99 problems; Beyoncé ain't one

By most accounts Jay-Z did the business at Glastonbury last night - giving two fingers to the nay-sayers, most prominently mono-browed has-been Noel Gallagher.

The visceral reaction to the announcement that Jay-Z was headlining was more than a bit troubling, with its obvious racist undertones. "Glastonbury's always been about guitars," was Noel's reasoning. And white folks playing those guitars to mud drenched white folks in the audience. Having Negroes with baseball caps prancing about on stage - why that's a bit much, isn't it? Still having Jay-Z there (and Ms Knowles in the VIP section) meant there was at least a handful of the black folks at Glasto this year - I mean apart from the ones cleaning out the port-o-loos.

Perhaps we should leave the irony that Noel's guitar music was invented by black people so that a few decades later white people could make money playing it. Still, Noel has every reason to thank Jay; whatever reason would we have heard Wonderwall at this, or any subsequent, Glastonbury?

Festivals are mainly for white, middle-class tossers. I, of course, will be hitting the Green Man later this summer and just been invited to Latitude mid-July. Really want to go to Latitude but have some previous commitments - and it was one of those things that a group of friends got tickets, didn't ask me initially and one has pulled out. Having been slighted, not sure if I want to grace them with my presence. Still, Latitude seems like how festivals should be, a mix of music and culture and comedy. Death Cab for Cutie, Omid Djalili and Irvine Welsh all on the same bill? Genius.

The post is really only an excuse to show Hardknock Life. Still his best. Although maybe the Dr Evil/Mini-Me version tops it.

sketchy characters

Even more wining and dining - I am feeling rather bloated, even a trifle gouty, after three slap up meals this week. Last night it was to Sketch, the uber-trendy Conduit Street eatery and club, with the fine folks from Mills & Boon.

The building used to be Christian Dior's house and it is a hodge-podge of wildly, screamingly camp and kitschy touches. Leather walls, mismatched lamps, random sculptures, one of a diamond zircon woman squatting on a ball, another of a dog eating through an overflowing rubbish bin - complete with chomping noises. The loos are space age pod type stuctures and the gent's urinal is this rather off-putting waterfall feature.

And, oh yeah, they serve food there. And it's pretty decent, a nice crab stuffed ravioli to start and tender beef with satay sauce. We were there to celebrate M&B's 100th anniversary, the Organ's 150th, though we were forbidden to clap by Sketch's rather authoritarian wait staff.

Fun night, though, not even ruined by the cocktail waitress at the end of the evening dumping a tray full of mojitos on me. Incidentally, isn't it interesting that the overiding smell of a lot of London clubs early on (before the sweat and cheap cologne kicks in later) is mint.

Ivy league

To the West End celeb-haunt The Ivy for an S&S sponsored dinner with Richard and Judy. For our North American audience: R&J are essentially Oprah manqués - day time chat show hosts with a Book Club of their own.

Richard has a book coming out, Fathers & Sons, due out in October. If you only know him from his motor mouth TV persona, you are in for a shock. The book is extremely well written. It is part memoir, part family history, and the bit about his grandfather is truly affecting.

I talked to Richard for a good while and felt at ease. Mostly because we talked - about our fathers, football. You know, stuff. For a long while afterwards, though, I was next to the S&S PR girl named, inevitably, Emma. At least an hour, I think, I had to small talk. This I am not good at and we sat in occasional lapses of uncomfortable silence. Mostly because she seemed incapable of talking about anything that didn't have to do with S&S and publicity.
Of course, maybe it was we just didn't click and she was also thinking how dreadful it was sitting next to me. After a few glasses of wine I asked her where she lived in London. 'Crouch End,' she said wearily, and I realised that was what I had asked her maybe 45 minutes ago.

I have so much difficulty schmoozing. I am not good at the theatre of publishing and bookselling, this party-hearty sort of 'hello, darling, how are you?!' Air kiss, mmmmh, mmmmh. In fact I despise it.

I do have publishing people I love to see, but I realise I have met all of them one on one or in very small groups and built a relationship. And they are people I would like as friends if I cannot indeed count them as friends yet. At the Organ's 150th, there were quite a few of these people there.

But I realised why I like certain people. AG came over late-ish in the evening. I am actually really jealous of him because he is brilliant and speaks five languages fluently. He has a sexy Italian wife. He and EM own their own indie publishing company, produce beautiful literature (both content and physically - the production and design they use is top-notich).

Here is why I love him. The first question he asked was not - what do you think the Christmas number one will be, what about the latest PFD gossip - or any of that publishing insider bullshit. It was, what are you reading? And when I told him - Mansfield Park, actually - he was able to talk about it, and not in a how many units did it shift, is there a good marketing buzz around it, but about the book itself.

150 years young

The Organ is 150 years old this year and we just put out our super-duper special issue, which you can access online here. Look for the eight page spread of classic adverts and editorial beginning on page 62; a genius bit of editing by whoever did it.

We had a celebratory party the other day in the courtyard of the V&A. Most of the movers, shakers and deal makers of the business were there; a bomb going off would have decimated the industry.

It was a beautiful evening, the weather perfect, the champagne flowing, the canapes circulating (although I only was able to get one of these tiny bite sized burgers). The patron saints of publishing - which according to the Saints Index there are five of (!) - must have been smiling down upon us. Alas, my plans to either steal some antiquity or spend the night in the Adam Interior were rumbled by security.

I wrote the book 'cause we're all gonna die

Whenever I'm feeling down, I turn to four books: A Confederacy of Dunces, A Fan's Notes, Bartleby the Scrivner (OK, it's a short story) and On the Road. Got a bit panicky because I was looking for them this evening and only On the Road seems to have survived my last house move.

But maybe On the Road is the effervescent blast I need just now. It is continually dismissed by critics - Truman Capote's 'it's not writing, it's typing' jibe seems to have stuck. And it is very primitive, the kind of book you read as an adolescent. But at its core it is about restlessness, searching for the essence of life. Something that we lose when we grow out of adolescence (and become pinched, cynical and wizened as Truman Capote). And that is a shame, and perhaps why we should read it into our dotage. We forget to live, don't we, hunkered down in the 9 to 5, even those of us who do something that is on the creative side.

This is great. Jack on the Steve Allen Show. His Massachusetts accent makes me a trifle homesick.

Gay magnet part deux

I was at a launch for this - Tessa Codrington's book of photographs of Tangier put out by Arcadia. The launch was at Christie's and it was all very North African - large photos of the book's images lined the gallery walls, the canapes were chicken tangine and hummus. I half expected to see Paul Bowles smoking hash in a corner.

I met GP, our evening's host, as I came in. He was talking to an Uncle Monty type (Withnail & I Uncle Monty, not Lemony Snickett), an older well-fed gent, tweedily dressed, carefully arranged thinning white hair barely covering his head, his round face blotchy with eczema. GP, Uncle Monty and I chatted for a bit, until we were interrupted by D, GP's assistant. GP had to go and schmooze with the author.

'Perfectly ghastly,' Uncle Monty said, as GP and D dove into the scrum of the party.

'I'm sorry?' I said.

'How she interrupted. Perfectly ghastly. Women are good for nothing.' Before I could respond he grabbed my hand - grabbed my hand. 'Come, let us look at the photographs. They are exquisite.'

'I guess they are good at taking photographs, then,' I said as he led me away.

He didn't seem to hear. We went around the gallery looking at the photographs of Tangier street scenes, the beach, and yes, Paul and Jane Bowles in their flat taken from the 70s. As he led me along I was trying to think of a way to get my hand back without being rude. He was still clutching it, squeezing it ever so slightly. He asked me if I had ever been to Tangier, I said no.

'I have been many a time' he said. 'Very permissive there.'

He squeezed my hand a bit tighter. It was just then that the 'perfect ghastly' D came over and asked me to go and talk to the author. D, incidentally, is lovely, smart and always smells of jasmine. I thanked her as we stole away, leaving a poor Uncle Monty on his own.

I guess I am not necessarily a gay magnet - just one for older, repulsive fellows. It does give me pause - why don't good looking gay guys hit on me? I work near SoHo. Surely my rough-hewn masculinity and fresh-faced good looks should go down a storm.

Fitba

The worst of the English comes out on the football pitch. Actually the very worst comes out in the football stands for the national team where hordes of fat-bellied men can shout xenophobic, racist and misogynistic rants at full belt.

Yesterday, I was at The Organ's annual five a side tournament, and had to deal with the worst of the English. Our side (Mr Schmooze, The Haymaker, Stoner, SiCo, and Hannah's Steve) took the competition in the right spirit; a nice kickaround, if we won a few games, grand. Of course, we are a bit shit, so maybe that explains the laissez-faire attitude.

But I really despaired at the majority of the people there, fighting for the the cup as if it was, well, the world friggin' cup. Yelling at the referees, getting into fights, getting sent off, watching other matches and yelling at opposing players. My half-assed theory is that in modern life we don't hunt or gather and thus have to channel aggression out on meaningless competition. Still that doesn't excuse you calling the referee of a five a side tourney a 'cunt' after you get sent off.

Gay magnet

So I was in the shower at the gym today. Now, I'm not particularly that self-conscious about my body, but showering with strange men is a trifle weird. It is odd to think that the couple of, shall we say, adornments on my body have been seen only by a few lucky ladies - and almost any guy who happens to be in the Oasis Sports Centre changing room of a weekday lunch time.

Anyway, for some reason the changing room was almost deserted and I found myself sharing the shower (there are about 10 communal showers) with one other guy who was across the way. I didn't look at him - because as you know, the first rule in Shower Club is: don't make eye contact. The second rule of Shower Club: don't make eye contact. So I was merrily showering away, but I soon felt the weight of his stare and turned around.

I'd seen him before. He is one of these people who have a malevolent presence as if sirens are going off around him saying, 'Warning, warning, avert your eyes, there's a psycho here.' He is massive, about 6 foot, maybe stretching 300 pounds, both muscly and fat. He is heavily tattooed and all of them look home, or prison, made. Most have football or England motifs, the one on his head - yes, covering his shaved head - says 'Skins' which I take to be some sort of hooligan casual group.

I looked across. He was staring at me with what I can only describe as intense longing. This dumbstruck sort of panting look. I quickly looked away. Maybe I had imagined that. Then he came over as I was soaping up, to the shower just next to me. I will reiterate: there was no one else in the shower room. 'Can I help you with that, mate?' he mumbled.

No, I guess I hadn't imagined that. I said, 'thank you, no' and quickly left. Later, I was sort of chuckling over it. Not just because of the comic possibilites of a moment of tendresse between me and some guy whose perfect weekend probably involves beating Millwall supporters to a pulp. But also - do you try to seduce someone by calling them 'mate'? Is this what gays do (or in the States do they say - Hey, you're looking pretty hot, dude?')? Is it me or is mate, even in the context when it means to copulate, a really unsexy word?

If he had started quoting Baudelaire - then I would have been his.

The big crow-like one

Went to gay Paree the other day on the Eurostar (first class, don't you know), for a jolly paid for by the good folks at Phaidon. The trip was for this book on Le Corbusier, a snip at £100, which is an overview of Corby's career with a lot of photographs, documents and artwork that have only previously been seen by scholars. Actually, it is a snip - it is one of these massive coffee-table sized luxury books and for what you get, £100 is not that bad.

We got to tour around a few Le Corbusier designed houses, most of which are off limits to the public. I do appreciate Corby (which is what one of the heads of Fondation le Corbusier kept calling him) as a theorist - this whole idea of creating better living conditions in crowded urban environments, in one house he separated body from mind: it was two connected bits, the library and art gallery in one half (mind), eating and sleeping quarters in the other (body).

But I don't know if I ever would want to live in any of his buildings. They look austere, almost brutal. He often didn't think of comfort. We went to the Pavilion Suisse, student housing at the Cite University and the rooms were just boiling because of the use of single glazing for the massive windows and over reliance on concrete (the woman at the Pavilion said it was also very cold in the winter). It was all about theory and nothing to do with the people who were living there - the university has had to make a number of adjustments to improve the students' lives. Putting in places to eat, for example.

He wasn't the best builder. 'Here's another miscalculation by Le Corbusier,' our tour guide would point out frequently, showing us a bit that had to be replaced because the wrong materials were used. For example, the staircase at the Pavilion (above) is lit by natural light from a unique kind of glass tiles. Problem is, these tiles explode in the sunlight and constantly have to be replaced.

I was with a number of architecture journalists who didn't seem to share my views. 'When one walks into this space,' one intoned in a plummy Oxbridge accent as entered the Pavilion lobby, 'one feels the presence of genius.'

A lovely family tableau

Spent the day with my laptop in Dulwich park. Before I go on, what's the point of the 'w' if it's not going to be pronounced? It's Dull-itch, apparently. Not Dul-witch. I live in the London borough of Southwark (Suth-ick). And so on throughout the country - Berwick is Bare-rick. And yet sandwich is sand-witch, though the Scots seem to say sang-witch.

Anyway, beautiful day, about 80 degrees, sunny. Not a cloud in the sky. And there I was with my damn laptop, not kicking the ball around, eating ice cream or throwing rocks at the swans (which one young scamp was doing - must be a South London thing). I had journo work to do, my novel to write - and still do, yet here I am blogging away.

I did get this pang of, well, broodiness. I was sitting next to a family and the father was teaching four very small kids how to play cricket. It just looked so sweet and wholesome and that just seems completely unattainable for now.

Of course, after a while it went a bit pear shaped for Dad as I kept hearing things like, 'Maggie don't hit your brother with the cricket bat.' Then there was a lot of crying and carrying on and the father stopped the game and had to shut everyone up with Pringles and sandwiches. Or is it sand-itches?

Silence, exile and cunning

Every year around this time I read Ulysses. Yes, I am a bit pretentious. It is a struggle even at this my perhaps eighth or ninth go. I kind of liken it to learning a language; it is difficult, mysterious, but ultimately well worth it - one of the wittiest and poignant of books. My advice is to get the annotated student edition - helps if you are not proficient in the major European modern languages, Latin and ancient Greek, and are not au fait with say, Irish politics in the early 1900s and church ecclesiastical history.

This year, I have warmed up for the Ulysses read with The Bloomsday Dead by Adrian McKinty. This is a stonking novel, just out from Serpent's Tail, that uses the Ulysses structure to make a modern day thriller.

The body count is much higher than Ulysses, mind. By about page 3 Michael Forsythe (the Leo Bloom stand-in) kills two Colombians that have been sent to whack him, plus turncoat Hector. And that is just the start - a lot of heads get blown off, throats cut. The main plot is a kidnap case of old flame (and current mob boss) Bridget's daughter that former crim Forsythe has to solve.

The Ulysses references are clever (McKinty manages to wittily replicate the opening sentence, for example) without being pretentious. But the book is pacy enough on its own for anyone who has never even heard of James Joyce to enjoy.

Lindy hop and you don't stop

So I went Lindy hopping with K and G (both in witness relocation programmes, so initials only) the other night in the 100 Club. My first time, don't you know. It started out with a sort of practice session which they showed us some basic steps. Basic being a relative term as I thought they were really complicated. K, who is into the Lindy scene and is rather good, said we were starting on a rather difficult week.

To be frank, I was not the best Lindy hopper, which would surprise anyone who has ever seen me move with my panther-like grace. Couldn't really get the steps right. Early on in the night, this girl asked me to dance and though I told her I was a bit rubbish, she didn't believe me. A few moments and her face went from amusement at my ineptitude to a sort of scrunched up exasperation. 'Why don't we just freestyle,' she said grumpily after a minute or two. And then looked around for someone else, anyone else, to dance with.

But it was really fun and I'll go again. I got a tad better as the night wore on, helped by K selflessly allowing me to trod on her toes and throw her around.

I've always liked the music; it is not too far removed from the Americana, blues, folk stuff that I listen to a lot. And, man, you get to wear cool clothes (see above). Yeah, I'd look great in a skirt like that.

In fact I grew up on the music. My parents are from that era and danced to this stuff when it was first out. I had this odd moment on Lindy night as the band did a song which was on an Andrews Sisters album my mother used to play over and over. And suddenly I was back in my parents' den listening to it on this old 1940s record player they still used (it was wooden, painted maroon, and massive, had these big dials for the tuner and volume that glowed amber when you turned them). And this is what I listened to until I could buy music myself while all my friends were listening to Kiss - Tommy Dorsey, Cab Calloway, Gene Krupa. I can still see those album covers and remember the smell; my mother had stored them for some years at my grandmother's and they still smelled faintly of her house, this odd, but not unpleasant mix of lilacs and Pall Malls.

Also quite funny that this kind of thriving sub rosa Lindy scene exists. Although I suppose it is London and you can find all sorts. That traditional Samoan midget clog dancing you always wanted to get into? I think it's on a Tuesday at the Brixton Hootenanny.

Grifters

A little vignette from the aforementioned booze 'protest'. I was waiting outside of Victoria with Anna and Edward for another friend, Andy, to meet us so we could go onto the Circle Line. A man shuffled up to us, a rather overfed fellow with a shiny, sweaty face.

Beggarman1: 'Scuse me, I wonder if you could help me out. I need to get to Tooting and need just a few quid so I can get a day ticket.

We shuffle around. Edward points to his carrier bag.

Edward: We won't give you any money, but you can have a tinny.

Beggarman1: No, no, mate. I can't pay the train man with a tinny of lager. Please, if you could just spare a quid or two.

Another man approaches. He has a number one hair cut, a jagged scar along his right cheek.

Beggarman2: Hey I know you.

Beggarman1: What? No, no.

Beggarman2: Yeah, we was in Brixton nick together. Coupla years ago.

Beggarman1: No, no. That weren't me. I'm trying to get home to Tooting.

Beggarman2: Sure it was you, Brixton nick, remember? [Turns to us] I was in for robbery. Armed robbery, I'm not no common street robber.

Me: That's reassuring.

Beggarman2 [back to Beggarman1]: When did you get out?

Beggarman1: Ah, mate. You're messing up me graft. [turns to Edward] Give us one of those tinnies, then.

The two shuffled off and started chatting, planning their next armed robbery, perhaps.

Last orders

I spent last night drinking on the Circle Line. No, it wasn't one of my usual dark nights of the soul - a bottle of Buckie, raving to myself on public transport. One of Boris' first measures as London mayor is to ban drinking on public transport, which took affect today. So there was a massive Facebook organised bacchanalia of public drinking on the Tube to celebrate the last night of legal drinking.

It was really fun - a jovial, boisterous party, lots of different people. Many dressed up - on the carriage I was on there were guys dressed as Smurfs with their faces and chests painted blue. Two others were pimps - seventies chic with long leopard skin fur coats, which they were regretting when the train was stuck just out of Bayswater for about 30 minutes. It got mighty sweaty and stuffy. There were also this foreign elderly couple on board, probably tourists, looking shocked and horrified that they were somehow caught up in this. I did feel for them.

Apparently, the night ended on a bit of a sour note with arrests and some train staff assaulted. I'm not exactly sure I believe that. What I saw was completely chilled and friendly and the Met are not above putting out lies to journalists to get a political point across. Aunty Beeb's rather fusty coverage made me laugh. According to this report revelers were chanting 'If you hate Boris clap your hands.' Really? I didn't hear that. I did hear lots of 'Boris is a wanker, Boris is a wanker' and 'Boris is a cunt'.

The ban, of course, is a nonsense. The rail workers union say they will do nothing to enforce it and no police extra police will be deployed. And never mind what it says about Boris' core libertarian views. I thought the Tories were against the Nanny State.