Spend the late afternoon of the London bomb attacks in the Archway Tavern, with London friends old and new. Including David Barnett, now of the band The Boyfriends, who was one of the first Londoners I befriended when I moved here in 1994.

It’s the pub featured on the sleeve of “Muswell Hillbillies” (left) by that sine qua non of London bands, The Kinks. Today there’s a few less flat caps and few more Archway waifs with fantastic hair, but it’s otherwise unchanged. The album photo was taken in 1971, the year of my birth. My parents may have chosen to bring up children in Suffolk, but they met as students in the capital, living in Blackheath while Dad worked at an art bookshop in the Charing Cross Road. Consequently I’ve always thought I had London in my DNA. London brought them together, so London made me.

Ms Seaneen is at the pub, and hands me a CD of Bonzo Dog and Viv Stanshall songs. More Only In London types.

Today, as late yesterday, there’s a rather moving spirit in the air, celebrating the better qualities of the city and its people. Anger is the first emotion – anger at terrorists targeting public transport, where politicians never, ever go (unless there’s an accident to be photographed at). The people who suffer are those who can’t afford to get taxis or be driven about with security guards.

But that passes – perhaps more quickly than in other cities. London doesn’t like to get too sentimental for too long about things – Liverpool rather has the monopoly on that. One silver lining, apart from the cancellation of a ghastly Queen concert, is how people are recognising the capital in 2005 as a paradigm of unfussy optimism. Of annoyed sighs, but of adapting and getting on with making things better. Where that infamous English aloofness and fear of social embarrassment mixes with the capital’s international embrace, forming a unique resolve all its own. The strange convenience of the bus exploding directly outside the British Medical Association – where the nation’s top doctors raced outside to help. World convenience alongside frustrating inconvenience – another very London formula.

I think of the men on the platform at Old Street the other week who giggled at my appearance as I passed, shaking their heads and saying “Only in London. Only in London.” They didn’t mean it nastily, and I didn’t take it nastily. I’m now prouder than ever of that particular cat-call.

I’m in the mood for a Kinks song. A band that can be wry, sarcastic and satirical with one glance, then sincere and poignant (in a perfectly pitched tone similar to Ken Livingstone’s recent speech about the bombings) with another. Very London indeed.

Waterloo Sunset is far too obvious. Instead, here’s a lesser-known early 80s song of theirs, Better Things. Perfect for today. It even made me cry when I played it just now. But without being too silly about it.

Chin chin, you dirty old city.

Be an optimist instead,
And somehow happiness will find you.
Forget what happened yesterday,
I know that better things are on the way.
It’s really good to see you rocking out
And having fun,
Living like you just begun.
Accept your life and what it brings.
I hope tomorrow you’ll find better things.
I know tomorrow you’ll find better things.

I’m entirely safe and unharmed here in Highgate. Sorry to disappoint you, Unkind Reader. Woken up by a phone call from my father checking I was okay.

It’s just as well that I’m in a not-going-out-in-London mood at the moment. After a series of bomb attacks in town, London Transport has been pretty much closed down for the time being (tempting the Dorothy Parker quote about the dead president – ‘How can you tell?’).

The bombs were initially reported as ‘power surges’ on the Tube. Later it transpires this was an accidental interpretation rather than a deliberate euphemism, but at the time I assume the latter, and muse if this is the 2005 terrorist equivalent of the theatre fire signal, ‘Mr Sands is in dressing room 3.’ Anything rather than shouting ‘Fire!’

It seems silly at first, even insulting and deceptive, but when the level of panic alone can make a difference to casualties, one has to admit it makes sense.

The only time I understand you are meant to actually cry ‘Help! Fire!’ is when you’re being raped or mugged. The psychology of alarm.

Two pictures on the news take me aback before I turn off. One is a dark, cave-like photo of people walking along Tube tunnels. The other is of splattered bloodstains halfway up the wall of the BMA building in Tavistock Square. The stains are level with the top deck of the exploded bus.

Bill Gates speaking on eliminating poverty from the world, onstage at the Live 8 event –

“The best thing that humanity has even done… And now, Dido.”

Something cheering. Today’s mp3 offering is ‘Library’, a fantastic song by Cursor Miner, released far too quietly in December 2003.

It’s a bouncy, impossibly catchy and entirely sincere laptop-synthpop song with rough-boy vocals, all about how wonderful public libraries are. Possibly the only track regularly played at Kash Point that could also feature in a children’s educational programme. Dedicated to all the gorgeous librarians among my readership. As Mr Miner says, their kind are indeed ‘often sexy’. Though perhaps not in the case of Mr Philip Larkin.

There’s also a terrific animated video to go with the song, which I thoroughly urge you to watch.

Cursor Miner plays in London tonight, at Club Hemisphere. I shall attend before going onto Mr Price’s Stay Beautiful.

the library the library
it’s a place where books are free
the library the library
it’s a lot better than watching tv

the library the library
it’s a place where books are free
the library the library
librarians are often sexy

A thought-provoking comment from Momus, made while he was railing against the state of 2005 London:

I admire your dandyism, I think you’re basically what people become in Britain when they remain defiantly defensive of basic aesthetic values. But I think the danger is the same as the danger of being a satirist: there’s a possibility that you become nothing more than the mirror image of the things you hate and revile, a walking challenge to the challenge. And there are so many other things you could be, in so many other cities. You might even find that there are places where people think, dress and feel as you do, and that it’s nice to be part of a community rather than some sort of stubborn sacrificial lamb out on an increasingly fragile limb.

Granted, he was speaking from the point of view of a Grumpy Old Ex-Pat passing through the capital, seeking evidence to fit his argument. But it has made me think. I’ve lived in this one room in North London since February 1994. It was Bristol before that, Suffolk before that. I always loved the idea of living in London when I was growing up, and regard it as a kind of ambition realised in itself. But have I now been here too long? Are all my current problems just symptoms that the moss is beginning to choke? How can I know if somewhere else is better for me right now, unless I up sticks and see for myself?

I always admired Mr Quentin Crisp’s ability to live in a Chelsea bedsit for most of his life, but then he was really waiting until he could afford to move to New York. I am not and will never be Mr Crisp. Thank goodness – I’d have to say nice things about Mrs Thatcher and unkind things about music, and I’d have to happily speak on the phone instead of using email. I detest speaking on the phone; particularly in these mobile-dominated days where most callers have to shout against traffic noise, and then the signal breaks up. Added to which most calls to my landline number are by automated recordings of Americans trying to sell me something. Thank you, Alexander Graham Bell.

Which is where you find me tonight, Dear Reader. Considering my life, feeling too tired too often, feeling every one of my 33 years and more, feeling that I will never be anything more than too many people’s Less Close Friend (another possible song title…), that people drift in and out of my life with their Dickon Edwards phases. I have one of those too – it’s just lifelong.

And still no closer to finding and retaining An Appropriate Source Of Regular Income. I need something to get me out of this turgid, soporific, failing state where every waking hour is spent just wanting to go back to bed. Lately, I’ve found myself ashamedly spending energy trying to get out of clubs, gigs and gatherings I’ve been invited to, plumping for an Unquiet Night In. I realise it’s rather hard to elicit sympathy for that, Dear Reader.

‘Poor Mr Edwards. He gets invited to too many London parties. It must be awful for him.’

I could say I enjoy being alone, but that’s clearly not true either.

But what is it I need? A Sex Life? A Proper Relationship? Or could it be A Move? Certain cities suggest themselves: Edinburgh, Oxford, Brighton, Toronto, NYC, perhaps even Gothenburg or Stockholm. I’ve still not even been to NYC or Toronto.

Right now, I do feel weighed down by the might of my life’s To Do list. Where to start? And I feel weighed down by this room’s decade of accumulated possessions. Evidence of time passed rather than a life lived.

My mother told me the other day, ‘If there’s something troubling you, you either do something about it, or you stop worrying about it and accept it.’

So, I must do something. But oh – the effort!

To darkest East London for Andy Roberts’s funeral on a day of sunshine, lightning and eventually Biblical rain. Someone I used to see around is no longer around. Underlying sense of horror in the air, which I’m not prepared for. I’ve been to funerals before, but those were for my grandparents, both elderly. Death is not the great leveller if someone has died far too young, in a road accident. There is normal grief, and there is shock-grief.

It’s hard to say things like ‘superb turn-out’, and ‘fantastic service’ without sounding like you’re actually envying the deceased, or judging a life by counting heads at a funeral, but those two things are certainly true, and it’s proof that Mr R was certainly famous for more than 15 people. Touching, beautiful and poetic tributes, and an Order of Service that comes with a pull-out comics supplement – comics by Mr R, of course. A terrific touch.

I repair to a pub in Limehouse for the wake, drink too much and say too much. At once point I start a sentence with the Freudian slip ‘My boyfriend’s girlfriend…’. (meaning to say ‘my brother’s girlfriend’) Possibly a title for a song. Music played at the wake includes the Hidden Cameras excellent b-side ‘Heavy Flow Of Evil’.

Walking my way up from East Ham tube, I turn a corner too sharply and collide with a large Asian gentleman whose swagger involves swinging his arms. The result is his hand connects directly with my crotch as I pass. He apologises at once, and of course so do I. As I think John Cleese put it, England is where you say sorry to the person treading on your foot.

At the funeral, I relate this incident to Tim Chipping. He imagines the man being far more horrified than I, rushing home to scrub his fingers at once. To some minds I must resemble the sort of person who would rather enjoy such a collision, or even arrange it deliberately. All I can say is it’s the closest thing I’ve had to a sex life for some time.

A Poem for Glastonbury by Dickon Edwards

Pictures of teenagers wallowing in E.coli
Make me feel so terribly lone-li

An email from yet another Swedish Fosca fan:

I was wondering if Fosca was planning to do any Stockholm dates in the near future?
I know that you went to Gothenburg and Malmo, but that’s a bit far away from here.

Well, we’d love to play Stockholm right now, but like any gig outside of London, until we get an international booking agent and decent support from a record label, we have to be asked by a promoter over there.

It’s not like this sort of request is like some lone fan writing:
‘When are you going to play my home town of Tinyville, Ohio? You’ve cruelly overlooked it so far’
(Answer: Because you would be the only person in the audience!)

But with Sweden, Fosca do have this intense little following, and the emails from that part of the world do keep coming. I can’t help thinking that, with a decent professional Swedish-compatible agent and record company behind us, we could even be having proper hits over there. That we’ve played Sweden five times entirely due to fans becoming promoters of their own volition, investing much of their own time and money, purely in order to see us play must surely count for something.

I did hear of a travelling music festival that Plan B magazine was affiliated with, calling at Stockholm and Gothenburg. Perfect for Fosca, so I emailed the people at once. Turns out the chap in charge is a kind Englishman I’ve met years ago, Mr Gooch. But too late – the bill’s full.

All I can suggest to Swedish fans out there is to put the name of Fosca forward to local promoters and festival organisers. Approach them to approach us, and we’ll do it.

At least now Fosca have a manager. And we’re looking into getting merchandise made. Badges, bookmarks and pens. Not t-shirts, though, obviously.

Onwards and upwards.

Some people enjoyed the My Favorite song I shared with the world the other day, so here’s another offering from a Current Music Artiste I like.

This time, a brand new video offering from Toronto’s Gentleman Reg, aka the ultra-blond singer-songwriter Mr Reg Vermue. Mr Vermue is part of that entrancing Toronto scene that includes Arcade Fire, Hidden Cameras, and Final Fantasy. In Canada, he’s appeared on the radio and on the cover of magazines, and has provided several songs for the soundtrack of the US TV series Queer As Folk.

I liked his last album Make Me Pretty so much that last year I got out of bed and did something about it. I helped to organise his first UK live dates, even getting to play 2nd guitar for him onstage.

This video is for The Boyfriend Song, from his latest album Darby & Joan. It appears to be entirely filmed in someone’s flat via ‘night vision’, rendering it rather like a scene from Big Brother. All kinds of naughty goings-on in the background, but poor Mr Vermue can only look on with his acoustic guitar and sensible jumper. A familiar predicament indeed.

http://www.mymeanmagpie.com/boyfriendsong.html

Wednesday 22nd June – A historic date for some. The head of the UK Civil Service announces the wearing of ties as no longer mandatory for male employees. As long as they’re still smart, office boys and men alike can now wear their shirts open-necked as they oil the cogs of government. Must be a relief for those suffering under the current heatwave in offices built before the invention of air conditioning.

It may just be the Civil Service, but I suspect the trickle-down effect for the world of work will be ineluctable. When a similar guideline was made with bowler hats in the past, the trademark headwear of the English businessman soon disappeared from the streets and onto the naughty head of Ms Minnelli in Cabaret.

I personally welcome this news. Soon, when a man is seen in public wearing a tie, he will no longer be accused of having come straight from work. Tie-wearers will at last be deliberate tie-wearers. All ties will be nice ties, not ugly arrows of drudgery.

This apparently follows an industrial tribunal where a man claimed the forcing of ties upon male workers but not their female colleagues was tantamount to sexual discrimination. He won. The times are indeed a-slightly-changing.

==========

In the afternoon with Ms Silke to see the excellent Batman Begins at the North Finchley Lido VUE. Tickets are 2 for the price of 1 – a welcome discount due to my ownership of a Orange phone. Orange are one of those curious companies who pay to admit their product can be thoroughly annoying, at least when used without consideration for others. Their adverts are getting a bit annoying in themselves, though. Don’t let a mobile phone spoil your ad break, I say.

There’s currently a campaign to promote UK cinema going, as opposed to DVD renting at home. I certainly agree that watching Lord Of The Rings on a small screen really isn’t the same experience as seeing it at a proper Odeon, but I have some suggestions to make to cinema chains if they want to increase ticket sales.

Firstly, please make the outing more affordable. The Orange Wednesdays thing helps, but what about the food and drink? A Coke and a packet of popcorn for more than the price of the cinema ticket? To me that’s a profit margin worthy of investigation by a trading watchdog, but it’s been like that for years.

Secondly, O Cinema Manager, if you want to save on your overheads, how about replacing the sound system with a cheaper, older one that doesn’t physically assault me? Sometimes the rush to upgrade can go too far. After all, digital watches didn’t quite replace the analogue variety. New doesn’t always mean better.

My father has to take earplugs to the cinema, and I may follow suit if this goes on. Do people really appreciate surround Dolby sound at immense volume? The other day in a cinema I had my ears blasted apart and my seat submitted to intense shaking every other moment. And that was just Ladies In Lavender.

Still, I’m grateful for the air conditioning.