Brick Battes and Tyles

I am exhausted but utterly upbeat. We really found our rhythm today and shot, what I hope were blindingly good pictures. We had time to finesse the shots and I've come away feeling utterly elated.

The day started on the eastern edge of Hattersley at Jean Taylor's house. Jean is the lady who's been sharing her memories about the estate when it was first built in the 1960s. She invited us into her house, made me a beautiful egg bap with a double yolk and performed her song brilliantly.

After lunch we worked with June. June is an extraordinary woman; a true bohemian, I suppose, in a part of the world which doesn't tend to generate bohemians.

She was well prepared, and seemed to be up for anything, even when we asked her to walk down the middle of a busy road behind an unmarked van singing into a hidden camera. She literally took it all in her stride.

I'm utterly proud of both women and terribly grateful that they came with us on this extraordinary journey. I hope they've both had a lot of fun.

As the night rolled in, we found ourselves, once again, in the hills above Hattersley with June's son Charlie, putting the finishing touches to his film. A freak snow storm blew in from the north west and for a short period I was colder than I've ever been in my life. It got so cold that I lost the ability to form words with my mouth. Everything went numb and I coudn't seem to do anything but laugh hysterically. It was a rather fitting end to perhaps the most rewarding shoot of my entire career.

The snow rolls in...

I got back to the hotel to find that Metro the Musical had won the outstanding production award at the RTS awards in the North East. A massive round of applause must go out to the producer, Alistair Miskin. You deserve every last inch of that award, Alistair, and I'm only sorry neither of us were there to celebrate in person.

In the early morning of the 18th February, 1662, a terrible gale whipped through the City of London. It was, apparently the worst winds that the capital had experienced since the night Oliver Cromwell died. Pepys took himself for a walk through the storm-damaged streets, which were covered in "brick-battes and tyles." He declared that it was dangerous to go out of doors. Several people has been killed by falling masonary, the pageant on Fleet Street had been entirely destroyed, and one Lady Sanderson "a person of quality in Covent Garden," had been killed in her bed, when her house collapsed.

Aiming for perfection

We finished about two hours earlier than expected today, which was both scary and a bonus. It transpired that we needed to be out of the community centre earlier than we'd thought, so, because it was raining, we called it a day. I realised a very valuable thing this morning. When you’re working with “real” people, you don't get to call the shots, they do. You can aim for perfection, of course, but at the end of the day, if someone needs to pick their child up from school, or go to a hospital appointment, or even if they simply feel tired, or get bored of the repetition of the shoot – that’s your lot! I guess this realisation made me relax a little. You get what you get with these projects. If you’re lucky, you’ll capture a mood which will capture people’s imaginations. But there's no point in beating yourself up if things don't go to plan. Perfection is for high-end movie makers, who work with actors and massive crews...

Today we filmed our blind and deaf man, who has also recently just had a heart bypass. I worried the entire time that he was getting stressed, which I’m sure he was, a little. Some bloke from London had turned up in his living room, and was shouting “look towards the light... Look upwards... smile... tell me the story in your own words...” Poor bloke. I think he coped admirably, however. I also kept forgetting that his companion, Jean, is a very religious woman. I have quite a reputation for using rather colourful language, and I kept swearing without realising. Paul said a few eyebrows were raised. Oh dear.

It was an emotional day. We were dealing with the final song in the suite, which is about the community centre, and its imminent closure. The centre has been a large part of many people’s lives since it opened in the 1960s, and I for one feel very angry that the council are knocking it down and seemingly washing their hands of the consequences of their actions.

I've returned to the hotel and am determined to spend the next few hours relaxing. I even bought bubble bath so that I could have a long soak.

Monday 17^th February, 1662, and Pepys went with the two Sir Williams to examine a ship called the Convertine, which was being prepared for a journey to the East Indies. They ate on the boat, but, it being Lent, both Sir Williams refused to eat meat, an age-old custom. Pepys, however, tucked into a nice plate of veal. He'd obviously decided to give up wine for lent but “drank wine upon necessity,” having managed to convince himself that giving up alcohol so suddenly had “contracted many evils” upon himself. He played his new favourite card game in the evening, Gleeke, and won 9s, 6d, the most “he ever won in his life.” Adding that he hoped God would not tempt him to play again.

Tea dance

Christ, I must be tired. A friend of mine just sent me a Youtube link which has pretty much destroyed me for the night. Take a look. It’s self-explanatory. I don’t need to add anything, except to say that the L project was formed to combat bullying within the gay community, which is still a major problem, even in this country. The video which accompanies the song makes me feel very proud to be gay, and I’d urge you all to go out and spend 99p buying it on iTunes. There. I say no more.

Our first day of filming started at the top of a craggy hill in the middle of a thick white cloud. We’d gone up there to film the wonderful views of Hattersley and came away with shots of the lovely Jean looking like she’d worn her coat to the local steam rooms! I suspect we might just get away with calling them atmospheric, but it wasn’t till about 11am that we were able to return to the hill and film the views we’d gone up there to collect. By this stage, of course, a force 9 gale was blowing, so heaven knows what to expect from the rushes.

It’s been a day of high adrenaline brought about by the need to constantly rip up my carefully composed shot list, and grab inspiration from thin air. Almost everything that could have gone wrong went wrong. We were missing a piece from our jib, many of the people who’d come for the tea dance at the community centre didn’t know we were going to be there, the rain rained, the wind winded and at about 4pm I went into a bit of a huff. The bottom line is that we are trying to pull hundreds of rabbits out of thousands of hats without the support mechanism we usually get when making these projects. There are four of us filming. Keith the cameraman, Kaleigh the camera assistant (a student from Huddersfield University), Paul and me, and all four of us have had to work our arses off. The last time I used a jib, a special man was hired just to set it up and operate it. Today Keith built it and operated it himself, whilst Paul, who’s never run a choir in his life, taught 30 non singers how to sing one of my songs! Still, the good news is that we did it. It almost annoys me to think that we did, especially when I consider the dreadful woman I met at the BBC yesterday, who basically told me to get stuffed when I asked for help!

We shot some very unusual material for Charlie’s sequence. His “song” is based entirely on the natural sounds Paul and I recorded on our visits to Hattersley, and producer PK has done some extraordinary work to turn them into a really interesting sound-scape. We have been experimenting with all sorts of unusual effects today, mostly involving flashes of light. This film is an epileptic's nightmare!

Oh yes! I forgot, whilst filming one of the street signs on the estate today, we got google earthed! Yay! My face is going to be smudged out!

Producer Paul took this photo of us beavering away at the top of the hill. Apparently the big black vignette is a "stylised representation of our brains at 7pm." I thought as much...

Drum roll... The Requiometer has gone up again... by a considerable amount this time. I reckon another 5 thousand pounds will mean we’re able to go ahead; maybe in a slightly reduced form, but go ahead nevertheless. I hardly dare hope...

February 16th, 1662 was a Sunday, and Pepys, as ever, went to church, this time to St Bride's, which was where, I think, he was christened. The church would burn to a crisp in four years' time, and be replaced by a camp little creation which resembles a wedding cake. Pepys went there with his cousin, Jane Turner, who embarrassed him greatly by fawning all over the priest. Embarrassed him, or maybe she just made him feel envious? Hmm...

A very rogue

It's the day before the first day of our shoot and I feel like I'm sitting on the edge of a precipice. Keith, Paul and I have been running around like blue-arsed flies all day. To be honest, I'm a little nervous. I suppose my mind is attempting to balance the miniscule size of our crew against the many things we need to achieve. At some point tomorrow about 100 elderly people will arrive at the Hattersley community centre for a tea dance, and four of us will have to herd them around.

I continue to be amused and bemused by Media City here in Manchester. Today I discovered that there’s not a single post box on Salford Quays, which feels almost painfully futuristic. In the end I had to give a card I was trying to send to the lady behind the counter in the gift shop at the Lowry theatre. She took pity on me and offered to add my card to the Lowry's official mail.

I'm beginning to get a little frustrated that so few people at the BBC in Manchester seem aware of the films we’re making. I normally have such warm experiences working with staff in the English regions, but feel that we’re really out to pasture on this one. I spent the day working in the cafe at the Lowry because I couldn’t actually access the BBC offices opposite! When I finally got in, a woman became incredibly snippy when I asked if I could have a chat with her boss about the shoot tomorrow. I was stunned into silence when she said, “I’m not sure this is something he’s going to want to be bothered by.” I’m used to walking into BBC buildings and being treated like a long lost friend, often by people I’ve never met before, and yet this woman actually looked down her nose at me and said; “sorry, can I ask who you are?” It was humbling and quite humiliating. I suppose the films themselves are my ultimate trump card, and because no one knows anything about them, I can't feel too insulted that my profile here is presently so low. With any luck, when they finally see the films, they'll know how much work and love has gone into making them and hopefully decide to speak to me with a little more kindness.

Keith, the other cameraman, the wonderful chap who filmed the Metro musical, called me up tonight to wish me luck for the filming tomorrow. He tells me he's very jealous that it's not him filming this one. I must learn to alternate my Keiths in the future! I was very pleased to hear that the Metro film has been nominated in several categories at the RTS Awards in the North East, including as part of Keith’s folio as best cameraman. If he doesn’t get the award, I shall be very angry.

Saturday 15^th February, 1662, and Pepys went with the two Sir Williams to Trinity House where he was sworn in as a Younger Brother, whatever that means. He got to shake the hands of all the Older Brothers, whoever they were, as was, apparently, the custom. Pepys seemed rather thrilled that all the Sir Williams and their various wives had snubbed Robert Waith’s son’s christening. Waith, paymaster to the Navy Treasurer, was, apparently, a “very rogue.” The sins of the father, eh?

In remembrance

It’s my favourite part of the week. The moment I sit down with a cup of tea and a Tunnock’s Tea Cake to watch The Biggest Loser. For some reason I find myself addicted to this show. I love watching fat people getting thinner. It’s one of the great cycles of life. It’s also a very emotional episode tonight. All the fatties have had makeovers and are meeting up with the loved ones they haven’t seen for weeks.

Today’s been quite full on. The headline is that I’ve now changed hotels. I woke up this morning in the Holiday Inn Express on Oxford Street, and am now in the Holiday Inn in Media City, opposite the BBC. It may not sound like much of an upgrade, but the two hotels couldn't be more different. The new one is very swanky. The lobby and bar are laden with really cool art installations and there’s even a mini-gym. The internet is free and I have a lovely bath. One assumes they’re trying to attract a funkier TV crowd here.

I went to the new-look post office in the City Centre today. It’s like a blood donor waiting room. You have to take a ticket as you enter and then a computerised voice says; “ticket number 506, please go to counter F.” What on earth is wrong with simply queuing? Counter A was surrounded by a curtain. It looked like something in an airport, and it confused me greatly until I was told it was the place to head if you're looking for a photo-pass. You pull the curtain around you, and instantly have yourself a photo booth. It was all a bit too cool for school for my liking.

Post office or airport? And check out the curtain!

After checking in to my new hotel, I took myself off to the Imperial War Museum on Salford Quays. It’s a curious metal building, probably designed by someone like Daniel Lieberskind, which feels a little bit like entering a bomb shelter. You go in through a tiny door and then snake your way through a series of aluminium corridors lined with various relics from 20^th Century wars.

At a certain point – probably once an hour – the main viewing hall turns into a three-dimensional cinema, with enormous images projected onto all the walls and ceilings. They showed a little film about remembrance, which was terribly moving. At one stage they read a letter sent to the family of a soldier killed in action in the First World War. It was factual – almost to the point of heartlessness; “shot through the head whilst serving his country.” It obviously arrived with a parcel, because the letter drew reference to a few personal effects “that you might like as a keep sake.” A few personal effects to represent a life. The concept of letters like this going out to the relatives of the million plus men who died in the Great War pretty much broke my heart.

The thing that upset me most, however, was the Cold War display, where they were running the government’s 1976 Protect and Survive film; “what to do in the event of a nuclear attack.” The film is filled with cartoon images representing the sirens and warnings associated with nuclear war; three bangs, gongs or whistles to represent the dreaded arrival of fall out. I remember the time; the terrible fear of nuclear attack, the nights spent worrying about what we’d do in a fall out shelter and what would happen to my toys. The whole film is so profoundly bleak – scratch the surface and you realise that anyone sheltering within 100 miles of a nuclear strike would basically have been doomed. For a 36-mile radius, no one would survive for more than 14 days. I can’t believe I live in a world where someone would think to invent a bomb which could cause that much damage. Is life so unimportant? We think of 1976 as the year of the drought and the year of ABBA, but forget that rolling around in the background was this horrific possibility. Perhaps life in 2012 isn't so awful afterall...

During the afternoon, Nathan texted me a number of times. He’s presently having a rather major tattoo carved into his arm. I think the little film he sent me was the real bollock-clencher. There was blood, there was bruising and there was a noise which sounded a like a dental drill. I’m not sure I needed to see that, but am excited to see the tattoo.

It's weird to think that it’s Valentine’s Day. Brother Tim and his partner, John, came to see me at the hotel tonight, which was nice, and a surprise, because I thought they'd be doing coupley things. They literally live a five minute walk from the hotel and it’s lovely to be in a position where we can hook up for a quick drink and then go our separate ways without feeling like we’re not going to see each other again for months...

Valentine’s Day was a big deal in 1662. Pepys shunned an invitation to his neighbour, Sir William Batten’s house, whose daughter had been his Valentine the previous year. The tradition back then was that the first person of the opposite sex you saw on the day (unless, I suppose they’d already been claimed) would become your Valentine. A man would buy his Valentine gifts; gloves and lengths of fabric. It was perfectly reasonable – if not encouraged – for a man to have a Valentine who was not his wife, and people went to great lengths to make sure the right person was the first person of the opposite sex to be seen.

Pepys didn’t want Martha Batten. They hadn’t become great friends throughout the previous year, and he'd started to despise her father! Elizabeth ended up with one of Pepys’ mates, William Boyer, after spending the best part of the morning trying to avoid the workmen in the house. Pepys, however, didn’t seem to find himself a Valentine, which I’m sure was very disappointing for him, until he realised he wouldn’t have to shell out for a series of little gifts this year.

Two Phil Smiths

It’s been an exhausting day, mostly because the funny little air conditioning unit above the door in my hotel room kept waking me up with the weirdest knocking and gushing noises. Fortunately, the lovely Paul has now transferred me to the Holiday Inn next to the BBC’s base at Salford Quays, which I’m told, is a much nicer establishment.

I was at the Beeb today. We sat at a variety of funny little seating areas in various lime green and shiny red atriums. It’s all very modern and "right on" up here. It genuinely feels like a very happy working environment. There are "informal" photos of all the staff pinned up everywhere. The tram pulls up to the brand new Media City stop, and you walk out into a rather impressive square which is always filled with people doing urban sports; tag rugby, that sort of thing. Today, a whole load of people were doing kick boxing. These Mancunian media types have too much time on their hands if you ask me! The only problem is that you're not allowed to pay for anything with a card, and there's not a cash machine in the building, or, in fact, anywhere within a half mile radius. Not very well thought through.

There were six of us in our meeting, two of whom were called Phil Smith, which I thought was hysterical. I had to ask a lot of questions. Our project seems to have slightly slipped under the radar at BBC Manchester. At one point Phil said that he’d never been aware of a programme being made before without a transmission date! At the moment we don’t even know what slot the films are going to have. Will they be broadcast on the local evening news or will someone commandeer an entire episode of Inside Out? I suppose it’s sort of exciting that we don’t know. At least this way we get to make the films we want to make, and then they get to decide how best to present them. I just hope they don’t disappear without trace into a building where a bewildering amount of other stuff is going on at the moment.

Still, everyone at the meeting was more than helpful, and they seem very excited about the project. We played some of the songs on one of the BBC’s huge systems. They sounded fabulous and people said very lovely things. I felt proud. Like a mother hen.

I received the mastered tracks this evening and am listening to them as I write this diary entry. I am so thrilled. PK, the producer, is an actual genius.

February 13^th, 1662, and Pepys wrote a rather dull diary entry, mostly about money, and (yet again) his uncle’s will, which still wasn’t entirely sorted. Bet his uncle wished he’d never died! Speaking of death, Pepys also wrote that the Queen of Bohemia (or Winter Queen) had died the night before. Good news travels fast!

Poor Jack

I woke up this morning to the news that Witney Houston was dead. No one wants to make any statements about what might have killed her, but I think we can assume that drugs were to blame. What a terrible waste of a god-given talent. It's astonishing how an alluring performer with the best voice in pop could spiral so far downwards that they became nothing but a laughing stock. My brother went to see her at the O2 recently, and she was apparently so awful that most of the audience had left the arena by the time she'd finished her set. I Will Always Love You, was, tragically, the biggest disaster of all.

Breakfast in the hotel was a fairly surreal experience as the news of Houston's death swept through a room filled with people still hung over from the night before. We gathered around the television for a few minutes and made appropriate noises. One Japanese girl seemed genuinely distressed.

The surrealism of the occasion was enhanced hugely by the mystery of the disappearing toast. The hotel has one of those machines that sucks bread into a sort of conveyor belt oven which eventually flicks toast into a tray below. A group of us were loading our bread in, waiting for a bit, then peering into the machine to discover it had vanished. An ever-increasing cluster of people was standing around scratching its head until someone realised that the toast was dropping out of the back of the machine which was level with a tiny gap in the cloth on the table top. We pulled the table out and found 100 pieces of toast in a pile underneath! One woman laughed so much that she dropped a glass of orange juice which shattered all over the breakfast room floor.

Sunday's a lonely old day, isn't it, when you're on your own? I don't know what should make it worse than any other day in this respect. There's probably just as much to do in terms of shops and cinemas being open, but the streets are empty and the world seems to be hiding, no doubt doing their washing, tidying their houses and worrying about the week ahead. It doesn’t help that I know that Nathan’s with his family less than 100 miles away in Wrecsam and my own family have gathered in Thaxted.

I’m therefore drifting like a ghost through the streets of Manchester, pretending to shop and trying to busy myself. Periodically I'm listening to the Hattersley songs. I now have to re-programme myself from being a composer to being director. My mind must shift from an audio world to visual one, and start to find solutions to the whole new set of technical challenges which lay ahead.

I’m a great fan of Moleskine notebooks, particularly after discovering their A5-sized manuscript books. I was therefore hugely excited to find a storyboard notebook in Waterstones today, which provides me with a series of small empty rectangles which I can fill with rubbish drawings representing the individual shots in the films we're about to make. It's a useful way to focus the mind on the job in hand, and with any luck, make sure the films have a decent flow to them.

Because there’s nothing else to do, I’m going to dance in my hotel room...

There. That was lovely.

350 years ago, Pepys spent the day with lawyers, ticking enough boxes to describe himself “highly contented” with the work he’d achieved. He got home, did some composing, and then took delivery of 100 Poor Jacks (a kind of dried and salted hake) sent to him by fishmonger, John Addis.