My first book

Last month I finished writing my first book. I was really pleased with myself, as I'd been working on it since July 2007 and couldn't believe that I'd managed to write 70,000 words about regularly getting off my head in dark, licensed premises (it's a clubbing memoir). I was so proud, I even took a picture of the manuscript.



I sent it off to my publisher (and here's another tale, a warning about not accepting the first contract that comes your way, such an amateur) and waited for his response.

And waited. And waited. And then discovered he was on his second skiiing holiday of the year so far. I'm not sure whether he still even wants to publish my book - maybe he was off his head when he signed it? He's moved the launch date around three times, we can't agree on a sub-head, he's not commissioned a cover, and worst of all, he's not even mentioned me on his blog. Not once! (Although he and others on his list seem to have some happy political banter going on in his comments section). Am I being a typically whingy author? Or am I right to be concerned about his lack of concern? All I can do is wait.

Rave flu strikes again

Urgh, I've been struck down by a clubbing lurgy this week and have been forced to stay in bed and watch A LOT of awful telly. Meanwhile, The Boyfriend has departed (from the terminally bad Terminal 5) for a lads' weekend in Amsterdam. I wonder if he can bring me back one of these?

Farewell to the Gallery

I spent many Friday nights down at Turnmills in Clerkenwell back in the day (and many Saturdays too). The Gallery on Fridays was my local, a place where I could pop down "for a quiet one" and then end up rolling out of the door at eight o'clock in the morning having danced and laughed my arse off all night. In 2000, I moved to Sheffield and then it was a bit of a slog to get back down for the evening. More's the pity.

Now the Newmans have sold up and are moving out, so last Friday (Good Friday, of course) would be the last ever Gallery at Turnmills. And it was the best night I've been to in seven years. The line-up was an old skool special: Seb Fonatine, Tall Paul, Sister Bliss, Judge Jules and in the back room, Alex and Brandon and even Clockwork Orange's Andy Manston for good measure.

It was busy, but thankfully, not ridiculously rammed. I recognised some old faces, and even got chatting to a few new people - something that just doesn't really happen in other clubs in London. I wasn't the oldest person in there, in fact I felt positively sprightly, as I whooped and cheered on the dancefloor (Paul played the instrumental of 'Toca Me' and me and my friends nearly cried). I broke into the DJ booth when Jules was on for old times' sake, drank his champagne and made off with half a bottle of his vodka. I wore a silly mask. I harrassed Alex P... I felt ten years younger and we all wondered what it would take to make a night as good as this again.

Then I spent the rest of the Easter weekend recovering. My god, I felt like I'd been mangled in an industrial accident. Every muscle in my body ached, I slept more than twelve hours a day, and spent the rest of them lying under a duvet on the sofa. I lost my voice. For three days. And now, four days later, I've got a stinking cold. But it was so worth it.

The only downer about the night was that promoter Danny Newman missed it through illness. So, wishing you well, Danny. Get well soon.

Mind the gap

So I'm going back to the Temple of Doom tomorrow. The Ministry of Sound. That's if I get past their guard dogs. A couple of years ago, Mixmag commissioned me to write about the legal wranglings between the newly M0S-owned Hed Kandi label and its creator Mark Doyle, who had set up his own, "me too" brand since leaving HK.
The story I wrote up orignially was rejected by the editor, (who obviously wanted a bit more scandal and ire) so I went away, put my most vicious tabloid head on and re-wrote it to Mixmag's specifications. Needless to say, Ministry hated it when it came out: pulled their adverts, generally stomped around for a bit about it and put me on their blacklist (no guestlists, their PR would never call me back etc etc).

Anyway, fingers crossed they've forgotten about it now, because otherwise tomorrow will be quite unpleasant. Plus, I'm still interested in what the MD said in that interview - about Mixmag - and how (now they are going all Face-like/skinny jeaned indie techno) they are missing a big trick. And that is that no one is catering for clubbers outside of London, who still love funky house, trance, electrohouse, hard house and all the other genres that just aren't cool enough for Mixmag to feature in any great detail.

Magazines are selling less, it's true - but there is a way to give people something they want, which they can't get via the internet. With DJ and Mixmag both now aiming for the same readership, and M8 looking more and more like a jumble sale each month, there's a giant gap in the market for a "not too cool but credible" dance magazine. Something that looks nice but doesn't take itself too seriously. So I've been busy this week thinking about how I can persuade someone with millions in the bank (hopefully with an interest in dance music) to invest in a new magazine. I can only think of one person and he's busy being famous. Any ideas?

Rumours

Here is trance DJ Paul Van Dyk in a pair of nice shiny trousers, playing music from his laptop:

I heard a rumour that he's getting paid £100,000 for doing just this for two hours at Gatecrasher's Summer Sound System festival in May.

As one of only a handful of people who spent all their time in clubs throughout the 90s and didn't make over a million quid - I always knew I was in the wrong job.

Un-pickupable - books I can't get through

My bookshelves need a clear out. Since The Boyfriend took up reading, their capacity has shrunk faster than David Walliams' willy on a cross Channel swim. So when I looked at what exactly was clogging things up, (apart from the obvious gangster/casino swindles/drug smuggling memoirs that stink of testosterone) I discovered a whole load of novels I hadn't even started, or worse - started and put down halfway through. For example:

I Did A Bad Thing by Linda Green
Billed as "chick-noir" (which sounds right up my street) it turns out that the bad thing is not all that bad at all. No, I won't give it away, suffice to say that as soon as I found out what the supposed big crime was, I totally lost interest.

Marley and Me by John Grogan
OK. Man buys dog, dog chews a few things and shits everywhere, man and wife have a baby AND THEN WHAT? I got to an infuriating page 210 before realising absolutely nothing happens in this steaming dog turd of a story.

Jane Green - Second Chance
I admit it, I buy Jane Green's books because a psychic once told me someone called Jane Green would be important in my life. But this book is poor! Four middle class wankers moan about their lives without their dead friend. Boo hoo.

Kill Your Friends - John Niven
I really, really want to like this book, because it's about the music industry (a particular area of interest). Perhaps that's why I've temporarily put it down after reading 30 pages - because I'm not sure whether I will.

Books still on the 'to do' list:
Poppy Shakespeare by Clare Allen - must read this before the adaption's on Channel 4 next month
What Was Lost by Catherine O'Flynn - yes must start this too... when I've finished re-reading Martin Amis's Money for the millionth time that is...