Hangover so nasty I feel like someone has removed each cell in my body during the night and punched it. Drank lots of Carling Black Label (one of Britain’s most popular beers, I understand), which is a cunt’s drink. Weak-ass chemical fizz. Had about 6 pints at the wedding. Then went to Steve & Charlie’s party and poured myself a vodka and orange that was about half and half. Then I drank some of this weird shit that came in a straw-covered bottle, and was 50% vol. And tasted hideous, hideous, horrible. Have spent the day carrying Syd up flights of stairs, wiping shitty arses and collecting my hilariously heavy gear from the hotel. Thank fuck it wasn’t nicked. I’ve been worrying through the pain.
A challenging evening’s DJ-ing, as you might expect. Spent a lot of time disappointing a small girl with my lack of Steps, S Club 7, Robbie Williams etc. I held back my Kylie as a trump card for as long as I could. Finally she was requested and every fucker got up as though by remote control, danced, and then sat down again. I am a man of compromise, and Kylie is an international treasure, but it was depressing. “D.M.S.R” passed unnoticed by the throng too, although I expect that when Jesus addressed the crowd there was still going to be somebody at the back going “What you having for your tea tonight?” “Tainted” Love didn’t work even. I dunno, people danced and stuff, but I like to see wildness and serious pleasure.
And then it was morning and I felt like shit. Pushing the sleeping Syd along in the park, I notice that I will pass several clumps of people on my journey around the perimeter. Suddenly this seems too much for my fragile consciousness to bear, especially as people tend to look you in the eye when you’ve got a kid. I almost turn to leave the park but then realise I am being ridiculous. I then have several fractional encounters with the aforementioned human beings:
1) A middle-aged couple with an adorably youthful dog, a terrier of some kind. Seemed to be named “Ulla” or “Ole.” Scandinavian dog?
2) A woman with toddler who goes “baby!” as they invariably do. “Yes, baby,” say the mums.
3) An old man who is dressed accordingly in shirtsleeves, hoeing his garden in the council allotments that run alongside the park. He stares at his watch for at least thirty seconds. Is it because the clocks have just gone back?
4) A really old man with a stick who is making slow progress ahead of me, dead centre of the path. I start to worry that he will not hear my approach, and be startled if I veer off the path onto the grass to pass him, or be offended or saddened by the fact that I treat him as an obstacle rather than a fellow human being who could simply be asked to move aside. I begin to slow down in the vain hope that this will help my dilemma somehow. Then I hear someone coming up behind me! Grim-faced, I plunge into the situation, bearing down on the hapless geriatric with some determination. I then realise that complexities are lining up to thwart my paranoid progress, because the person behind will be passing the old man at the same time as me and Syd! He is bound to assume that he is about to be jumped on by some gang that prey on the elderly the second his decayed hearing picks up our massed presences crowding up behind him. Nothing to be done though. I scoof the pushchair onto the turf to the man’s left just as the young woman who was behind us passes him on his right. She is wearing a baseball cap and moving with confidence and womanly authority, the synthetic material of her trousers rustling regimentally as she strides past us all. The old man suddenly hears her and then stands dumbstruck and motionless as she marches past him. Syd and I glide through his personal space in silent dread, knowing that he still isn’t aware of us. I don’t get to clock his reaction but I trust that he didn’t have a coronary and crumple noiselessly to the ground. For a second as we move back onto the path in front of the old man it strikes me that we are like the three ages of man: Syd asleep in his pushchair, me tormented by countless irksome stimuli, and the doddering confusion of the decrepit old geezer. I note that the young woman is now some distance ahead.

On the way to the park I see this addict chap involved in some activity, partially hidden by trees and bushes. On the way back I see him again. This time he is on the other side of the path, underneath a different tree, scuffing the leaves with his shoe, seemingly looking for something. In one hand he holds a plastic bag.

For those of you with an eye for detail and good cross-referencing skills will be thrilled to hear that I found my copy of “D.M.S.R”, and just in time for the wedding engagement tonight. It was located between the gatefold sleeves of The Beatles’ “Rock ‘n’ Roll Music”.

My cup runneth over. My thanks particularly to Alexis Hotchipski for helping through this period of loss.

Dance, music, sex, romance. Let’s do it people.

OK, quick dream.
I was working as a slave for a large and eccentric Italian family. The bossy mother was telling me to clear the tables of the cutlery, plates and remains of the food etc. There were several of these tables in different rooms, and for some reason I am moving between them randomly, making the job twice as hard as it should be. I feel very resentful, and started banging plates against tables and walls in the hope of smashing one, but they seemed to be indestructible. The next time the mother comes into the room I leap onto the table like a monkey and let out a shriek in her face. This is barely commented on. I think there were two daughters in the house. I started to have an intimate conversation with one of them. She seemed to be unhappy too. Next thing her brother arrives on a large quad bike thing and drives it up the steps and into the house. He is thickset and has curly hair and a chain round his neck. The daughter tells me to keep away from him. Her face keeps changing…
I tell her I have a son. She sees my girlfriend and tells me that she is very beautiful in “that typically European way”.

Not going to write anything today. Too miserable. Nobody reads it anyway.

The more perceptive among you may have noticed that I sometimes make little alterations to the dairy after it has first been published, so that the diary that you read on Wednesday might be subtly changed by Thursday. I usually decide that a tweak of emphasis is necessary because I have said something that is unclear and might have been put better, or something that I realise I do not stand by, or something that is too personal, or something that might offend. I’m sorry if it seems a bit gutless to do this, but I should point out that these errors of judgement are often associated with the use alcohol, and yet there are occasions when I am sober. By and large I try to leave things as they are, but sometimes I just think that I’ve gone too far. I’m sure the diary will be judged a success when I receive my first punch in the face as a result of it, although perhaps not by me. Anyway, all the more reason to read up on a daily basis, just in case I remove something juicy later on. Not that there’s an excess of juice for Christ’s sake! Obviously it’s mainly charity shops and what I’ve bought from them and so on. But just so you know.

Heavy rain. Strong tea. Room-bound and faffing. Critical-mass stage again in my living-quarters. The level of junk is such that it requires constant tidying to be able to cross the room at all. I have to take long but careful strides from one clear patch of carpet to the next. When people come in they invariably end up standing on a record sleeve or a magazine or a guitar lead, and although I get exasperated have no right to blame them. It is a madman’s room, and it’s doing my head in.

Christ, Friday night after the pub. Tom doing New Model Army tunes on the acoustic while this self-confessed “metaller” girl embellishes his lyrics after him with extra female soul. I’m getting more and more of The Fear with every passing joint, as is the stranger to my right, whose interjections are becoming increasingly off-the-wall and defensive. Of course I remain trapped for ages, enduring a thousand psychical bludgeonings (like Richard Rippin trying get me to sing along, like the embarrassment level in the room wasn’t high enough anyway) before a chance to escape appears when Richard and Hamish leave. The three of us stand up, as does schizz-boy, who explains that he’d rather stand than be in our shadow. After some twenty minutes in this pointless position I stumble awkwardly out the back door, bidding farewell to every single person through the clenched teeth of barely-held-in madness. Back at mine it takes about an hour of Audiomulch before my heart-rate is slow enough to contemplate sleep at Sam’s, above which, predictably enough, Frank is watching some Hollywood shoot-em-up through his fuckingly effective studio speakers. Another brilliant night out.

Dreamt…something about a tiger…
Might have been underwater, only partially visible. Big paws fleetingly visible in the foam. Can’t remember if the tiger was attacking us or if we were trying to save it.

Then I was in a town square and somehow I’d got a pigeon on a rope, like a lead. The strength of the bird was such that as it tried to fly away I was lifted up several feet off the ground. I intuited that this might somehow be good for my pop career and was asking desperately if anyone had a camcorder. Somebody appeared with a camera but I don’t think we got a shot. This led into a part of the dream about a smaller bird, which was ailing in some way. I think its condition was in some way my fault. Gradually the bird became more and more lifeless until it turned into a blue CD. I took it outside into the conservatory in the hope that it would fare better away from my influence. Anxiously I peered through the window to check on its fate. Eventually the edges of the CD seemed to turn up and change colour, and become more organic in appearance. Then I noticed that the plant on the table next to the CD-bird was swarming with ants, and they were eating the CD.

Seems altogether too fucking allegorical in the cold light of day.

Large young man in the Salvation Army. Member of staff for some years. You wonder why. Going on about his diet: “All I had for dinner was a sandwich, a packet of crisps, some biscuits, and a drink.” Sad-eyed lady in early old-age (who opens the shops sometimes but is always late and flustered) advising him to ‘eat little and often’.

Irish woman in The Red Cross Shop involved in some confusion over change seems to think that her honesty is in question. Spends the rest of the time I am in the shop bending the ear of the long-suffering manageress (Julia) about her unfailing honesty, its origin in the strong values of her mother, the less-scrupulous behaviour of others, examples thereof, etc.

I’m leafing through the records in The British Heart Foundation when I hear “Um…” Turn round to look into the lens-magnified eyes of one of the part-time staff, a man with a stutter and other difficulties. I’ll leave out the stuttering.
“What sort of stuff are looking for, because we’ve got some more out the back”
“Er, you’ know, well…like, sort of rock and stuff, mainly.”
“What, like, Elton John?
“Er, no…”
“…Rod Stewart?”
Eventually I persuade him to get me a pile, which actually turns out to be vaguely promising in that it contains loads of Stranglers LPs (most of which I own, but there’s always Bob’s Christmas presents to think about) amongst other low-to-medium excitement items. We have a protracted discussion about condition and value, with me making little low-key efforts to improve on the deal, not to take advantage of the man, you understand. He’s talking about £2:50 a piece and I’m hanging out for less, but I can see this thing isn’t going to go my way, especially when the inevitable happens and he says he has to go and ask the manageress. He takes an age to attract her attention because she is an absolute dragon and he isn’t really trying. His fear of her makes the stuttering go haywire and I’m doing my best to act as though I’m not in earshot.
“I hope you haven’t just sold those for £2:50!” she says, sharply. “They’ll be priced up at at least five pounds. That Stranglers is quite rare! When David comes in he can go through the book as The Stranglers is certainly rare.”
Then I have to endure his humiliation as he comes back to me and tells me that:
“Well, as you probably heard. It’s no deal.” Funnily enough he seems a lot more together and dignified at this moment.
I have to go to the till anyway as I’ve found “Bad Wisdom” by Bill Drummond & Mark Manning (priced reasonably at £1:35).
“That Stranglers is quite rare.” she informs me. One doesn’t want to get into get into grudge situations with charity-shop managers, but I allow myself the satisfaction of saying:
“Is that right?” in a flat voice.

Sam dreamt about terrorists. She says she thinks she killed someone.

Dreamt about a gun. Think I was cleaning it or something…

Then I was told to go and select some footballs of a specific type from the school gymnasium.

Next I was doing an UM gig with Dave Henson. I was really crap and drunk and awful. Kept forgetting words and having to make stuff up. Really embarrassing.

Then I found myself alone on a Saturday in Barnstaple, just yards from the Sue Ryder shop. I hastily entered the shop and began hunting for records. By the time I’d found some I was in a large Debenhams-type store, with thick carpets and dark red and green décor. I took my selections to the counter. I thought it only fair to point out that one of the 12″ single sleeves was filled with 5 or 6 records rather than one. The assistant called over one of the large police inspectors who were suddenly in abundance in the shop. He stared at me forcefully, but with notable stupidity.

Went to the LEAPS gig to see Hot Chip, amongst other things. Everyone who was anyone was there, and many who weren’t. As the band got themselves ready I found myself sat at the back alone with my pint, my view gradually becoming totally obscured by the bodies of University students. Alexis makes an unlikely front man in one sense given that he rocks the Russian chess prodigy look, but he has a great voice. In fact the girl in front of me was telling her companion that Alexis’s singing had reduced her to tears on some occasion. Some guy in a hat was introducing himself to lots of people. Every single person was chain-smoking. Hot Chip did a song called “Making Tracks” that was particularly impressive. Sort of Money Mark style thing.