrait of Debbie Smith with her collection of snuff boxes is another highlight.

More at Ella Guru’s site: www.ellaguru.org.uk

Am also impressed by Peter Murphy’s rendition of rock stars in the medieval Russian icon style. He uses your actual egg tempera and gold leaf on gessoed panels.

Taken from Peter Murphy’s website here.

My favourite work in the exhibition is Paul Harvey’s ‘Charlotte Church’ (2006). I love his clean lines style.  A touch of 1890s art nouveau mixed with 1960s psychedelia.

Taken from www.paulharveypaintings.com

***

Charley buys me dinner at Yo Sushi in Woodstock Street nearby, and I do what normal people call ‘catching up’. I’ve learned that whenever you look away from a friend’s blog or Facebook updates, that’s the time all the big events in their life happen. Moving to a new country, splitting up with their other half, getting together with a new one, getting married, getting divorced, babies. Always the last to know. As Del Amitri once sang. I know useless things like that.

If in doubt, I just assume people I’ve not heard from in a while have either moved to Berlin or had children. Or both. Seems to be the popular options.

Today’s lesson: A watched Livejournal never boils.

Also in Yo Sushi, Charley says hello to Rob Ellis, drummer with PJ Harvey and umpteen other notables.

Thinking about trendy musicians in Yo Sushi reminds me of the first time I went to one of these places. It was in the late 90s, in the then-new Poland St branch, as the guest of Nick ‘Momus’ Currie – a lover of all things Japanese – and Anthony ‘Jack’ Reynolds. Anthony kept trying to put the empty plates back on the conveyor belt, to get away with not paying, but was stopped by the more law-abiding (and I suppose, less rock and roll) Momus.

Actually, Momus’s cousin is the singer with Del Amitri. I really wish I knew less of these sort of things and more things that actually mattered.

We talk about the stress and strain of what to do on one’s birthday. Charley suggests I contact Seaneen Molloy, whose birthday is Sept 4th, the day after mine. She suggests we organise some sort of joint party.

***

On the overground train from Liverpool Street to Cambridge Heath, I bump into Marc Samuels. Marc tells me how he’s just interviewed one of his heroes, Andy McCluskey from OMD.  A new OMD album is doing the rounds. Original line-up, a tour in the offing.

In the midst of our 80s synthpop chat, a cartoonishly large spider suddenly scuttles across the carriage floor, prompting a yelp from a female passenger. The doors open at Cambridge Heath, and I expertly kick the blameless arachnid out into the gap between train and platform. The woman smiles at me as I get off. I have the glow of a Useful Gentleman. I’ll be putting up shelves next.

Used to have something of a phobia about spiders. Clearly no longer. Though downing a large bottle of sake helps.

***

Onto Wynd’s Little Shop Of Horrors (11 Mare St, E8) for a private view. Zoe Beloff – ‘The Adventures Of A Dreamer by Albert Grass.’ The moment I enter, I hear ‘Dickon! You know about Momus, don’t you!’

Wynd’s shop has a range of decadent and cult books, including titles from Dedalus and Atlas, plus several copies of ‘Lusts Of A Moron – The Lyrics Of Momus.’ Some customer was surprised that other people knew about Momus at all, hence the utteration.

Also at the private view is Robert V, boyfriend of the aforementioned Seaneen M. So that’s my message to her sorted out.

Zoe Beloff’s show is a sequence of comic book-like panels inspired by one Albert Grass, who apparently founded the Coney Island Amateur Psychoanalytic Society in the 1920s. According to Ms Beloff, he tried to have the resort’s Dreamland attraction rebuilt as a kind of Freudian theme park. He also created a journal full of oneiric images, which comprise this exhibition. Just how much is Ms Beloff’s own imagination and how much is Grass isn’t clear. I wonder if Grass himself is in fact her fictional avatar.  Regardless, I like the panels of dreams, particularly this one with a small badger whispering ‘Je t’aime! Je t’aime!’ in Grass’s ear.

Zoe Beloff: www.zoebeloff.com

Tues 31st August. I head off to the London Review Bookshop in Bury Place, in order to buy the London Review Of Books. The shop stocks the latest issue a day or two early, even ahead of the issue’s contents appearing on the LRB website. So today I get to read a brand new Alan Bennett story, ‘The Greening Of Mrs Donaldson’. Like ‘The Clothes They Stood Up In’, and ‘The Uncommon Reader’, it’s another tale of a buttoned-down character getting a new lease of life. This time, a widow lets her young lodgers skip rent in return for a ringside view of their sex life. There’s also amusing scenes from her job as a stooge patient for medical students.

I wonder why I’m so excited about buying the LRB this way. Then it dawns on me. In the 90s I used to love getting the weekly music papers, NME and Melody Maker, on a Tuesday lunchtime in Camden, a full day before everywhere else. It was a magazine buying experience with the hint of privilege, even time travel. Priority boarding.

With the music papers, there was a sense of trying to join a club. Of wanting to Belong. Now I merrily stroll through life in blissful ignorance of who the current crop of strange-haired bands are. Instead, I have a passion for wanting to read the latest Alan Bennett story hot off the press. Which suits me, at the age I am (39 this Friday). It is a Seemly Passion.

***

In pursuit of further Seemly Passions, I’m working my way through the current Booker Prize Longlist. Quite enjoying the excuse for a dip into the latest literary fiction, using my library card. Here’s my Twitter-length reviews so far.

Alan Warner’s Stars In The Bright Sky. Young Scots women mooching about at Gatwick & Hever Castle. Touching, funny. 8/10.

The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas. Unlikeable Aussies. Good last 50 pages (of 500). Lots of smoking on the verandah. Should be more of a page-turner. Isn’t. 7/10

February, Lisa Moore. Canadian oil rig disaster widow reflects on decades of grief. Happy ending. Moving. Superb detail. Prefer Alan Bennett’s widow solution, though. 8/10

Damon Galgut’s In A Strange Room. South African man’s frustrations en transit. Worrying depiction of Kafka-esque health care in India. Old fashioned existential-lit. 8.5/10

***

Am attending regular one-to-one sessions with a government employment adviser. She gets me firing off job applications, tweaking my laughable skeleton of a CV, and it all feels wrong. I need to do something though, so here I am. Would I consider voluntary work, she asks. Not really, I say ungratefully.

You can’t sit at home watching daytime TV all your life, she says. And then she hastily adds – seeing me about to complain – not that you’re the sort of person who does that!

Last paid job: giving a one-off talk at the National Portrait Gallery (Aug 5th), on Queer Perspectives. While wearing a curfew tag. Wonder if that’s a NPG lecturer first. Need to write up the talk and put it online.

Wisdom learned from club night promotion: the host can never quite enjoy the party.

I’m doing Against Nature one more time on Tuesday Sept 7th, then taking a break in order to find out what I want to do next.

Here’s the details.

AGAINST NATURE
TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 7TH 2010

A night for dressed-up dandies and vintage vamps. DJs provide a rococo mix of easy listening, showtunes and exotic pop, punctuated by silent movies, eccentric bands and unconventional cabaret.

Live On Stage:

SCALES OF THE UNEXPECTED
Vocal harmony comedy group who cram the back catalogues of Madonna, Abba and others into inspired and hilarious medleys.

KIKI KABOOM
Inventive and irreverent burlesque performer. Winner of Best Newcomer 2009 at the London Burlesque Festival.

ROSE WATT
Obsessive compulsive wit armed with ukelele and cupcakes.

THE SOFT CLOSE-UPS
Wry pastoral songsmithery courtesy David Shah and Aug Stone

Plus DJ & host Dickon Edwards.

Doors 8pm.
Live acts 9.30pm-11.30pm.
Dancing to 1am.

Door charge: £5 before 10pm. £6 after.

DRESS CODE (optional but preferred): Vintage & dandy-esque.

Proud Camden (South Gallery)
The Horse Hospital, Stables Market,
Chalk Farm Rd, LONDON NW1 8AH.
Tel: 020 7482 3867.
www.proudcamden.com

Catching up, filling gaps.

Sat July 24th: Afternoon: ‘The Habit Of Art’ at the NT, with Charlie M. Superb. Excellent play, stuffed full of different ideas rather than just one, just as the History Boys was. Charlie M prefers Alan Bennett’s intellectual, thought-provoking work like this, and isn’t so keen on the work that gets him dismissed as a cosy purveyor of Northern old ladies. I like it all.

Lead part originally written for Michael Gambon, and it shows. A grumpy old actor, who looks like an unmade bed yet is charismatic and funny and has a good voice for poetry. Pure Gambon. He needs to come back and play the role.

There’s a huge photo of Gordon Brown in the NT’s annual exhibition of newspaper photographs. With a hand sweeping back his hair, it’s meant to show Brown looking anxious and under pressure. In fact, he looks moody in a Mr Rochester way. Charlie M says she’s so attracted to the photo she can barely look at it.

Another huge photo is of what I take at first to be an emaciated elderly tramp. Turns out to be Alex Higgins, the snooker star. When I get home, he’s on the news. Dead at 61, looking at least 80. Am uneasy about the sense of guilty delight in the press: a satisfying riches-to-rags story. The price of success. But I suppose this comment is a delight, too: the joy of feeling superior to the media.

All comment is vanity, one way or another. Art takes the curse off comment, makes it feel less cheap. Which is one of the points of The Habit Of Art.

***

Evening: The Doctor Who Prom at the Royal Albert Hall with Anwen G. I spot a few fezzes, include one on the bust of Sir Henry Wood. Matt Smith turns up in character to perform a Steven Moffat-written mini-adventure, and demonstrates how good with children he is. The little boy he gets to help him save the world takes him utterly seriously, as only small children can do.

Our seats are right by one of the aisles used by various parading monsters, including a Cyberman and a Venetian Vampire. Karen Gillan (Amy Pond) performs one of her links right next to us. Nicholas Courtney (the Brigadier) is in the queue for guest tickets right next to me. So that’s us happy. We can be spotted in one of the BBC’s promo photos of the evening. I’m the blond-haired one in the linen suit, funnily enough.

The music is mostly Murray Gold’s soundtrack to the new series, punctuated with classical crowd-pleasers to fit the sci-fi adventure idiom: John Adams’s Short Ride in a Fast Machine, Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, Holst’s Mars, and Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. My ears are absolutely ringing after the last two. I didn’t realise just how noisy Mr Holst and Mr Orff could be.

William Walton’s comparatively subtle and laid-back ‘Portsmouth Point’ also gets an airing, apparently chosen because Murray Gold is from Portsmouth. I rather like the thought of young Doctor Who fans coming away with a new-found interest in William Walton. All very old fashioned BBC. ‘This’ll do you good!’

Actually, I come away from the evening with a new-found interest in Benjamin Britten, thanks to The Habit Of Art.

***

Sunday 25th July: Evening: The Ku Bar in Lisle Street to catch Adrian Dalton’s act. Mr Dalton is a post-op trans man whose drag alter-ego, Lola Lypsinka, pole dances in high heels. I get a catcall: ‘Oy, Jared Leto!’ Which would normally be a massive compliment, except I suppose they might mean Leto’s bleach-haired character from Fight Club after his face is smashed in.

A man from the audience is brought onto the stage. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen – it’s Charlie from last year’s Big Brother!’ Polite whoops. Charlie makes an unkind comment about the winner of his series, Sophie (had to look her up). One chaser of nano-celebrity sneering at another. All very modern.

***

Sat July 31st. Miss Red’s birthday party at Dr Strangebrew’s Tea Parlour, 186 Royal College Street, Camden NW1. Cannot recommend this place highly enough: cheap teas and homemade cakes in a 1960s treasure trove of vintage collectibles. Including two jukeboxes and a radiogram – which still works.  I am filmed for an in-jokey spoof ad on the shop, which refers to Miss Red’s recent appearance in an advert for Maynard’s Wine Gums:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRPtczeHBk4

Also at the party is Ms Cherry Williams, who turns out to be the seamstress who made Karen Gillan’s dress for Act 1 of the Dr Who Proms, as designed by Kate Halfpenny. A very London sort of coincidence.

More examples of Very London things. As we’re sitting outside the shop that afternoon, a young t-shirted couple approach.

‘Excuse me,’ the boy asks in a thick foreign accent. ‘Can you tell us where Amy Winehouse lives?’

Last call for Against Nature – the August edition. Time Out Magazine have included it in their Critics’ Choice list:

Here’s the details.

AGAINST NATURE
A speakeasy for dressed-up dandies and vintage vamps. DJs provide a rococo mix of easy listening, showtunes, and exotic pop, punctuated by silent movies, eccentric bands and unconventional cabaret.

LIVE ON WEDS AUGUST 4TH:
…A unique triptych of boho chanteuses. Oh yes!

ANNE PIGALLE
Legendary, globe-trotting Parisian singer and survivor of the ZTT Records scene, performing songs and erotic poetry from her new show, Amerotica. ‘As if Edith Piaf were booked in the bar in Star Wars’ (US Music Connection)
http://www.annepigalle.com/

PATTI PLINKO AND HER BOY
Eccentric, brooding songstress, channelling whiskey-soaked songs in the carnivalesque spirit of Nick Cave and Tom Waits. ‘A vivid dream of maddening, freakish talent.’ (The Argus)
http://www.myspace.com/pattiplinkoandherboy

OPHELIA BITZ
The sharpest razor-tongued wit in London: vocalist, ringmistress, compere and performance artist with a reputation for stealing hearts, drinks, and anything else not nailed to the table. ‘Bitz may have the voice of an angel but she also has the mouth of a filthy gutter slut.’ (Time Out)
http://www.myspace.com/opheliabitz

Plus DJ SOPHIA WYETH, spinning easy listening, showtunes, pastiche pop, and all that deviant jazz.

Mr Edwards regrets he is unavailable to attend in person, due to a slight disagreement with the Department For Work And Pensions. Please welcome instead guest host & promoter KEVIN REINHARDT.

Doors: 8pm. Live acts 9.30pm-11.45pm. Dancing to 1am.

Door charge: £5 before 10pm. £7 after.

NB: Latecomers may have to wait until an intermission between live acts.

DRESS CODE (optional but preferred): Vintage & dandy-esque.

VENUE:
South Gallery, PROUD CAMDEN,
The Horse Hospital, Stables Market, Chalk Farm Rd,
LONDON NW1 8AH.
Tel: 020 7482 3867.
http://www.proudcamden.com/

Night 1 of the curfew was Weds 28th, the day of my conviction.

Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court is an unhappy old building. Sad yellow walls, stairs like a 1970s leisure centre in Purgatory. Lots of brooding, broken people sitting around in the reception area, barely held together by their tracksuits. The only people in suits apart from me seemed to be lawyers. This is the pettier, half-arsed end of the legal system.

The courtroom turned out to be a drab, open-plan affair. Long tables and chairs, a coat of arms on the wall. Not even a proper dock. It was never explained to me who did what, why there was one man seated at right angles immediately in front of the three magistrates (the clerk of the court?), and another tucked towards the back of the room taking notes. No names of the magistrates, no names at all.

Myself, Charlie M – taking time out of her job to give me moral support – and my legal aid lawyer, Ms Malik from Hodge Jones Allen, entered in time to catch the end of the case before mine.

Which wasn’t going well. A red-faced fifty-something man – I saw him as a Del Boy-style stall holder – was shouting at the three magistrates. ‘I can’t pay the fine. You’ve already taken my stock. This is LEGALISED THEFT. You’re all THIEVES’.

Then he turned around and shouted directly at each person in the room. Including his own lawyer, and even me.

‘I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU SAY! THEY’RE ALL THIEVES. THIEVES, I TELL YOU!’

He had to be asked to leave several times.

As I looked at the trio of magistrates, I noticed that the man in the middle did all the talking, while the two women flanking him remained silent. I kept thinking of the day Orlando had to play a special mini-gig in an expensive rehearsal room, the type used for industry showcases. It was solely for the producer of Jools Holland’s ‘Later’. I’ve always resented the way success in music – like in all the arts – depends on fitting the tastes of a small but powerful group of critics, festival bookers, and TV & radio producers. Never mind the passionate letters from lonely teens in Leicester saying your album saved their life; if Jools’s producer doesn’t like you, you’re going down (the dumper).

Like the magistrate, the male producer came flanked with two silent females (possibly co-producers) and sat on a sofa to watch us play a few numbers. We were never invited on the show. In terms of one’s music career, it felt like receiving a court sentence. Or possibly a thumbs down in a Roman arena. Shame. I was rather looking forward to the boogie-woogie piano jam.

My sole contribution to the court proceedings was to stand up and give my name, address, and plea of guilty. Ms Malik did all the rest of the talking on my behalf.

‘This is a contrite young man…’ she said at one point. I was rather pleased with the ‘young’.

She appealed to them to give me a conditional discharge, but after consulting among themselves (a matter of 2 minutes), the magistrates said the amount of the overpayment made that impossible. So I got the curfew and the tag.

After the session, I wandered around Soho in a daze. I called my parents from the Coach & Horses. They were sitting by the phone with their stomachs in knots, of course. I’m not proud.

I considered keeping the whole thing a secret and inventing an excuse for not being able to attend my own club night on August 4th. But I soon ditched that idea as unworkable: far easier to just be honest. So the last few days I’ve been repeating the same words to shocked friends. I’m not quite bored with it all yet, but it’s getting there.

Night 1: Consolatory drinks at the Arts Club with Charlie M and her friends. No tag, but best not to risk it. Back home by nine. Typing up the same answers again and again to people on Facebook. Feels like coming out: you have to keep telling people until everyone you’ve ever known knows. At least Joe off the X Factor does it on the front page of the Sun. Maybe I should just take out an ad in Court Circulars.

Night 2: Thursday. Emma Jackson’s birthday drinks at the Flask in Highgate. Try hard to not make the inevitable answer to ‘What have you been up to lately?’ upstage the birthday girl’s bash. Back home by nine. A woman from the tagging company comes round at quarter to midnight. She gets down on her knees to measure my ankle and fit the tag. I think of scenes from the life of Christ.

Night 3: Friday. Am getting used to walking around with the tag. By a weird coincidence, I lost the feeling in one side of my left ankle last year. Nerve damage after an operation for varicose veins. So by putting the tag there, I can’t actually feel like anything’s changed. Not uncomfortable in the slightest.

I worry about the grey colour, though. It looks too ‘cool’. I am uneasy about appearing ‘cool’, and am careful to point this out when showing people the tag.

Ricky Gervais once suggested that the best way to stop youths collecting ASBOs as badges of honour would be to make the tag bright pink, with the words ‘Mummy’s Little Bender’ in a girlish font across it.

The back of the tagging firm’s leaflet says, in big and friendly lower case:

‘we are here to help you
if you need us – just call!!’

I stare at the double exclamation marks and think far too much about them.

It’s been a while since I was held through the night. No longer. Say hello to my little friend.

He’s moved in along with his Brother, GSM Site Monitoring Unit, and Sister Leaflet.

It’s all so stupid, and it’s all my fault.

A while ago I did some paid work while neglecting to tell the Department For Work And Pensions. I knew I wasn’t entitled to the full dole while it was going on, and suspected I could probably have claimed Back To Work Credits, or Working Tax Credits instead, or a bit of a both. But I did nothing.

Why? Sheer depressive ineptitude. On top of which – my therapist thinks – there’s a dark, childish part of me that wanted to get into trouble. In a rather cowardly, pathetic, defaulter’s way. No action needed. A sin of omission. A cry for help. Society will come to me. And it will hold onto me. I walk through this world in a dream stance. Finally, I have physical proof it exists.

Certainly it wasn’t an attempt to knowingly defraud the system to my own advantage. I’m stupid, but not THAT stupid. While working, I was paying proper tax on the wages, and even I knew that this would show up against my NI number on the government computers. Then they’d sort things out for me, I assumed. They’ll work it out, and I’ll probably have to pay back an overpayment. I can’t think straight enough to sort out my benefits, said the depression, but they will.  They’ll take care of it.

Except by that time I’d run up an overpayment of more than £2000. And it turns out the DWP instantly prosecutes for debts above this amount, even when they’re being paid back.

Which is why this Wednesday I found myself in the City Of Westminster Magistrates’ Court on Horseferry Road, with a legal aid lawyer, pleading guilty to inadvertent benefit fraud.

I didn’t think it’d go as far as an actual punishment. It’s my first ever time in trouble with the law, at the age of 38. I was rather hoping for a conditional discharge, a caution, a fine, and a stern instruction to sort my life out.

To help my case, I provided the court with letters proving a history of clinical depression, for which I’m currently undergoing treatment. A letter from a mental health advocate from the charity Mind. A prescription of 20mg Citalopram daily. An hour with an NHS therapist every Wednesday morning. A certificate from the Expert Patient Programme which I went on earlier this year, which provides help and training in managing one’s long-term illnesses. Regular meetings with a supervisor from the NHS Working For Health programme, who specialises in finding jobs for people like me. She also ensures I’m claiming the right benefits at the right time. From now on.

Added to which, I was already paying back the overpayment. And I was contrite, I was sorry, I was showing remorse (just try and stop me), I was of ‘previously good character’, and I was pleading guilty. All of which pleased the magistrates. But, they said, the amount of the debt still meant a conviction with punishment. No exceptions.

Unpaid community work wasn’t an option, as I’d proven myself to be (a) rather bad at holding down regular work of any kind, and (b) clearly a fragile, child-like, sociopathic sort that makes darts pause in mid-flight. In fact, a tagged curfew was the most lenient option they could give me. The litter patrol was the next step up.

I’d gotten off lightly, they said. You’re lucky. You won’t hear from us again. Just stick to the curfew and it’ll be over. Well, except for the small matter of acquiring a criminal record. But, they assured me, it’s a statutory offence, not a dishonest one. That distinction should make things easier when applying for work, or getting into foreign countries. In theory.

They also fined me £100 for legal costs. And I still have to pay back all of the overpayment.

Last night, at quarter to midnight, a woman from a security firm wearing crime-scene forensic gloves came round to fit the tag. It’s waterproof, so I can bathe and shower in it. I just have to be at home from 9pm to 6am every night from now till August 25th.

I’m fine. Just angry with myself. And unbelievably sorry. I’m sorry to the authorities and the lawyers for taking up their time with this pettiness. I’m sorry to my loving and endlessly supportive parents for putting them through it too. And I’m sorry to the performers, staff and audience at my club night next Weds, who are now going to have to manage without the host and promoter. More of which in the next entry.

The security firm has me down as ‘Richards Edwards’ (sic). Somehow, that’s the most annoying aspect.

Monday eve. To the Gallery at Stoke Newington Library, for a private view with performances. And free Pimms and nibbles, which helps. Suzi L there too.

The gallery is a white-walled village hall shape, with its own surprisingly in-tune piano. I take a fancy to various photographs by Beth Thorne, Francis Brooks and Karin Nilsson, plus a rather good painting of a moose by an artist whose name escapes me.

One woman there is disappointed that I’m not the rich art collector that she assumed I was, given the way I dress (white suit and silk scarf today, 28 degrees C). I’m disappointed I’m not a rich art collector either, frankly. Certainly the minute My Ship Comes In, I’ll spend the surplus on art, rather than classic cars or second homes. Thankfully Beth makes 60p postcards of her work (available from www.lilyfrancis.co.uk), which is really what all artists should do from the off. It’s not real art till it’s on a postcard.

The performers include Vicky Butterfly, in jaw-droppingly beautiful burlesque mode: red petals, dancer’s ribbon, Mercury wing headpieces, Salome beads and straps. Her backing music is a piano instrumental of the Pixies’ ‘Where Is My Mind?’ I always tell people with knee-jerk prejudices about burlesque to go and see Vicky Butterfly first.

Also: an acoustic set from Harmony Boucher, a strikingly beautiful androgynous girl from Australia. Incredibly rich singing voice and stage presence. I happened to see her band a couple of weeks ago while I was running my club, Against Nature. They were playing the noisy indie night next door. Although I’m unlikely to enjoy indie bands these days, I have to admit they impressed me: colourful melodies, sparkling invention, infectious enthusiasm and self-belief. Only problem is their name: Bunny Come.

Still, after a while band names are upstaged by the band’s music, if it’s any good, and the name’s meaning dissolves away. I suppose Bunny Come is no less of a hindrance than Does It Offend You Yeah?, or indeed Selfish C***, both of whom managed to go places. Prefab Sprout are very much a wonderful band with an terrible name. As it is, it could be argued that all band names are embarrassing per se. Or, indeed, that all bands are embarrassing per se. So much about being in a band is just pulling off the appearance of confidence in the face of embarrassment. On paper, Keith Richards is a ludicrous man. U2 are ludicrous people. Anyone who does anything creative or gets on a stage is ludicrous. It’s Ludicrous Poppy Syndrome. The band I, Ludicrous had the most honest name in the history of music.

Completing the confidence over ludicrousness trick is an acoustic set from Kingfishers Catch Fire. William – also one of Beth Thorne’s photo models – on guitar and new member Hinako on tinkly piano. All very impressive in the Nick Drake & Kate Bush corner of things. They cover La Roux’s ‘In For The Kill’, and make it sound like This Mortal Coil’s ‘Song To The Siren’. It’s that good. But covers always worry me. I go up to William afterwards and warn him of the dangers: do a cover version too well and it can make whole groups into one-hit novelty wonders. I think of Candyflip’s baggy take on ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ (WHY do they spring to mind?) or that one who did ‘Mad World’ by Tears For Fears. Him. Or them. Whoever it was. If they ever had any songs of their own, too bad. Filed away with the one song, the focus forever pulled. Happened with Orlando a little, too. We covered Bacharach & David’s ‘Reach Out For Me’ at a few gigs. Cue people coming up to us afterwards.

‘That ‘Reach Out For Me’… That’s the best song you’ve ever written!’

Can’t believe how much time has elapsed since the last entry. If nothing else, putting on a club night forces me to connect with the real world and stops me spiralling into Olympic lethargy.

When organising things via email, I have found that a sound engineer often signs off with ‘cheers mate’, while a promotions officer tends to add little ‘x’s, even though I am not the former’s mate or the latter’s lover. PRs offering kisses sight unseen makes sense, but I wonder why more sound engineers can’t put kisses in their signature too. Heavy lifting shouldn’t necessarily preclude lightness of touch.

I once knew a camp young man who did the sound at a gig venue. He was sacked for apparently not doing a good enough job. Only thing was, his replacement, a more butch, blokier gentleman who favoured tour t-shirts and was no stranger to the phrase ‘you can really taste the hops’, didn’t make the PA sound any better, at least not to my ears. It was neither engineer’s fault: like so many small venue PAs, the sound system was a cheap mess of battered speakers, broken cables and dented microphones stinking of a hundred amateur singers’ gingivitis. There was only so much one could do. The venue manager just wanted to employ someone who looked more like a sound engineer, that was all. All jobs are acting jobs.

All of which leads me to an extremely late plug for tonight’s Against Nature. Here’s the details. I’ve worked out that I need 36 people turning up and paying full price in order to break even. Watch this space tomorrow to find out if I succeed. Better still, come along.

***
AGAINST NATURE
WEDS 7TH JULY 2010
A speakeasy for dressed-up dandies and vintage vamps. DJs provide a rococo mix of easy listening, showtunes, and exotic pop, punctuated by silent movies, eccentric bands and unconventional cabaret.

Performing live this month:

TOM ALLEN
The laconic comedian and star of ‘Bleak Expectations’ airs material from his new Edinburgh show, ‘Toughens Up’. http://www.tomindeed.com/

MR MISTRESS
Gender-blurring star of the boy-lesque scene, performing two separate acts.
http://www.myspace.com/cabaretwhore

OPHELIA BITZ
Performing as her alter ego, Mavarotti. Winner of the UK’s annual drag king contest, King Of The Castle. http://www.myspace.com/opheliabitz

Plus guest DJs SOPHIA WYETH and host DICKON EDWARDS

Doors 8pm.
Live acts 9.30pm-11.45pm.
Dancing to 1am.
Door charge: £5 before 10pm. £7 after.

DRESS CODE (optional but preferred): Vintage & dandy-esque.

VENUE:
Proud Camden (South Gallery)
The Horse Hospital, Stables Market, Chalk Farm Rd, London NW1 8AH.
Tel: 020 7482 3867.
http://www.proudcamden.com/