Seventy-five years ago today, the notorious American outlaw John Dillinger was shot to death by FBI agents as he was leaving the Biograph Theatre in Chicago, Illinois.   The film Dillinger was watching was called Manhattan Melodrama, which went on to win Academy Awards for Best Screenplay, Best Original Story and Best Tasteless Marketing Campaign  (1935).  Nobody knows whether Dillinger liked the film, but this was probably due to the fact that FBI Chief J. Edgar Hoover had ordered his G-Men to adopt a strict policy of  “Shoot first, ask critical opinions later”.

Tonight, a silent vigil will take place outside the Biograph Theatre, Dillinger’s final croaking spot.  If that sounds like too much trouble, you can always wait until next week and go see Public Enemies, Michael Mann’s gangster epic that stars Johnny Depp as Dillinger.  With any luck you won’t be shot as you leave the cinema.

Upon reflection, I suppose this renewed interest in Dillinger is quite timely.   Dillinger, after all, came to prominence  during a period of tremendous economic hardship.  Financial institutions were going to the wall and bankers and politicians were as popular as turd souffle.  In this climate, someone like Dillinger could be regarded as something of an urban hero.  Instead of letting a collapsing economy get to him, he took matters into his own hands.  Sure, he stole money, but at least he did it with a certain style and charisma and was always above board when it came to matters of disclosure.  He never lied about where the money came from.

Last night’s vigil was organised by the John Dillinger Died For You Society, one of those 60s counterculture mischief-making enterprises like Discordianism and the Church of the Sub-Genius that I’ve always been rather fond of.  According to Robert Anton Wilson:

The John Dillinger Died For You Society, run by a pseudonymous “Dr. Horace Naismith” (allegedly a Playboy editor by day and a maniac only by night), accepts as its savior John Dillinger, the gunman who robbed 23 banks and three police stations before he was shot dead by FBI agents in 1934. JDDFYS members place memorial wreaths and floral bouquets at the Biograph Theater, where Dillinger was gunned down, every year on the anniversary of his death, June 22. Their major spiritual teaching comes from Mr. Dillinger, whom they call St. John the Martyr, and consists of the words, “Lie down on the floor and keep calm,” (St. John said this often to nervous and agitated bank officials before looting their tills). Every member ordained by Dr. Naismith gets a membership card making him or her an Assistant Treasurer, entitled to collect tithes from any new disciple naive enough to remain a disciple and not become an Assistant Treasurer, too, by writing to Dr. Naismith for a card.

Dillinger certainly had a way with words.  When it comes to quotes and aphorisms, he was something of a cross between Oscar Wilde and Raymond Chandler.  My favourite Dillingerism has always been:

“You get more with a simple prayer and Thompson sub-machine gun than you get from a simple prayer alone.”

As other people smarter than me have noted, this seems to sum up the foreign policy of most countries.

Well, that’s it then…

I’ve just watched the final episode of the mighty Battlestar Galactica.  I’m probably one of the last of the show’s legion of fervent fans to have seen its finale, but so it goes.  I’m talking about the 21st Century Ron Moore-produced reimagining of BSG, of course, not the original 70s show with Lorne Greene and Faceman.  My lag time’s bad, but it’s not that bad.

First impressions: I liked it lots.  It was a sometimes perplexing but overall satisfying conclusion to one of the most consistently brilliant shows in TV history.   I even welled-up on a couple of occasions, but – like Jermaine in Flight of The Conchords – I’ll put that down to an inflamation of my tear gland (or, like Artie in The Larry Sanders Show, a bad case of “manly misting”).

I’ll let it all sink in, then maybe say more about it later.

Clare and I would just like to say thanks for all your messages. It’s been a bit hectic around here, but I will get back to you – promise!

We decided on a name for our baby girl on Sunday. It’s Edie Rose, which we think fits her perfectly. Clare’s parents came up to visit us at the weekend and made damn sure that we’d agree on a name before they left. There’s nothing like a deadline to focus the mind.

Here she is, ten minutes or so after she was born:

Our lovely baby girl arrived at 2.03am this morning, weighing in at 8lb and 13oz. Mother and baby are happy and healthy and I’m rather knackered. I’m not ashamed to admit that my eyes welled up with manly mist.

Today would have been my Dad’s 79th birthday. It’s funny how these things work.

‘Nuff said.

Chorleywood-based Mountainbiking ace Nicky, a good friend of many years’ standing, now has a blog of her own. You can find it here.

As you were.

In case you’re wondering why I haven’t posted on here for a while, let me take this opportunity to reassure you that I’m not dead.

Clare, Lily & I are currently moving house. It all happened rather quickly, and seeing as the new place is currently sans phoneline I haven’t had many online opportunities to pontificate in public.

Don’t worry: it won’t last.

I heard from my very good friend and former small-press comics collaborator Phil Walsh at the weekend. It had been way, way too long since we’d last had a chat, but we more than made up for lost time by having an impassioned natter on the blower about films, comics, books and a veritable plethora of other shared obsessions. It was very therapeutic for me and probably did Phil the world of good, too, but our respective girlfriends are probably still scratching their respective heads in bemusement. So it goes.

Anyway, after chewing on the geekazoid gristle and lancing a multitude of fanboy boils it was time to move on to proper, grown-up subjects. I was reminded that I hadn’t been to see Phil and Beth’s baby boy Alfie yet, so I plan to do something about that as soon as goddamn possible. Phil also told me that he and Beth are planning to get married next year.

They’ve asked me to be Best Man.

I can’t begin to explain what an honour this is.

Clare and I went to see the Foo Fighters at Wembley last night. It was at very short notice: we were given the tickets by a friend of Clare (thanks Beth!). I wasn’t what you might call a hardcore fan, but I thought they’d be fun. As it happened, the gig was utterly mind-blowing and I’ve become an instant convert to the Church of Grohl.

I’ll be writing about it all in a bit more detail once I manage to regain my health, recover my composure and process the events. In the meantime, I’ll share this with you:

We’d originally asked my brother to come along, but for various reasons he couldn’t make it. While watching the first support (The Futureheads), I fired off a random mischievous text to Brother Younger that went:

“Fuck! Led Zep are support!”

As wind-up strategies go it was far from plausible. Clare discouraged me from sending it – saying that Rob would never buy such an outrageous lie – but I went ahead and sent it anyway. Rob, after all, has long been obsessed with the works of Messrs Plant, Page, Bonham and Jones for as long as I care to remember. If he even thought for a half a second that he might be missing out on a Led Zep reunion gig then it would have been worth it.

As it happened, Rob’s reply was predictably swift and pithy:

“Bollocks,” it read.

Oh well, I thought, back to the music. After the rather lame Futureheads, the mighty Supergrass played a storming set and then the Foo Fighters spent over two-hours methodically turning me into a evangelical Foo Fighters fan. Then came the encore.

The encore with the special guests.

The ones you might have heard about in the news.

Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones.

“Bollocks,” I said. “Rob’ll never believe me now.”