I look at my appointments diary and muse on the sentiment of the Fosca song, ‘I’ve Agreed To Something I Shouldn’t Have’. Half jokey and half rueful, it’s a feeling I still get at the moment, which I need to let go of more often.

These days, lots of people I know use the Facebook website for event invitations, where you’re encouraged to RSVP by clicking on the boxes marked Yes, No, or Maybe. I find it too easy to brood on this, more aware than ever how life is riddled with the results of paths that should have been taken but weren’t, of life-improving opportunities passed up in favour of something else that seemed more attractive at the time, and of a constant worrying about missing out. I want there to be a fourth box. Yes, No, Maybe, and a quote from a St Christopher song: ‘You Deserve More Than A Maybe’.

When people talk of ‘settling down’, they really mean settling for. It’s such a twenty-something concern, the rush to not miss out. Life past the age of thirty (and thirty-five) seems to be more about coming to terms with the things you’ll never do – because you just won’t have the time or money or energy – and learning to not mind so much. But from the second I wake up every day, the minding begins. A sea of minding.

I suppose what I want is someone around purely to boss me about and tell me what to do, to stand behind me glaring over my shoulder, to make sure I do it. Otherwise, I sleep through the alarm clock yet again, even though I went to bed early, and yet another morning fails to exist. And the rest of the day is full of worrying about doing a thousand things, rather than working on and finishing just one.

I’ve just switched phone companies in order to get cheaper broadband – which is as blokey and as normal as I get – and Bathos Telecom have just charged me £4.50 for NOT setting up a Direct Debit in time. It’s as if they’re the bank or the tax man, not a private company which doesn’t even have a monopoly. Being charged for not doing something: the symbolism of it all.

Still, shops do it too, with their bullying loyalty cards. The sad awfulness of the single man in the queue asked for a Tesco Club Card, and of the poor staff having to front the management’s petty requests for them. I’ve done that job too, though. Served my time in the world of less fun but necessary jobs. Bristol circa 1991, stacking shelves, on the counter with a name badge. Richard rather than Dickon, to avoid the jokes.

Tesco Cashier: (automatically, barely there) “Do you want a free voucher for school clothes”?
Me: No thanks, I’m… barren.

Which is me blurting out an excuse, rather than trying to be funny. But the response surprises us both, and she laughs. Hers is a lovely laugh too, individual as a fingerprint. Individuality and laughter in the queue at Tesco: all things are indeed still possible.

Listen to Paul Morley’s Radio 2 Documentary on Twee Pop. It’s great to hear the music and reminisces from those involved, though I’m not a fan of Mr Morley’s ersatz post-modern presenting style; it’s as if he’s saying ‘all music documentaries are essentially compromised and contrived, so let’s meander back and forth in a messy fashion for the sake of it’. I far prefer him as a wry guest or talking head on other people’s programmes.

At one point he even admits he’s asked Amelia Fletcher to sit there and listen while he spouts his pontifications on The Meaning Of Twee. It’s like the people at Q&A events who always put their hand up to say ‘Don’t you think that…’ before going on for ten minutes, essentially pleased with the opportunity to air their own mini-thesis, with no thought for others present. Save us from the questioner who doesn’t want to hear an answer.

Besides, these days such a need is more easily sated. If you have a burning desire to express an unsolicited theory on a subject, you don’t impose it on a captive audience in an interview or Q&A session. You write it down in a blog. Then your theory will be more likely to attract all the people in the world who might give a fig about it. Or not. I always find it funny when some blog comments complain about an entry being a waste of space.

Interesting how Edwyn Collins’s post-stroke singing voice is still more in tune and less wavering than his early Orange Juice singing voice, which was once described by a friend as ‘Bryan Ferry being tickled.’

As an example of more recent alleged tweeness (surely it’s more an aesthetic than a genre?), Mr Morley includes ‘Hey Lloyd I’m Ready To Be Heartbroken’ by Camera Obscura.

He makes some comments about the implied anti-girlishness prejudice of male music critics: tweeness as a pejorative, Sarah Records equalling femininity, thus weakness, and thus blanket condemnation. But what he doesn’t remark upon is how that Camera Obscura song has since been used in the opening credits of unabashed chick-flick PS I Love You, starring Hilary Swank. It was a massive hit with female audiences, and  topped the DVD charts despite the critics – particularly male critics – absolutely trashing it in their reviews. One of the words in their cruel weaponry: twee.

The documentary’s online here:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/musicclub/doc_musicalgenres.shtml

I could say a fair amount about my own Twee Pop Past, I suppose. What comes to mind right now is a rather clever t-shirt from that scene, parodying a popular and fashionable design for the band Inspiral Carpets. The Inspirals’ t-shirt, as worn by a million youths circa 1989, featured a cartoon cow’s face, with the slogan ‘Cool As F—‘. An attendant speech bubble also had the cow saying ‘Moo!’ It was the must-have garment of its day.

This spoof t-shirt sported an archetypal Twee Pop girl in a flowery dress and child-like bob haircut (possibly with a hairslide), smiling cutely and holding a guitar. The caption was ‘Twee As F—‘. Her speech bubble: ‘Ooh!

In her own blog, Rachel S has written about music from her Twee Pop past, complete with cute photos. DM boots, shades, floral dress. It’s a look I could never quite carry off myself:

http://millionreasons.livejournal.com/214412.html?style=mine

Saturday evening: two wined-up parties in a row, necessitating a Sunday of hangover and recovery, though it’s not one I regret.

First up is Dedalus Books’s 25th anniversary do, held at the Camberwell home of the publisher’s chairman, Juri. It takes me a fair while to get down there (a long single tube ride from Highgate to Oval, then a bus), but it means I get to watch people coming and going on the train, in the process of going to their various Saturday night parties. At one point a couple of large ladies in army camouflage gear get on, clearly off to a dress-up party. One of them accidentally jabs me in the ribs with her plastic baton.

At the next stop another lady gets on dressed as Wonder Woman, or rather Wonder Woman’s more worn-out-looking cousin, en route to a different dressing-up soiree. I myself am in a cravat and tie-pin and make-up added to the usual suit, my eventual destination also a dress-up event, White Mischief. But given I’m in the presence of far more outre attires during this early evening Tube journey, for once I feel relatively inconspicuous.

Within minutes of arriving at the Camberwell do, I’m put to use in my capacity as an allegedly able-bodied young-ish man. Host Juri, an older gentleman, has put his back out, so I carry a couple of cases of wine up the cellar stairs for him. It’s the closest I’ve come to manual labour in a long time.

I chat to Wynd (from the Last Tuesday Society), and to Rowan Pelling, who’s there with her newborn – and impressively quiet – baby son. Fortuitously, after the Dedalus do she’s getting a lift to King’s Cross in order to catch her train home to Cambridge. King’s Cross is where I have to be for White Mischief, so I jammily find myself sharing a very pleasant and fast – and free – car ride between both parties, rather than having to negotiate the Tube at chucking-out time. In fact, after I finish my DJ set at 3AM, I take a perfectly calm and quiet Night Bus home, and save myself a taxi fare too. What I have to remind myself is that it’s only the hours between 10PM and 3AM that public transport can be an ordeal of noise and intimidation for the lone traveller. After 3 in the morning, either the archetypal lager-saturated youths are far too tired to raise hell, or they’ve already gone home.

Thus, happiness is either an early night, or a very late one.

When I get to White Mischief in time for my DJ stint (midnight to 3, with a band in the middle), the Scala is packed with dressed-up beauties in exotic takes on Victoriana, the theme being ‘Around The World In Eighty Days’. I’m immensely grateful to the stage manager for keeping me topped up with bottles of water while I DJ, as the temperature is absolutely stifling. My real sympathies go to the wearers of corsets.

One chap asks me about what he assumes is a cover of Tom Lehrer’s ‘Masochism Tango’, one of my DJ selections. It’s actually Lehrer himself, albeit in the studio with a full backing band and orchestra. The more familiar Lehrer recordings are from his live concerts, where’s it’s just him and a piano, plus the audience laughing at every droll couplet. Both versions are included in the excellent box set, The Remains Of Tom Lehrer.

***

Pleased to see the blog Indie-MP3.co.uk reviewing the Fosca album:

Fosca have always been a band that I have liked the idea of. Led by Dickon Edwards, the self styled ‘dandy and fop’. I was always wary that the band were more style than substance. I’d seen the band a few times down the years and they were always ‘ok’ – occasionally hitting giddy heights – but I had a nagging doubt that they weren’t quite the real deal.

Which makes me wonder, what exactly is ‘the real deal’? What are the hours like? Is there heavy lifting?

“I’ve Agreed to Something I Shouldn’t Have” … it’s everything that Fosca should be, a little pomp and a fair bit of swagger – like an indiepop Morrissey. Elsewhere on “The Painted Side of The Rocket” it’s fair to say that Fosca have finally made a record that matches their previous promise. They’ve finally delivered a record that has the songs and sounds to match their ambitious reach. ‘Head Boy’ is a great swirl of pop music. The influence of Luke Haines seems evident throughout and Dickon Edwards’s songs echo the wordplay and Englishness that Black Box Recorder revelled in.

Actually, I’m not as familiar with Luke Haines’s work as some people might think. In fact, the director of the movie Christie Malry’s Own Double Entry was at the Dedalus party this weekend, and I was reminded that Mr Haines provided the soundtrack album. But I only know that from reading music mags: I’ve yet to hear the soundtrack, or see the film. But should I now do so, given I sound so Haines-esque already? Would that be a redundancy, or incest, or a consolidation?

I bump into John Moore (of Black Box Recorder) from time to time, so it’s true I get invited to the same parties as Luke Haines’s collaborators, if not the man himself. Maybe that’s the influence: by osmosis from party invites.

More from the review:

Fosca’s third LP has made me take notice of a band that I had consigned to the nearly but not quite pile. Take a listen for yourself – on the band’s MySpace page. “The Painted Side of The Rocket” was a pleasant surprise and one more people should hear.

Which is nice. Then there’s a comment added to the review by a reader:

I don’t hate it, but I can’t love it… I’m not sure what it is. I think the lyrics just make my toes curl in that very uneasy way. It’s hard to put a finger on what’s wrong with it. The music is quite fine, it seems.

The reviewer replies:

I’d definitely advise trying before buying their back catalogue. I think this is their best record – but I haven’t played the earlier ones a whole lot – as I couldn’t connect with it. This one made a better impression.

That’s good to know. Interesting about making music in order to forge a connection with others, a reaching out. That was certainly the intention with Orlando, and some older Fosca songs. I’d say the new album is more about making something that didn’t otherwise exist, but which I wished existed, exist. The album connects with me, at least.

It’s the same reason that I started an online diary before the dawn of blogging: I feel more real when something I write is put out there in the world. In this case it’s songs on a real CD in real shops. That’s the Dickon Real Deal.

Currently cat-sitting and flat-sitting in Holloway once more, while recovering from a minor operation on my shoulder. I’ve had a suspicious-looking mole removed, just in case. Though I’m arguably London’s most sun-avoiding man (even the Camden Goths go out in the noonday sun, particularly by the canal), I never put anything past Nature’s sense of irony.

One of the more medical downsides of living alone is that there’s no one to notice any changes to your body’s blind spots. Doctors ask you to check your skin moles for changes, but what if they’re on the areas of your back or shoulders where it’s difficult to see them, even with a mirror? Admittedly, it’s not much of a chat-up line: ‘What I’m looking for in a relationship is someone to keep an eye on my less accessible moles.’

***

To the Natural History Museum’s new butterflies exhibition to try and catch their rare dual-gender moth. Alas, the poor thing has died of old age, after about a week. It’s known as a gynandromorph rather than a hermaphrodite, as both genders are present but half-formed. The moth is neither one thing nor the other. In fact, the gender split is right down the moth’s body, so it has a boy wing and a girl wing.

Info: http://www.nhm.ac.uk/about-us/news/2008/may/news_14417.html

Still, the rest of the exhibition is a delight anyway: an educational children’s maze followed by a more adult-friendly hothouse where all manner of colourful butterflies flutter around one’s head unfettered.

I also take a peek at the museum’s Darwin’s Canopy show, which features various artists’ proposals for a permanent ceiling design, based on a Darwin theme. Though a panel of judges decides the winner, there’s a guestbook wall for visitors to nominate their favourite on slips of paper – or say anything else they like.

I rather like Mark Fairnington’s panels of animal eyes, a simple idea which gazes down on visitors while encouraging them to guess which animal belongs to which eye. This seems more in keeping with the NHM’s reputation for providing things to do for kids. And Darwin was, after all, a detective.

But going by the wall of pinned slips, the runaway favourite is the offering by United Visual Artists: a sculptured mass of foliage around a sun-like globe, based on a 3D computer simulation of growth.

Info: http://www.nhm.ac.uk/visit-us/whats-on/temporary-exhibitions/darwins-canopy/artists/index.html

Then to the former Truman Brewery in Brick Lane, for Middlesex University’s Art & Design Degree Show. Phoebe Allen’s coursework includes a series of photos of myself, posing around Hoxton as if for a fashion magazine shoot. Happy to be of modelling use to friends, this is the second time I’ve seen my face on the wall of a degree show. Last time it was Central St Martin’s.

***

Other social events lately: a club night at the Green Carnation bar in Greek Street where the DJs are three generations of women from the Parkin family. Turban-topped Molly Parkin (in her 70s), daughter Sophie (40s), and granddaughter Carson (late teens). The clientele spans the generations accordingly and the night is given a rather delicious pun: ‘The Parkin Lot’. Turns out that the Green Carnation is a Wilde-themed gay bar, but without the requisite piles of Boyz or The Pink Paper, or loud dance music pumping away. The upstairs bar has plenty of plush sofas and armchairs, fireplaces, upholstered panelling and tasteful wallpaper, all with the look of a Victorian salon. A new place to meet friends, then.

While Molly Parkin is DJ-ing, John Moore tells me he’s thinking of asking her to play Bo Diddley. I presume he is referring to Mr Diddley’s recent demise, only later I discover the legendary musician was actually one of Parkin Senior’s paramours.

My source is this article by Sophie P, concerning the lot of an erotic adventurer’s offspring:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-452348/Oh-mum-PLEASE-stop-talking-sex-life.html

***

A Fosca track review from the blog In Love With These Times, In Spite Of These Times:

http://kisschase.blogspot.com/2008/05/highgate-cemetery-in-rain-theres-ever.html

Fosca “We See The World As Our Stunt Doubles”

Talking of million-year waits… they’re back, you know, with a new album called “The Painted Side of the Rainbow”. What this rather spangly should-be single is off of… We would argue that Fosca are needed more than ever before.

Rather apt that the blog entry starts off talking about Highgate.

Everyone else seems to be watching The Apprentice at the moment. Including the strangers who tell me what I look like:

‘You remind me of Rafe from The Apprentice‘ – said to me by a man in the Boogaloo the other day.

I’m not a fan of The Apprentice, so this is lost on me. All I know about Alan Sugar is that he reminds me of the officers in Catch 22. The ones who offer Yossarian everything he wants: get him out of war, give him a medal, be a hero back home, if he only does one thing for them… ‘Like us’. Mr Sugar knows that money can’t buy love, or make a dull rich man any less dull, but it can buy TV stardom, and so it can buy TV love.

As reality TV shows go, I prefer Big Brother‘s shameless encouragement of dayglo, party-girl narcissism. Rather that than a programme where everyone’s heart’s desire is to tug their forelocks and defer to a successful businessman who wants to be on TV, in TV studios pretending to be boardrooms.

I’d only agree to be on the show if I could bring a camel and a giant needle with me.

***

Wednesday night: with Ms S to Holloway Odeon for the Sex And The City movie. Something of a current hot ticket, as we plump for Holloway after failing to get into showings at three other cinemas the same evening. Our preferred venues, Islington Vue, Bethnal Green Rich Mix, and Barbican Screen are all sold out in advance. And as we go in to take our seats, there’s a tannoy announcement that Holloway has sold out too, and we pass a queue of disappointed couples and women on a girls’ night out, now having to decide whether the latest Cameron Diaz romcom would be an adequate substitute.

Unlike those artier areas of London where you’re never more than ten feet from a discussion about The Kite Runner, Holloway Road’s pavements are resentful at best, putting the tension in unpretension. I don’t take it personally: the street glowers at everyone regardless, with its unruly length and width, struggling not to be known as somewhere to go through, rather than go to. It’s not quite rough with a capital R, but neither is it up there on the Top 10 Happiest Roads Of London chart.

Accordingly, Holloway Odeon is no stranger to the requisite bored, aggressively unquiet teenagers who go in order to throw popcorn at other people with one hand, while having loud mobile phone conversations with the other. Last time I was there, two girls down the front kept turning round to point at me and discuss my own appearance among themselves – and on their mobile phones – rather than watch the film. And this was in the dark. Admittedly, the film in question was the third Pirates Of The Caribbean flick, full of actors who seemed curiously distanced from the watery antics themselves, but I digress.

Although the Sex And The City movie isn’t exactly Citizen Kane, or even Citizen Carrie, the film is still a definite event. Its roaring success despite lukewarm reviews – and despite the high price of cinema seats – says something about current trends in what people want from their movie-going.

The first scene of the SATC film depicts the main characters sitting around discussing Naomi Klein’s book No Logo. Then they start seeing Western consumerist greed for what it is, boycotting designer labels, and finally donning burkhas and veils and converting to fundamentalist Islam, where they find true happiness… because they’re worth it.

Well, okay, no it doesn’t. That’s the whole point. Some films offer a journey to somewhere you’ve never been. Others take you along a tried and tested, familiar and favourite route to a known destination. This is very much in the latter camp, in every sense.

Whether it’s Indiana Jones 4, The Simpsons Movie, or adaptations of the Harry Potter books, these films celebrate – and exploit – past conversions to previously existing material. They turn cinema audiences into congregations of the faithful. They are made, quite simply, for fans. Cinema tickets are so expensive, after all, so why risk any surprises?

What happens is that by trying so hard to please the fans and carry no surprises, such films let the fans down. The fans want it the same as it was, except different. Except not too different. It won’t be as good as it was, but they’ll go along and buy it anyway. But there’ll always be a certain settling-for feeling.

Angry Fans: That was so formualaic.

Studio: But we thought you were fans of that formula?

Angry Fans: We are. We just want it different. But not too different.

Studio: (sulkily) Well, why don’t you just write your own wretched movies or novels?

Angry Fans: Have you seen the Internet lately? Fan fiction, you know…

Studio: But that’s breach of copyright. Invent your own characters!

Angry Fans: But we want to see THOSE characters…

Studio: Well, they’re OUR characters.

Angry Fans: But we know them better than you do.

***

And so on. I keep thinking of a quote by Stevie Smith.

Fan: I loved your last novel and can’t wait to read another.

Stevie Smith: Well, read it again, then.

One exception to this diminishing returns rule is the revived Doctor Who series. I think one of the reasons for its success is that it forgets about pleasing the fans, and concentrates on pleasing non-fans. Which means the old fans can finally feel less alone.

Unlike The Apprentice, I ‘get’ Sex And The City. It’s not about happiness through the pursuit of wealth, ruthless enterprise and never turning your back on Sir Alan Sugar. It’s more about allowing the pursuit of expensive things because they’re pretty and shiny expensive things. And providing a few dirty laughs doesn’t hurt. Maybe I don’t care for The Apprentice because it’s just not funny, or pretty and shiny. Sir Alan has all that money, but does he even once experiment with a new lipgloss? Or even once wear a gold lame suit? No.

What the SATC film IS like is a box-ticking reunion gig for fans of the TV series. Except, curiously, there’s far less bawdy conversation. Some of the TV episodes actually broke a few Tynan-esque taboos concerning the various ins and outs of, well, ins and outs. Though the movie has a few Rabelaisian moments, not least one particular instance of male nudity, there’s still far less sexual content than you’d find in an average arthouse drama.

It used to be the case that you had to go to the cinema for more sexual content than TV would allow, and TV would only show such movies in frustratingly bowdlerised versions. These days, it’s all on (and all out) on late night TV, particularly the digital and cable channels. While in the cinema the money-making factor is now so important that any racier scenes that might pare down audience numbers have to go. More bums on screen equals fewer bums on seats.

Even so-called sex comedies like American Pie have to hold something back, in order to sell the DVD to people who have already seen the movie. Inevitably, the DVD cover comes emblazoned with promises of extra naughtiness.

But the sexed-down Sex And The City film still makes for a memorable night out. The latter-day Mae West quips are present and correct, and the designer clothes are given their widescreen due.

But my most abiding memory is of the audience around me. Not just overwhelmingly female, but fans of the series, and so happy to be there in the first place, particularly when the film is selling out so quickly every night. The Odeon shakes with hundreds of women laughing uproariously, or cooing ‘Awww…!’ or cheering and breaking out into applause. I feel unusually safe and comforted – mothered, even – in this huge dark cave of happy ladies.

Then I remember what else this area is known for. Around the corner from the cinema is HMP Holloway. Another huge dark cave of ladies. Albeit less happy.

Photo from the Guardian, from Saturday night’s Tube drinking spree. I suppose this is the Tube equivalent of stealing traffic cones:

I wonder what they’re saying to each other?

Woman on left: When Boris put up posters all over the tube announcing a drinking ban at midnight, but with weeks to go, it was like a red rag to a Blue Nun…

Woman on right: And oh, the irony of the Circle Line’s ‘vacuum flask’ look on the map… Good old Harry Beck! Here’s to topological design classics!

Boy In Middle: Actually, the ‘flask’ look wasn’t in Beck’s original 1933 design, it was a revision by a later designer, Paul Garbutt.

Woman on right: If you’re going to split hairs, I’ll glass your face.
***

Today’s Evening Standard front page headline: ‘TUBE DRINKING BINGE LEADER IS CITY BANKER’. The photo is of a dinner-jacketed man, looking like a Steve Bell cartoon of a stereotypical 1980s yuppie, standing in a Tube carriage, raising a glass of champagne to the camera.

The Standard reveals this apparent ringleader ‘did it because a female friend who worked for Ken Livingstone lost her job following Boris Johnson’s election victory.’

It’s impossible that any single person was behind all of the revelry, of course, given it was a more a whispered ‘pass it on’ wheeze rather than anything else. But that’s the thing about chaos: you can take from it what you want. Including a causal argument that completely demolishes the point any protesters were trying to make about responsible drinking. Says the editorial:

‘The Mayor’s prompt delivery on his Tube ban is welcome… Alcohol bans on public transport are an inevitable result of the inability of some drinkers, like those on Saturday, to drink responsibly.’

But the Saturday night train-based boozing wouldn’t have happened if the ban hadn’t been trumpeted in the first place. Why didn’t Boris just quietly bring the ban into action with immediate effect? Why not at, say, 11am on a Tuesday morning rather than midnight on a Saturday?

Well, to remove freedom from people, it helps to encourage people to act as if they need to have their freedom removed. Clever stuff. So Boris is made to look smarter than ever, while Londoners – and as the Standard insists, Livingstone voters – are painted as naughty, stupid children that need to have their privileges taken away.

A paradox of causality: a protest used to justify the thing it’s protesting against.

But this is all part of a much longer trend in treating people en masse like naughty children. From the Quiet Carriage signs that seem to invite bad behaviour rather than prevent it, to a set of other Tube posters – brought in under Ken – which depict a series of cartoon baby-like figures promising ‘I won’t have my music on too loud’, ‘I’ll offer you my seat’ ‘And I’ll say thank you’.

The only response allowed – and encouraged – seems to be one of Pavlovian reaction. A drinking ban on the Tube provokes… irresponsible drinking on the Tube. Unhappiness with Labour equals Conservative landslides. To exercise free will, people are currently meant to react only in terms that consolidate whatever it is they’re reacting against. Whether it’s knee-jerk Conservatives or knee-jerk Anti-Conservatives (and knee-jerk liberals), as long as the knee is jerking to a worse option – for the sake of option at all – it can’t be good.

From all accounts, I understand there were plenty of mini-parties taking place on the Tube of perfectly harmless, responsible, light-hearted and fluffy-tailed (and in the case of Boris-dressed groups, fluffy-wigged) young people enjoying themselves, and having fun without others suffering; special hats off to young Ally Moss and her portable brush and dustpan alongside her evening dress. But – sigh – the majority of coverage goes to the archetypal loutish lads and ladettes. The meek shall never inherit the headlines.

Admittedly, my whole philosophy is to be wary of crowds, fashions, crazes and trends, and resist the herd instinct, however well-meaning it might appear. There is danger in numbers. And not much opportunity for individual style, either.

Well, unless it suits me, of course. If the Facebook-based Flash Mob is now the only true way to make hordes of young people act en masse, I wonder if I should start a group there called ‘Sock It To Boris and Feel Part Of Something – Buy The New Fosca Album!’

A quick plug I promised to Wynd of the Last Tuesday Society. He’s promoting a play about the life of that decadent hero – or anti-hero – Stephen Tennant.

Mr Tennant was a 1920s Bright Young Thing – i.e. a full-time socialite who at the time was famous for being famous. He appeared in novels by Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford, canoodled with Siegfried Sassoon, then spent the rest of his life in bed. Essentially, if it’s 1920s England, and there’s a camp male character who’s entertaining but doomed, it’s probably based on him.

The Immortal Dropout- A Monologue devised by Hugo Vickers.

Date: 2 & 4 June 2008, at 7pm. Doors open 6.30pm.

Venue: The Cabaret Room at Bistrotheque, 27 Wadeson Street, London E2 9DR – transformed into Stephen Tennant’s bedroom at Wilsford Manor.

Tickets £10 (limited availability) from www.thelasttuesdaysociety.org

A monologue in two short acts. Stephen Tennant, once the brightest of the Bright Young Things, lived at Wilsford Manor all his life. Once a family home, filled with conversation, chatter and laughter, it is now the retreat of its lonely owner, who chooses to spend most of his time in his bedroom, mulling over his life, the people he has known, and his literary endeavours and enjoyments. Stephen Tennant is played by Charles Duff, an international actor, director, author and lecturer, who was raised in Stephen Tennant’s milieu.

The play then transfers to the Jermyn Street Theatre in the West End, from 28 July to 2 August.

Recommended reading: Philip Hoare’s biography Serious Pleasures. Now something of a cult read, I’ve seen it cited as a favourite book by both the bar manager at the Boogaloo and Little Britain’s David Walliams. All of which makes sense.

Just found this review of the Hoare book by film director John Waters, from 1991:

Aubrey Beardsley, Ronald Firbank, Denton Welch — believe me, Stephen Tennant made them all seem butch.

I am stopped outside Archway tube station by a beggar who strongly resembles Karl Howman, star of the 80s sitcom Brush Strokes and several long-running adverts for Flash household cleaning products. If it is Karl Howman, his life has clearly taken a turn for the worse. And he’s now acquired a strong Scottish accent.

‘Excuse me? Excuse me. Hey, Billy Idol! Only joking. You’re better looking than Billy Idol. Nice suit. Can you tell me how to get to Glasgow from here? Only joking. That’s what I do. I tell people jokes for a pound. Okay?’

At this point he has put his face a little too close to mine. And I’m effectively pinned up against the wall of what used to be Abbey National.

‘Well…’

‘No, here we go. A joke for a pound, right? That’s fair, eh? Okay, did you hear the one about the Jewish Santa Claus? You’re not Jewish, are you? I mean, I think if we can’t laugh at ourselves WHO CAN WE LAUGH AT, right? So, okay, did you hear about the Jewish Santa Claus?’

‘Um… No.’

‘The Jewish Santa Claus comes down the chimney and says to all the kids, “So where’s all the f***king presents, then?” Oh, wait – I messed that last bit up. But anyway, c’mon, that’s worth a pound isn’t it? C’mon.’

Out of sheer terror more than anything else, I hand over the pound. Karl Howman pats me rather too hard on the shoulder and lets me go.

I come away from this encounter with a inexplicable urge to boycott Flash cleaning products.

Just as the Summer Bank Holiday weather is an English cliche – freezing rain – I spend mine mostly indoors, doing the equally corny and blokey Bank Holiday activity of 21st Century DIY – to wit, backing-up my computer’s hard drive. It is necessary, mind, as the iBook’s weird crashing effect is recurring to the point where the thing is impossible to use, and I now have to take it in for repairs. Am typing this up in an internet cafe in Highgate.

So over the weekend I go through all the mp3s, photos and text documents I’ve accumulated in the two years since I bought the laptop, listening to as much of the music as possible before deciding to copy it onto CDR or delete it. All the various Fosca mixes and demos take up enough space as it is, and I guess they do need to be archived (why? I should just delete the demos too), but there’s also the music by others that I somehow feel I need to have at my disposal. I’d managed to build up about 12 days’ worth of continuous sound. Thousands of songs, over 10GB of computer memory. That’s not an achievement, it’s a symptom.

And so the old arguments raise their heads. Just how much Leonard Cohen does one person need? How many albums by The Fall or Stereolab are entirely necessary? The answer, of course, is none. Or, if you ask any of their fans, all of them. And once again I’m finding myself in that whittling-down argument: it’s just as well I’m not a Fall fan, because if I were, I’d have to own all their albums. And I don’t want to own all their albums.

After hours – days – of this dithering and choosing, I end up wishing I didn’t like music at all. Which is ridiculous – you can like music without having to collect the wretched stuff in quantity. I should just delete the lot and go out and talk to human beings. But I don’t.

I’m currently reading Ted Hughes’s Collected Letters, which contain (as one would expect) more than a few ruminations on Modern Man falling out of step with Nature. There’s an instance where he’s visiting a village in Africa, remarking enviously how the local fisherman seem so entirely happy with their lives, as they don’t want for anything they haven’t already got. They live in the moment. Though admittedly, it’s a fairly fish-based moment.

Thing is, I don’t think of myself as acquisitive, or even much of a collector. My problem is more that I hoard things automatically, then find it so hard to know what to throw out. I still feel the need to own SOME music. When I’m not looking, it quickly turns into Too Much, and the upshot is I’m sitting alone in a room in Highgate at 3AM, staring at a screen, fiddling with blank CDs, trying to work out the exact degree to how much I do or don’t like Martha Wainwright.

I bristle at this very English – and very male – connection I’ve made between liking things and having to own them. I think of that stereotypical view of Englishmen that other countries are meant to hold. That we all have (a) bad teeth, (b) collect things needlessly, and (c) are secretly homosexual.

Well, two out of three isn’t bad.

(wait for it…)

I’ve had my teeth fixed.

This iBook laptop is starting to throw worrying little fits. Without warning, the display suddenly darkens to black (as if I were pressing the F1 key), the windows slide away to the Desktop – and keep sliding back and forth after that (the equivalent of repeatedly pressing the F11 key), any discs in the drive are ejected (F12), and most annoyingly, if I’m writing, the cursor deletes some text or the web browser flips back in its history several pages. It’s as if a ghost is leaning over my shoulder and merrily bashing several keys at once. I fear an expensive trip to a Mac repair shop may be on the cards.

***

Last night: to a pub quiz at the Prince Of Wales in Highgate Village. Pub quizzes are of course deeply unflattering, but it’s really an excuse to catch up with the friends who invited me: Rhoda, David B, Anna S, Miriam. We come about halfway in the final scores. My contributions include the following:

– the ‘Grumpy Old Man’ who wrote the play An Evening With Gary Lineker is Arthur Smith.
– the 1970 children’s film whose child star appeared in a 2000 remake is The Railway Children (Ms Agutter being the star).
– the 80s Oscar-mopping David Lean film is A Passage To India.

More than a few questions about sport, which I always know nothing about. It’s that very mid-30s sentiment:

I am glad I do not like football.
Because if I liked it, I would have to watch it.
And I hate it.

Heading past the age of 35, there’s a crossing out process. You find things not to like – and let them fall happily through your fingers like water. It’s okay not to have an opinion about The Foals (or whatever trendy band people in their 20s are meant to have an opinion about). It’s okay if, like my hairdresser, you never watch movies – at all – because life is short and you’d rather watch football. You get a stronger sense of what you DO like, and if something doesn’t seize your heart at once, you shrug it off rather than waste time forcing yourself to like it.

Books take on a page limit – if you don’t care about the story by the time you’ve hit Page 50, you put the book down and look for one which DOES keep you reading. It is the author’s fault, not yours. There is the worry that you may be missing out on The Perfect Book, coupled with the dawning realisation that you’re never going to read everything. If you’ve ever wanted to read Proust, for instance, you feel you should probably give it a go sooner rather than later. So this whittling-down process takes on a new urgency.

But whereas the youthful version is a shrugging, sulky ‘whatever’ or ‘bothered?’, the late thirtysomething’s act of letting things go has a certain slinky serenity. Other people will always do the football-liking thing for you. You see the world as your stunt doubles.

‘No, no, you go ahead, dear boy. That football won’t watch itself.’

***

Some noting down of overdue events. Recent nights of over-indulgence: twice at the Boogaloo with Mr MacGowan, once at the Idler party on May 1st, in Clerkenwell. My attendant hangovers last throughout the following day. I do like to go out for a few drinks, but can’t manage more than once or twice a week. Physically as much as fiscally.

The Idler bash on Clerkenwell Green – which is more of a traffic island than a green – involves May Day festivities: prancing performers in medieval dress, acting out St George & The Dragon antics with the requisite dragon head prop, lutes and bawdy singing, plus a real roast pig on a spit. While this is going on, I spy a more latter-day attired man in jeans – who is clearly NOT part of the event – passing among the crowd and furtively offering bootleg DVDs for sale. A very 2008 sight juxtaposed with the medieval. The spotted and the chatted-to include Neil Scott, Rhodri Marsden, Salena Godden, John Moore, Sophie Parkin, Susan Corrigan, Sean Hughes, David Quantick, Tom Hodgkinson.

Boogaloo the other day. At one point I find myself sitting among famous drinkers. Shane MacGowan on my left, Johnny Vegas on my right. A drinking musician and a drinking comedian. I introduce myself to Mr Vegas. He looks me up and down.

‘Your name’s Dickon? Blond hair, pinstriped suit? I’m sorry, but if I took you back to my parents it would be The End of Christmas. They’d say, “You’re never going to London again!”‘

***

A Spanish blog has reviewed the Fosca album, and I’ve put the text through the Babelfish web translator in an attempt to read it. Needless to say, this will always produce a combination of inadvertent humour, odd poetry and gibberish, but I particularly like the results on this occasion:

Somebody remembers Orlando? No, the graceful ones do not become: it did not refer to me to Orlando Marconi but to the pioneering English group of that one moved that the pirate press had denominated like Romo. Good, the singer of Orlando (what it is sharp well with English accent: Orlandou…) Dickon was called (and still it is called) Edwards. After to separate the mentioned band that failed in great form it formed Fosca with a select group of London musicians. The first rule that maintained is the strict one ‘prohibited to use slippers’. It is not a joke, not: it is an obsession of Dickon not to ‘espores’ (entrerriano pure) or, as a Uruguayan would say, the championes. Both first discs of Fosca were produced by Ian Catt of Saint Etienne. After years that happened remote of music wrote for magazines besides some longer article and several tests. It was rumored on his endeble health and, after all that, it recorded the third disc of Fosca in a cellar of Hackney. The result is one of best learned discs indie-MGP of the last pair of years, the influences are extensive but always within the scope of the MGP British, by far of The Smiths, The Cure, The Pastels, Orange Juice, the Pulp de Separations and Freaks and also something of Momus. Notable.

(from eloasisdelta.blogspot.com)