Across the Tyne seven times

I'm sitting in The Bob Trollop, my favourite vegetarian pub, which is on the Quayside here in Newcastle. I’ve ordered a Ploughman’s Lunch and am very pleased to be inside, as the weather’s suddenly taken a rather massive turn for the worse.

I went on an incredibly long run this morning which involved jogging over the Tyne a total of seven times via various bridges. I have a pathological fear of crossing bridges, but the views are so astonishing that it became something of an obsession to see if I could overcome my fear. The wind was incredibly high, however, and it kept catching my jogging trousers and blowing me off course. At one point I wondered if it was going to push me off the side of the bridge into the burbling Tyne below. If I’d survived the fall, the river was moving so quickly, I guess I’d have been out to sea before anyone saw me!

High Level Bridge: My favourite of the 7 bridges

Last night, whilst I was standing backstage at The Sage, I noticed a little sign with which, I’m sure, seasoned actors and touring musicians will very much identify. It was attached to a pillar in the wings and it read; “This town is called Gateshead. The venue you are in is called the Sage in Gateshead.” I suddenly realised that there are people out there who perform in a different venue every night, and would be more than grateful to read a statement of the obvious like that just before they go on stage! “Good evening, Gateshead!!” It reminded me of a story Nathan tells, of touring Germany with the Rocky Horror Show, and leaving a town early one morning having performed there the night before, and not being able to remember its name. When he asked his fellow performers, he discovered that everyone else in the company had also forgotten where they’d just spent 24 hours!

It’s The Biggest Loser on telly tonight, and I’m hoping I’m back in my hotel room in time to see it. I’m basically addicted. It’s car crash telly at its very best. It’s about a load of morbidly obese people in a fat farm trying to lose weight. They seem to be doing a phenomenal amount of exercise, but last week most of them didn’t lose any weight whatsoever, which, when you’re 25 stone, is a fairly tragic occurrence! The personal trainers are blaming their intake of food, but surely, if this is a fat camp, food is an aspect that should be monitored even more carefully than exercise! I was actually quite surprised to see that the contestants were cooking for themselves. There’s also a rather bizarre event each week, when they stick everyone in a room full of cakes and tell them that the group who eats more will have 4 lbs knocked off their team’s overall weight. I think it’s some kind of reverse psychology, and an attempt by the producers to add a bit of jeopardy to the proceedings, but it actually gives us an opportunity to watch fat froozlers stuffing food into their enormous faces as though they were part of some kind of Bacchanalian orgy. You can't take your eyes off them...

The contestants spend much of their time bursting into tears, throwing up, saying they don’t have “any more to give” and trying to get public sympathy for their inability to stop chuzzling. As a man who balloons up and down in weight, I have limited tolerance for people who can’t keep their weight in control. We all have points at which we feel things have got out of control. I hit mine on about January 10th. But I’ve never felt the need to garner sympathy for my inability to use my own will power. I have a similar view about smokers and drug addicts. There’s only one person who ultimately cares about what you do to your body – and that’s yourself. Anyway, The Biggest Loser is compelling viewing, particularly if you imagine how quickly the contestants are going to pile the weight back on the moment they return to their sedentary lives, where they do nothing but eat take-away meals in front of the telly, and tell anyone who’ll listen that they’re overweight for genetic reasons.

...I didn’t really enjoy my Ploughman’s lunch.

350 years ago, Pepys had his lunch with Lady Sandwich, and the two of them were astonished to be interrupted midway by Lord Sandwich, who'd returned from sea, much to their great surprise. He was full of tales from his voyage, and it seemed he'd got himself into an argument with Lord St Albans, which very nearly escalated into a dual. Pepys dined with some of the men who'd been with Sandwich on the trip to the continent, and all of them said they thought France a very noble and fine country.

We had rainbows all day today as well...

High adrenaline

It’s been raining pretty solidly all day; a horrid misty rain which isn’t showing any sign of going away, and is freaking me out, because I’m wondering what we’d do if the weather was like this on one of our filming days. What a miserable time of year!


We spent the day in a studio at The Sage in Gateshead. The engineer there is called Richard, and he seems to be a very friendly and highly capable young man.

The recording sessions were slightly more complicated and stressful than I’d anticipated. Poor Alistair, who hasn't been involved in one of these ridiculous, high-adrenaline experiences before, spent a good 30 minutes at one point pacing nervously up and down! The sopranos sang a bit flat, the altos rushed, one of the midi files broke down... In short, everything, as usual, took a great deal longer than we'd expected, which meant we missed out on lunch. It was, however, an absolute joy to see all of the choirs singing without their music. They'd learnt everything off by heart, which is something I’ve never experienced in one of these sessions. It bodes well for the filming, which is often marred by people not knowing their words. More brownie points for the Geordies and Mackems!

The brass band did a grand job, which meant we grappled back a little bit of time, and the Northumbrian Piper, Chris Ormston, played beautifully, reminding me how much I love that particular instrument. It’s got such a delicate, moving sound, and knocks the absolute socks off its Scottish counterpart!

The highlight of the day, once again, was the session with the Newcastle Kingsmen. I think I'm becoming their biggest fan! I envy their lifestyle up here, which is filled to the brim with folk music, dancing and long sessions in Northeastern pubs! It reminds me of a very brief period of my teenage years when we used to explore haunted woods, search for crop circles and play Steeleye Span obsessively. We were recording their two fiddle players, who breathed the most astonishing amount of life into my music by playing an improvised rhythmic drone underneath what I’d written. Three of the dancers came along to record a “tap track”, which means the percussive quality of their dancing can now double up as a form of drumming on the song.
350 years ago, and Pepys was visited by his cousin, John Snow, who sat with him whilst he was being shaved and asked for a favour, which Pepys was more than happy to grant. Pepys ate fish and hare for dinner. The hare had been sent by his plasterer, Mr Goodenough, which has got to be one of the greatest names in the history of names!

Claire's Accessories Pink

I’m sitting in Porter’s Cafe, which is a charming little place in the middle of Tyne Mouth Station. It very much reminds me of something from Brief Encounter. There’s an open fire, high ceilings and little vases of tulips on the tables.

Tyne Mouth is one of those Victorian Stations that looks a bit like an ornate glasshouse. It’s absolutely beautiful. Verdigris columns stretch up to the roof and the whole place has an air of faded English seaside decadence. Today is market day and the place is buzzing. All the platforms are covered with stalls selling bric-a-brac. It’s like a scene from the 1950s. There are little plastic dolls, broken mirrors, World War Two helmets, knitting patterns, piles of paste jewellery, boxes filled with Bakelite records, watch straps in suitcases and badly-framed and faded water colours as far as the eye can see. It’s utterly charming and in the middle of everything, a lady stands proudly selling homemade rock cakes, jam sponges and cups of tea. She’s rather hopefully set up a little plastic table and a few chairs, but at this time of year, it’s too cold for most people to sit in the draughty station, so we've gone to Porter's Cafe instead.

As I travelled here this morning, I listened to a few groups of young kids talking about their lives, television and the various stations we were passing through. I thought how nicely brought up they all seemed. They weren’t trying to intimidate the other passengers, like you find all the time in London. They weren’t swearing, or shouting, they were just chatting to each other. I thought how lovely that was. Mind you, Newcastle City Centre on a Friday night is renowned for its anti-social behaviour, so maybe these kids are going to grow up into little chavvie monsters!

My Travelodge was packed with hen and stag parties last night. People were running up and down the corridors and staircases yelling at one another pretty much all evening. I’ve seen nuns, army cadets, nurses, clowns and most recently, smurfs. I stopped a smurf in the corridor and told him he had something blue on his face, but he didn’t seem to realise I was joking. None of them are wearing coats, and most seem to be carrying or wearing something which is that lurid pink colour you only find in branches of Claire’s Accessories. This morning the breakfast room was full of rather pallid-looking individuals, who smelt like breweries blended with pots of sick. They were obviously about to start the process all over again. I could never do it.

The 5th February 1661 was washing day and the ever-improving Pepys and his wife were able to leave the servants (which probably included his sister Pall) to do all the work. Pepys and Elizabeth headed to Westminster. Elizabeth visited her mother, and Pepys, who, to my knowledge rarely, if ever called in on his mother-in-law, went to Westminster Hall, where he met a chap called Belgrave. Belgrave seemed to want to remind Pepys, rather too often, that he’d known his mother when she was a humble wash-maid. He proceeded to curse and swear his way through the rest of the conversation, which made Pepys very weary.

He left Belgrave and went to see the heads of Cromwell and his cronies which had been placed on the ends of spikes at one end of the hall. He met up with Elizabeth and they went to the theatre, but their coach broke down on King Street. The play they saw was Argalus and Parthenia, which Pepys had already seen. He enjoyed the dancing and singing, but liked little else. But Pepys, as we all know, was very hard to please.

Hi-viz and hard hats

Every time I've looked at the sky today, I've seen a rainbow staring back at me. How romantic is that? I've never been pursued by a rainbow before, but it felt rather magical!

It's been a productive day. We spent this morning with a team of BBC technical people looking at some of our more complicated locations; the Metro depot, where we're doing a pre-dawn shoot, Gateshead Station, where we'll be filming all night and a scrap heap, just south of Sunderland, where our brass band will be performing. It was hi-viz jackets and hard hats all the way. I'm surrounded by incredibly capable people and am particularly impressed by the cameraman on this project, who, just like his counterpart in Yorkshire, is called Keith. Well, I guess it saves learning a new name!

We've finally made the decision not to shoot in HD and I fully understand why. It's such a daring project and it involves so many people jumping into the unknown. The BBC Regions are not yet HD ready, and when things are complicated enough, sometimes you just have to stick with what you know. We're shooting in digi-beta, which is what Little Britain was shot in, so I'm not that disappointed! Digibeta looks lovely on television.

This evening was magical. We battled our way to The Sage through terrible gales to listen to the final rehearsal of the choir we formed specially for the project. I gave them an enormous challenge; to sing the names of 30 Metro stations in glorious 4-part harmony. Many had never sung in choirs before, and the majority didn’t read music, so everything was taught by ear. They only had four weeks to learn it, but they did it! I was so immensely proud to hear them singing in proper harmony, and started crying very quietly to myself like a proper wuss! Sure, there are still a few corners that need to be ironed out, but what an amazing achievement.

Pepys’ diary entry for February 4th, 1661, includes some of the longest sentences I think I’ve ever read! The first one includes no fewer than 80 words, and I’d quote it in full if I didn’t think it was one of the most boring things I’ve ever read! Pepys spent the evening in the pub with Sir William Penn, Colonel Slingsby and “several others... men and women.” They played parlour games; the forfeits for the young ladies being, of course, to kiss Pepys, who was, I'd say, a complete letch!

A vegetarian pub

Last night we visited the Cumberland Arms in Byker, which was an extraordinary experience. It’s a magical old pub, surrounded by post-industrial scrub-land, situated on a hillside overlooking the Tyne. There are open fires in both of its tiny, cluttered rooms and it’s filled to the rafters with young folk musicians; harpists, fiddlers, banjo players, Northumbrian pipers, jamming and sharing music. Upstairs, the Newcastle Kingsmen, those virtuoso sword dancers, were practising their terrifying routines. It’s a thriving scene and it inspired me very deeply. It is so heartening to know that folk music and folk culture is thriving in this city; safe in the hands of a vibrant, young generation.

I wish I could say the same for our country. I watched the news this morning and was astonished to see that scores of Citizens Advice Bureaus are closing down, because the funding isn’t there to keep them going. This makes me furious. It seems like an almost entirely transparent attempt to keep the less fortunate where the Tories obviously think they belong; unrepresented and unable to stand up for their rights. I wonder what’s coming next? Perhaps the fat-faced, pompous little turd will decide that parents have to start paying to send their kids to secondary schools. How about we bring in measures to restrict the travel of anyone with an IQ lower than 90?

I am so tired. It was beautiful and sunny when I woke up this morning but by 4pm there was a proper gale blowing, and now it’s raining buckets. My mood has been altering accordingly! The low point of today was undoubtedly standing in the freezing cold at Tyne Dock station waiting for a broken Metro train to limp its way along the track to South Shields. The highlight was sitting in a pub I’ve recently discovered which is just around the corner from my Travelodge. It sells nothing but vegetarian food. Not only is it in a lovely location, nestling in the foothills of two enormous Newcastle bridges, but it’s in a really quirky medieval building, which is like something straight from Pepysian London. I have no idea how an entirely vegetarian pub manages to exist in Newcastle, but I’m not complaining. I could have had a nut roast, or a veggie lasagne, or cauliflower cheese, or a ploughmans but I opted for bangers and mash in a big old Yorkshire pudding, and they were delicious! And all for under a fiver! Why on earth did no one tell me about this place?!

The rest of the day was spent looking at our locations and planning potential shots. We’ve been all over the place; walking on beaches at Whitley Bay and South Shields and planning Latin dance numbers at Wallsend. Sometimes I have to pinch myself to believe I’m actually doing work!

The longer I spend up here, the more I fall in love with the people. There’s an astonishing openness and honesty which pours out of almost everyone I've met. The Geordies seem to have a wonderful ability not to take life too seriously. Humour works almost like a currency up here. If you’re not up for a bit of banter, you’re considered very odd indeed. I really like it, but it took me a while to get used to. I’ve obviously spent way too long in London, where, probably just to keep sane, everyone surrounds themselves with a sort of barrier, which says, “don’t approach me... don’t talk to me... I am closing myself off from the world as an act of self-preservation.” The good folk of Northamptonshire where I grew up could be a fairly closed bunch as well. Outsiders were regarded with great suspicion and I wouldn’t say they were exactly renowned for their sense of humour! Could it really be that the further you away from London you travel, the more welcoming people become?

February 3rd 1660 was the date Pepys “first begun to go forth in [his] coat and sword, as the manner now among gentlemen is.” He went to Whitehall and stayed to hear the “trumpets and kettle-drums, and then the other drums, which are much cried up, though I think it dull, vulgar musique.” Later in the day, he took himself off to see Sir Stephen Fox, a politician. Pepys enjoyed listening to high class gossip and scandal. He spent the evening with Lady Sandwich, gossiping even more.

A Tory Mackem

I’m feeling a little bit stressed this evening. The big project continues to gurgle away in the background. Alison came up to Newcastle from Leeds today and we sat down and thrashed out some ideas for it. The project has still not been officially signed off, and it’s beginning to affect my nerves. I’m getting stroppy and irritable with people who are only trying to help. Still, it was lovely to see Alison. I’m so incredibly fond of her. We sat in a cafe on Haymarket and put the world to rights. As I left, a friend of her’s arrived. He’s a Tory councillor from Sunderland, and despite his despicable political views, I found him compellingly amusing. I've never heard anyone talk so fast; seemingly without breathing! In his favour, he did describe himself as the most liberal Tory in the country. I suppose it just seemed really odd to hear someone with a Mackem accent talking about David Cameron in such positive terms!


It’s proper windy up here at the moment. As I walked to the BBC this afternoon, I was almost blown off my feet, which is obviously a lie, but on a couple of occasions the gusts rather took my breath away. That's also a lie, but I couldn't hear my Mum on the phone...

This afternoon we took more soloists through their music. Will this process ever end? We had another wonderful rapper, and a woman with a glorious voice but the saddest past. She lost her husband and child - the former in a plane crash - but refuses to allow it to destroy her. She glows like a beacon of calmness and strength and I think we could all learn a great deal from her outlook on life.

We’re off now to watch the Newcastle Kingsmen rehearsing in a pub in Byker. The Kingsmen are clog dancers who perform with incredibly dangerous-looking rapper swords. They are extraordinary, and will be dancing for us on an actual Metro train, which would freak me out, if it weren’t something they do most Saturday nights! Here they are in their little shorts...

February 2nd 1660, and Pepys was entertaining various family members in style. Their normal chef, Slater, was unable to cook the food, so a “strange cook” was sent in his place. The event couldn’t have been much cop, because Pepys left mid-way to do some work in a nearby tavern. By the time he returned, he was surprised to find that half the guests had left. Pepys was pleased to report, however, that the other guests had had a lovely time, which was lucky for it was the last dinner party he expected to throw for some time; the three dinners he’d hosted in the last 2 weeks had cost him a wince-laden 15l.

The heady scent

The heady scent of hyacinths in the BBC office is making me feel quite faint. The smell seems to be dividing people. Men hate it, women quite like it, but it’s not a smell I think I’ll ever become accustomed to; in fact, it’s beginning to make me feel quite sick. Furthermore, hyacinths are ugly, sinister-looking things. There’s something rather prehistoric about the way they look. The petals look like little blisters.


Today’s been incredibly long and terribly tiring. People have been coming in and out every half an hour or so, and I’ve been taking them through their solo lines. Today’s crowd, a sparky bunch, included a ballet-dancing soldier, a male soprano, a female bass, a trio of brothers, a girl who’d just had a car accident, a poet who made me cry, a man who smelt of ripe cheese, and 2 pregnant women who seem to be within weeks of giving birth. It’s all go...

I’m looking forward to crawling into my little Travelodge room and putting my feet up in front of the tiny television with a nice bowl of soup. Sadly, that’s some way off, as there are about another 6 people to see before I can leave this hyacinth mayhem.

I just got very upset talking to one of our cast members, who said she’s been trying to raise enough money to pay for her nephew’s headstone. As if it weren’t bad enough that the lad was murdered, the poor bloke’s now lying in an unmarked grave. It’s terribly sad that his family can’t afford to have him buried properly. I hope they find the money.

This morning, I was up with the lark to go jogging along the Tyne. Running underneath all of those iconic Newcastle bridges is such a wonderful experience. Many Geordies say that they only truly know they’re home when they can see them there, lined up, and stretching into the distance. And they are iconic. Each bridge seems somehow grander than the next. First high, then low, then steel, then stone, then brick. Swinging, dipping, blinking like an eye in the morning air. And all the while, The Sage, like a metal hedgehog, keeping a watchful eye over the waking city.

February 1st January 1660, and Pepys went into town to buy some books and a belt, and to collect his newly refurbished sword. He went to bed, leaving his “people” to prepare the house. They were planning yet another dinner.