July 19th was the annual Soho Fete. This is a village event, not aimed at tourists. Soho is a village despite being in Central London and a surprising number of people live here or near here and know each other. The fete is the same each year: the snail race, the tug-of-war between the police and the fire fighters, the French House drinks bar, the drag acts and the community singing. This year I went with my old friend Harriet. There weren’t enough seats as usual so in the end we slipped over to the White Horse in Newburgh Street, where I knew we’d find Lucy and there she was, with Celine from the Academy Club.

Next came a quick visit to see Marsha in Norwich. More sunshine and fresh air. It was just a long weekend but worth it to see her.

More travel when I went to Liverpool on August 7th. Problems with the train both ways, but that’s typical of Britain and one of the reasons I try not to leave London except to go to the airports or on Eurostar. But Liverpool was fun. I was there to help Catherine Marcangeli finish her work on the Adrian Henri archive. We found some treasures and of course wined and dined. Here she is with Steve. It’s a fabulous house. Again a short visit with no time to see other friends or look at Liverpool.

Back on familiar ground, the Fitzroy Chapel just round the corner from where I live. Hannah and I stopped by to see Furniture World, Sam Keelan’s new film and installation. It’s wonderfully British: ‘Furniture World is a film about a man whose body is merged with a netted curtain.’ It’s an attack on middle-class values so watch out! Here we all are in the chapel: Claire Watt on the right is the David Bowie Research Fellow at his archive at V&A.east who came to talk about David’s interest in Burroughs.

Next we have a family shot: Minako has bought some new kitchen equipment and it works. Theo looks on happily.

Hannah Watson publisher of Trolley Books, is doing the third and final volume of my ‘autobiography’: In The Eighties. In fact it extends a bit into the nineties to finish off the stories of my friendships with Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs who both died in the nineties. I’ve worked with Trolley before on several projects. It is largely a photographic and visually oriented press, and we are putting a lot of photographs into this new book, rather like the illustrated edition of my In The Sixties.

In order to work with no distractions we went down to France for a week where we could position all the pictures without interruption. We did it and even had time for a few dinners with friends. Here’s Hannah with a trolley – obviously – and seeing how an earlier publisher dealt with images. My old friend Martha had us over for a swim and a meal. Here is Martha bringing a glass of bubbly to Hannah in the swimming pond. Such a considerate host. My friends Gordon and Roslyn, who have appeared in this blog before, were also at Martha’s for a proper Pyrenees summer dinner.

Back at the house, Richard Grayson and Suzy Treister came over for the night. I had been reading Cuisine Nicoise, by the disgraced mayor of Nice Jacques Medecin. His recipes are very strict. Hannah made a correct salade niçoise (no potatoes, no boiled vegetables, no vinegar) that I followed with a daub niçoise and it all went down well. That evening there was a terrific electric storm so loud we sometimes had to stop talking because it was so loud. There was a tornado near Carcassonne, which is not that far away. The sky that evening appeared to be on fire.

On September 1st, Luzius Martin came to town from Basel. Following our usual pattern, he and Terry Wilson dined with us one night, followed by a restaurant the next day. After eating in Dean Street we found ourselves in the French, as you do, where we ran into Clive Jenkins and, following the rules of the Dean Street Shuffle, continued on to Gerry’s, which I hadn’t been to in ages and where they had a entertaining little combo using a real double bass, which I always like. It was a proper Soho evening. Here’s Terry and I at the French, and with Luzius and Clive at Gerry’s.

On Friday the 4th, the European Beat Studies Network annual conference opened at the Horse Hospital. The theme this year was William Burroughs in London and they had invited Iain Sinclair and me to give a conversation moderated by Oliver Harris. It seemed to go okay. I got a few laughs and read them a text by Bill from the early eighties showing his fond memories of the place: 

Dalmeney Court.  What a dreary, dreary interlude that was.  The hangovers, the dead end hopeless when my adolescent K said: “We never had a chance!”  The Angus Steak House. How many diners there alone after three quarter of a pint of whiskey, half a bottle of inferior Beaujolais with the steak and baked potato a bit unsteady of course they loved me there.  I can see the head waiters smile.  They were Spanish I think or Italian.  The snotty clerk at, forget the name, the other shop like Fortum & Mason.  “Are you next sir?”  And pretending not to find what I am pointing at.  “You mean this sir?…or this…oh that.”  A weary time.  Guy Fawkes had the right idea.  Blow the whole shit house sky high.

Of course Bill didn’t always feel that way. His history in any city was to initially complain and dislike it, then grow to love it, then eventually to grow dissatisfied and begin to hate it again. This applied to Mexico City, Tangier, Paris, London and finally New York in the seventies and eighties. 

I found the conference arrangements a bit strange: there was no stage. There is now a bar on the raised level in the room – perhaps that is where water was available. The speakers were seated in the dark and back lit, and therefore, if you could see them at all, it was hard to see their faces. I seemed to know about half the audience: Demi Raven and Janet, Kurt Hemmer and Erin, Lars Movin, Michele Corleoni to name just those who had come from abroad. Hannah came to check out the place and Roberta bought Burroughs masks, as seen here.

And let’s not forget the continuing struggle of the Palestinians to get their country back. From the river to the sea, it’s all Palestine.