Over the twelve long years I spent working in local government, I gradually came to care less and less about the clothes I wore to work. I would endlessly recycle the same collection of moth-eaten old shirts, long past their wear-by dates, as I could see little point in spending good money on looking smart in an environment which was so thoroughly permeated with a sense of slow, inexorable decline and decay. To turn up at County Hall looking dapper and spruce would have been to strike a false, jarring note of misplaced optimism (for this was a place where all optimism was frowned upon, if not openly mistrusted).

On changing jobs in 1999, and entering the private sector, I decided that an image overhaul was long overdue. It was time to start looking like a proper office worker again. I therefore embarked on a series of splurges, amassing a whole new collection of smart, carefully co-ordinated new business shirts and ties. Of which this purple striped number (from Arse Of Frasier's own "Fraser" label) was one of many.

In Summer 2001, I changed jobs again, and was no longer required to don Business Drag for the office. I was suddenly left with a glut of business shirts which would never get worn again. Some of them looked OK worn without a tie - others, like this one, didn't. I may never wear it again. However, I haven't owned it for long enough to justify throwing it onto the charity shop pile. And so it sits at the back of the walk-in closet, forever optimistically waiting its turn. I haven't got the heart to tell it that it's no longer wanted.

I'm crawling from my sick bed to post this one. That's how much I care!



Paul Smith's "PS" diffusion range, tightly checked in various hues of green. Unfortunately, this is slightly on the small side for me - I got carried away in the shop.

Time for a nice lie down again, I think.

Update: Oh yeah. Forgot. Er...Duncan, would you now step forward please. No - you'd better stop there, I think. Don't want to be breathing my germs all over you.

Duncan, I believe that you're Welsh, aren't you? Well, we like Welsh people on Troubled Diva. Not a bad word to say about them. So Duncan, much as it pains me to say it, you are now...sadly...Off The Project.

Off you trot, then. Hwyl.

On Friday night, at the start of my Big London Weekend, I learn an important lesson about charm.

Over the course of the evening - dinner upstairs at the pub on Great Portland Street where Ker-ching has been "filling in", followed by a lengthy bout of demented disco dancing at Dirty Dishes (Substation South) - I am introduced to a wide variety of people. Some (nearly all, in fact) are instantly delightful - warm and friendly, interesting and interested - and we duly click within seconds. Others are considerably harder work.

One in particular proves to be an impossible nut to crack. There is a brittle arrogance, and a seemingly unbreachable wall of utter disinterest. Some harsh conclusions are formed.

This person strikes me as the very embodiment of that old devil, London Attitude. Their mere presence has put me on edge, luring me back towards that old, familiar feeling. The feeling of having nothing of value to contribute. The feeling that, a few years ago, would have clammed me up entirely, sending me meekly scuttling back into my little shell, subordinating me to the rest of the group.

However, I have toughened up since then. Instead, I direct my conversation elsewhere, in an almost defiant show of amusing, intelligent, attentive discourse.

Much later on, I make a startling discovery. This very same person has recently shown themselves to be one of most exceptionally loyal, selfless, generous friends that anyone could wish for. I am truly astonished by the details of what I hear. All assumptions are overturned in an instant.

So. First impressions aren't everything, then. In fact, maybe first impressions aren't anything much at all. Maybe we all place far too high a value on charm. Maybe we shouldn't be relying on charm as any sort of reliable indicator of character.

I'd say that this was a sobering thought - except that sobriety has long since passed me by as a viable option tonight. Ker-ching's stimulating, energising company is bringing out the long dormant hedonist in me again. Is this good for me, or bad for me, or both? As often happens in these situations of excess, my mind is racing round in overtime, like a demented Pac-Man, relentlessly devouring and analysing everything it seizes upon. It's all too much. I wish it would stop.

Caught on the cusp between eloquence and stupefaction, there is only one place left to go: the dancefloor. I focus all my mental and physical energy onto the music and the dancing, until mind, body and spirit eventually lock together in joyful synthesis.

Delight and relief wash over me. I'm there at long last. In the Zone. Per ardua ad astra.

I'm going to pay for this, aren't I? I always do.

On Saturday morning, I discovered what Troubled Diva looks like on a web-enabled telly. Sadly, it looks crap. All my lovely mauve boxes - gone! My lovely multi-hued title bar - reduced to a plain purple strip! With the title in the wrong colour and font!

My conclusion: the web-enabled telly in question has a severely limited understanding of CSS. Still - no matter. The WORDS are intact, and legible, and that's all that really matters at the end of the day.

I had been greatly looking forward to visiting the Anish Kapoor installation at Tate Modern this afternoon. However, Ker-ching isn't keen. As today is one of his all too rare days off, I don't press the matter. In any case, K and I regularly take Saturday day returns from Derby to London, specifically for the purpose of Doing Art. We'll do the Kapoor together instead. Much better idea.

After a gruelling afternoon of shopping Up West (Oxford Street! Eek!), and a couple of beers in Comptons (Compton Street Queens! Eek!), and an endless bus journey back to Clapham, I am ready to drop. Last night's sleep deprivation is catching up with me, as well. I am seriously wondering how I am ever going to be able to make it to Sasha'a party tonight - let alone a visit to Love Muscle later on.

Only one thing for it: Disco Nap.

Comedy faces! At last!



Yes, it's yet another dingy looking blue number. This is a Christian Dior work shirt, again purchased for me by K at Filene's Bargain Basement in Chicago, for a knock-down price.

Now, far be it from me to look a gift shirt in the mouth, but this is not a favourite. Firstly, the collar's all wrong. If you wear it with a tie, then the whole collar/tie arrangement sits too low on the neck. If you wear it without a tie, then the collar kind of flops down lifelessly - which, as a stiff pointed collar, it shouldn't do. Secondly, the material has an uncomfortably scratchy quality to it. Thirdly, the colour is just too dingy - a nondescript shade, with too much grey in it for my liking.

But I haven't thrown it out, so into the Project it goes.

Which reminds me. I do have a sizeable number of old shirts which have been taken off their hangers and folded away, ready to be taken to one of the charity shops. These will not be included in the Project. I'm only including shirts which are still readily available for wearing. Alles klar?

This week: The Troubled Diva First Anniversary Party Box.

To celebrate exactly one year of Troubled Diva, I've plucked some extra-special tunes out of my curious old box. Let this be our official soundtrack for the virtual birthday party. "Let's break out the booze and have a ball..."

Item 58. Kevin Ayers - Stranger In Blue Suede Shoes (1972)

It's high time that I introduced you to the idiosyncratic charms of Kevin Ayers - and what better way than with this, his best known and best loved track. Listen carefully now...

Item 59. The KLF - Whitney Joins The J.A.Ms (1987)

I think I'm right in saying that this one-sided, limited edition, 12-inch release marked the first ever public appearance of the KLF logo. As the track samples heavily from Whitney herself, it never saw the light of day as an official release, and is therefore ultra-ultra-rare. But I've got it! And now you can have it too!

Item 60. Salma & Sabina Agha - Toba Toba (Mamma Mia) (1981)



By popular demand: the return of the "Abba In Hindi" sisters. No party of mine would be complete without those two...

Item 61. Cristina - Is That All There Is? (1980)



And again by popular demand: a re-posting of Curiosity Box Item Number One. Ultra-rare, ultra-jaded, ultra-marvellous.

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

Ker-ching wakes me from my Disco Nap after an hour and a half. Amazingly, it has done the trick. I feel refreshed and renewed. Yes, I shall go to the ball after all. The ball in question being Sasha's birthday party, all the way up North, in the uncharted territory that is Kilburn.

Sasha's flat is easy to find: you just have to look for the bus shelter with no bus stop attached. Given the amount of publicity that it has been generating since its erection a few weeks ago, this must now be the most famous bus shelter in North London. I actually feel quite star-struck in its presence.

Almost immediately upon entering the party (much more crowded and full-on than the demure little Drinkies Do that I had been expecting), still shyly clutching my bottle of champagne, and thinking "but I don't know anyone here", I am grabbed by a vision in scarlet and black.

"Guess who I am!", she exclaims.

"Anna Kookymojo?"

Got it in one.

Anna Kookymojo escorts me to what has already become the official Bloggers' Corner, where I am introduced to Darren Linkmachinego, Mo Momorgan, Nick Nickjordan and Marcia Dutchbint. A few minutes later, our corner is also joined by Stuart Hydragenic, looking incredibly dapper in a dark suit and white dress shirt. However, I have apparently arrived too late to meet Fraser Blogjam, which is a great disappointment. Equally disappointing is the news that Vaughan Whereveryouare is unable to make it tonight. Another time, then.

Within minutes, I find myself caught in the crossfire of a detailed conversation about RSS/XML feeds and Aggregators (I like the sound of Aggregators, actually). To my astonishment, I discover that I actually understand - at least for the most part - what is being talked about. I even end up making some plausible sounding observations of my own. Blimey! Me, talking tech with the Blogerati! Whatever next?

A couple of times over the course of the evening, I am approached by other friends of Sasha who turn out to be regular readers of this site. In both cases, they have simply recognised me from the photos. It's a strange but pleasant feeling, meeting one's public for the first time.

One of these people turns out to be the official Artist In Residence for the band Alabama Three, who are best known for doing the signature tune for The Sopranos. She even gets to sit on stage at some of their gigs, drawing them while they are in performance. She is now about to start doing much the same sort of thing for McAlmont & Butler. I have never heard of a concept like this before, and am curious to know more. Alabama Three Girl, please don't forget to send me your URL!

Later on, someone tells me that when they first visited Troubled Diva many months ago, they read something which initially made them think that the site was "too queeny" for them. They were then at pains to assure me that I had never written anything remotely "queeny" on here since.

What - nothing queeny on here at all? This is clearly a shocking omission on my part - and I immediately make a private resolution to correct this situation as soon as I possibly can. Hence today's "Hunks off the telly" posting, which you will find below.

Stuart and I share a taxi back Darn Sarf, during which we talk about time poverty and procrastination (as he has already observed). So - just to complete the circle of sweet linky-love - here's a link to a great piece by Anna on the same subject: I am Nostalgia's bitch, and Procrastination is my drug. If you've never read Kookymojo before, then this is a great place to start.

I hop out of the taxi outside the Brixton Fridge and mosey on in to Love Muscle, quickly locating Ker-ching inside at the designated spot. It's been nearly four years since my last visit, and it's been longer than that since my days here as a semi-regular, around 1994 to 1996. The music these days has moved on from the cheesy cover versions of yore (Windmills Of My Mind, anybody? Or Wonderwall? Maybe Addicted To Love? Layla, perhaps? Down Under, even?). There are now worryingly large chunks of cheesy Ibiza trance instead. In any other club, this would cause me to run screaming from the dancefloor with my hands clasped tightly over my ears. In Love Muscle however, it just about works. But only just, mind.

There is an excruciating floor show involving the deathless "charms" of club hostess Mama Yvette, accompanied by six "dancers" with unusually long penises who quite demonstrably have not been hired for their dancing skills. To honour the night's Halloween theme, the "dancers" are kitted out with red plastic horns and matching plastic capes (Yvette: "We're making bin-liners fashionable again. Did you hear that? I said: we're making bin-liners fashionable again.") Tacky does not begin to describe it.

Actually, I have to hand it to Mama Yvette. Anyone who can construct an entire career simply out of endlessly drawling "Oh my Goooood - I can't belieeeeeve it - Look at thaaaat one" over and over again, week after week, year after year, deserves my grudging respect.

As the night draws on, I find myself having a bizarre, fractured conversation in the cafe area with a heterosexual Moroccan kitchen fitter, followed by a chance encounter with Dave Liveinlondon. Considering our respective circumstances at this stage of the proceedings, Dave and I mount a truly heroic effort at coherent conversation, with impressive results.

Two late nights on the trot, then. Good job I'm going home tomorrow. I'll be able to sit quietly on the train, recharging my batteries before Sunday night's Paul Weller concert.

At least, that was the theory.

October 30 2001.November 30 2001.December 28 2001.January 30 2002.February 28 2002.March 31 2002.April 30 2002.May 30 2002.June 28 2002.July 30 2002.August 30 2002.September 30 2002.October 30 2002.

Troubled Diva is exactly one year old today.

Big Big Love to everyone who comes here regularly, to everyone who leaves comments, and everyone who has linked.

And to you too, first-time reader. And to you as well, stray surfer who has stumbled in accidentally from Google.

You...you...you are the family I never had!

(collapses sobbing in a big heap of soaking wet designer cotton)

Whenever conversations get round to the subject of "which well-known people do you fancy" - and in my circles, that's quite a frequent occurrence, believe me - I always find it nearly impossible to come up with any names. I don't generally spend much time dwelling wistfully on unattainable public figures. The attractions that I experience are primarily to the palpably real, and not to the two-dimensionally abstract. Which I guess is yet another reason (among many) as to why pr0nography has always had its limitations for me.

However, all of the above went right out of the window last night, as I found myself positively swooning over three different (very different) men in three consecutive telly programmes. These being:

1. Kevin McCloud, the presenter of Channel 4's Grand Designs.

Last night, Kevin was spending a lot of time with the smoothly elegant and immaculately groomed Ewan, a single gay man who was transforming his flat (in London's Barbican complex) into "a fusion of Zen and Pop", with spectacular results (oh, that walk-in wardrobe!) Now, I know that Kevin is safely married with kids and all, but dearie me - he was quite brazenly flirting with Ewan all the way through the show. The eyes! The smile! The soft voice! Those quick little checking-you-out glances, all the way down and all the way back up again!

The sexual tension reached its peak when we saw Kevin and Ewan sprawled out together on a double bed at the uber-stylish Hempel hotel. "Oh, for God's sake, just do it, will you!", we found ourselves bellowing at the screen in frustration.

We want to be Kevin McCloud's friend. We want to have him over for dinner, so that he can spend all evening eloquently complimenting us on our exquisiste taste in interior decor, and making brilliantly innovative design suggestions. Sad, isn't it?

2. Tom Ford, the leading light of Gucci, and the subject of an hour-long documentary made by David Furnish.

The man simply oozes sex from every pore, in the most self-assuredly confident and self-contained way. This is someone who is entirely in control of his own world, where he makes all his own rules. With others, that could be scarily off-putting. With Tom, it's all part of the turn-on.

3. Sean Gallagher, playing the part of Jimmy in the drama series Linda Green.

The hunky lad next door with the friendly smile and the easy, up-for-it attitude. No commitment, no strings, no deception, no bullshit. Just the promise of a damned good romp in the sack. Ahem.

Celebrity Lust, then. It has its place, doesn't it? So the next time the subject comes up, I'll have my answers prepared in advance. Kevin and Tom and Sean. My dreamboats!

An old favourite, which I'm still wearing regularly over four years later. It's Katherine Hamnett (from her Jeans range), and has a looser fit to most of my other shirts - making it more forgiving than most of those slight abdominal swellings which have begun to trouble me of late.

Also, I love the check. If you look closely, you can see broad horizontal stripes in pale lemon, as well as thin blue horizontals and dual verticals in tangerine. Citrus fruit pastels, in other words. Lush.

Tinka, would you now step forward please.

Tinka, I think it's fair to say that you are - quite demonstrably - one of my more intellectually rigorous, sharply analytical readers. Well, your analytical powers have failed you today, haven't they? Tinka, you are now...Off The Project. Goodbye.

After having lunch with me last week in Hart's restaurant, Stuart Hydragenic went wandering round the centre of Nottingham (the city where he grew up) with his digicam, assembling a stunning collection of photos which reveal some aspects of the city in a whole new light. Well worth a gander.

Anna Kookymojo, Sasha Sashinka, and Mike Troubled Diva - as snapped by Stuart Hydragenic. More details to follow...

Sunday morning was heavy. And fairly bloody awful, with some ugly truths having to be confronted on both sides. But even with the benefit of just two days' hindsight, I guess that Sunday morning was always going to happen sooner or later - and all things considered, we dealt with it as best as we could. Like the grown-ups that we are. A learning experience for both of us, hopefully.

Outside on Clapham Common, gale force winds were lashing the trees. Whole branches were snapping off. Leaves were falling thick and fast, swirling in front of us like snowflakes, and piling up in enormous heaps on the ground. As I commented at the time: our movie director was in serious danger of over-playing the symbolism.

Great soundtrack, though. The Gotan Project. Ibrahim Ferrer's yearning Aquellos Ojos Verdes. Youssou N'Dour's Africa Dream Again, from the new album. And most especially of all, Joni Mitchell's stunning orchestral re-recording of Both Sides Now, from the album of the same name. There won't be a dry eye in the house when we get to that one.

(A lesser director would probably have settled for Elaine Paige & Barbara Dickson - but we're aiming for art-house production standards here. And Oscars, of course.)

An awkward, downbeat lunch in the Beehive. A clumsy, rushed farewell. A mad dash to Kennington tube, and on to London Bridge station, where I needed to catch the 15:15 train to Luton in order to make my connection back to Nottingham. Any delays would mean that I would be in severe danger of missing that night's Paul Weller concert at the Arena.

An hour and a half later, I have got as far as Blackfriars. All trains to Bedford are being cancelled, due to the gale force winds. I'm struggling even to find connecting trains to King's Cross Thameslink. I have definitely missed the Paul Weller concert by now. I'm feeling forlorn, tired, deflated and increasingly pissed off.

Time to cut my losses. If I turn round right now, I can get to the Royal Vauxhall Tavern for just after 16:30 - the perfect arrival time, in other words. It will mean spending an extra night in London - and God knows where I'll be staying - but what the hell. This movie needs a surprise happy ending. In fact, I owe it to the script. I'm doing it for Art!

I wasn't supposed to be here until next Sunday, but I'm so glad that I am. I have been negotiating some choppy emotional waters this weekend, so this place feels like my harbour. I can drop anchor here for the next few hours.

I walk through the doors of the Royal Vauxhall Tavern shortly after 16:30, and soon run into some familiar faces from the Beehive posse. This is a gang who meet up each week for Sunday lunch at the Beehive pub in Kennington, before trundling down en masse to the RVT. I had just missed them all a couple of hours earlier, dashing off to catch my non-existent train back to Nottingham. This had been an extra-special Sunday lunch, as the Beehive posse had been graced this week with the presence of Jonathan (a.k.a. The Dame Edna Experience), prior to his regular 6pm stint at the RVT.

The RVT on a Sunday is largely made up of various clumps of regulars, each occupying their particular patch of territory within the venue. Thus you'll always find the Beehive posse down the front, on the right hand side of the stage, near the Ladies loos and the bar. Likewise, you'll always find the blogging posse on the left hand side of the stage, occupying the narrowish space in front of the DJ booth and the back door, on the way to the Gents loos. The blogging posse are now drifting in and assuming positions, so I wander over to join them. No Jonathan this week (he's in Australia), but the rest of them are all here: Dave (and Kelvin) and David and Ian and Luca (and his flatmate) and Marcus. My homo homies, no less!

This is my third visit to the RVT in six months, and I'm already starting to feel like I belong here. Why, I even understand most of Edna's in-jokes without having them explained to me. Edna specialises in beyond-the-pale topical tastelessness, which is funny precisely because we know we shouldn't be laughing. There is some wicked material about the Moscow theatre and the Washington sniper, which would look fairly appalling if transcribed to paper, but which works within the context of the unusually close relationship between this particular artist and this particular audience. She's daring us to laugh. We are shocked, and we're also play-acting at being shocked, and we're also laughing at our shock. The jokes sound callous, but there's a self-awareness about our reaction which isn't actually callous at all.

On the other hand, I don't half over-analyse things sometimes. Or so I'm told.

Once again, I am introduced to various other RVT regulars (Guy, Andy & Alex, The Dane) whose names I recognise from various blog entries over the preceding months. I seem to be slowly collecting the whole set. Andy Almighty's set kicks serious ass, with a particularly fine (nay, purgative!) sequence involving the Almighty remixes of the new H & Claire, a two-in-a-row from Soft Cell (Say Hello Wave Goodbye & The Night) and the new Sugababes. Anyhow, it's officially cool to be into Almighty this month - there's even a gratifyingly approving article about them in the current issue of The Face.

If I've spent the whole weekend feeling like I'm a central character in a very cleverly scripted movie (and I most certainly have), then the RVT is here to provide my surprise happy ending. My all-singing, all-dancing cast finale. In particular, there is one moment where the DJ is playing a dance cover version of Lou Reed's "Perfect Day", and we've got to the gospelly chorus bit towards the end, and there are all these deliriously happy shirtless queens dancing on the main stage, all of them well past their thirtieth birthdays, all waving their arms in the air and singing along with feeling and abandon: You're gonna reap - just what you sow. Reap! Reap! Reap! Over and over and over again. And freeze frame, and cue credits. Perfect.

Around 21:30, I start to flag slightly. For once, I decide to do the sensible thing and quit while I'm on top. It's a short two-station hop down from Vauxhall to Brixton, and the sanctuary of Britishmuseum and Royalacademy's place. I go to bed at a reasonable time and - finally! - sleep like an ickle baby.

I'm not meant to be here. In Brixton that is, at Britishmuseum and Royalacademy's place, when I should be getting up for work in Nottingham. But with the entire rail system knackered due to the high winds, what does one do? Things must be back to normal by now though, surely. I check the National Rail Enquiries hotline. Midland Mainline services are up and running, but expect "severe disruption" to the service between London and Bedford. Ulp. Sounds ominous. I ring the office and make my excuses.

At 9:30, St. Pancras is packed. Hundreds of potential passengers - and not one single train in the station. The departure screens show cancellation after cancellation, delay after delay. I join the queue at the Information Desk. Yes, I can expect "severe" delays to my journey time (that word again). Should I come back again this afternoon instead? Will things have improved by then? The Midland Mainline employee looks me straight in the eye, with a nervous, stricken expression - as if he is drawing me into his confidence - and simply mouths the word "No." He dare not even say it out loud. Then he draws me up close and whispers. "Go now. Take the first train you can and get out of here. Things are going to get much, much worse."

There's a delayed Nottingham train in half an hour. Which becomes an hour. Which becomes an hour and a half. By the most amazing fluke, I am the first person onto the train, and make a dash for a table seat. Five minutes later, the train is standing room only. The standers include none other than Buni, who spots me as he strolls past. He too has been stranded in London since yesterday, spending four fruitless hours at various train stations on Sunday afternoon. It's great to have his company, but not so great to have the attendant guilt-trip about my nice comfortable table seat.

Gallantly refusing all offers of sharing my seat, Buni perches on his bag next to me until we reach Bedford and a seat becomes free. He has been to the last ever Trade at Turnmills, managing to pay on the door and only having to queue for 10 minutes outside. As one of the first people inside the venue at 4am, he was given a exclusive souvenir double mix CD of Trade classics from the past 12 years, mixed by EJ Doubell, which I finger enviously.

There is a cheerful "spirit of the blitz" atmosphere on the train - so much so, that we actually get talking to our fellow passengers for once. The woman next to us is doing some work for Radio One as part of their One Live In Nottingham week. She tells me about her three year stint as a writer on Kerrang! magazine, and I tell her all about weblogs. She'll be talking at a seminar on Tuesday afternoon at the Broadway cinema, giving tips on how to break into music journalism.

Having left at 11:00, the train finally rolls into Nottingham nearly four hours later - a journey which should normally take an hour and 40 minutes. Not much point going into the office, then. A late lunch with Buni sounds like a much better idea. This also gives us the opportunity to have a private conversation about what really went on over the weekend. You know - the sort of stuff that I couldn't possibly blog about....

what does it mean went your lady boss is very nice to you and touchs you is it love

Any answers?

To Rock City, where I hook up with Interob, Acious, Stereoboard, Beyonce, Michelle and I've-run-out-of-members-of-Destiny's-Child.

Interob and Acious tell me all about their recent holiday in Bali. They had just arrived in the country, and were just leaving the airport, when they heard the bomb go off three miles away. At least, they thought it sounded like a bomb, but they couldn't be sure. In fact, it was another 24 hours before they realised what an international kerfuffle the incident had caused, as the reaction around them in Bali itself was as if nothing much had happened. Apart from the stampede of Australians heading straight for the airport, that is. Life goes on, and all that. They had no intention of cutting short their holiday, and went on to have a perfectly pleasant time - although with an increasing awareness that the country's economy could now be teetering on the precipice of disaster, as a result of the impending collapse of the tourist industry.

We muse on the essential irrationality of people's attitudes towards risk, and the way that people calculate risk based on the visibility of danger, rather than on its statistical likelihood. One bomb goes off in Bali, and thousands of people cancel their holidays, thus ruining the local economy. And yet these same people get into their cars every day of their lives, without a second thought.

Tonight's gig is being transmitted live on Radio One, as part of a week of events in Nottingham. There are outside broadcast vans in the Rock City car park, Steve Lamacq is bouncing round excitedly at the side of the stage (and introducing the bands), and Jo Whiley is up on the balcony. There are also a pair of large illuminated "ON AIR" signs hanging from the ceiling, which flash on and off at various junctures. There is a palpable sense that this is an Event, rather than just another gig at Rock City. It is all simply too thrilling, my dears.

Athlete play a likeable and well-received set, which steadily improves as it goes on. Especially when the keyboard player starts using his theremin. I love theremins, I do.

The only real reason I have come here tonight is to see The Coral, whose album I adore. I am expecting great things from them. I am certainly not expecting them to play a bare 30 minute set, including a sprawling, almost proggy version of "Goodbye" which must have lasted a good 10 minutes. So this wasn't a gig after all - it was a mere radio appearance, with the paying audience as mere Applause Fodder. They didn't tell us about this in any of the large amounts of advance publicity. Ever had the feeling you've been cheated?

After three big, knackering nights out on the trot, I have been reserving the right to go home before the Doves take the stage. I've seen them before - eighteen months ago, at The Social - and I hadn't been impressed. With perfunctory musicianship and a total lack of stage presence, the gig had felt more like a rehearsal than a proper performance. Howvever, I decide to hang around, just to see whether they've learnt a thing or two about putting on a show since then.

Wallop! The band launch straight into their penultimate single ("Pounding") and f**k me, this is fantastic! Better than the record! I love it! In a radical break with precedent, we lurch forward into the throng, and start pogoing up and down with the Enthusiastic Young People. I seem to be doing an awful lot of air-punching with one arm, while trying to stop my can of Stella from sloshing everywhere with the other arm. And oh my God, the band aren't messing around, as they go straight into "There Goes The Fear" - their other big hit from this year, with its "Sound And Vision" bassline and its groovy percussion outro. There are back projections on the wall behind the band, who are positively beaming with pleasure at their reception (especially after playing to just 174 people the previous night in France, as we are told). They are no longer the dour shoe-gazers of eighteen months ago. Success has treated them well. I stay for their entire set of warm, expansive, big-hearted epic rock, and love every minute of it.

(Note: The entire concert can be heard on the "One Live In Nottingham" website.)

Slashed to the sternum! The sheer boldness of it all!



Here's an old friend for you. This lively Duffer Of St. George number was actually "shirt in residence" on Troubled Diva between February and August, before being replaced by the current "George Bush" photo. It's also the only checked shirt I own where the checks are printed diagonally rather than horizontally.

Another Hugo (Boss), and another "restaurant shirt". This also doubles up for funerals, when it's matched with a black tie and a charcoal grey suit for that classic "George Michael at Princess Di's" look.

A boring old Marks and Spencer office shirt, from their "Italian Collection". Rarely if ever worn these days.