That Dutch newspaper article on my dandyism has led to new adventures. The Hague’s Gemeentemuseum has asked if I could lend them one of my suits. It’s to go put on public display as part of an exhibition on male fashion and style, ‘The Ideal Man’, running from late July to October.

http://www.gemeentemuseum.nl/index.php?id=035553&langId=en

I’ll be delivering the suit in person two days before the show opens, staying in town for the opening on July 26th. The museum are covering my travel and hotel costs, so I’m treating it as a small holiday.

Never been to the Hague before. Lots of museums, including one devoted to MC Escher, that DJ of mathematical art (“MC Escher in the house! Make some infinite noise!”).

I do hope his museum has lots of impossible staircases spiralling upon themselves. I want to stand on them and shout Peter Davison’s cliffhanger line from the Doctor Who tale, ‘Castrovalva’. The Doctor and his companions (there’s about 79 of them at this point) become trapped in a real-life version of an Escher town, with all exits leading right back to the entrances. He explains what’s happened to his companions, as the episode ends:

“Recursive Occlusion! Someone’s manipulating Castrovalva! WE’RE CAUGHT IN A SPACE-TIME TRAP!”

On the Castrovalva DVD, there’s an out-take of the director forcing Mr Davison to ham up this line until it rises to a sufficently hysterical pitch. But it’s not hammy acting, he insists in the commentary (with an endearing degree of self-mockery), it’s TV cliffhanger acting. The two are often confused.

The Gemeentemuseum has asked me to make my own travel arrangements. So I’ve been doing a bit of travel research and have plumped for the Harwich ferry, with trains either side. Partly because one’s meant to be more ‘carbon efficient’ and cut back on flying where possible; partly because I’ve flown abroad about eight times in the last two and a half years and want to try the path less travelled. I’ve done Eurostar before, but never the North Sea ferry.

But mostly because I want my own cabin. I want a floating Room Of One’s Own. With its own toilet, shower and bed. A private space to escape to while travelling. Even the smallest possible single room is an oasis to the soul. Whether it’s Easyjet or Eurostar, if you’re travelling alone and can only occupy rows of open seating, you’re at the mercy of other travellers, which might mean loud businessmen on their mobile phones, squealing other people’s children running about, or beered-up football supporters.

Set down like this, such concerns sound downright misanthropic. But I’ve had a run of bad luck with train and plane trips in recent memory, in terms of Sartre-esque ordeals, suffering the noise – or even cannibis smoke – of my less considerate fellow passengers. I can’t be the man who complains or politely asks others to restrain themselves, as I am not part of normal society in the first place. Quiet eccentrics must not tell off noisy straights. That’s the whole eccentric deal.

When away from home, I crave rooms with lockable doors, however small (in the case of Latitude, a tent with a zip). On a ferry you get somewhere to escape, somewhere to sleep without being on display, and somewhere to shower en route. But you also get somewhere to go for a walk, somewhere to take in fresh air, and somewhere to drink and eat and mix with other travellers if you ARE feeling sociable. You get the choice of both worlds.

The only two downsides of ferry travel are the extra hours added to the trip, and the chances of a rough crossing. In the first case, my life isn’t the busiest in the world, so the time away is no problem. And besides, the extra hours are comfortable and private extra hours.

In the event of a rough crossing, I’d just down a few vodkas at the bar and go to bed. I toss in my sleep anyway, and a lone male is in no position to refuse a bit of extra tossing.

Far better to suffer the Cruel Sea than suffer the cruel loudness of other passengers. Frankly, it’s the lesser of two tossers.

Have confirmed that I’ll be DJ-ing once more at this year’s Latitude Festival. The festival runs from the 17th to 20th July, and I’ll be spinning the usual showtunes and vintage pop in the Cabaret Arena, though the slots are briefer than last year. Once again, it’ll be me and Miss Red, appearing as The Beautiful & Damned DJs.

This time, however, I’m going to do the festival thing properly and bring a tent. Ms S thinks this is hilarious. I’ve just bought a cheap little number that came recommended by a Daily Telegraph article on ‘glamping’. This is an alleged new trend: glamourous camping for monied types. Prada groundsheets, Gucci guy ropes, that kind of thing. Well, my take on ‘glamping’ is more low budget, but at least I’ll be pitched in a glamourous space – backstage with all the other Cabaret Arena types.

Can’t remember the last time I did go camping, in fact. Possibly the Reading Festival 1990, at the age of 18. The bands playing then included the Pixies, the Wedding Present, Nick Cave, Mega City Four, the Senseless Things, and the aforementioned Inspiral Carpets, who were the biggest act on one of the nights. Many of these groups have since split, then reformed, then split again. Actually, even in 1990 there already was a reformed band playing – The Buzzcocks, with The Smiths’ Mike Joyce on drums. And I think Wire were in their second time around. Not being new is not a new thing.

My abiding memory is finding out the hard way just how pointless it is lurking down the front by the main stage all day, purely to secure the best view of the big acts later on. But I had to try it for myself first.

In order to be close to the Wedding Present (second from last), I installed myself right against the metal crowd barrier, dead centre, rushing to secure this position at about 1pm, as soon as the arena gates opened. I didn’t mind going without food all afternoon, and cups of water were always to hand, obligingly handed out by stewards in the photographer’s pit, that sliver of calm between barrier and stage.

John Peel was DJ-ing in between the acts, which rather helped. I remember him playing the Popguns b-side ‘Because He Wanted To’, fairly early on in the day. Hearing this catchy and fuzzy little indiepop tune, a favourite of mine, was a treat. It felt like private music imposed upon thousands, when only two years earlier Reading was more of a heavy metal festival. This very un-rocking pop song was now ringing out on the gigantic Main Stage speakers, previously accustomed to the likes of Whitesnake, Saxon and Magnum. For a few minutes, the meek could indeed inherit the world, with a help from Mr Peel.

I then stood and watched the coming and going of Ned’s Atomic Dustbin (quite fun), Psychic TV (no tunes), Wire (past their best, looked bored), The Young Gods (baffling, one of those bands other people like), Ride (okay, if looking amusingly out of place in the bright afternoon sunshine), and Billy Bragg (great as ever).

As the hours passed, the crush down the front became more frightening than I’d envisaged. I was even afraid real damage might be done to my ribs. By the time the Buzzcocks came on, the pressure of so many bodies behind me and to either side was impossible to take any longer. I didn’t want to be one of those archetypal forlorn youths down the front that had to be dragged out by security men. As much as I loved the Wedding Present back then, I didn’t think they were worth suffering actual physical agony for (insert your own jokes about their records here, non-fans).

‘This is really no way to see a band,’ I remember thinking. ‘Even though all these other young people down the front think it is. Once again, I know I am not like other young people.’

So halfway through the Buzzcocks I yielded my prized place at the barrier and started to move back to a more bearable area of crowd density. I didn’t stop walking – or rather, squeezing past muttering a million ‘scuse me’s -till I felt I could move my arms freely again. When the Wedding Present finally took to the stage, I was right at the back of the crowd. It’d been a waste of time. Well, no, it’d been a lesson learned.

I still approve of the serendipitous side of music festivals, where you can wander around and discover new favourite bands. With its emphasis on a varied diet of stages, I feel Latitude does this side of things particularly well. It’s the feral crowd side of rock festivals I’m not keen on – the mud, the sweat, the packed-in numbers down the front.

One of the headliners at Latitude this year is Franz Ferdinand, who I last saw upstairs at the Barfly, supporting the Futureheads. Back then, they turned up on my Highgate doorstep and asked to borrow my Juno 6 synthesizer. The Barfly wasn’t thinly attended – these were two bands with ‘industry buzz’ after all – but neither was it packed. These days, Franz Ferdinand are a bigger deal, of course.

So next month they’ll doubtlessly be playing to a crowd of thousands, with 18-year-olds down the front, but I do wonder if these teens will be suffering to quite the same degree I did at their age, or whether the civilised feel of Latitude means it’ll be more like the Tube at rush hour – packed in, but not to the extent of actual pain.

Also, these days the Net and mobile phone culture has meant there’s so much more to do than watching bands, and I’d have thought that would affect the pain level of the moshpit. Or does it connect with a Lord Of The Flies-style, atavistic teen aggression, something I’ve never felt? That fearing for your rib cage is part of the fun, and will always be the case? With all the downloading, all the Internetting, all the iPodding, all the digital surfeit of choice, could it be that this particular trial of life remains utterly unchanged?

Well, I’m not going down the front to find out.

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.