Am recovering from either food poisoning or gastric flu.

Spend my first hours of 2007 sleeping on the floor of Mr Hughes’s boat moored on the canal in Oxford, but in utter agony. I am kept awake with stomach pains and having to make frequent visits to the toilet. My host Mr Hughes is enormously tolerant, even when I break the tap in his bathroom through turning it the wrong way.

I am tortured twice during this first night of the year: once with the stomach cramps, and twofold with the guilty knowledge that getting up for the toilet will probably awaken my host. I am the mercy of my condition, and therefore so is he.

The journey back to Highgate the next day is equally fraught – I find even sitting down makes my predicament worse, even though the train and tube have plenty of seats. I’m all for not being able to sit down after a night of debauchery, but in my case the reasons are more Joe Pasquale than Joe Orton.

The previous afternoon and evening – Dec 30th – is spent with Anna S and David B, drinking happily and steadily at The Flask pub and then in their Archway flat. This puts me in a state of severe hangover for the 31st itself. My plan was to escape London for New Year’s Eve, and take it easy with my boat-bound friend. I hadn’t banked on being first fragile and ill from overdoing it the night before, and then fragile and ill from contracting some stomach-related ailment. What a guest.

The pains are still ongoing, so I’ve cancelled all social functions till I recover fully. Shame, as this week I’ve been invited to TWO birthday gatherings, a book launch, a magazine launch and a concert. I’m behind with a couple of writing commissions, and I really should get those done as it is.

Back to Oxford, and for midnight we eschew the pubs. Walking through George St, the streets are like Anytown, UK. Loud young people – and the not-young people acting young – with the hint of violence about them, marching in packs from bar to bar. Screaming in shop doorways at each other to hurry up, and it’s barely 9pm.

Once we cross Cornmarket into Broad Street and the university part of town, it’s like crossing into Narnia. The streets are comparatively deserted, the neon hue of the High Street signs replaced by ancient college walls, and the noise dies down. Thank God. We spend a few minutes in The Turf Tavern, a pub which is so civilised it closes at 11pm on New Year’s Eve. The King’s Arms, another studenty haunt with lots of places to hide, is open, but is full of young men pretending to be Stephen Fry. Quite frankly I get enough of that at home.

Actually, that’s a good way of describing the difference between London and Oxford in 2007. In Oxford, all the young men think they’re Stephen Fry. In London, all the young men think they’re Pete Doherty or Russell Brand.

It’s battering down with rain. Mr Hughes has lent me a folding umbrella, and as soon as I get hold of it, the thing naturally turns inside out in the wind and falls apart, spokes akimbo. So we sit in the King’s Arms for a while. In a corner of the pub, the worse pub band in the world is attempting to play Radiohead’s ‘Creep’. An unkind passer-by adds ‘Perhaps it’s Radiohead.’

As soon as the rain clears, we stand by the dome of Radcliffe Camera to listen for the various city bells ringing in the New Year under a star-swept sky. Mr Hughes recites Yeats:

A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

I retort by saying I’m feeling ‘old and tired and full of sleep…’.

On the stroke of 12, we exchange manly English handshakes and make our way back to the boat, taking a diversion to avoid the George St revellers. Or anyone else.

Happy New Year. He said, still feeling like someone has punched him in the stomach. It can only get better from here.

Here’s this month’s B&D details. If you’re in London that day, come, be nice, enjoy feeling lightly attractive and not saturated in London sarcasm.

THE BEAUTIFUL & DAMNED – JANUARY EDITION
Date: Thursday 25th January
Times: 9pm to 12.30am.
Venue: The Boogaloo, 312 Archway Road, London N6 5AT, UK. 020 8340 2928.
Tube: Highgate (Northern Line). Buses: 43, 134, 263.
Price: Free entry, but patrons are strongly encouraged to dress Timelessly Stylish.
More information on the News page.

Have let the diary slip once again. My waking hours are a battleground of anxiety, of wondering what to do with the time I have. And then of course, I spend more time worrying about what I should be doing than actually getting on with doing it.

The other day I heard someone on the radio talking about Adult ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder), and typically wondered if I have a form of it myself, given my skittish behaviour. Would an ADD-treating medication such as Ritalin help me concentrate on getting more writing projects done? Should I bother my doctor about it?

The period between Dec 27th and the 30th has a strange unhappy limbo feel, particularly as this year’s Christmas break involves a few days’ extension due to the two Eves falling at the weekend. Some people are still staying with their families, and are starting to regret it. Others are getting impatient with the general slowing down of business and of life. Hurry up with New Years’ Eve, they cry. Anything other than these floating, bloated, aimless final days of December.

There’s a pervading sense of wanting to cut to the chase. Saddam Hussein is hurriedly hanged today, and it’s reported as if his main crime is just being on the To Do list during this most fidgety week of the year. The Telegraph reports the late dictator’s choice of breakfast cereal while awaiting the inevitable: Raisin Bran Crunch. ‘But he objected to the sickly sweet Froot Loops.’

Photo by Suzi Livingstone.
Location: The Waldorf Hilton, Aldwych, Dec 24th 2006.

Preparing to write a Christmas Message, I look back at diary entries from the last few Decembers only to discover I’d not bothered with an actual Message for a couple of years. Just photos by way of a Christmas Card to you, Dear Reader, which is rather lazy. My memory is becoming so poor that this diary is fast becoming a lifeline, reminding me not only what I have or haven’t done, but who I actually appear to be.

Well, today I feel rather cat-like. So this is A Cat’s Christmas Message.

In the past year I’ve felt more than ever like a cat-like guest at the gatherings of others. Drifting from group to group, appearing uninvited, but not ejected. Indulged, praised, fed and watered like a child-substitute – often by those without children (people with offspring rarely seek to know me) – and I do my utmost to show my gratitude by appearing well-groomed. Kicked by some strangers, stroked by others. A space-wasting parasite to some, a Good Value Guest to others. A spy of sorts, though a spy who works for no one and is happy to be a calming confidante. I slip into rooms and worlds, mostly silent and keen to not be trodden on. I’m lazy, I spend far too much time asleep, and far too much time wandering aimlessly around the streets. Aloof and alone, neither happy nor sad. Thinking about things, or just content with existing. The days are as empty as I want them to be: I’m always confident I’ll get an invite to something. Today it’s Lucy Madison & Dale Shaw’s Christmas Day Drinks & Games do at their Art Deco flat in Highgate Village. I’ll go along, though not till Doctor Who finishes. Everything, even substitute cats, must stop for Doctor Who.

I prowled in and out of the real world in May, standing as a Green Party candidate for the local council elections. And I was fascinated at seeing first hand how the voting slips are counted – in a huge hall (at Alexandra Palace), by hand, with pens and paper; and not a single computer in sight. Contrast that with my other attempt to leave a dent on the real world in 2006 – appearing on a BBC1 documentary about blogging and the internet. My computerless neighbour said to me in the street the next day, ‘Saw you on the TV last night. I didn’t realise you liked computers.’

She reminded me that the Internet still only matters to those to whom it matters. And of course, the answer is I’m not a computer sort of person at all. Which is why I switched to a Mac this year – the computer for those who use the thing as a vehicle to reach a destination. Not for those who like computers per se. A means to an end, not an end in itself. These days, new computer games are made either for proper games consoles or for PCs. Which suits me.

Thomas Sutcliffe reviewed the documentary in his TV review column for the Independent:

The web itself supplies perspective. When I Googled my way to the online diary of Dickon Edwards, a cravated dandy who represents the new frontier of the blog, it turned out that he was prepared to say what [the programme] wasn’t about the chief attraction of this hi-tech form of vanity publishing: ‘The main reason I’m writing a diary online is because no one has employed me to do it in print.’

Indeed. Though that is me being a little harsh on myself: with my website statistics, I can point to thousands of regular readers who haven’t just stumbled upon these words by mistake. Vanity publishing usually has a suspected readership of one.

And yes, although I do moan about never being paid, I am still pleased to write here unfettered and unedited, able to reach people anywhere instantly, and have every past entry available to them as well. Doubtless Mr Sutcliffe was paid for his words – including the quote he lifted from my diary – but once the day of publication is past, his review could only be accessed by physically entering a public reference library which keeps old newspapers. Unlike The Guardian, The Times and the Telegraph, the Independent doesn’t archive its full content online.

It should also be noted that his TV review column appeared above a section called ‘YOU Write The Reviews’, where Independent readers are encouraged to email in their accounts of concerts they’ve been to, presumably for no payment. A sign of the times.

Ultimately, I’d rather be available to just be read, above anything else. The lack of money is a pain, but I can’t complain when I’m treated so well in all other respects. I’m regularly treated to food and drink and even clothes from kind friends and readers. I’m writing this while wearing a tie sent by a reader from Portugal.

Likewise, it’s obviously a shame I wasn’t paid for appearing on TV, or for writing a piece in the well-marketed Decadent Handbook, a piece which I’ve since discovered has been excerpted by Mojo Magazine (without asking me, though I’d have said yes). But I’m in no position to grumble. In both instances I was fed and watered and given shelter and cat treats (a bottle of absinthe and a copy of the book from Dedalus Books; taxis, tea at Maison Bertaux and a DVD of the show from the BBC). And as the cliche goes, it’s all good experience and looks good on my CV. But at the age of 35 and thus having lived a fair amount of the Vitae on my Curriculum, I do worry if the day will ever come when I stop doing unpaid work for ‘the experience’ and actually earn a living BECAUSE of my being ‘experienced’. Oh, that dreaded phrase ‘Work Experience’. Am I really still to be given Work Experience, and never be given Work? Well, of course, this means I have to pull my finger out and actually work a lot harder to prove I can deliver. I dread my gravestone reading: ‘Here Lies Dickon Edwards – Well, At Least It’s Good Experience.’

Still, the New Year includes a meeting with a TV company about new projects, so fingers and paws crossed. Till then, thank you to all those who give to this constant taker, this beggar with a choice, this lazy decorative cat that must evolve into a productive working human.

A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU.

Dickon Edwards
Highgate, London.

A quick recommendation before I write something more substantial.

Some Nativity-themed radio comedy from the BBC, available on their 7 day Listen Again facility:

The National Theatre Of Brent’s Messiah (2006 Radio Version)

Brilliantly silly and frequently rather touching, the Nat Theatre Of Brent’s style consists of two grown men acting like pompous schoolboys; specifically a swottier boy bossing about his more highly-strung best friend. Full of delicious malapropisms and general tutting at each other, the nearest point of reference is the Molesworth Books. An absolute joy.

A sixth B&D flyer design from Lovisa:

… just saw the documentary and it was interesting… Could have been more about when you write your diary in a suit and tie, I think. I am not so quick as a lot of your other readers but I thought the flyer thing was so much fun so I made one even though you already found your winner…

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting any responses to my open request for Beautiful & Damned flyer designs, let alone five. You never know until you ask. I’ve gone with Mr Cook’s Beardsley-esque design, though I think they’re all great. My gushing thanks to the kind souls whose fast work is showcased below. I shall never underestimate my readership again.
1. From Sofizel:

2. From DrinkMILK Design:
http://drink-milk.net
http://www.myspace.com/drinkmilkdesign

3. From Danny Chidgey:
www.lazygramophone.com
www.myspace.com/nochancemilega

4. From Stuart Mackie:

5. From Gary Cook:

I’m keen to make a new paper flyer for the Beautiful & Damned Christmas Masked Ball. Something simple in B&W A6 size, where four flyers can be printed out on a sheet of A4 and cut up accordingly.

My own talents in this department are found wanting. So if this sort of thing is second nature to you, please do get in touch. I’ll pay what I can.

The flyer needs to have the following text:

BEAUTIFUL & DAMNED – Christmas Masked Ball.
The decadent disco gets festive…
Thursday 21st December.
9pm to 12.30.
The Boogaloo, 312 Archway Rd, N6 5AT. 020 8340 2928.
Highgate Tube.
Free. Dress code: Stylish & Masked.

Some sort of 1920s-themed masked ball imagery would be ideal.

There, I’ve asked.

dickon@dickonedwards.co.uk

I’ve been charged with taking dictation from Mr MacGowan again. This time, it’s for the Guardian website’s blogs section. Essentially, I get him on the phone while he’s on tour, he rants on about whatever’s on his mind, and I write it all up. Rather helps that my answering machine can be switched to recording a live call. The blog has the blessing of Mr O’Boyle and Ms Clarke.

He mentions a Mr O’Neill, who has something to do with football, specifically Celtic FC. It’s fair to say I had to look him up.

Link