“K would like a Waggledance Shandy, please.”

No, we’ve not been to a dodgy strip club; instead, yesterday saw me taking K to his first ever blogmeet, at a formerly gay (and now much improved) pub on the Bayswater Road. Waggledance was their guest beer – and at a whopping 5%, it was a fine ale indeed – but since K was going to have to be driving us home from Derby station that evening, shandies were the order of the day. I’m sure you can picture the amusement.

Perhaps I shouldn’t even be calling the blogmeet a blogmeet, since it wasn’t an openly publicised event. Rather it was a gathering of The British Blogpals Of Lucy Pepper From Portugal – who, amongst her many more celebrated achievements, is also responsible for the first two images at the top of my sidebar.

Most of the blogpals were familiar faces; others I was meeting for the first time. K had never met any of them before, and he doesn’t read blogs anyway, so I did a certain amount of discreet “background” hissing – but it wasn’t an easy social situation for him to step into, and he did well to last the course with such good grace. (Tellingly, he formed an immediate alliance with Lucy’s Professor, one of the two other non-bloggers in the room.) Perhaps I should have dragged him round the table with me, showing him off and making sure that EVERYONE LOVED HIM. But that’s not our style. So I was rather pleased when Bob (hooray, another Gay at a Blogmeet for once!) took me aside and told me that K was “lovely”. Because, well, he IS. And it always pleases me when people agree.


(I always operate on the default assumption that everybody who meets K is madly jealous that I got in there before they did. Yes, I might be delusional. But at least my delusions are romantic ones.)

(Example: the nice older lady on reception at our hairdressers, who didn’t realise that we were partners until it came out in passing a couple of months ago:

Nice older lady (with feeling): I love him.

Mike: So do I. But I saw him first.

Our hairdresser: Yeah, but she had him last.

You have never seen two people rouge up quite so swiftly. But I over-parenthesise.)


As for me, the usual phenomenon occurred, whereby I left the pub feeling I hadn’t spent nearly long enough talking to people, even though I had been there for over five hours solid. How does that happen?

We would have packed swatches (see posts below; way to fill a comments box; updates as we get them), but they’d never have fitted in the day sack.

I am very tempted to give you neatly turned pencil portraits of the bloggers I’d never met before, but perhaps discretion is the better part of valour.

I had one Waggledance too many, and ended up burbling. But that’s all part of the experience.

Mike loves meeting bloggers!

The Great Scatter Cushion Dilemma 2007: The Quest Continues.

Those of you who were brave enough to tell us that none of our scatter cushion choices were quite right: in the final analysis, just before leaving for work this morning, we could only agree with you. Well, none of the colours and patterns really sang, did they?

For the record: our original preference was for Option Four – again until this morning, when we looked at each other and both simultaneously mouthed the dread word: contrived. Option Two nearly had it, but then we thought: can the room really sustain so much redness? After all, we’ll be buying eight of these things; a pair for every corner.

Our next big conceptual leap: each pair should consist of one smaller, patterned cushion, with a glossy sheen to the fabric, and one larger, plain cushion in a matt fabric.

To this end, K scampered back to Multiyork this lunchtime, and returned with a second batch of samples.

This is where we’ve got to. Take a look at the photos below. Now imagine the rear cushion of each pair in a larger, matt version of the background colour, i.e. gold or mushroom.

Today’s question involves a leap of imagination, followed by a straightforward binary choice. Would you favour:

OPTION ONE: A small shiny patterned gold (front) + a large matt plain mushroom (rear).

OPTION TWO: A small shiny patterned mushroom (front) + a large matt plain gold (rear).

To assist you with matching issues, and to draw your attention away from that small yellow vase (a detail, a mere detail, and easily dispensed with), K has photographed all four corners of the sofa.

(I also asked him to take a couple of wider shots of the whole room, for contextual purposes – but these didn’t materialise, and we had pressing evening engagements to attend to.)

Yes, this is a bit tougher. But you’re all warmed up now. You can do it.

Once more then, with feeling: Bring On The Scatter Cushions!

OPTION ONE.

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OPTION TWO.

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The Great Scatter Cushion Dilemma (2007 version). Who stays? You decide!

Now we have the Sofas for Life, we need a Scatter Cushion Solution that is truly worthy of them.

This is normally the point where K and I come to blows. We’re placid fellows, but our passions run deep.

In order to save us from ourselves, we’re throwing the options open to YOU.

Here are a selection of scatter cushions, currently on loan from those awfully nice people at Multiyork.

Study these four arrangements carefully. Using your skill and judgement, please decide which one would afford us the greatest degree of spiritual succour, on a medium to long-term basis.

When you have decided, please leave your choice in the comments box.

We shall take your opinions VERY SERIOUSLY.

And now… bring on the scatter cushions!

OPTION ONE.

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OPTION TWO.

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OPTION THREE.

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OPTION FOUR.

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Our new sofas have arrived!!! (A social history in soft furnishings.)

Interior design-wise, one key requirement of the Nottingham property has consistently eluded us: namely, the casual seating solutions for the sitting room. Over the past fifteen years, we have chomped our way through rather too many sofas for our own good, each successive purchase never quite managing to resolve the problems posed by its predecessor.

Shall I list them all, then? Shall I? Oh go on, shall I?

1. The Sofa That Smelt Like Fish.
(1987-1992)

Originally bought in 1987 for the house in Sherwood, its pale grey cover with the tiny gold and black Pollock Lite splodges fairly screamed Faux Yuppie Lawson Boom Tastelessness, whilst the slippery sheen of the material meant that the cushions were forever sliding from underneath us. Set amidst the marginally yet significantly ahead-of-its-time minimalism of the new property – all clean lines, clear surfaces and gleaming beech parquet – a re-covering was urgently required.

2. The Sofa That Smelt Like Fish (Re-covered, But Still Smelling Like Fish).
(1992-1994)

In the newly untucked, post-baggy early 1990s, loose covers were all the rage, possibly as a reaction to the uptight fitted-ness of the unmourned 1980s. The key looks of the day, at least to World of Interiors honeymoon period subscribers such as ourselves, were New England Beach Hut (shitty old bits of reclaimed wood from architectural salvage joints, all peeling paint and artfully placed scuff marks; wooden yachts in the downstairs loo) and English Country House In Gentle Decline, which basically meant covering everything in stripey mattress ticking.

Stripey mattress ticking it was, then; to be precise, a nice dusty blue stripe on an off-white, sorry sorry, écru background. (I take it that we all remember the sartorial tyranny of the écru linen layers?)

Unfortunately, when pressed by the loose cover makers as to whether, for a small extra cost, we wanted additional piping in a complementary shade of navy blue, we wobbled and said yes. Big Mistake, as the popular movie of the day had it – for the piping threw out the whole look. K sulked for days, as I vainly tried to see the positive side. Only one thing for it…

3. The Squidgy Plaid Two-Piece From Sofa Workshop.
(1994-2000)

By 1994, plaid was taking over – not least on my side of the walk-in closet, as the Ben Sherman Years began to kick off in earnest. For our first excursion into the realm of the matching two-piece, we chose a lovely red and blue check, with subtle accents of orange and yellow, in a durable matt fibre. Comfort was our watchword this time round, so we went for the squidgiest, most capacious numbers in the shop, perfect for sinking into during those heartily communal post-clubbing All Back To Ours sessions.

There was one significant drawback. The extreme squidginess meant that, even after five minutes of dainty perching, the entire f**king sofa needed re-plumping. And with those giant cushions to manhandle, re-plumping was no easy task. God, did we ever develop Plumping Fatigue. As well as a severe case of Plaid Burn Out, which struck as the decade drew to a close. Only one thing for it…

4. The Ruinously Expensive Italian Modular System.
(2000-2003)

Thanks to K’s little stroke of good business fortune in 2000, we found ourselves surfing a fresh wave of flushness, following a period of comparative frugality. This time round, we decided that the best way to solve the seating problem was to chuck heaps – heaps, I tell you! – of money at it.

Off we trolled to the swanky showroom in North London, whose Senior Sales Executive had us eating out of her hand in minutes. (Those glassy, awe-struck, all-this-can-be-ours smiles were a dead giveaway. Or maybe she just saw us coming.)

The Italian Modular System came in, what else, Seventies Retro Shit Brown, and incorporated elements of Chaise Longue and Sofa Classique. It came with an oversized footstool that doubled up as an extension to the Sofa Classique section, thus effectively converting the whole piece into a double day bed.

It dominated the room, ruining the flow and forcing us to watch telly in a position of advanced slumpedness, with nowhere to put our wine glasses (there being no remaining space for a coffee table). The stuffing soon sagged, the matted fabric developed smooth shiny areas where our arses had been, and the Shit Brown started fading to Guano Grey. An expensive aberration, whose prime purpose was to mock us for our pretensions to Bleeding Hedge 21st Century Urban Living. Only one thing for it…

5. The Rock Hard Leather Numbers.
(2003-2007)

Durable, firm, and with an understated elegance, the Leather Numbers (again in Seventies Retro Timeless Classic Shit Brown) promised to be our Sofas For Life. They looked smart, if a little on the dark side for a north-facing room with no direct sunlight, and their firmness meant that, at long last, we could sit up straight.

There’s a fine line between non-squidgy and rock hard. It’s not a line which can readily be detected in the furniture shop, where every sofa feels comfortable to the weary shopper – but within a couple of days of delivery, we both secretly knew that we’d boobed again.

With cosy sprawling off the agenda for four nights a week – hell, even holding hands presented problems, our bodies forced into prim Victorian side-by-sideness by the inflexible cow-hide – the comfy green Multiyork number in the cottage grew ever more tantalising by its absence. Only one thing for it…

6. The Perfect Multiyork Twinset.
(This morning – the end of time)

They’re roomy, but they don’t dominate; they’re sharp and contemporary, but they won’t look passé in five years time; they straddle the divide betwixt squidgy and supportive; and they’re ours for keeps.

No, really, they are.

No, I think you’ll find they are, actually.

Our quest is at an end. Let posterior joy be unbounded!

Bloggers, how’s yer traffic?

If my increasingly limited excursions through Blogland are anything to go by, then it would seem that a fair number of long-time regular bloggers are experiencing a downturn in traffic to their sites. In order to confirm or deny this, I’ve set up a wee poll. (Don’t worry, it’s completely anonymous, so please be open and honest.)

Yes, there might well be a think-piece at the end of all this. Hey, you know what I’m like…

Bloggers, how’s yer traffic?
Has traffic to your blog increased or decreased over the last six months? (NOTE: Please answer this question only if you have been blogging regularly for 12 months or longer.)

My traffic has significantly increased.
My traffic has slightly increased.
My traffic has stayed more or less the same.
My traffic has slightly decreased.
My traffic has significantly decreased.

Twittering the Leicester Summer Sundae festival.

Feeling slightly amazed that I’ve already been up for 2 hours. On a Sunday morning.

Worrying about the weather.

Nipping round the Myspace pages of the acts which I haven’t heard before. Hmm. Really wish the Hold Steady hadn’t cancelled.

Heavy showers forecast. Packing lightweight waterproof, Gore-tex lined cap, fleece & mat into day-sack, along with optimistic sunglasses.

Still agonising about the one major clash in the Summer Sundae line-up: Fujiya & Miyagi versus Spoon. It’s not easy having leftfield tastes.

Questioning the purpose of wearing my “lucky pants”. (Olive green Aussie Bum, white piping, curiously flattering.) (TMI?) (TMI.)

Sunday drivers plus traffic jams equals missed train. It’s only a 30 minute wait though. And chill…

The Lea Shores. Jesus fronted post baggy/shoegaze, Ride meets Roses. With violin.

And that was our first mention of the word “shine”. With stuff like this, it’s a statuory obligation.

Now rhyming flyyy, hiiigh and “you’re my butterflyyy”. Time to move on.

Vetiver: a perfect sunday lunchtime band. Nothing to disturb the Observer readers mooching on the grass.

Foxy busty blonde lady, to me and Dymbel: “I fancy you. And you. It’s for a dare… but maybe I would have done anyway.” Oh dear!

Packed tent for The Strange Death Of Liberal England, possibly benefiting from We’ve Not Heard Of Any Of These People, So Let’s Go For The Ones With The Interesting Name Syndrome. Ooh, 10 out of 10 for youthful energy and exuberance…

Ben Taylor. Son of James. Similar lack of hair. Acoustic. Droll. Best so far.

Ben Taylor throwing out so many Myspace addresses that one wonders if he’s on a Murdoch kickback…

Cherry Ghost: the word “solid” could have been invented for him. Overly precarious trousers for a man in his 30s. Not his “lucky pants”, one feels. Earnest, mildly dishy supply teacher rock. All very 6music/word magazine. I’m not won over.

In the market area, resisting the urge for a Tracy from Big Brother makeover.

Stephanie Dosen: seen her before, supporting Tina Dico was it? Kooky and lugubrious. Cameron Diaz goes folk.

Koop: pleasant Gilles Peterson approved mellow jazzy funkiness. And still no rain! Result!

Mm, tinkly vibes. Rob is texting me crap jokes from the cabaret tent. I shan’t share.

Koop remind me a little too much of my snotty soulboy acid jazz years. I’d have loved them in 1992.

And the vibes tinkle on. Not the most emotionally expressive of instruments, are they?

Spoon: again, solid. Better than Cherry Ghost, but I am unmoved. Dymbel loves ’em though. Shall try Fujiya & Miyaji instead.

Spoon were improving as I left. But Fujiya & Miyaji are more my thing. Funky krautrock from Brighton.

People are dancing! And about time too. Young people are holding up cardboard signs. FREE ANAL HERE! (plus arrow) and GET YOUR OWL OUT! Surreal…

Fujiya & Miyaji deffo the best yet. And now, the generic & wildly popular indie sounds of the Pigeon Detectives. Hmm, Johnny Borrell lite, anyone? Yes Virginia, there is such a thing.

Aw, I shouldn’t be such an old curmudgeon. They’re the right band at the right time and they’re working it well. Cross generational respect!

Gruff Rhys of the Super Furry Animals: performing solo inside a giant TV set, with cartoon test card. Experimental!

K is stuck on the phone with my aunt (a chatty woman), and sending increasingly angsty text messages.

Gruff Rhys now joined by lady singer inside TV set, both seated behind desk, news reader style. Oh, and now there’s a band.

There’s a bit of a lull, so I’m relaxing in the run with a beer. Nice day, if a little short on epochal, life changing music. Pleasant innocuous vibe.

Cheerfully ignoring Echo and his Bunny Men, to whom I fell asleep at the London Lyceum in 1980. 40-something blokes with eyes half shut are gyrating drunkenly in the evening sunshine.

Ok, The Cutter, I’ll give them that. I was young once!

Polytechnic: competent guitar band, but I am developing indie indigestion. It’s been a long day.

Oh! This one sounds like Los Campesinos: “You! Me! Dancing!” I can get behind this.

Spiritualized Acoustic Mainline. As my friend says, perhaps I’ve never taken the right drugs. That said, their symphonic lugubriousness is appropriately crepuscular.

Ah, me old mate Duke Special, headlining inside the De Montfort Hall. Nice to be on familiar ground. As cosy and comforting as a steaming mug of cocoa, and hence just what these aching old bones are in need of.

Duke Special was a lovely end to 10 hours of good, if not often great music… and my first festival to boot.

Searching in vain for meteor showers on the drive home. 45 degrees south, if you’re looking…

See also: Lisa Rullsenberg’s proper joined-up review of the same day. You know, with proper paragraphs and everything…

“I never drink anything other than alcohol after 6pm.”

Wise words from my beloved K, who memorably reduced an entire posh country house dining room to an awed hush, merely by declaiming them, with some measure of force, when offered a post-prandial coffee by the well-meaning waitress.

Would that I had heeded them last night, at the blogpals’ get-together at the Secret Mystery Location. But, no. Fearful of peaking too soon (for the wine had been flowing from earlier than I am used to, bearing in mind the louche bohemian hours that I am wont to keep), I thought that a tall mug of fresh-from-the-cafetière would Perk Me Up and help me Stay Focused.

Which is probably why I woke at 4am this morning, and stayed restlessly semi-conscious for the next three hours, until knocked up by my Secret Mystery Hostess for a lift to the railway station.

(Two small pieces of information that I might safely divulge: Secret Mystery Hostess keeps a superlative cheese board, and she makes a mean chocolate tart. Honest, I thought it was from Marks and Sparks!)

Zee to the oh to the onked, that’s what I’m feeling right now. I might not even be able to make it all the way through Big Brother tonight, let alone the totally ace, are-you-watching-it-yet, oh-you-should-you-should, Studio 60 On Sunset Strip (which does require a good deal more concentration than “does Amanda fancy Brian back”, or “they’re all being mean to Amy, especially that Carole, ooh you wanna watch her, she’s taking over”).

So, let mine be a cautionary tale.

Hey, at least my reasons for crappy half-hearted posts are varied ones…

Honestly, how did I ever find the time for practising this sort of bloggery on a regular basis? People often used to ask me this, during Troubled Diva’s most prolific periods, and now I find that I’m asking myself the same question.

I am once again resorting to the email-to-Blogger facility (hence the lack of post title), as I shall be jumping on a train to a Secret Location straight after work, in order to spend an evening with three blogpals. To this end, and because I no longer even have the time to keep up with Essential Capsule Collection blog reading (I’m currently following just six blogs regularly, dipping into the rest on all too infrequent occasions), I have taken hard copies of the front pages of their respective blogs, in order to do some essential preparatory reading over lunch and on the train. Because, you know, I’d hate to be caught out or anything…

Meanwhile, in the offline world, PDMG#1 (aka The Cottage Garden, for newer readers) is being entered for next year’s Association of Professional Landscapers Awards. And, hey, you know how much I love being entered for awards. (Not our doing! We’ve been approached! We’ve got to send a photo CD off and everything!) Photos of PDMG#1 have also, or so we’ve been told, appeared in a Japanese gardening magazine. Perhaps one of my Tokyo readers could investigate? (Ah, for the old days of Global Reach…)

It was a pleasant surprise to find Ambling Sheep from the Hangzhou office hanging out at reception this morning. What with JP having returned from Hangzhou at the end of last week, we’re quite the expat community all of a sudden. A lunch date is in the offing.

In other work-related news, I have been passionately arguing against the “disco” option for the office Christmas party. Look, it’s quite simple. I sit in near silence next to these people for months on end; so how can I possibly expected to dance in front of them? It’s too much of a leap. And I’ll be drunk by then, and hence prone to overly literal interpretive hand motions (as this guy witnessed at Club Revenge in Brighton a couple of months back, to the strains of Girls Aloud’s I Think We’re Alone Now… "running just as fast as we can, holding onto one another's hands… oh, for SHAME).

And another thing. Security access photo passes, what sort of cruel punishment are they? For in a reversal of The Picture of Dorian Gray, I am obliged to shackle myself, five days a week, to a photo of myself on my first day of employment here, back in July 2001. Oh, the fresh-faced optimism! I could weep! How long will it be until the security guards stop me at the door? ("I'm sorry sir, but the borrowing of photo passes is strictly forbidden.")

And finally: Never, ever stay at the Brighton Charter Hotel. You want more proof? Here's more proof…

Prince at the O2 Arena: The Great Funk & Soul Swindle, Part Two.

(Part One is here.)

The 2000-odd capacity Indigo club – whoops, sorry, IndigO2, can’t be missing a Brand Reinforcement Opportunity – is billed as the Arena’s, ahem, “intimate space”. And fair play to their design team: it’s a swish-looking, well-appointed venue, which does its level best to make you forget that you’re actually still trapped inside a corporate hell-hole in the middle of nowhere. OK, so some seats would have been a nice touch, but they were strictly reserved for the 75-quid-a-pop “VIP” crowd, separated off from the rest of us in their own dedicated balcony area.

But hey, we proles in the £27.50 (incl. booking fee) standing area – some of whom had been queuing for over an hour (but not us, diligent researchers that we are), only to discover that we all had equally good views of the stage anyway – didn’t care about any of that. After all, we had gained admittance to the hallowed inner sanctum, and to the opportunity that some of us had been dreaming of for years: to see Prince in after-hours mode, kicking loose and jamming with his band, all in the name of pure musicianship rather than stadium show-boating. As I said before, these Prince after-shows are the stuff of legend.

The atmosphere in the Indigo2 was buzzing. On Wednesday night, the band had played for an hour and three quarters, with Prince joining them for lengthy sections. Sure, we didn’t expect him to be on stage for the whole period. We knew that. There would probably be 30 or 40 minutes of warm-up first, that kind of thing.

For now, Prince’s dedicated DJ was spinning a set of predominantly funky house over the superbly crisp and warm sound system, mixed with the occasional “special”, such as an exclusive new mix of Sexy MF, cut up with samples from the C&C Music Factory’s Gonna Make You Sweat. Chelsea Rodgers, my favourite track from the new album, got people smiling and even a few of us dancing. Not too much of a crush in front of the stage, plenty of people chilling out on the floor towards the back of the venue, saving their energy for later.

At around 1:15 – same time as Wednesday, nice bit of consistency there – the lights went down. “Please welcome, from New Orleans, Dr John and his band!”

Woah, tres tres cool! As the veteran New Orleans performer settled at his piano, leading his band through a delightfully rolling Iko Iko, the four of us exchanged grins, marvelling at our extra luck. Fancy Prince being able to land such an impressive special guest! That’s influence for you.

(Well, how were we to know that Dr John had already played a scheduled concert at the same venue, earlier that evening? We can’t all be experts.)

I wondered how the rest of the show would pan out. Dr John’s band were over to the right side of the stage, with most of the left side left empty, including spare microphone and instrument stands, and even a spare keyboard. Presumably the John band would hand over to the Prince band at some stage, maybe with some combined jamming. Woah, a Prince and Dr John collaboration would be something special all right… we’d just have to wait and see.

Time passed. Dr John’s old favourite Such A Night got an airing, but I didn’t recognise much else. Actually, my attention was starting to wander. So far, so Jools Holland. We needed to step up a little.

My attention was wandering so much that I didn’t particularly notice the stage hands clearing away some of the unused equipment on the left hand side, even as the band played on… although was it just me, or were they beginning to flag now? Did I detect an uncertainty, an awkwardness, a reticence to hog the whole show?

As one number finished, a figure in the wings made a motion to the band with his outstretched fingers. It looked like the international sign language for “five more minutes”. Phew, and not before time.

A couple more numbers later, the same figure made the same hand signal. And was it just me, or was the end of each song being greeted by ever louder applause, as if to hasten the end of the set?

At around 2:30, after about an hour and a quarter on stage, Dr John finally called it a day, “so that Prince can come on and do his stuff”. Big cheer. About bloody time and all! I noted with some amusement that Dr John hadn’t played his best known song, Right Place, Wrong Time. That really would have been rubbing salt in the wound. Two chuffing thirty in the chuffing morning! Ee, the accommodations that we make for genius!

The curtains closed, and the music came on again. A notably less scintillating selection than last time, but we were barely concentrating. Although, hang about, did we really need to hear Chelsea Rodgers again? And why were they starting to focus more on Prince’s biggest hits? What a strange way of building the mood for a jam session…

Time passed. A good forty-five minutes or so, I’d say. And then, a friendly word from a young guy who was just on his way back from the bar.

“Thought you might like to know. They’ve just told me at the bar that Prince left the building about 20 minutes ago. He’s tired and he won’t be playing.”

Even as we began to process the news, the music started to fade and the house lights started to flicker on and off. No announcement, just a general numbed-out bemusement as word slowly began to spread. Nearly three chuffing thirty in the chuffing morning, over four and a half hours after our last sighting of the man, and now, NOW he deigns to tell us.

I stared at my £27.50 ticket again. “PRINCE AFTERSHOW”, it said, in big capitals. By the exit door, a member of the Indigo2 staff was all placatory apologies, they weren’t to know, he just upped and went, etc etc. And by the way, sir, you can’t take that out with you. I handed him the flat dregs of my plastic mug of lager and stumbled out of the venue, still in a daze.

The reason that we bought the tickets in the first place? There was an item on Radio 4’s Front Row, telling their listeners that Prince would be playing a late night set after each one of his 21 London dates.

Throughout the complete online ordering process, via the O2 website and Ticketmaster, at no point was it ever suggested that Prince might not play.

During the whole of that Friday night, not one announcement was made to that effect. Oh, of course, they never actually said that he would be playing, either. We were just rather led to assume that. Because, you know, who would pay £27.50 for a DJ, an act that we hadn’t come to see (who was already in the venue anyway), no seats, no food, and the chance to buy the only alcohol left on sale for miles around?

As to how much money Prince himself will be earning from lending his name to this rather costly ongoing lottery (the following night, he joined his support act Nikka Costa on stage for just one number), one can only speculate.

Over on the main fan forum, the hardcore faithful had little sympathy for our collective plight. These aftershow no-shows are commonplace, apparently. It’s all part of being a Prince fan, apparently. God, didn’t we know that? This was an aftershow party, a chance for like-minded souls to hang out together and discuss the tour. If there was no atmosphere, that was our fault for not making an effort. In fact, it was probably our fault that Prince had decided not to play. Not enough dancing, everybody squashed in front of the stage, how uncouth! All those drunks, slumped on the floor, how disrespectful! How could he be expected to face that?

And, for heavens sakes, hadn’t we read the posting on Prince’s official site? (Posted on Monday July 30th, well after we had bought our tickets, but that’s by the by.)

After each gig in London, walk over 2 the indigO2 (which will be renamed 3121 of course) 4 the official aftershow parties. This will be the white hot place 2 hang 4 those still in need of some serious grooves. Prince and the band are not guaranteed 2 per4m, but as we all know with these cats – xpect the unexpected.

Oh, it was unexpected, all right. Can’t fault ’em on that one.

Over an hour into our homeward journey, at Toddington services on the M1, the four of us finally found somewhere that served food. Desultorily chowing down on my egg mayonnaise roll and smoothie (£6.48, plus a free apology from the cashier at the ruinous expense), a few yards away from the heap of prostrate bodies on the floor of the amusement arcade, I wondered whether, at that time of the morning, there was any more desolate place to be found in the British Isles. Cheers for that, Prince. Cheers for that, O2.

My final waking thought, as my head hit the pillow at 7:00 am: I am too old for this shit.

I mean to say. A well respected and much admired, nay loved, figure of immense cultural influence, who earned his reputation years ago but who has been coasting ever since, now well past his peak, teasing his remaining supporters with half-shows and no-shows, and arrogantly assuming that they will put up with whatever shit he deigns to throw at them? Whoever heard of such a thing?

Prince at the O2 Arena: The Great Funk & Soul Swindle, Part One.

It was an ill-starred evening from the off. A section of the southbound M1 was officially closed, with an accident to the north of it causing traffic to crawl for miles before coming to a complete standstill. Fortunately, or so it seemed, we could see the standstill kicking in just beyond the last-but-one junction before the closure, allowing us to leave the motorway in the nick of time.

Less fortunately, the crawl continued, bumper-to-bumper solid, all the way into St. Albans, and through it, and out the other side again. By the time we hit the unexpectedly and blissfully empty M25, we had less than an hour to get from Hertfordshire to the O2 Arena in North Greenwich, in time for the predicted show-time of 20:30. I was already mentally preparing myself for missing the first thirty minutes of Prince’s set. Not to worry, though; we also had tickets for the after-show, and so could expect many, many hours of music ahead of us. What was the odd half hour or so? A drop in the ocean.

At 20:25, we screeched into the O2 car park (advance cost: £22.30 including booking fee). By 20:45, we were in our seats, beers in hands. Given that our four-and-a-quarter hour journey had allowed us no time to stop for food, a liquid dinner (plus one banana each, smuggled through security by Dymbel) would have to suffice.

Three minutes later, the show began. Bless him for waiting for us. Our luck was changing. Smiles all round.

Just under two hours later, the band left the stage for the last time. During those two hours, Prince had been absent for the opening number, two lengthy instrumental interludes, two teasingly over-streched intervals between the two encores, and the first number of the first encore: a good 25 minutes, at the most conservative estimate.

Of the 20 songs performed, just 7 of Prince’s 37 UK Top Thirty hits were represented: Cream, U Got The Look, Peach, Kiss, Purple Rain, Let’s Go Crazy and Take Me With U, plus a spirited version of I Feel For You. Four other numbers were covers, with Prince performing on just one of them: a perfunctory slog through Wild Cherry’s Play That Funky Music, for which he forgot nearly all the words.

The sound quality in the O2 Arena was abysmal: booming, sludgy and echo-laden, with a general absence of top-end clarity. However, our seats gave us a good overall view of the stage, which bore the shape of that funny little squiggle from the “Artist Formerly Known As” years. Although billed as an “in the round” show, the main performance area was the extended catwalk formed by the squiggle’s downwards arrow, with additional curly runways running off to each side. However, for those of us who were seated at the top of the squiggle – a circular area, with the band seated in the middle – Prince’s face-forward appearances were limited, and frustratingly brief. About once every ten or fifteen minutes, he would quickly trot round the uppermost circumference, barely pausing to acknowledge us. No matter; we had an excellent view of the screen, and much better all-round vision than the people down on the main floor. A shame, then, that the spot-lighting was so poorly arranged, with Prince all too often cavorting in near-darkness.

For a large chunk of the audience, getting the beers in seemed to be of equal importance to actually watching the show, with what amounted to a mass exodus during the first and longest of the instrumentals (Maceo Parker from James Brown’s old band, parping his way at leisure through a languid and syrupy What A Wonderful World). The people directly behind us swiftly reached the Totally Shitfaced stage, but at least their noisiness was benign. (Elsewhere in the Arena, a spectacularly inebriated woman threw up over the backs of the people in front of her. We wuz lucky.)

Oh, but we mustn’t grumble. The show had its moments, and the band were shit-hot – especially the four-piece brass troupe, as led by the aforementioned Mr. Parker, and especially during the set’s “funk” section, with Black Sweat and Controversy scaling the very heights of tightness. For the diehard fans, following the seldom heard Joy In Repetition (from Graffiti Bridge) with Parade‘s Anotherloverholenyohead was altogether A Bit On The Special Side. For the more casual crowd, solid, bankable tracks from Purple Rain dominated the end of the show, and it was fun to hear an updated Kiss: “You don’t have to watch Big Brother, to have an attitude…”

Only one track – the straightforward old-school rocker Guitar – was performed from the new album, copies of which were handed out to everyone who entered the arena, just in case our ideological scruples had prevented us from picking it up with the Mail On Sunday a couple of weeks earlier. Hearteningly, it turned out to be one of the strongest and best received performances of the night, already sounding like a bona fide hit in its own right. Saving it up for the last song of the last encore was a bold but justified move.

But oh dear, what a pointless palaver those encores turned out to be. We already knew that on the opening night of his 21-date run, two days earlier, Prince had fooled half the crowd by waiting until the house lights were up and the venue emptying, before dashing back on stage for a seemingly impromptu third encore. So we weren’t about to be fooled again. A stand-off ensued, with absolutely no-one budging, even though the house lights had been on for ages. And yes, oh GOODNESS what a shock, back on he bounded, for a repeat version of the same stunt. Which of course meant that we certainly weren’t going anywhere after the next exit. After all, there had been three encores on Wednesday, with nearly two and a half hours of playing time, so surely he wasn’t going to call it a night after two encores and less than two hours?

No such luck. After another expectant stand-off, during which we noticed our nearest camera operator patiently sitting tight and checking his text messages (so THAT was a sign, right?), a tannoy announcement was made, asking us to clear the venue. Which of course prompted a certain measure of booing. Oops. It was a ragged end to what had sometimes felt like a ragged, under-powered and half-hearted performance. Two dates into the run, wasn’t it a little early for Just Another Day At The Office Syndrome to be kicking in?

Despite being urged, via a special reminder e-mail, to “hang out” in the O2 after the show, the crushing reality was that, at a couple of minutes before 11pm, seemingly all of the venue’s food and drink outlets were closing for the night. If there was a funky little after-hours joint to be found in this gargantuan, antiseptic Branding Opportunity of a venue, with its faintly menacing air of regimented slickness, then we certainly didn’t stumble across it. Back to the car park we trudged, vainly casting around for non-existent burger vans, for the only sit-down we were likely to find between now and the after-show party, queues for which were already stretching far outside the building.

Ah, the after-show party. The anticipatory buzz was palpable, even in these corporate hell-hole surroundings. Prince’s after-show sets are the stuff of legend, after all. Our night of mixed fortunes was about to get very special indeed. Of that at least, we had no doubt.

Jump straight to Part Two.

I’ve let you down, I’ve let myself down, I’ve let the whole blogosphere down.

Well. So much for the brave new “one blog post per day for the whole of August” initiative, which spluttered to a premature halt yesterday, on Day Four.

My excuse? Yesterday was my first day over at the cottage in three weeks, the first decent weather we’ve had in living memory, and the first chance to get to grips with the unkempt wilderness that PDMG#1 has become since our last visit. Oh, and I hadn’t actually gone to bed until 7am on Saturday morning, for reasons that shall be made abundantly clear in my next post, to be titled “Prince at the O2 Arena: The Great Funk And Soul Swindle.” All things considered, it just wasn’t a day for switching on a laptop. The Germans have a word for it: Hitzefrei. And quite right too.

So, yeah, I owe you one extra post in recompense for my lapse. Consider it banked.

I am writing this from the cottage kitchen, upon our return from an uncommonly agreeable “early doors” at the Hartington Youth Hostel, of all places. No, really, you’d be surprised. Beautiful old Elizabethan manor house, locally brewed beer (I started with the “Hairy Helmet” and progressed to the sublime Hartington IPA), outside seating in the capacious and leafy gardens… a hidden gem, so it was.

The bright pink rose on the boundary wall of PDMG#1 is nothing short of spectacular this year. Here’s what it looked like, ten minutes ago.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s al fresco supper time. (Oh dear, when did our meetings become so rushed? It’s not you, it’s me…)

Curses. Today's post was going to be a straight re-print of a lengthy freelance article which I wrote this week, all about a local independent hip-hop label and its roster of artists. Unfortunately, the article isn't actually appearing until next Friday. So I'm a little scuppered for content, and am having to resort to the "e-mail to Blogger" facility in order to get something published…

…before I get on the train to London this afternoon, and head over to the O2 Arena for NOT one, but TWO shows by Prince: the big show in the main arena, followed the after-show jam session in the smaller Indigo venue next door. Apparently, the after-show set doesn't start until around 1:15 am, so it's going to be a long – but hopefully brilliant – night.

I'll then be cadging a lift back up to Nottingham with Dymbel's brother – who I'm looking forward to meeting, as I've been told that he administers a Yahoo group for my teenage musical idol, Kevin Ayers. Oh, there'll be chat a-plenty back up the M1 tomorrow morning…

Then it's over to t'cottage tomorrow, for my (and indeed our) first visit in three weeks. Gawd knows what state PDMG#1 will be in, following such a lengthy period of neglect. Secateurs wa-hey! Where do I start chopping?

There will be a full review of both Prince shows in due course – but again, probably not until next week, as I'm writing them up for t'local paper. What a tease I am.

If I haven't remembered the drill for e-mail to Blogger, I'm absolutely jiggered. Fingers crossed!

The benefits of being Class Of 2001 Old Skool…

…are that, when you make rash promises about blogging every day for a month, you don’t actually have to follow through with beautifully constructed vignettes in a tightly defined Site Style, that will have everyone sighing and cooing and wishing they could nominate you for Post of the Week (for which I’m doing this week’s shortlist, so please get over there and nominate).

Oh no. Instead, you can just switch the damned thing on and burble until your time’s up. Which, in my case, will be when K gets off the phone to his mum. (He’s a dutiful son, and rings her every night. She’s a “chatty” sort, and phone calls rarely last less than 20 minutes, bare minimum).

What can I tell you about today? Well, we’ve landed ourselves another magazine cover story, as the oh-so-aspirational Derbyshire Life has seen fit to lead their August issue with a lengthy article about our village, complete with a photo of the cottage. I’d link, but the “This Month” section of their website is currently displaying a scan of the March issue. Ah, bless.

On the freelance front, I’ve conducted three interviews this week: one with a local hip-hop label, another with a “turntablist” who records for the same label, and another with the guitarist out of Hard-Fi, whose new album arrived by post at the start of the week. How do you conduct a courteous and respectful interview with someone from a band whom you used to love (“Hard To Beat” was my Fave Single of 2005), but who are just about to release an underwhelming follow-up? Well, I tried to accentuate the positive. Other than that, it looks like I’ve secured an interview with Andy Bell from Erasure (having talked to Vince Clarke earlier in the year), but wasn’t quick enough off the mark to bag the Super Furry Animals. You win some, you lose some.

K and his mum are still nattering, and I’m stalling. Ooh, tell you what right: BT have been giving us the runaround summat shocking. We’ve been trying to order BT Vision at both addresses, but they’ve not only accidentally cancelled both orders – they have also posted us fifty, yes that’s right, FIFTY, bills to the cottage, on the same day, in separate envelopes, only to have them intercepted by K’s mum and returned straight to the postman. What kind of madness is that?

I just heard a click downstairs. Either she’s on one of her longer monologues, or they’re all done and dusted. So I’ll be off, then. But before I go, a big shout-out to z of Razor-blade of Life, who has promised to match my one-post-per-day with one-comment-per-day. Do feel free to play along, won’t you?

Mike’s favourite 36 tracks of 2007 thus far.

(Originally compiled for a non-blog related reason. It seemed a shame to waste it.)

(No more than one track per artist has been permitted. This is especially harsh on Amerie, LCD Soundsystem, Marc Almond and Maria McKee.)

A Modern Midnight Conversation – Chemical Brothers
Late 1983/early 1984 Italo-disco rattles and squelches meet the bassline from underground psychedelic-disco classic “Crystal World” by Crystal Grass. And that’s just the first minute…

A Sentence Of Sorts In Kongsvinger – Of Montreal
Sugar-rushing indie-pop from, um, Athens Georgia actually. The wags!

All My Friends – LCD Soundsystem
After their disappointing debut album, I didn’t see this masterpiece coming at all. Following their stunning appearance on Later, this is now the band that I most want to see performing live in the whole wide world, yes even including YOU The Arcade Fire.

Ankle Injuries – Fujiya & Miyagi
The one that goes “Like pixelated scraps of jazz mags in your headlights”. Oh, you know the one.

Atlas – Battles
The one with the chunka-chunka-chunka-chunka glitter-stomp beat and the Ten Pole Tudor chipmunks. Nice proggy influences on the rest of the album, but this one stands alone.

Boring – The Pierces
“Sexy boy… girl on girl… menage à trois… BORING.” Bonus points for the whistling and the trumpet impersonations.

D.A.N.C.E. – Justice
“D.A.N.C.E. undoubtedly qualifies as the best use of a children’s choir in dance music (yes there’s the Go! Team, but the kids there were sampled) this side of the Smart E’s deconstructing “Sesame Street” on TOTP back in 1992.”Marcello Carlin.

Elephant’s Parade – Minilogue
Proving once again that great music can be found in the strangest of places, even cover-mounted mix CDs on the front of Mixmag.

F**k It, I Love You – Malcolm Middleton
Yes, him out of Arab Strap. Plaintive yet uplifting.

Herculean – The Good, The Bad & The Queen
All that press hype at the beginning of the year was a bit off-putting, wasn’t it? Seven months later, the album stands as 2007’s slowest grower. The dilettantism of Damon Albarn: it’s a Good Thing, isn’t it?

Hùg air a Bhonaid Mhòir – Julie Fowlis
Bouncy-pigtailed Outer Hebridean folk. 2007 has been nothing if not varied.

Icky Thump – White Stripes
There’s life yet in that thar bass-less rock. Killer riff an’ all…

I’m A Broken Heart – The Bird & The Bee
Lesley Gore-lifting winsome prettiness, and surprisingly English-sounding for a Los Angeles act.

I’m A Flirt – R.Kelly ft. T.I. & T-Pain
Oh, I shouldn’t. But, irresistable. And quite quite bonkers.

It’s The Beat – Simian Mobile Disco
Cookie-crewed-up neo-electro, with a canny Marshall Jefferson synth stab. You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?

Late December – Maria McKee
Me mate Maria! Here’s a live version, in the same outfit as when I saw her in Nottingham. Wonder if she fixed that rip?

Let It Go – Keyshia Cole
Love those rhythmic nods to Mtume and The SOS Band.

Lil’ Star – Kelis ft. Cee-Lo
Talk about a change of style. Who would have thought that such tender humility would suit Kelis so well?

Männer Sind So Scheisse Sexy – The Admirals ft. Seraphina
Silly Teutonic-electro, which ticks all my easiest-access boxes. If loving this is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Matadjem Yinmixan – Tinariwen
Andy Kershaw chose this on Desert Island Discs, you know. Here’s a seriously good live version from the Montreux Jazz Festival, featuring Carlos Santana. I urge you all to click.

No Pussy Blues – Grinderman
“I sent her every type of flower, I played her guitar by the hour, I patted her revolting little chihuahua, but still she just didn’t want to.” Nick Cave does funny, with a scuzzier, gnarlier sound than we’ve become used to.

Out Of Control (Song 4 Mutya) – Groove Armada ft Mutya Buena
Yet another monster monster juggernaut of a neo-electro riff, and a much better showcase for the ex-Sugababe than all that George Michael & Lenny Kravitz nonsense.

Over The Ice – The Field
Minimal techno that I can get with. Oddly soothing, and more so over time. It’s all in the texture.

Overpowered – Roisin Murphy
The continuation of Goldfrapp by other means? Ooh, she’d hate that.

Perfect Exceeder – Mason vs Princess Superstar
More Cookie-crewed neolectro juggernautism, which rocked our collective worlds during this year’s Which Decade Is Top For Pops, didn’t it guys and gals?

Potential Breakup Song – Aly & AJ
Autotuned automata deliver synthetic synthpop goodness. Massive earworm, this one.

Slideshow – Rufus Wainwright
The show-stopper from Release The Stars, whose emotional fulcrum pits a winningly abstract Richard Thompson against thrilling deep soul horn stabs.

Starz In Their Eyes – Just Jack
Came into its own when some bright spark at the Nottingham Arena bunged it on during the interval of the X Factor tour. (Not that anyone noticed, which made it all the more poignant…)

Take Control – Amerie
The absolute highlight of the stunning first half of her second album. That cheeky En Vogue steal is just the icing on the cake.

The Ballad Of The Sad Young Men – Marc Almond ft Antony Hegarty
Me mate Marc! I’ve never been much of an Almond fan, which made Stardom Road all the more revelatory. Has he ever sounded quite this accomplished, acute and true?

The Creeps (Fedde Le Grand Remix) – Camille Jones
See also Simian Mobile Disco, Groove Armada, Justice, Roisin Murphy, Mason, The Admirals. Why don’t I go out dancing more often?

The Dancing – June Tabor
The current heavy rotation power-play in our household, courtesy of my Born Again Folkie Life Partner. Tears in the eyes, almost every time… and I choose not to analyse why.

The Magic Position – Patrick Wolf
There’s something very Spring 1983 about this.

Umbrella – Rihanna ft. Jay-Z
It took the full ten weeks to appreciate its majesty, but I got there in the end. Nice weather we’ve been having since it tumbled off the top last Sunday…

You! Me! Dancing! – Los Campesinos!
Anthemic indie-pop air puncher. I love everything that they stand for.

Your Love Is A Tease – Rod Thomas (BUY!)
My 7-incher of the year. Actually, my only 7-incher of the year. Breezy soundtrack to the summer that never was (but still might be). Anyone else remember The Lotus Eaters?

Work like you don’t need the money. Love like you’ve never been hurt. Dance like there’s nobody watching. And blog like you can’t be arsed.

Oh, it’s YOU. Hello, you!

It’s been Can’t Be Arsed Theme Week, here in Trodiland. Not so much at work (that’s actually been quite fun this week, mainly because I have been assigned a task that people actually Care About, with a deadline that Actually Matters, with a difficulty level that’s Stretching But Not Impossible), but my downtime has been just that for once. No commitments. No diary dates. No freelance assignments (ah, the good old Music Biz Summer Lull). And, what with K gadding about the US all week (contemporary art in the Catskill Mountains, TV interview in Pittsburgh, watching Little Feat in Missouri, the Richard Serra exhibition at MoMA in NYC), I’ve been all on my ownsome, and, well, lovehimtobitsandallthat, but it’s been NICE. A rest is as good as a change.

Telly. Pooter. Doing some mix CDs for this weekend’s Big Fat Civil Partnership Engagement Party in Clapham. Preparing mentally for predicted excesses of said forthcoming weekend. Recovering from predictable excesses of the last weekend, spent visiting Alan “Won A Blogging Award, Can No Longer Be Arsed” Reluctant-Nomad in Amsterdam.

Ey, it were great in Amsterdam. Bar crawling on the Friday, ending up down the Cockring, as you do. I’ve changed my mind about that place. Sure, you get a lot of drunk desperate people, stumbling around upstairs in the Last Chance Saloon – but down in the clubby bit in the basement, the vibe is relaxed and friendly. Stripped down funky tribal house, with warm, throbbing basslines and no cheesy breakdowns. Kinda womb-like. On an even level.

My New Best Friends were from Eindhoven and Leicestershire. Mr Eindhoven was all Boggle Eyed Thumbs Aloft Wa-hey, so I assumed heavy pill-age. Not so, not so. Somewhat unecessarily, Mr Leicestershire warned me about his rampant sluttishness. “That’s cool!” I reassured him. “I am taking it for what it is!” I do so love flirting, when there’s no question of a sticky follow-through. You know where you are. It’s a kicky little ego-tickle, and sometimes that’s all you need.

Over to my right, a blandly handsome and very drunk young man in a sewn-on singlet was not taking Alan’s No for an answer. (It might have been a Maybe, until certain rather outré, not to say messy, sexual suggestions were hissed in his ear.)

Opting to beat the 5am rush, we stumbled home, Alan once again displaying a quite astonishing lack of direction. How many months has he been there now?

Saturday shopping was quite mass market, by my foofy standards. A short sleeved check shirt from Dockers, and a slight variation on the same theme from H&M. Hell, I know my range. People of a certain age do tend to restrict themselves to the outfits that they wore in their heyday, and I seem to be no exception. Gorgeous, gorgeous Diesel jeans, just the business for that night’s Big Gay Circuit Party at the Odeon.

Dinner with my new desk neighbour E, also visiting for the weekend. She and I had hatched a plan to introduce our respective ex-pat Britgay friends, and it all seemed to work rather well. We were also joined at the dinner table by a couple of charming heterosexual pornographers, who run their own special-interest website (caveat clickor).

“And do you… sometimes… er, possibly… appear in front of the camera?”, I asked the female half of the couple, a petite Thai lady, choosing my words carefully.

“Of course I do! Well, come on, look at these!”

Goodness, I had quite failed to spot the capacious boobage below. Quelle faux pas! She seemed almost affronted.

(Etiquette tip: when meeting lady pornographers, a suitable compliment upon “the rack” is considered de rigeur.)

(Remember when One Track outed me as a knocker clocker? Perhaps I’ve been trying a little too hard to mend my ways. You can’t win, can you?)

The Big Gay Circuit Party was agreeable, if initially a little up its own arse. But then Amsterdam doesn’t have any regular major gay dance clubs, so there was bound to be a certain over-awed sense of occasion. Things loosened up nicely, though, despite a dodgy “retro hour” of the sort of horrible late 1990s/early 2000s trance which sent me scuttling off to the sanctuary of rural Derbyshire in the first place. And we did like the go-go dancers, led as they were by a middle-aged, barrel-chested, overweight Grotesque, be-wigged and be-horned, who revelled in a kind of imperiously sinister auto-eroticism throughout. As if to say: I Am Your Future, Circuit Boys, and I Care Not One Flying F**k What You Think. A neat and necessary little subversion of the proceedings, so it was.

Our new ex-pat Britgay chum danced “ironically”, on a raised step, going through every move in the handbook. He’s big – nay, evangelical – on something called Neurobics, which involves stimulating the brain cells by peforming everyday tasks in unexpected ways. Getting dressed with your eyes shut, that kind of thing. We tried Neurobic dancing, me pump-it-pump-it-pumping with my left fist instead of my right. Hmm, still not convinced. Alan and I beat the 5am rush again, and got drenched to the skin for our trouble. Yes, they’ve got the rain over there as well.

Sunday was spent in Smart Café Recovery Mode, firstly with Caroline (celebrating an impending change of job), and secondly with Non-Workingmonkey, with whom I conducted the official Post Of The Week Exit Interview (N-WM was one of our regular judges for a while). N-WM has been flat-sitting for friends, in The Most Gorgeous Canalside Apartment That One Could Possibly Wish For. It’s going up for sale soon, and Alan’s looking to buy. Ooh, serendipity. Contact details were duly exchanged. I am going to be staying there next time. No, I think you’ll find I am, actually.

It’s Nottingham Pride tomorrow. There was a preview piece in t’local paper today, liberally furnished with quotes from myself, but it’s not online and I didn’t write it, so you’ll have to manage without. (It was basically an edited remix of this old post, which basically says it all.) I won’t be attending (Clapham, remember), but you should. It’ll be fabulous! We’ve got Bananarama and everything!

Right, that’s your hour’s worth. Beer time. Also, Boots “Shapers” Salad Time. (I’ve been losing weight for the London boys, and dipped under 11 stone for the first time ever yesterday morning. Major milestone.) Is it Big Brother yet? Busy busy!

Michael’s Big Day With The “Creatives”.

Life in a medium-sized city does have distinct advantages. “Large enough to be interesting, small enough to be friendly”, that’s what I always say. And so, when some bright sparks suggested arranging a photo-shoot in the Market Square for all of Nottingham’s “creative” types (writers, artists, musicians, designers, and yea, even unto can-we-say-humble bloggers), word was bound to get through.

All togged up in the nice smart Gieves & Hawkes jacket that I wore to the Lowdham Book Festival, I toddled along to the square just in time to squeeze myself into the back of the shots. Within seconds I found Dymbel, who was soon introducing me (as “blogger extraordinaire”, gawd bless him) to various authentically rumpled, literary-looking types. (Those crisp, tailored lines were such a giveaway.)

“Hello, I’m Mike! I’m an integral part of the mass amateurisation and dumbing down of culture, which threatens to obliterate the last shreds of respect for an intellectual elite! And you are….?”

Well, I could have said that. You know, all waspish-like, for laffs. But instead I came over all Aaargh This Is A Networking Opportunity I Cannot Cope, and fled back to the sanctuary of the office.

First thing I did: Google for the guy that Dymbel first introduced me to. (“You must know each other. No? Well, maybe you move in different worlds.”) Oh crap, he was only one of the most senior and well-respected members of the Nottingham literary community. And I’d just shaken my head and blinked. Well, he hadn’t heard of me either. Cuts both ways, dunnit?

An hour or so later, loins duly girded and best face forward, I was over at the Broadway Cinema for the official post-shoot canapé-and-fizz bash, getting there just in time for the last few seconds of the last speech. Basically, this was a launch event for something called the Nottingham Creative Business Awards 2007, which you can read all about over here. All neurotic passive-aggressive snark aside, I wish it well.

Before long, I found myself talking to a couple of published writers: Clare Brown (who doesn’t have a blog) and Nicola Monaghan (who has two: a fiction blog and a “creative process” blog). Naturally, both conversations homed in on the bloggers-with-book-deals phenomenon, the are-blogs-for-writers-a-help-or-hindrance question, and so forth and suchlike. Most enjoyable.

While Nicola clued me up on the Bookarazzi website, another resource for bloggers with book deals, a familiar face sat down opposite. “Just relax”, he said, pulling out his pad and pen.

caric2

This wasn’t the first time that Brick had drawn a caricature of me – his splendid James Gillray pastiche (“All Broad Street trembled as he strode”), as commissioned by Dymbel and Dymbellina for my fortieth birthday, still enjoys pride of place in the cottage – but it was the first time that he, or indeed anyone else, had done so impromptu.

If you’re one of those people who comes over all self-conscious and coy whenever a camera lens is wafted in their general direction, then imagine having that feeling extended for ten minutes or so, while you try and make interesting conversation with nice bright creative types at a Networking Opportunity, with blues music blaring into your left eardrum, just loud enough to block out what was being said diagonally opposite. But I coped, really I did, maintaining both my posture (ooh, three-quarter face on the left hand side, the best angle!) and my brightest, most engaged smile.

bwaycarict

An hour or so later, and we were on the top floor of Waterstone’s, awaiting the arrival of Armistead Maupin.

“Look at my new digi-dictaphone!”, I chirped to Dymbel and Dymbellina. “I hope it can pick him up from this distance.”

“Er, Mike, you do know that you’re not supposed to quote writers without their express permission? It’s not exactly ethical.”

I instantly rouged up. Call me naïve, but surely public events like these were, by their very definition, on the record? Evidently not. Well, too late to go asking around at the eleventh hour. I’d make the recording anyway, and then have a word at the signing session after the talk.

As expected, Armistead Maupin was pure delight from start to finish. (The article appears in the Evening Post on Friday, and on t’blog soon after that.) As the final applause died away, the woman to my right leant over. I’d noticed her looking over a few times, and had assumed that she was glaring at the digi-dictaphone, not so subtly wedged between my Pradas.

But no. This was K, a fellow German graduate of the class of 1985, whom I hadn’t seen for over twenty years – even longer than Armistead, come to think of it. With so much to catch up on, I didn’t make my way to the signing queue until perilously late in the day.

When Mike Met Armistead, then. It wasn’t quite the communion of souls that I’d hoped for. By this stage, over a hundred eager punters down, the great man was clearly flagging, and unmaskably disengaged from his immediate surroundings. I tried, of course – and in giving me his permission to quote him directly for the article, he was the very model of graciousness. Signatures were procured, for me and for sadly absent “fag-hag extraordinaire” MissMish (her suggestion, his dedication).

Ah, the creative life, how it takes its toll. The article took three hours, the recording just the right side of audible, the copy filed just before 1:00 a.m. Bloody difficult, but enormous fun. And I’m not complaining neither. It’s turning out to be quite a week…

Smokey Robinson, Nottingham Royal Concert Hall, Sunday July 8.

(This review won’t be appearing in any of them thar news-papers, not never ever. Woo-hoo! Bring on the irrelevant asides, the superfluous adverbs and the gratuitous use of the first person! At last I am free, I can hardly see in front of me!)

Oh, the sweet relief of being unshackled from professional responsibilities. As the locally sourced string section trouped onto the stage (a particular feature of the tour, which could be seen as either a magnanimous gesture or a crafty cost-cutting ploy), I found myself automatically counting the number of players. Stop that! You’re here for pleasure, not duty! (Not that the two are mutually exclusive, of course…)

Thanks to some super-prompt ticket ordering manoeuvres, we had secured seats in the middle of the fifth row – so close that you have could have counted Smokey’s wrinkles, if he’d had any. My, but there’d been some work done: as Dymbel observed, the upper half of his face was all but frozen, setting off his weirdly perma-startled eyes. And oh, the outfits. Top Number One, a symphony in lilac, was so sheer that we could make out the Robinson nipples lurking beneath. There’s Up Close And Personal, and there’s Over-Sharing.

To be honest, I’d been worried all along by the cheese potential; worries that were scarcely allayed by the lovely lady backing dancers, both furiously channelling the spirit of Miss Anglia Television circa 1981 – or bearing in mind their relentlessly literal textual interpretations, perhaps it was more the spirit of Pan’s People circa 1973. For Quiet Storm, the duo pranced about in foxy rainwear, brandishing plastic brollies. For Night And Day, the lovely white lady wore a black gown and the lovely black lady wore a white gown… you get the picture? During the encore, an interminable “let’s divide you into two groups and see who can make the most noise!” excursion which was enough to put you off its central refrain (“I love it when we’re cruising together”) for ever and a day, I hissed seditiously in Dymbellina’s ear: “If Carol Vorderman and her mate come back in sailors’ hats, I might have to shoot them…

However, it was the last violinist on the right who tickled me the most. Perched at the end of the row like a fair-haired Mona Lisa, she strived for impassivity, but failed to mask her distaste for some of the more flagrant cavortings. Classy classically-trained lady, I was with you all the way.

Equally – and this was shared by most of the local string section, none of whom had met Smokey until that afternoon – she also found it impossible to suppress her delight at getting to perform with one of the truly great soul legends. Indeed, the delight fairly rippled round the room. His first ever UK tour? (No, really, it said so in The Guardian.) Just six dates? And one of them here in Nottingham, in the comparative intimacy of the Royal Concert Hall? How blessed we were.

At the age of 67, Robinson’s voice was as clear as ever, with none of the frailties that had affected Andy Williams’ performance last Thursday. Perhaps it was a little low in the mix at the start of the set, and perhaps both the performer and his audience needed to lose that initial stiffness, before getting their respective grooves on. However, if you are going to need a couple of warm-up numbers, then you can’t bank on much better than Going To A Go-Go, I Second That Emotion and You’ve Really Got A Hold On Me. With material of that calibre, we struggled through just fine.

Three songs in, I still feared that Smokey was going to be too much of a lightweight cabaret turn. Those oddly inexpressive eyes. That simpering, I’m-Motown’s-nice-guy smile, which has always slightly put me off the man.

And then, with the slow-burning ballad Ooo Baby Baby, it all turned round. Stretching the 32 year old song way beyond its traditional outro, Smokey embarked upon an extemporised coda which steadily increased in intensity, depth and emotional acuity. With eyes screwed up in concentration, he searched within and pulled out the night’s first evidence of true soul, as opposed to placatory showboating.

From that point, Robinson’s two sides – the showman and the soul man – co-existed in a more or less easy truce, which saw him reaching out to differing elements of his disparate audience, at different times and in different ways. For those that enjoyed being conducted in suspiciously slick “impromptu” singalongs, there was ample opportunity. For the soul-buff aficionados, there were enough off-piste song choices to keep heads nodding and mental check-lists ticked off. Even the extended plug for the new covers album (Timeless Love) passed without undue discomfort. Hell, even the Stevie Wonder impersonation made us chuckle; whatever it lacked in comic genius was more than compensated by the palpable authenticity of its affection.

The selections from Smokey’s demonstrably undervalued 1980s renaissance sounded particularly fantastic, the highlight being the deliciously easy-going Just To See Her (a Number 52 smash in 1987, and hence perhaps not the wisest of choices for another attempted impromptu singalong). Having already been performed in the same venue by Andy Williams last week, the song is a recent discovery and a current favourite of mine; it’s also one of Dymbellina’s personal favourites.

As the applause started up at the end of the number, Smokey’s smiling gaze fell in our direction. Smiling back, Dymbellina and I raised our hands upwards and outwards, nodding in appreciation. Our nods were returned with an equally respectful, somewhat courtly half-bow. It was a brief but luminous moment of direct connection – and in my case at least, unprecedented in thirty years of regularly attending live shows. As such, I suspect I shall always remember it with particular fondness.

During the statutory introduce-the-band section, one player – a magisterially impassive old fella in shades, with something of the grizzled blues veteran about him, who was contributing the loveliest of guitar licks throughout – was completely overlooked. What’s the story there, I wondered. Some sort of simmering backstage enmity? A silent, sulking stand-off, of Blair/Brown proportions?

Right at the end of the main set – which was fast approaching the two-hour mark – and accompanied by opening notes of The Tracks Of My Tears – which the grizzled old fella, now spotlighted, was repeatedly picking out on solo guitar – all was explained. This was none other than Marvin “Marv” Tarplin, resident guitarist for the Miracles all through the 1960s, and a co-writer and contributor to many other classic Motown hits. Thus revealed and warmly received, Tarplin led Robinson into the night’s most sublime, spine-tingling and unequivocally soulful performance. Who cared about the silly encore which followed? In the face of such awe-inspiring, oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-we-just-SAW-that magic, it mattered not a jot.

Lowdham Book Festival lecture notes.

Of course, if one cocks up the timing of one’s talk so badly that large chunks of it never get aired, one can always stick one’s lecture notes on one’s blog afterwards. Because, naturally, one abhors waste.

These, then, are the notes for the second half of Saturday talk, which relate to bloggers and book deals, and the differences between blog writing and book writing.

(Most of the first half can be found here.)

Much of what follows was inspired by (and on occasion, directly lifted from) phone conversations which took place last week with Clare Sudbery and Zinnia Cyclamen (“proper” writers both), to whom much gratitude.

There is something which has recently come to be seen (in certain quarters) as the Holy Grail to which every personal blogger must aspire.

Two little words, which have an almost mystical hold over certain sections of the blogosphere…

…and I’m going to say them now…

BOOK DEAL!

The first UK blog-to-book: Belle De Jour (2004).
– Scandalised the blogosphere by winning the Guardian “Best British Blog” competition.
– Major national press guessing game re. her true identity, which to this day has never been revealed.
– BdJ to be played by Billie Piper on ITV2 series in the autumn. (The ultimate accolade!)

A couple of blogging compilations in 2005 and 2006, mainly sourced from the “political” wing.

In 2006, the “blogger with a book deal” phenomenon began to emerge in earnest.
Girl with a one-track mind
Petite Anglaise
– Tom Reynolds: Random Acts Of Reality –> “Blood Sweat & Tea”
– David Copperield: The Policeman’s Blog -> “Wasting Police Time”

Reactions to blog-to-book boom.

People are now aware that book deals from blogs can happen.
– some cynical reactions from certain sections of the blogosphere
– introduces a hierarchy into what might have been seen as an egalitarian model (although it basically still is?)
– ramps up the competitive element
– why aren’t I good enough / what’s so great about them / they’re a self-glorifying clique, etc.

Example: Wife In The North.
– £70k deal with Viking Penguin, less than 6 weeks after starting her blog
– shock, horror, had previously worked as Sunday Times journalist
– hence suspicions as to legitimacy of “buzz”, cf. Sandi Thom in 2006
– conspiracy theories: it’s a PR stunt, etc.
– highlights emphasis on perceived “authenticity” and purity of motives

However: there are no blogging equivalents of Jordan!
– the blogosphere is a meritocracy
– you can’t schmooze your way to the top if you’re crap
– although there are scores of overlooked gems, the most popular personal blogs are popular for a good reason
– consistently well written and engaging
– have something which makes people want to come back for more

Emerging outlets for blog-to-book publishing.

The Friday Project.
– niche publishers in blog-to-book market
– much kudos within the blogosphere if TFP picks you up
– can they compete with the majors in terms of PR/marketing/distribution?
– depends on the extent of your hunger for world domination!

Self-publishing.
– ideal if you’re not into world domination, and not looking to shift mega-units
– sold online only
– you set your own rate of royalties
– though sales will be smaller, your percentage will be higher than going through a normal publisher
– benefit of immediacy: as soon as you submit your Word document or PDF file, the book is ready to order
– no start-up costs; books are printed to order and sold directly by self-publishing website
– you don’t need to pre-order, so no risk of being left with boxes of unsold stock

Leading self-publisher is lulu.com
– have coined the term “blook” (ugh)
– concept is promoted via the annual Lulu Blooker Prize
– I used them for my own venture into self-publishing: Shaggy Blog Stories (see below)

Could we see a rise in self-publishing and a move to grassroots? Lulu.com operating like an indie record label distributor?
– Maybe, but no sign of it yet.
– You can surf Myspace and quickly find a whole host of hot new bands, but you’ll search in vain on Lulu for hot new writers.
– Still in the realm of vanity publishing – no reliable indicators of quality – low volumes of sales. (SBS sold 500 copies and is in the all time top 200 best sellers, if that’s any indication.)
– No distribution network, and no marketing clout outside the Lulu website – you have to do all your promotion yourself.

Shaggy Blog Stories.

Anthology of comic writing from UK blogs.
– to raise money for Comic Relief
– but also “a book deal for all”, to widen the opportunity for bloggers to make it into print
– conceived and executed in seven days flat
book released at midnight on the start of Red Nose Day
– 300 submissions, reviewed by editorial team, 100 selected for publication
– DIY typesetting/editing/proofing – crash course – steep learning curve – great experience – much help offered and gratefully received
– 500 copies sold, c.£2000 raised
– lulu.com supportive, waived their own royalties
– publicity: BBC Radio Five Live, Radio 2, some national press, but overhwelmingly via word-of-mouth and links from other blogs
spin-off podcast (complete and utter flop!)

Have also set up Post of the Week
– to promote great writing on personal blogs
– to draw wider attention to blogs which might otherwise have been overlooked
– one guaranteed humdinger of a blog post, once a week, every week

The curious isolation of the blogger-turned-writer.

Once a blogger lands a book deal, they face a new set of pressures/problems/bewilderments, a lot of which can’t be blogged about.
– not wanting to brag / to bore / to jinx things before “going public”
– “all your dreams have come true, stop whinging!”
– issues can be stressful and scary

Writers don’t tend to meet each other
– not introduced via agents/publishers etc
– there’s no club, but you do want to talk to people

Other sources of info/help:
– blogs which deal with the creative process (eg. struggling author, real e fun)
– people are approaching each other out of the blue with messages of appreciation/support, and some acts of real generosity take place
– but if you can’t blog and you can’t talk, maybe you need a support network?

“Bloggers with book deals”
– private discussion group
– enthusiastic responses when set up – active and busy group
– divides between pre-existing authors with blogs, and bloggers who have landed deals – mostly first time writers (or at least first time fiction writers)

“The Novel Racers”
– informal support group
– international
– has its own group blog, where writers post on the progress they are making, and generally cheer each other on
– pre-existing book deals not required!
– started as a “race” to see who completed their novel first, but since has widened its reach

Issues confronting the blogger-turned-author.

One big shock might be the sheer amount of hard work that has to be put in.
– not a simple matter of copy/pasting standalone blog posts into a Word document
– need for a unifying narrative arc / structure / start, middle and end

You’ll also need to work through various drafts.
– the idea of a draft is anathema to most bloggers
– after all, the vast majority of blog posts are first drafts!

Then you’ll need to edit yourself. You can’t be flabby, and you can’t waffle on.
– This was a problem I noticed time after time when editing Shaggy Blog Stories.
– Potentially strong pieces bogged down by acres of excess verbiage.
– Many digressions, which might be important to the author – and maybe to the author’s immediate circle – but not to the wider readership.
– Shut up and get on with the story!
– The clearest indication that once you transfer online writing to the printed page, that different standards automatically apply – it highlights the weaknesses in the prose quite mercilessly.

Similar issues are faced when moving into journalism.
– tightening up of writing style
– can’t use the first person
– have to stick to a word count
– involves ruthless paring down, which can initially hurt if you’re precious about each word
– your prose might then be hacked around by sub-editors

I welcomed the imposition of this kind of discipline.
– have learned to love the editing process, though painful at first
– made it much easier to swing the axe when editing Shaggy Blog Stories
– but also makes it much harder to return to the freedom of blog writing
– my voice has changed; can feel like a retrograde step to return to my old voice, where I can ramble/digress/parenthesise/stuff my sentences full with too many adverbs etc.
– maybe I’ve finally exhausted myself as a subject… who’d have thought it!
– maybe some bloggers-turned-authors will end up feeling the same way?

Another big issue: bloggers-turned-authors are generally writing about their own lives: memoir.
– Big worry is not breaching the confidentiality of others, but the fact that you’re exposing yourself.
– It’s the “getting caught naked in public” dream.
(NB: I only started having this dream when I started blogging!)

Also: potential exposure to a new level of criticism which they’re not used to.
– Readers will accept a lower quality of writing from a blog than a book.
– In a blog, roughness & immediacy is part of the charm – you can feel the heat of the moment. This won’t wash on the printed page.
– People will criticise books in a way that they generally don’t with blogs.
– You no longer have the safety of the fluffy comment box support group, which does have a tendency to over-praise.
– Put material onto the printed page, and it automatically raises the bar.
– Have to deal with resentment… “I could do that”…
– …or “you’ve only been published because [insert snarky theory here]”

Comments box politics.

Wider exposure opens up the comments box.
– petite & girl now get large numbers of comments from strangers all over the world
– that feeling of a semi-closed community is lost forever
– introduces an unprecedented new level of direct public communication between author and readers
– too many comments for readers to follow – makes the “conversation” too unwieldy
– not all comments will be supportive or welcome!
– sycophancy/abuse/self-promotion/various other dodgy motives
– introduces a need to hold comments for moderation, and to delete the worst (which can in itself generate more problems)
– you have to question what value you’re getting from the process
– plenty of reasons to retain comments, but it takes time/effort/courage

Rachel North/Felicity Lowde – extreme cautionary tale of a commenter turned stalker/harrasser.

Most authors continue to subscribe to the “tablets of stone” model.

But one of the big differences between blog writing and novel writing or journalism, is that blog posts are seen as initiating a discussion.
– old media journalists had to learn this when contributing to The Guardian’s Comment Is Free blog
– expected to hang around and participate, after publishing your article

Growing trend for bloggers reply to every comment they receive
– particularly newer bloggers
– becoming expected as a matter of course
– danger of being seen as aloof if you don’t?

Writer to blogger: reversing the flow.

Plenty of established journalists have seen the writing on the wall and set up their own blogs.
– raises their profiles; enhances rather than threatens their published work

However, very few published novelists have gone on to set up their own blogs.
– a growing number have their own websites, but not their own blogs
– even though blogs are easier to keep up to date with fresh new content
– also leads to higher Google rankings

Examples:
Clare Sudbery
Penelope Farmer (Grannyp) – only recently “came out”
Kate Harrison – blogs about the creative process
David Belbin

Professional sniffiness?

Perhaps professional writers are somewhat sniffy:
– a lot of work for no income
– why would I give my writing away for free?
– is this “mass amateurisation” a dumbing down?
– blogging as distraction / displacement activity
– encourages looser, less structured, more undisciplined writing
– suspicious of the public exposure – why put a diary online?
– a threat to my livelihood?

Problem of perception:
– Blogs to books seen as chick-lit or toilet reading rather than serious literature.
– Perhaps this doesn’t matter – all the most widely read blog writing is populist in nature – maybe it goes with the territory.
– Blog reading is quick-hit, short-attention-span, coffee-break reading – it doesn’t lend itself to extended concentration or complex narrative structures.

Alternatively, and more positively:
– a testbed for new ideas, a play pen, a coffee break, a place to muck around and experiment.
– requires less motivation/commitment, so loosens you up.
– a place to offload all the stuff that won’t fit in your novel, that you might otherwise have tried to shoe-horn in.

Every blogging writer that I’ve spoken to has told me that blogging has been an immense help rather than an awkward hindrance.

“If I want to be noticed as a writer, should I start a blog?”

Don’t start a blog assuming that you’ll be noticed and snapped up.
It has happened – but it’s very much the exception.
Although if you’re good, people will discover you and start reading you.

Be prepared to join a community, as a participating member.
You get out what you put in, so discover your own favourite blogs, link to them, leave comments… the love you send out will return to you.

If a high readership is important to you, then:
– maintain a consistent style & theme
– update regularly, without fail, at least 3 times a week
– reply to your commenters – it makes them feel included
(I break all the above, and this costs me readers.)
– focus on your readership – read the blog through their eyes
– make every word count
– be patient – let your reputation build at its own pace

It can be a distraction; it can be a dead end. But equally it can help you to:
– find a voice
– develop your writing skills
– build an audience and a support group
– give you confidence to move onto larger tasks

Time and again, I’ve observed people whose style has developed and matured over time. You see a raw spark, you latch onto it, and you see it flourish. A rewarding process to observe.

You can treat it as a self-help/self-study creative writing course, with automatic mutual peer review. (But beware the sycophants!)
– Just remember – you can’t expect to be able to run a 5 star restaurant just because you can cook a mean pizza.
– Creative writing courses, Arvon foundation courses, writers’ groups and how-to books are all available, and blogging is no quick & dirty short cut.

Finally, and personally speaking…

You could argue that if you’re a natural writer, you would have found an outlet for your writing anyway…
…but without blogging, I would never have started writing again.
– I used to write for pleasure, but in secret – there seemed something vaguely shameful about it – and stopped at age 17.
– Zero confidence in my abilities – didn’t believe I could do anything useful with it – felt I had to grow up.
– Since starting 5.5 years ago, I’ve reconnected with an ability that might otherwise have lain dormant for the rest of my life – and I’ve had the opportunity to develop that ability, spurred on by the knowledge that everything I write has an audience.
– In fact, I’m so steeped in the culture that I can’t see the point of writing anything without an audience!
– Which would make me a very poor blogger-turned-author. All those months of writing in the dark? No thanks!
– Besides, I’m that fatal combination: a perfectionist and a procrastinator. Hence temperamentally ill-equipped!

Final word: I have it on good authority that the best way to land a book deal remains the same as ever:
Write a book!

Lowdham Book Festival blog-talk: supplementary links.

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Yesterday’s little blog talk went just fine, thanks for asking. It was a modest turn-out, but certainly enough to make the event worthwhile, and thanks are due to my hometown posse (including JP, MissMish, Rullsenberg and Cloud) for turning up, lending support, and pouring ale down my neck in the pub over the road afterwards.

However, being my own harshest critic and all and all, my immediate post-talk thought was annoyance that I hadn’t managed to squeeze all my material into the allotted 45 minutes. As it was, I spent too long on the first half (essentially a 2007 remix of the talk I gave at Broadway Cinema a while back), and ran out of time to get stuck into the all-new second half, thus spluttering to a rather abrupt halt. Which was a shame, as the second half was all about bloggers and book deals, and the differences between blog writing and novel writing, and I’d spent a long time researching and assembling the material. In fact, it was the second half which I was looking forward to the most. Lesson learnt: do a timed run-through in advance, and chop your material accordingly. (I did this last time, but got a wee bit too complacent this time.)

That said, the talk went well, and I managed to strike the right balance between scripted and off-the-cuff material. It would also have been fun to have extended the Q&A session at the end, which did give me the chance to shoe-horn a couple of sections from the overly abridged second half. And it was good to meet Sally Morten (one of the Shaggy Blog Stories contributors), as well as a previously unknown regular reader (who asked me some rather penetrating questions about blog stalkers, before re-assuring me that his presence at tomorrow night’s Ted Leo & The Pharmacists gig didn’t mean that he was one of them, ahahaha, dear me no, thanks for reading, see you at the gig).

I left Lowdham with a very strong urge to do this sort of thing on a more regular basis, preferably with at least a 60 minute timeslot. So, readers, if you’re hiring, then I’m ready, willing and able…


Anyhoo, since I promised to do this yesterday… for the benefit of those who turned up, here’s a quick link-list of various points arising.

· Technorati: The State of the Live Web, April 2007.
· The “Online Disinhibition Effect”.
· Heather Armstrong on being “Dooced”.
· The Bloggies: 2007 Weblog Awards.
· Bloglines: personalised site feed aggregator.
· Hallam Foe: official blog for the forthcoming movie, which received a special preview screening for bloggers last month.
· Belle De Jour – the first UK blog-to-book success story.
· Girl With A One-Track Mind and Petite Anglaise – bloggers turned writers, whose stories both made international headlines in 2006.
· E-mail from Nicholas Hellen of the Sunday Times to Abby Lee (Girl With A One Track Mind).
· Random Acts Of Reality: ambulance worker’s blog, now available in book form.
· The Policeman’s Blog – another “job blog”, now available in book form.
· Wife In The North: offered a £70k book deal less than 6 weeks after starting her blog. (News story in The Times, February 2007.)
· The Friday Project: independent publishers who specialise in the blog-to-book market.
· Lulu.com: self-publishing service.
· The 2007 Lulu Blooker Prize: literary prize for blogs-to-books, aka “blooks“.
· Shaggy Blog Stories: self-published UK blogging anthology, conceived and executed in seven days, to raise money for Comic Relief.
· Post of the Week: set up by myself and others, in order to promote great writing on personal blogs.
· Felicity Lowde sentenced to six months’ imprisonment for online harrassment of blogger Rachel North: BBC news story; Times news story; Rachel North’s reaction; interesting background article on Lowde and “Narcissistic Personality Disorder”.
· Blogger.com: allows you to set up your own blog in minutes, at no cost and with no technical know-how.

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See also: Lisa Rullsenberg’s and Sally Morten’s write-ups of the event.