Photos from Saffle, by David Hill:

More at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/david_nottingham/tags/ripitup/

Yes, it’s Fosca, who put out a single called ‘Supine On The Astroturf’, pictured here almost supine on some actual astroturf. The backstage area was a huge indoor football pitch, with the stage at one end, looking out onto the festival camping site, like a kind of mini-Glastonbury. The rain was only mini-rain, too.

We were second from last of a two-day festival bill, our day ending with Dan Treacy and his Television Personalities. We also met and became travel mates with Richard Preece, who records as Lovejoy and who performed a lovely acoustic set earlier in the evening. I also enjoyed the solo lady plus laptop that was Action Biker, and the pristinely jangly guitar groups Kissing Mirrors and Cats on Fire.

Fosca went onstage after dark, though typically the acts beforehand overran, and our set was much later than scheduled. We also took an aeon to soundcheck due to some technical problem or other, and hope the crowd forgave us. They danced and sang along, and I was asked for my autograph afterwards.

My voice fell apart two-thirds into the set, and I now realise it was because I couldn’t hear my vocals loudly enough on stage, and sang too loudly as a result. But after the extended sonic tweaking that had already taken place, I couldn’t bear to trouble the engineers any further, and plumped to persevere. Still, if one can’t replicate the recordings properly, one has a duty to provide more of a visual element and generally have fun. So I shouted and screamed and danced about and generally put on what I hoped was something vaguely classifiable as a performance. I had fun, and I hoped it would rub off.

The band themselves were fantastic: Tom especially, on lead guitar. No mean feat considering Ryan Air had managed to lose his suitcase containing all his guitar effects pedals, and worse than that, his stage clothes and shoes. I forgave him his trainers given such mitigating circumstances, and we are indebted to the people at Saffle who found Tom a whole new set of pedals to borrow at the last minute.

Set list:

1. Letter To St Christopher
2. Universal Gatecrasher
3. Head Boy
4. Come Down From The Cross
5. We See The World As Our Stunt Doubles
6. Secret Crush On Third Trombone
7. It Only Matters To Those To Whom It Matters
8. I’ve Agreed To Something I Shouldn’t Have
9. The Millionaire Of Your Own Hair
10. It’s Going To End In Tears
11. The Agony Without The Ecstasy

***

Landing back at Stansted on the Sunday, the plane tannoy plays a tinny, banal fanfare with a sugary pre-recorded message reminding the passengers the flight has arrived on time, and that we must all be truly grateful to Ryan Air for existing.

I’d rather they spent less time and energy producing such smug little recordings, and more on ensuring valuable luggage ends up at the same airport as its owners, but there you go.

Tom seems less bothered than me about his loss, having done the sensible thing and taken out insurance. It happens. Could have been worse. When Spearmint played somewhere – Japan, I think – I remember a guitar or similar piece of important equipment ended up in the wrong hemisphere, though it got back to the band eventually, having been around the world a few times.

If travel broadens the mind, there must be a few toothbrushes and pairs of knickers out there entirely qualified to sit on liberal think-tanks.

Rachel Stevenson’s account of the trip is here:

 http://millionreasons.livejournal.com/173056.html

Back from Saffle in Sweden, where Fosca have played the indiepop festival ‘Rip It Up’. I leave my home at 4.30am Saturday, not managing to sleep before that, and get back at about 6.30pm on the Sunday. Hardly seems any time at all, but by the time I fall onto my own bed again, I feel the most tired I’ve been in my life, down to too little sleep and much wandering around carrying heavy bags and instruments on and off trains and buses and planes and taxis.

It goes like this:

4AM Eagle Cabs taxi to a packed Stansted slightly marred by driver who gets our addresses wrong and nearly picks up Baxendale and Taylor Parkes instead, hours of interminable standing in the cattle-like queues getting through the various airport security hoops, 7AM plane to Gothenburg (a two hour flight marred by restless toddlers who either climb over the seats and run amok, or scream their heads off to unholy volumes during take off and landing), unforeseen taxi to the rail station instead of the bus due to our chasing up Ryan Air’s luggage folly (of which more later), kill three hours at Gothenburg station thinking we could go for a walk through the city if we didn’t have the heavy bags and instruments, take a two-hour train journey to Saffle (marred by two giggling twelve-year-old blond girls guzzling sweets and fizzy drinks endlessly, punctuated by them stomping about the aisle for no apparent reason, much like the airplane toddler), meet the refreshingly boyish and gentle promoters at Saffle station, get driven to our bedrooms (empty flats in town, in fact) rest (thank god), get driven to the festival at about 5PM, loaf around the festival enjoying the company of cute young Swedish indie fans, sit around drinking and eating but feeling a little at the mercy of the language barrier, see a few of the other bands, meet a few old friends (Hullo Kasper), gingerly greet boozy old indie legends (hullo Dan Treacy, good to see you’re still about, glad you’re out of prison, but do mind the saliva on my suit, sir), play the gig, wait till we can be driven back to the flats, get some sleep (thank god again!), up at 8.30AM, get driven to the station for a 9AM train, enjoy things getting a bit smoother on the way back, have to kill an hour and a half at Gothenburg airport, which has a bar but doesn’t accept pounds and we’re out of Swedish Crowns, enjoy browsing its moose-related gift shop, but am hypocritically appalled to see it also sells real hunks of moose meat to take home, along with steaks of elk and reindeer; take the flight back to Stansted (another baby screaming its very life out on the bumpy take-off and landing), am reminded it’s a Sunday in England and so the Stansted Express train is delayed due to engineering works, take the tube from Liverpool Street to Highgate, also infrequent due to it being a Sunday.

Was it all worth it, for 45 minutes onstage, for expenses only, as the festival is run by fans and they have to spend a fortune on said travel and accommodation as it is? Yes. Just. The getting there, the nuts and bolts, I can do without. The gig itself is always worth it, singing one’s own words, playing one’s own music, making strangers dance and be happy. I Google the gig, and find some Swedish bloggers writing that they loved us, hadn’t been aware of us before, and who had immediately gone on iTunes and bought our albums as a result. So yes, it was worth it.

Here’s some video clips from David Hill, Rachel’s partner, who was frequently forced to take the tour manager role throughout the trip, and who did so without a word of complaint. Having someone with the band who’s not IN the band is so important to one’s physical and mental well-being, particularly for a group of fragile and sleep-deprived English people with very different lives outside the music we make together. And he helped to carry our instruments. We owe him. Thank you, David:

http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=fosca+rip+it+up&search=

In the London Library. I’m slightly appalled at seeing one or two gentlemen here wearing shorts and trainers. My usual aesthetic grumblings aside, it’s not even particularly hot today. To the Library’s credit (considering the building’s age), it’s perfectly cool and airy in the Reading Room. Though I admit I often exist in my own micro-climate.

Speaking of gentlemen who like to dress casually to the point of claiming Human Rights, I see the author John O’Farrell is at a desk on my right. He appeared on that enjoyable TV programme, Grumpy Old Men, moaning in one instance about the pressure of buying new clothes and keeping up with fashions of the day: ‘What’s wrong with my shirt? I’ve had it for years. It doesn’t need replacing; it’s a perfectly serviceable shirt.’ But I forgive his championing of sartorial slovenliness, because he wrote the brilliant and very funny Things Can Only Get Better, a memoir about being a disillusioned Labour supporter.

I’ve tried looking for the desk mentioned in AS Byatt’s Possession but either it doesn’t exist, or it’s been moved.

It has been pointed out to me that Edmond hasn’t had quite the critical blanket praise I previously indicated. The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw has in fact called it ‘one of the very worst US pictures in years.’ The BBC’s Mark Kermode called it ‘too clever’, just as he slated Todd Haynes’s Palindromes (which I also love) in a similar manner.

If I start defending the film and rebutting the various criticisms, I run the risk of sounding like a representative of its makers, whom I’ve never met. Which was also the case with The History Boys, a film I love but which I’ve had to defend among my friends, point by point. I’ve done this so many times I have considered sending Alan Bennett an invoice for PR services.

What exactly is wrong with ‘too clever’, anyway? There was once a girl at school who said my trouble was I ‘think too much’, and I never saw that as particularly unflattering. Lost in my thoughts, certainly, drifting off into my inner world, sure. Thinking as opposed to doing, fair enough.

Though I maintain there are far worse things to be than a daydreamer. That over-quoted Pastor Niemöller poem about ‘First they came for the Somethings, and I did not speak up because I was not a Something’ can also be used by self-righteous bullies taking a stick to the cautious and meek, and not necessarily for good use either.

Sometimes it’s better to do nothing, to be cautious, to hold the coats and watch rather than get involved. Particularly if you’re the sort who may make a mess of doing something anyway, or may make things worse.

As ever, the answer is: it depends. One person’s having a go is another person’s blotting the copybook. One person’s apathy is another’s dreaming. I never regret any of my dreams. My response to that Nike trainers slogan, ‘Just Do It’, is, ‘Or Not.’ Or, ‘Just Do It For A Bit, But Not If You Then Discover It Isn’t You. And Trainers Are Not The Only Shoe.’

I’ve never thought it was possible to be ‘too’ clever at anything. It reminds me of the perennial school stigma of the class swot, those who do well – or even just want to do well – being sneered at by classmates. Clever equals resented, uncool and unpopular. As if the opposite was anything to write home about.

It’s true that one has to temper intelligence with humility, and the humour can often be the quickest route. Edmond has many moments of dark humour. But here I am, starting to argue defensively in favour of a film I have nothing to do with, just because I like it. Funny how mere taste and opinion engenders a kind of taking sides, bordering on brotherhood. The psychology seems to be ‘Hate my favourite things by others, and you hate me’.

Back in Highgate, having handed over the keys and a thankfully still alive cat to Claudia. Am confronted with my mountains of clutter again and wonder just how it is I build up so many things so quickly.

Currently packing for Fosca’s 36 hour jaunt to Sweden and back over the weekend, learning my lyrics, thinking if it’s worth going to bed. We have an estate taxi to collect three of us – plus Rachel’s boyfriend David, from our London homes at 4AM, so we can check in circa 5.30AM for a 7AM flight to Gothenburg. Tom makes his own way there from Hemel Hempstead and meets us at the airport.

I suppose a perhaps cheaper plan could have been to take the first Stansted Express of the day from Liverpool Street (0455), but that would mean members of Fosca struggling across London on the dreaded Friday night Night Buses with our instruments, at the mercy of, well, the sort of people I sing about in the songs.

Kate Dornan is playing a gig with another band tonight. So there’s going to be lots of sleeping on trains, planes and in waiting rooms.

***

The indie film Edmond is properly released in the UK this weekend. I reviewed it for Plan B Magazine a while ago:

EDMOND (dir. Stuart Gordon)
Too many stage plays lose their intimate sparkle when adapted for the screen; equally, too many horror movies suffer from bad dialogue. So here’s an inspired combination: David Mamet’s play – an uncomfortable look at one man’s dark night of the soul – adapted by the man behind the two best HP Lovecraft movies, Re-Animator and Dagon. The result is a truly startling and daring Dante-esque descent into personal hell, with a gripping performance from William H Macy recalling David Thewlis in Naked. With doses of pitch-black comedy and going to more uncharted places in 82 minutes than most films manage in 3 hours, Edmond is one of the films of the year.

After emailing the PR fellow in question (as you’d expect, PRs like to know if you’re going to write a kind or unkind critique, though you don’t have to reply), I was slightly orgasmic when the PR from Tartan Films asked if he could quote me on the poster, about it being one of the films of the year. Of course, the posters are out now and I can’t see any mention of my review. Though even if they did air my praise singing, I doubt it’d be under my name, just Plan B.

Thing is, a lead quote from Plan B might hint that they couldn’t solicit praise from better known publications such as The Guardian or The Telegraph or Lemur-Sexing Monthly. As it turns out this week, Edmond has received rave reviews from all the big name publications, so my praise is surplus to requirements. I’m slightly miffed that I’m not on the poster, but am pleased that the proper critics deign to agree with me. Like Mysterious Skin, the unsettling content rules out recommending it to everyone, but those that like to be taken somewhere they’ve not been before, however dark, should definitely see it. HP Lovecraft meets Glengarry Glen Ross. There’s a more unusual poster quote for you.

Ghost Rider is out on DVD this week, and the biggest quote on the adverts is one praising its special effects. Had the quote been for, say, Ladies In Lavender, it would have been a different story.

Some people watch movies to be transported to other worlds, better worlds, or exciting worlds, as long as they know roughly what to expect. Edmond is not for them. Which is high praise from me, but it does mean it automatically limits its own appeal. Say something new, goes the credo of the artist. But be careful it’s not TOO new, or you’ll put people off.

George Melly dies. A truly great Character with a capital ‘C’. Met him a year or so ago, at a Mayfair dinner hosted by Maggi Hambling. He sang an impromptu bawdy jazz number a cappella for everyone in the restaurant. Impeccably dressed, of course: hat, striped suit, eyepatch. Having done the usual bit about saying how much I admired him, I asked him for a kiss on the lips, and he obliged. It seemed the best thing to do at the time. I’d read his books, so I thought about all the people – and all the parts of such people – those lips had met over the years. And what songs they’d sung, what conversations they’d had, what jokes they’d told, what wicked laughter.

Some news sources describe him as a jazz singer who also did other things, others as an author who also did other things. I think that’s a good sign. His various volumes of autobiography are a terrific read, though ‘Revolt Into Style’ is arguably just as essential, not least for the title. It’s certainly a motto close to my own heart.

Quentin Crisp: ‘Mr Melly needs to be obscene to be believed.’

***

Something I’d really like to see in real life: a dog running past with a string of sausages in its mouth, chased by an angry butcher.

***

Barely days since the change at Number Ten, and I already prefer hearing Gordon Brown’s voice on the radio, compared to Tony Blair’s. Mr Brown’s is a comparatively calming, sturdy and stentorian baritone, something of a tonic after a decade of his predecessor’s faux-ingratiating, nasal tones. Added to which the last couple of years had seen Blair’s speaking develop a strange system of pauses between every clause, if not every word. A statement. From Blair. Would sound. As if. It had been written. Like this.

If he had intended gravitas, the opposite effect was the case.

If both men were headmasters, Blair was one of those who ask the pupils to call him by his first name, who like to take off their jacket and tie at the earliest opportunity. Brown is more, dare I say it, old school. One almost imagines he’d be good at spanking. ‘This delights me more than it delights you.’

***

Trying out London libraries as ever, I visit the Barbican Library. I first visited the Barbican Centre on a school trip, shortly after it had been built in 1982.

Now it’s the 25th anniversary of the place, and the library – which specialises in music and the arts – has a small exhibition to mark the sounds of 1982. In a display case are various vinyl pop records from the year, including Laurie Anderson’s Big Science, Cherry Red Records’ Pillows & Prayers compilation, Scritti Politti’s ‘Asylums In Jerusalem’, The Jam’s ‘Town Called Malice’, Madness’s ‘House Of Fun’, Bucks Fizz’s ‘My Camera Never Lies’, Tears For Fears’s ‘Mad World’, Wah’s ‘Story Of The Blues’, Haircut One Hundred’s ‘Love Plus One’… and David Bowie’s ‘Baal’ EP.

I suspect even Dame Bowie himself has difficulty recalling that latter disc; it’s hardly one to dominate his obituary. The information on its display label mentions ‘Source: Wikipedia’. Considering this is a professional, government-funded library in the heart of London using the amateur Internet encyclopaedia which anyone can edit, this is a defining sign of 2007, never mind 1982.

It is funny how I have to put on a full suit and tie before sitting down to write, but I’ve remembered that this was also the case during my school years. I found it hard to settle down and do my homework or revision at home – unless I actually put on my school uniform. Or kept it on. My groovy, forward-thinking middle school, Stoke-By-Nayland, eschewed the traditional blazer and tie ensemble for a printed-logo sweatshirt affair. No ties, no jackets. It was the only thing I didn’t like about the school. As in adult life, I could never understand why progressive thinking had to mean dressing more casually.I’m still appalled when I see important, high-earning people like the head of Channel 4 make statements on TV (about Big Brother or phone competition fixing), dressed like Man At C&A. Whatever he spends his huge salary on, it can’t be clothes.

When dividing one’s budget, it should always be clothes make-up and grooming products first, then contact lenses (Focus Dailies seem to do it for me – stylishly curved little blister packs of disposable lenses), then taxis, then food, rent and everything else.

***

Am still feeling permanently sluggish – possibly battling off flu – but am cheering myself up enjoying recent editions of I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue. It’s still the funniest comedy show on the radio, despite or perhaps because of the advanced age of its regular participants (host Humphrey Lyttlelton is in his mid 80s). And still the most popular: the roaring audience applause of hundreds somewhat dwarves the polite clapping of dozens heard on other panel games.

Some favourite jokes:

‘In the late 1960s Soho was home to Jimi Hendrix, who overcame his dyslexia to become one of the world’s greatest rock guitarists. Sadly Hendrix died here in 1970 after choking to death on his own Vimto.’

‘I was always impressed by the notion that breaking a mirror is certain to bring you seven years of bad luck. Yesterday I deliberately smashed four, thereby guaranteeing I’ll live to be 114.”

And from the round about new definitions:

rambling – jewelry for sheep
fairy tale – beer made from ferrets
fuselage – not many that big
scum – it has arrived
iconoclastic – rubber band for securing religious paintings
gurgle – to steal a ventriloquist’s dummy
sex – what The Queen keeps her coal in
sycamore – not as well as I used to be
dunderhead – what a sculptor says after completing the top part of a bust
cruise control – Scientology

***

The Diary Angels page now carries a lovely new Beardsley-esque illustration from Lawrence Gullo.

***

Claudia’s flat is very quiet, though there are a couple of ticking clocks in this room. I sit staring at the blank page and listen to the day tick away. And I wish I knew what best to do with the blank page, and the blank day.

Still thinking about the whole nuts and bolts side of band life versus how much I want to play band gigs. This line of thinking can come across as grumpy-old-man-ism, and would be less predictable were I the better side of 25, or female. But the entry-level trappings of it all are really getting to me, to the point of tears: the world of rehearsal rooms with broken air conditioners leaking water into a trough, malodorous microphones that I suspect have given me flu (I forgot to bring my own mic again), broken microphone stands, identical young men in corridors (and in the press) with guitars and matching hairdos, who call themselves The Somethings, who prefer to join in rather than say something new. Easily-pleased young fans looking for new gods, who recycle the sounds of old gods with younger faces. Some call it classic, I call it cliched. Soundchecks. The balance in the monitors. The tragic sight of the slovenly-dressed lone man with a guitar on his back, on public transport, in trainers. It used to be a romantic sight: the troubadour, the folk singer. Now it’s just a typically blokish and ugly and workaday sight. No style to it at all. Just depressing.

I feel increasingly apart from that world. I wouldn’t go as far to say I think I’m above it all (though that’s probably what I do mean). I still enjoy listening to indie rock and pop records, but the fact is I just don’t enjoy watching the gigs as much as I used to. Tom Lehrer’s quote about rock being ‘music for children’ is becoming more and more relevant as I get older and the people at gigs and clubs get younger. And the gig-goers who aren’t young, who are my age and older, they depress me too. Because they have made more sense of their lives than I, with their partners and mortgages and incomes and futures and everything worked out. Well, more so than me, anyway. And if they’re my age and older and they HAVEN’T made sense of their lives, if they’re like me or even more worse off, well that’s obviously depressing too.

At Latitude, I suspect I’ll catch a few of the bands, though I probably won’t stay for anyone’s full set unless they do something visually unusual, like a costume change. I get bored so easily in the audience at gigs. All festivals should be like those Live Aid-style super gigs: sets of three or four songs only: the greatest hits only. Otherwise all that’s interesting is (a) the band coming onstage, and (b) waiting for the band to play a song you know and like. The rest is all so dull, dull, dull, dull, dull. It’s just some people playing instruments and singing. I know this is all rather missing the point, but this is the way my head is today.

I suppose what I’m really saying is: right now, I hate rock and roll.

Which begs the question: what do I want to do with Fosca? What’s the point of doing Fosca, if it’s always on this lowest rung? Do I even want musical success, in the rock band sense? Did I ever? Perhaps the August 1st gig will be the last gig, and after that perhaps I should concentrate on writing words rather than attempting to sing them or play them on a stage. It’s been fourteen years of playing indie gigs. Perhaps that’s enough. I don’t feel a burning desire to keep treading the beer-stained boards in the Thick Neck & Firkin-style venues forever, with promoters still asking me how many people I think I can pull. I’ve given it a go. I’m not sure I’ll miss it.

I don’t know. I’m quite an unpredictable, unreliable, capricious, whimsical, and amusingly hysterical sort of fellow. Which is what keeps you reading, doesn’t it, Dear Reader.

A reminder: Fosca are playing the Brixton Windmill on Weds Aug 1st, part of the Spiral Scratch club night. It’s our first headlining gig in London for a long time. Do come. We don’t play very often.

The Fosca Myspace page now features two new songs from the latest sessions: ‘Kim’ and ‘Come Down From The Cross’. We have one more mixing session with Alexander M, then the album is done. After that, the hunt for a suitable label begins. I’m wary of new indie labels who might rip us off: we’ve had our fingers burnt before. It would have to be someone with a track record. We also need to commission some decent CD and booklet artwork, so the album is worth owning aesthetically.

***

The Latitude Festival in Suffolk has booked me twice. Once as a DJ, one half of The Beautiful & Damned with Miss Red. We’re doing sets every evening from the Thursday (July 12th) to the Sunday, in the Cabaret Arena.

In addition, I’m now reviewing selected acts in the Literary and Film tents, for the Mean Fiddler’s Latitude website.

Only problem is, I now need to find accommodation for the Thursday night. My parents take over the Southwold cottage from the Friday. It seems silly to have to procure a whole tent and sleeping bag for one night only.

The writing job comes with a weekend ticket. This latter is rather surplus to my requirements as I’m already booked as a performer, with guest passes. So I need to somehow swap this ticket for accommodation on the Thursday. Any advice to the normal address, please.

***

Someone emails me to ask if I’m aware of Stephen King’s On Writing. Yes, indeed: it’s a truly brilliant guide to the craft. His sense of uncluttered, informal urgency is infectious, and it’s the only Stephen King book that the London Library will stock. Though I’m not so sure about the bit where he recommends writing to the sound of AC/DC and Metallica. For aural wallpaper, I’m more of an ambient and classical fan: stuff from Radio 3’s Late Junction, William Basinski, and so on.

***

Smoking inside public places is now banned. The nearby pubs now have buckets of sand outside their doors. The TV is riddled with adverts for helplines, nicotine gum and so forth. I don’t mind either way, finding the self-righteous rants on both sides a bit boring. I still smoke very occasionally, usually when I’ve had a few drinks and someone has offered me a cigarette. I like the close camaraderie of the shared smoke, but then I like close camaraderie of any kind.

***

On a tube train, I leaf through The London Paper – my personal rule is to never accept a copy from one of the notoriously pushy vendors, because I’m principled against the waste, the litter and the aggressive distribution of free newspapers in London. But picking up a copy on the train is fine, says my rule. Three articles in a recent issue are either about Facebook, or refer to Facebook. So at least Facebook is definitely useful for something: getting paid for writing umpteen articles about it.

***

Kate D works at a school in King’s Cross. She says teachers no longer ask an unruly class to shut up, as ‘shut up!’ is what modern children are constantly saying to each other already (as observed by Little Britain and Catherine Tate).

Instead, when teachers need to call a class to order, they clap their hands: the one sound that cuts through. Presumably kids don’t play clapping games anymore.

Too many mornings lately, I’ve woken up and thought, ‘What’s the point in making music or being in a band, or even writing the diary? Why can’t I just stay in bed all day, shouting at the radio, particularly when Vanessa Feltz’s phone-in show on BBC London is on?’ The utterly idle, nihilistic life, a life like an invalid, or hermit, or both, is far less costly to the nerves and wallet, and is indeed what I feel like doing with my day most mornings. Some talk about the joy of the ‘challenge’. I’m not one of them. I like everything to be as easy as possible. Life is too much like hard work. Fun is too much like hard work. Art is too much like hard work. And I haven’t even begun to think about actual Work.

At least, that’s what’s going through my head in the difficult waking hours lying in bed, feeling tired, sluggish, awful. Then I eventually get dressed, put on a tie, and start to adjust. Hours have already passed. Then I find one single chore that mysteriously expands to fill the rest of the day. Like the contents of a handbag, or traffic on a congested motorway after an extra lane has been added. All available space is filled before I know it. By the time I feel just about ready to face the day and get on with what I really want to do, it’s time for bed.

****

Sat eve: To the Lark In The Park venue in Islington, to see bands with friends in. Martin White’s Mystery Fax Machine Orchestra and David Barnett’s New Royal Family. Nice contrast in vaudeville: the former’s quiet, droll ditties versus the latter’s noisy rock cheeriness. It’s a gathering of many people I know, have known, or am getting to know, or am known to. Friends past, present and future. The promoter of the club night – Club Mental – used to write me fan letters in the Orlando days. She doesn’t anymore, suffice it to say. I don’t bring the subject up with her, in case she says what I would say: we all do silly things in our teenage years. But I still have the letters somewhere. Real ink on real paper. Writing to me was just her little phase. Beats sniffing glue.

Was I very different then, too? Am I worse now, or better? And her?

Not for me to say. But I’d like to think bits of me are better, bits of me are worse, bits of me are different, bits of me are the same. Some people have gone through Dickon Edwards Phases in their life. I’ve got one of those too, it’s just lifelong.

Anyway, this is all hypocritical, because I go through phases too, despite the more or less fixed appearance and aloof stance. It used to be bands I became obsessed with, then turned my back on, now it’s more societies, libraries, clubs, gatherings, social scenes.

Yesterday I suppose I was Ms Gillian Kirby’s little phase. She asked me – via Facebook, how very 2007 – if I would pose for a photo session for her. I live to be photographed, so I agreed. The afternoon was spent draping myself around the stone angels of Brompton Cemetery. I loved it, naturally. I suit cemeteries. Quiet tombs, wild flowers, the egos of the dead.

Am writing this with a headache caused entirely by slapping my hand against my head in extreme frustration. Which in turn is caused by the technical problems involved with agreeing to play a gig in a foreign country.

What I forgot is that one really needs a third party when organizing foreign gigs: a manager, or tour manager, or roadie or two. I need someone who’s not in the band to sort out the various technical and practical matters: money, flight cases, travel, dealing with the promoters and so on. I’m not too great at playing the jolly Team Leader role, father figure to grown adults: I can barely look after myself. I also find it hard to tell a fellow band member to do something where I think I know better. Because I’m not always sure I do know better.

A combination of Ryan Air’s ridiculously petty rules (they won’t let us put a keyboard on an empty seat that we’ve already paid for, because Tom’s wife was going to come along but now can’t, without us paying an extra £70 to change the seat name from ‘Victoria Edwards’ to ‘Keyboard’), combined with general annoyance that I should be getting on with learning lyrics and not worrying about flight cases, has now made me shout at the cat.

Sorry, cat.

Actually, as I’m writing this, the cat is sleeping by my side on the sofa. He’s making all kinds of hurt, groaning noises in his sleep. I do hope he’s not having bad dreams caused by me shouting at him. In which case, Ryan Air, I hope you’re happy now.

Next time, I must ensure we have a manager taking care of the fragile instruments and the fragile nerves. Even if we have to pay them, it’ll be worth it. I have to accept I’m just not the managing kind. In any sense.

Because it’s a small, fan-organised affair, we’re doing this Swedish festival gig purely for expenses. Oh, and as long as each band member gets separate bedrooms. That was my other stipulation. Sharing a room would mean actual murder, I’m sure of it. The stress of having to handle our own transportation and equipment handling, coupled with lack of sleep (check-in at Stansted on Saturday morning is 5 AM) and general worry about making our own way across a strange country is more than enough. Ms Woolf got it right: a room of one’s own. And indeed, a tour manager of one’s own wouldn’t hurt.

It’s such a cliche when bands moan about touring. Touring is fine when you have a bit of money and support in the mix: managers, roadies, drivers, hotels. Anything less than that can be a pain, but what makes it all worthwhile is the knowledge that we’ll be playing our songs on a far-off stage to people who care who the hell we are. That’s why it’s still worth it. Even on this shoestring, DIY level.

Incredibly, I still occasionally get people writing to me asking about how to make it in the music business. The answer is,  of course, if you want to make money, you must do anything else but make music. Be a DJ, a manager, a producer, a roadie, a lawyer. Especially a lawyer. Work for Ryan Air, and spout your merry laugh when you invent fees for the merest thing. I’m expecting them to add a ‘Complaining About Ryan Air In A Blog, Post-Glasgow Car Bomb’ tax on Saturday.