The trial of the alleged London bombers reveals they bought huge amounts of hydrogen peroxide from hairdressing wholesalers like Sally’s (as I’ve done in the past), in order to concoct the devices.

I’m slightly disappointed that not one of them had a go at a Dickon Edwards look on the big day. At least it would have made the inevitable mug shots more unexpected.

The film Babel is just about to come out over here, but has done the rounds in North America, along with Notes On A Scandal, the other big Cate Blanchett film. One thinks fair enough regarding Babel, as it’s essentially a US production, but Notes On A Scandal is such a British movie- and specifically a North London movie – that it does seem odd that America gets to watch it months before the UK.

You say Babble, I say Bay-ball, let’s call the whole thing… a pretty good film. It’s the latest by Mr Inarritu, the director of Amores Perros and 21 Grams, who likes to cram into one melee a group of stories which would make perfectly good movies in their own right. Rather good value for an evening. Buy one Inarritu film, get three or four stories, and have fun working out the chronology and connection of each scene. I adored 21 Grams, likening it to an episode of Casualty re-edited by a madman. Babel is pretty much the same sort of thing, but less aimed at people with Attention Deficit Disorder. The intertwined melodramas are given longer segments at a time, and are spread around different countries and different languages, hence the title.

Mr I likes to see people having a really rotten time, though in a rather masterly and stately way. There’s a scene early on which really jolts the viewer out of their seat. It’s a single line of dialogue between two bored shepherd boys on a Moroccan mountain, who are trying out a new rifle with a spot of target practice.

‘Bet you can’t hit that rock.”

Bang.

“Bet you can’t hit that other rock.”

Bang.

“Bet you can’t hit that bus full of tourists.’

The director is in complete charge of his style and universe. He just doesn’t seem to like people very much. There’s no such thing as good or bad in Inarritu’s world, just bad luck, mistaken assumptions and heavy-handed authorities.

Poor Ms Blanchett has enough of a rotten time in Notes On A Scandal, finding her life at the mercy of the madder yet wiser Ms Dench. But this is a picnic compared to her role in Babel. After one scene rowing with Mr Pitt, presumably because he looks a bit tired and old and thus we want our money back, she spends most of the film’s duration bleeding to death in an American accent, a fate last endured by Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs.

The connection that links a lonely deaf-mute schoolgirl outdoing Lost In Translation in Tokyo with the rest of the stories is a bit unlikely and forced, but that’s a very minor reservation. A more personal complaint is that Mr Inarritu likes to present the English middle classes as cardboard and selfish irritations for others to react against.

Michael Maloney, the hopping love interest in Truly Madly Deeply, is the headmaster in Notes On A Scandal charged with dealing with two troublesome women on his staff. In Babel, he’s a fellow tourist more concerned with fleeing in the bus than with preventing Ms Blanchett from dying in a corner of a foreign field. Oddly, his own accent sounds jarring in the story, perhaps because his actions are unrealistic. No one is THAT inhumane, not even the English.

It was the same with Charlotte Gainsbourg’s London character in 21 Grams. She was desperate to get pregnant with the dying Sean Penn’s child, even though their marriage had died some time before. Again, her accent seemed as curiously uncertain as her selfish and unsympathetic actions. I can’t help thinking the director has some kind of personal grudge against the English.

These flaws aside, Babel is worth all the acclaim it’s attracted, full of original and gripping scenes. You really feel drawn into each of the myriad worlds: in the car driven by Gael Garcia Bernal’s hot-headed Mexican as suspicious border guards shine their torches through the windows; sharing the shock of a small American boy as Mr Bernal demonstrates a party trick involving unkindness to a chicken; on a Moroccan floor miles from a hospital as Ms Blanchett undergoes emergency surgery without anaesthetic; in the Tokyo nightclub with the lovelorn schoolgirl, hearing at turns both the blaring music and her own silence; dodging police bullets with the mortified, terrified shepherd boys as they run for cover on the mountain. No choice whether to sympathise or not: you are there in every moment.

The next natural step is for Mr Ianarritu to adapt some stories from Los Bros Hernandez’s Love & Rockets graphic novels. They’re the nearest comparable works, and I can’t be the first to say so.

Tuesday evening. With Claudia Andrei to the French Institute in South Kensington, for a Dedalus Books event. It’s round the corner from the Natural History Museum, beautifully underlit with its terracotta coloured bricks and animal gargoyles, like something from a Dedalus book itself.

Three of their most recent publications are aired: Alice The Sausage by Sophie Jabes, Paris Noir by Jacques Yonnet and The Decadent Handbook. Rowan Pelling hosts, and there’s readings from the Handbook by two gentlemen called Medlar Lucan and Durian Gray. They are rather arch and funny performers (as opposed to readers), though the solemn audience barely responds. Even the NASA instructions for how to urinate in space – a 20-point list involving the intricate manipulation of valves and attachments – fails to elicit an audible chuckle. The crowd seemingly wants to be lectured, not entertained.

Rowan Pelling points out that after the recent purchase of Serpent’s Tail by Profile Books, Dedalus remains one of the last truly independent UK publishers with a distinctive identity. The most recent title, Alice The Sausage, is a typically outre new novel about sex and food, in their Euro Shorts series. The criteria for the series being ‘short European fiction which can be read from cover to cover on Eurostar or on a short flight.’ It’s an idea that deserves an award in itself.

The event is held in the Institute’s library, so we’re surrounded by shelves of white spines, the trait of most French language paperbacks. The occasional black spine is usually something in English, and more often than not from the Dedalus catalogue. The nearest black spine to my seat is The Dedalus Book Of 19th Century French Horror. It falls open at a scene from a Dumas tale, Solange, where a guillotined woman’s head is found to be still alive.

I meet a Delon-esque young Frenchman wearing boots covered in golden, ornate patterns. The toes are cloven.

Walking along Archway Road at about 5pm, I notice a tall, thin, attractive young man with a guitar on his back coming the other way, accompanied by a couple of others. Clearly a band on their way to rehearse, or to a gig. As we pass, I see it’s Pete Doherty. He’s obviously off to soundcheck at the Boogaloo, where Babyshambles are playing once again. He looks at me, and I pull what I suppose is an expression of polite recognition without pretending that I know him personally, because I don’t. Somewhere between blanking and actual acknowledgement of mutual acquaintance. Though in London, it’s considered perfectly acceptable to exchange effusive kisses on both cheeks with someone that you’ve spoken to once in 1997 – and that was only ‘excuse me’ on the way to the Good Mixer’s toilet.

Later on, as a local keen to catch the big events across the road, I watch the Babyshambles set in the pub. The gig is packed, with tickets selling out minutes after they were announced. The trouble with these so-called secret gigs is that you have to tell some people, or you run the risk of the audience purely consisting of the band’s friends and the venue’s extended family of associates (my place being in the latter) . The last time Mr Doherty played here, it looked worrying that this might be the case. Half an hour before stage time, and there was hardly anyone in the room. Thankfully the venue quickly filled up just in time.

Tonight, the balance is about right in the Boogaloo. People can move about between bar and main venue floor, and even the most eldery regular finds a seat given up for him. He always sits at the bar at 10.30pm every night without fail, and has been doing so since the days when the Boogaloo was the Shepherds.

Kate Moss watches from the side, joining in on occasional backing vocals. Babyshambles play for well over an hour, and cover The Stone Roses’ ‘I Wanna Be Adored’. The support is The Outside Royalty, consisting of a lead singer in full dandy garb: high collar, suit and waistcoat, silk tie. He’s backed with a violinist and cellist, and despite this acoustic set up, they play a fast, frantic and winning Roxy Music-like set that’s right up my street. Literally right up my street.

I’m told Babyshambles played a similar ‘secret gig’ at the Dublin Castle a few nights ago, and the venue was so packed it was unpleasant, even frightening for people who were there. But I sympathise with those behind such ventures. Who do you tell, and where, in order to strike the balance between a decent crowd of fans, and a sweaty, gridlocked rugby scrum? ‘Don’t tell anyone, but there’s a gig tonight… Well, actually, DO tell some people!’ How can you ever tell how many will drop what they’re doing and suddenly come to Highgate on a Monday night? Londoners are so fickle, their mobile phones dissolving their schedules like rain. So many choices of what to spend your limited time upon. The phones make the choices flexible even during the evening. You could do anything.

If you go where the zeitgeist is, such as a secret gig across your road by Pete Doherty, it makes it feel more like it Matters. With so much to choose from, the handrail of the media’s chosen few names of the day gleams in the rain of alternative plans. You know the names. They become currency, even a meal ticket if you make a living from their surveillance. A few hundred words mentioning Pete Doherty, Lily Allen, Russell Brand. It will be printed. It will be read. Even poor Germaine Greer is forced this week to write a Guardian piece about her thoughts on Russell Brand, and it’s advertised on that vital space above their masthead. Why? Because she needs to hold on to the handrail, and so does everyone else. It’s a sin to miss out. Doing anything at all is missing out on doing anything else, but missing out on the Zeitgeist seems more so.

In my local corner shop, while I’m photocopying flyers for Beautiful & Damned, a middle class, middle aged Indian woman is avidly chatting with the shop assistant about the latest update on Shilpa Shetty, the Bollywood actress currently in the Celebrity Big Brother house. Her inclusion is possibly the best thing the programme’s done in years, in terms of connecting worlds beyond the usual worlds. If celebrity is measured in terms of how many strangers know your name and face, Ms Shetty is far more famous than the likes of Jade Goody. Not just in India, either. Bollywood movies are bigger in the UK than ever, with the nation’s Top 10 box office chart often including an Indian title that mainstream critics rather shamefacedly have to admit they haven’t seen. Because the whole Bollywood scene is separate from the arthouse World Cinema scene. Bollywood is mainstream, but not in English. Between worlds.

Ken Russell was in the house for a few days, equally not recognised by the younger housemates (or inmates). Before Christmas, I attended a party full of people under 30, and we sat down to watch a DVD of Mr Russell’s Valentino. They all know who Ken Russell is. But then, the young people I know are not the kind you see in the BB house. It would just be too confusing for viewers. The format prefers its young people, especially women, to be a bit dim. Survival of the dimmest. As long as you’re not dim when it comes to maintaining a career of self-promotion.

Hence Ms Goody’s status as a multi-millionaire former housemate turned celebrity. She came fourth in one of the UK Big Brother seasons a few years ago. Kate Lawler, the winner of that year, has ultimately lost to Jade in the longer race of Mattering. And the more Ms G remains famous, the more people seem fascinated with her.

This year’s Celebrity BB house installed her and her family as masters over the ‘real’ celebrities. They had to dress as butlers and maids and literally serve Jade Goody. It was truly a microcosm of the state of celebrity in 2007: acknowledging there’s other worlds to be famous in (the inclusion of Ms Shetty), with the fast-tracked reality show stars (Ms Goody) lording it over the old fashioned, hard working celebs with achievements they can point to.

On entering the house, Jade Goody is approached by one of the others who doesn’t recognise her.

Housemate: So, what do you do?
JG: I was in Big Brother?

With the faux-uncertainty of her Australian Questioning Intonation on top (and all the cultural implications of UK AQI in itself) this single utteration in and out of its context is enough to generate volumes upon volumes of social study, explaining to future generations what identity, celebrity, achievement and recognition means in 2007.

Fosca are now likely to be gigging in March, starting with Milan. This rather galvanizes me into Fosca work, and I find myself alive with new chord patterns, melodies and lyrics again.

Sunday: to the Windmill to see Gentleman Reg. Walking up Brixton Hill some people shout at me, so I increase my pace. One of them runs after me and taps me on the shoulder. I turn around, fearing the worse yet again.

It’s Reg and his band. I apologise and point out that I’m used to being shouted at in the street, and have learned to ignore it. Which rather makes it hard for one’s friends to signal to you in the street, but I suppose that’s the price I have to pay. But for what, exactly? For being an increasingly wary rabbit-like figure, wrought with anxiety?

It turns out that Reg’s London contact for accommodation and borrowing equipment is Sheila Chipperfield, who remembers me from the times we’ve met in the past. She’s always friendly and fun company, with what pigeonholing music journalists probably dub a Minor Britpop Past, as Elastica’s other bassist.

She’s hanging around Brixton Hill with Reg and the band in that fidgety gap between soundcheck and stage time, thinking about getting something to eat. The time-honoured gig ritual. Sheila tells me she’s working on new music with Stuart from Menswear, plus she does a fair amount of DJ-ing.

At the Windmill, she films the bands for YouTube, the popular internet video website that currently fills so many column inches. A very 2007 thing to do at a concert.

Also at the gig is another friend I’ve seen on and off for years, Howard Mollett, and Reg’s ex-pat Canadian friend Ms Mar. Ms M has spent the two years since I saw her at Reg’s last London gigs building up new London friendships. Including Ms Mira Manga, who I’ve also vaguely known for years. And Mira’s there too. She says Ms Mar is now her Best Friend. Canadians are usually pretty good for friendships. They tend to have a less hysterical, more considered response to the world than Americans or Britons. Comparatively.

Only unctuous whelks use phrases like ‘it’s a small world’. But I get a small frisson when I see people I’ve previously known separately come together like this, whether as creative collaborators or friends or lovers. And it helps to remind me that the people don’t disappear or pause on freeze-frame when I leave a room.

Reg says the single most noticeable difference between Toronto and London is seeing (and smelling) people smoking indoors. Another sign of early 2007, as opposed to later. The England smoking ban comes into place on July 1st. These are the Last Days of Smoking.

Gentleman Reg’s set is suitably joyous, and I’ve raved about him enough before. But the two other support acts at the Windmill are quite unusual and deserve a mention. Lyndsey Cockwell is a solo performer, armed with a polka-dot dress, a vocal mic, a bass guitar and a loop-sampling pedal. She does that impressive party trick of building up a backing track of loops and playing against them, all live. In this case, layers of bass lines and vocal harmonies. Owen P of Final Fantasy also does this with his violin. Such a set-up limits your form of songwriting somewhat, being unable to switch tempos or keys easily, but working with limits and parameters gets the creative muscles toned. I regard Final Fantasy songs as better written than many efforts of traditional bands.

Sheila C suggests that if I married Ms Cockwell, and decided to take the surname change instead of her, I’d have a doubly rude name. I fire back that I’ve previously envisioned the same with Louise Wener. Sheila says she’s often thought about the result of marrying Tim Wheeler from Ash. Sheila Wheeler.

The other band is The Bronsteins, three young women who look very New York but are apparently from London. The front woman sports big glasses and pink leggings, the drummer resembles a Flamenco dancer, albeit in jersey and jeans; all exotic cheekbones and bun hair. She drums in that curious Mo Tucker-like way, percussive rather than fluid, on the toms when most drummers would hit cymbals. I think about that Lou Reed quote, ‘cymbals eat guitars’, and wonder if they’re aware of it.

At the gig, I chat to a man from Toronto. He asks me, ‘What part of Europe does your accent come? I can’t pinpoint it, but I can tell it’s not your first language.’

What IS my accent? I didn’t take to having the Suffolk accent of my surroundings, so I grew up with what I thought suited me. A kind of non-specific Southern English middle-class accent, not quite posh but not quite matey. It always sounded to me like a geeky, nigh-autistic lisping teen monotone, though I’ve never really been much of a geek either. Now I’m in my thirties, the teenage inflection has morphed into something deeper and odder. It’s the accent of someone who isn’t entirely of this world, but is happy to stay here. If it’s okay with everyone else.

In early 2006 I saw my first MySpace page address in graffiti on a London venue’s toilet wall.

In late 2006 I visited my first MySpace page for a suspect serial-killer.

Saturday. To the 1950s-steeped New Piccadilly Cafe in Denman street, to treat Reg Vermue to a meal while he’s over here from Toronto. I’ve been coming to the NPC for over ten years now, loving its vintage formica tables and booths. Even the multicoloured strips hanging over the doorway to the toilet are gloriously out of time in 2007. Still the same family waiters in white uniforms with epaulets, who remember me from the time I did my first interview with Melody Maker in the cafe (1995), then used one of the NPC’s calling cards in the CD artwork for the Orlando album (1997). The 01 dialling code was intact then, as it is on the menus in 2007. In recent years, the cafe has been on the verge of closing down due to rent rises, so every visit always feels urgent and essential. It might be the last one. Today, I find myself discussing the difference between a cravat and a foulard with the owner Lorenzo.

Reg unwittingly asks for a latte, a perfectly reasonable request in every cafe in ever major city these days. He receives an ordinary coffee with milk. The NPC does espressos and cappuccinos (with its big enameled pink machine), but lattes are far too de nos jours.

We chat about the movies Babel and Shortbus. Shortbus features one of Reg’s songs (as Gentleman Reg), but he also makes an brief acting appearance. The director, John Cameron Mitchell of Hedwig And The Angry Inch fame, needed an albino character. Reg doesn’t have any pink in his eyes, but his extreme blondness is albino enough for most, so he got the job.

In the cafe, we have an argument about the pronunciation of ‘albino’ and ‘Babel’. I pronounce the latter ‘Bay-ball’, Reg calls it ‘Babble’. In the UK, it’s ‘al-BEE-no’. In North America it’s ‘al-BYE-no’. You say al-bye-no, I say al-bee-no, let’s call the whole thing blond.

How does Kurt Cobain pronounce it in the coda of Smells Like Teen Spirit?

a mulatto! / an albino! / a mosquito! / my libido!

We concur the Nirvana singer plumps for the US version, ‘al-bye-no’. Though now we’re rather more distracted with considering the sheer silliness of those lyrics. What IS Mr Cobain trying to say there? Something about teenagers feeling that they stand out in a crowd, awkwardly; that they’re insect-like, swattable, parasitical; that they’re at the mercy of their hormones? Or is it that the words vaguely rhyme and sound good when shouting through hair?

I’m reminded of HG Wells’s Invisible Man, whose albinism helps his skin become transparent. There was a rather good BBC TV adaptation in the 1980s which gave this aspect its proper due, with flashback sequences of Griffin with bubbly hair and pink eyes. It was on straight after The Lenny Henry Show. After the black comedian, the albino mad scientist.

According to movie-makers, albinos are good fodder for assassins. There’s one in the Chevy Chase & Goldie Hawn caper Foul Play. And one in The Da Vinci Code.

Foul Play being the better film.

I suppose Reg Vermue is the invisible man of the Toronto indie music scene, as far as the UK is concerned. I do hope that will change. He’s been on the covers of Canadian magazines, and on soundtracks (Shortbus, the US Queer As Folk). His musical friends and collaborators include members of The Arcade Fire, The Hidden Cameras, Final Fantasy and The Organ. The Arcade Fire are absolutely massive, Final Fantasy (ie Owen Pallett) is playing bigger venues every time he comes over, and The Hidden Cameras are big enough to play the Union Chapel. I do wish the UK movers and shakers would hurry up and notice that Gentleman Reg is just as good as those others. And just as good as, say, Rufus Wainwright, if we’re talking about girlish singer-songwriters.

On the subject of The Organ, I was very sad to hear the band split up at Christmas, just as I was starting to get into them. Reg tells me he’s hoping to work with the Organ’s singer Katie Sketch shortly. A beautiful gay albino who sings girlishly, and a beautiful boyish lesbian who sings like Morrissey. Whatever they did together, I’d buy it.

[And if you’re reading this in London on the Sunday, for heaven’s sake come to the Brixton Windmill tonight and see Gentleman Reg, headlining the bill. Guaranteed better than The Da Vinci Code.]

Friday night and I decide to eschew going to see Gentleman Reg, much to my own chagrin. These days, I make these funny little pro v con arguments in my head when choosing to not go to something.

Pro: Reasons why you should go.
– You really like his music.
– He rarely plays in the UK.
– The venue is an intriguing gay indie club night called Lippy at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Maybe you’ll bump into someone you know there. Or maybe you’ll make exciting new contacts or friends.
– His stage time is midnight, so the normal buses and tubes will have stopped running by the time you make your way home. But drinking enough will help you deal with the long journey home alone via night buses. Yes, I know you’ve decided to never take a night bus journey by yourself again, but tonight you could make an exception.
– But then, perhaps you’ll get an offer to go on to someone else’s house for the night. Who knows?

Con: Reasons for not going.
– He’s on at midnight, and in recent weeks you’ve been going to sleep about this time. You wouldn’t get back to Highgate till at least 3am, factoring in the night buses and the waiting for the night buses.
– He’s playing again at the Brixton Windmill on Sunday. You can catch him then. He’ll definitely be done before the last tube.
– The club will be full of younger people. You will feel alone and depressed and thinking constantly to yourself “When I can go home?”, as you’ve done for too many nights out lately.
– You will be by yourself, and so will drink too much out of nervousness. You haven’t got enough money to get drunk this weekend, and besides you’ll feel ill and fragile for at least the next 24 hours. The price is far too high.
– You will have to go all the way to Vauxhall by yourself, which isn’t so bad. But the journey back will have to involve night buses. And waiting for night buses. By yourself. On a Friday night, at the mercy of London’s drunken bully population.

Cut to a few weeks ago, in a late-night Highgate take-away. I’m starving. And now I’m starving and frightened. Because a group of young men enter and gather around me.

“Come and look at this guy. He looks like a batty boy.”

Here we go again.

One is sipping from a large polystyrene cup. He asks me why I’m wearing make-up (and I wish I could fire back, “Are you quoting the thugs in that scene in The Naked Civil Servant? Is this a 1930s tribute attack?”).

“Do you f— men?. Are you a batty boy? Hey. Do you f— men?”

I grin sheepishly at my shoes, thinking no response is the best response.

And then he throws his drink fully in my face.

I can’t NOT respond to this. Fight or flight? Well, I’m me. So I get up and leave, without collecting my food.
Then as I walk past them, the drink-thrower touches my shoulder and says “We’re cool, mate, yeah? We’re cool?”

Is this his apology? Is he in conflict with his own thuggery? Is he having his own interior dialogue? “I had to do something. I can’t let a man who looks like that remain in my field of vision without doing something. And now I wish I hadn’t.”

To be fair, it’s just the one man out of the group that’s confronted me. His friends aren’t bothered after the initial curiosity. In fact, one of them sucks his teeth in disapproval when my interrogator throws the drink. A possible translation: “Ooh, that was unnecessary, Dave / Steve / Gary / Marmaduke. Let the funny-looking man be.”

I walk away, upset and angry. I think “That’s the last time. That’s the last night out by myself. Ever. ”

I feel I’ve had this too many times before for one life, and at the age of 35 I don’t have the stamina to take it any more. I’m already sworn off lone nightbus rides, taking taxis or nothing. Now I’m really thinking of putting the kibosh on going out in the evening by myself at all. At least, on a Friday or Saturday night. I’m just exhausted with having to be on my guard against my fellow man all the time. Going out shouldn’t mean having to deal.

I recount this to Ms A. She says I’m overreacting. That it’s a terrible shame if I completely curtail my London nightlife purely out of fear of attacks like this. That it’s like not crossing the road just because you can get run over.

Some rather more tongue-in-cheek comments from friends, defusing my whining with a certain gallows humour:

“Well, you do ask for it, frankly.”
“I’m just surprised you’re not actually attacked on a more regular basis.”
“Well, take-aways are bad for you.”
“You love it really. Lads expelling their liquids in your face in the middle of the night…”

It’s fair to say such acquaintances are having none of any drama-queen histrionics. So the diary gets them instead.

Besides, I urgently need to have my hair cut and re-bleached. That’s the main reason for not going out tonight, I tell myself. The No voice wins.

After a few weeks walking around in glasses, I go back on the contact lenses. I have to choose between spending what little money I have on upgrading my Internet service to tackle the domain spam, or I can subscribe to the lenses. I choose the latter. I like playing with the ‘Ipcress File’ black frames look, but my default image when photographed is without specs, so I do have a certain duty. This morning, despite months of being out of practice, the lenses go in without any fuss. It’s if my eyes are telling me, “About time too.”

A note from my mother:

If any of your friends take Country Living magazine (probably not, unless they are closet Green Wellies types), then tell them to take a look at the January issue just out, as it’s got the profile on me in it. You can’t take a peek on the newsstands, sadly, as it’s packaged up with a free copy of She magazine.

A message from a student:

I’m studying you in my A level art on 19th century Decadence. Perfect contemporary flaneur methinks… I’m painting you with a mountain of lilies at the moment, very stylistic and impressionistic.

Am getting around to writing up events uncovered by the diary, so a few thoughts on the last two Beautiful and Damned outings.

The November event attracts the largest gathering of dressed-up people than ever, and at the end of the evening I am surprised and delighted to be thrown roses. I’m aware the club is used as a birthday party for some, which suits me fine. In fact, I’ve been booked for a wedding in the Lake District in May. I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing when I take to the decks, but perhaps that’s part of the appeal. And I’m a shameless crowd pleaser, to a fault.

The only times I displease members of the crowd is during the Christmas event. In my early evening set of painless Christmassy songs, two women demand I play ‘Fairytale Of New York’ and Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You”. They are not dressed up in the B&D way, and it’s clear they are from that solipsistic breed of Christmas pub goers, installing themselves in a pub they wouldn’t normally go to, already drunk by 8pm, and often giving the bar staff a hard time. I politely decline their requests, though adding that I actually like hearing those records myself. Just not right here, and not right now.

They get quite insistent, and I end up almost screaming at them to leave me alone.

“This night is all about hearing records you don’t normally hear in pubs,” I shout. “This is London in the week before Christmas! ‘Fairytale Of New York’ and that Mariah Carey song are very probably being played elsewhere tonight! Other pubs are available in London! I’M ONLY IN THIS ONE! Between you and me, I’m the only one contractually obliged to be here. I’d happily refund your money if it wasn’t a free event.”

They’re having none of it.

“We’re asking you to play that Pogues song. Go on. You have to play it, I’m Irish”. And this is added as if makes it any difference. Her accent is, of course, entirely English.

“Well, I’ve been on holiday with Shane MacGowan!” I retort, an equally meaningless counter-argument. Name-dropping only serves to make you look an absolute fool, even though it feels impressive on the tongue. I wince as I write this admission, even weeks later.

The Christmas edition is a Masked Ball, and there’s plenty of people making an effort with wearing masks, not all of whom are personally known to the DJs. We screen Mr Chaney’s 1925 Phantom Of The Opera, complete with its stunning “Bal Masque” sequences in an early, two-colour form of Technicolor.

Miss Red appears in the Christmas 2006 issue of Time Out to talk about the club. Her set covers the awkward section of the evening when people start to finally get up and dance. Then I take over on the decks, and as the clientele are in the mood for dancing, I more or less ride on her coat-tails. Partly literally, as Miss R often dresses in genuine top hat and tails.

For the Christmas outing, my eye mask is a half-black, half-white affair, which I like to think makes me look a little like the villain from the classic 80s Doctor Who story The Caves Of Androzani. A journalist from the Evening Standard interviews me in the Boogaloo kitchen, but can’t speak to me until I unmask. “I suppose this is how Jack Straw feels about talking to women in veils”. She is accompanied by a photographer who’s a bit pushy in getting shots of my friends. Whether a piece appears in the newspaper or not I have no idea. My policy is to let others tell you.

I air ‘Jesus Christ’ by Big Star along with selections from Christmas albums by Phil Spector (naturally), Peggy Lee, Doris Day, The Carpenters and the Rat Pack, plus a Judy Garland compilation taken from the soundtrack to her early 60s TV series. She duets with Mel Torme on “Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire”, and reminds us that he actually co-wrote the thing.

I haven’t seen the programme, but from the CD’s spoken word segments, Ms Garland’s TV set must be a mock-up of a Christmas living room. As she informs us in the introduction, “Liza’s outside, skating”.

My mailbox has lately become deluged with ‘Returned Mail’ spam. Someone somewhere has been using my dickonedwards.co.uk domain as the return address for their unnecessary little emails. Apparently there’s nothing I can do about this. Except echo Bill Hicks’s words about asking for people who work in advertising to please kill themselves. I have no problem with advertising in its proper place. But spam email, however automated, is the result of certain human beings deciding that spam is desirous to humanity. They are wrong. They must desist and dismantle their software which causes spam, and do something else with their time at once. Get a job in proper marketing if they must.

One of the many awful jobs I had to endure in my twenties was cold calling in a telesales office. I was paid to phone the blameless residents of Bristol, taking their names from the phone directory, and would try to sell them burglar alarms. I lasted about a week before the irony of the situation hit me: I was, after all, breaking and entering by phone. I literally walked out mid-session, and can still recall the ponytailed boss shouting after me “Oh you’re off then? You’ll be back.”

It’s not as if the money was any good: the equivalent of minimum wage. And I should add that this was literally the only position that my Job Centre could find for me at the time; I ran the risk of losing benefit by not giving it a go. But once I realised what it entailed, I preferred to risk starvation. There’s no two ways about it. Unsolicited emails, phone calls or texts are wrong. I would add to this the so-called ‘chuggers’: charity workers who leap at you on the street with their clipboards. I once shouted at a particularly persistent chugger in Charing Cross: “Other jobs are available! Ones which leave people alone! Please get one!” As you might imagine, this was completely out of character for me. He really pushed me too far, following me up the road as I was trying to avoid him.

The only permissable unsolicited mail I can think of is the occasional distribution by letter box of flyers for events and local services, and leaflets from political parties during elections. Material which people might actually be interested in looking at.

But the practice of sending out gibberish email to someone without their consent, while using a return address of someone ELSE without THEIR consent, not only is morally wrong, but seems like a complete waste of time for all parties. Why DO they do it? It can only be out of pure spite against humanity. It does rather bring out one’s inner Daily Mail Reader.