Today seems to have passed in something of a blur. I got back to Highgate incredibly late last night, and was up relatively early, so I’m a bit woozy.
I went first thing to meet a potential tenor for our choir at Goldsmith’s University. He was a very interesting chap, and had a great voice – soulful with more than a whiff of jazz - but I’m not sure he’s right for the choir. He’s definitely a potential soloist for something in the future, but his sight-singing was very slow and the jazz intonation made me wonder if he’d be able to sing with the precision and vocal dexterity that this choir needs. It was horrible having to email him to say “not yet”, but I genuinely meant "not yet" and think that he’s got a big future ahead of him if he keeps to a consistent path.
I came back via central London, where I had my hair macheted from my head by a lovely girl from Australia who didn't know how to stop talking. I then worked in a cafe near Old Compton Street until about 4pm, when I met Louise, who's the editor of most of my films. She's a lovely lass, but one of those people I always feel the need to wind up. In the past I’ve told her all sorts of bullshit about the projects we're working on. She hasn't yet cottoned on to the curious fact that I can't tell a lie more than twice. If I'm talking and you think I'm spinning a yarn, all you have to do is ask if I'm lying. If I AM lying I'll lie again - but then always cave in if asked a third time. I feel too much guilt otherwise! When I'm working with Louise, my favourite game is to see what I can get her to believe. When we start looking through the rushes, I'll often make up a little story about the person being filmed. “That little girl is actually a 15-year old boy” (she believed that one.) “Just after we’d done that take, the old guy with the white fluffy hair walked too close to a naked flame, and his hair went up in smoke.” (She believed that one as well.) Editing with her is so much fun. She even allows me to put a made-up name in every single one of the credits. Metro: The Musical apparently had a performer called Alice Tyrd. Priceless!
We met Nathan and ate in a cafe called Diana’s round the back of Covent Garden. It used to be a favoured eating hole with West End turns, but it’s got a bit pricey, and the staff are weird. I asked for a full vegetarian breakfast, and was horrified at how little I was given; just a few fried mushrooms, some baked beans, a tomato and a piece of toast. I had food envy all meal, and kept pinching Nathan’s chips.
I came back home and have been working, really, ever since.
Monday October 7th, 1661, and Pepys was once again in a pickle about his uncle’s will. There was all sorts of business involving Huntingdon-based courts, and various letters, but frankly I don’t think anyone reading this blog would be remotely interested in the details. He went to visit his doctor, but found him ill in bed. That must be like finding your hairdresser sporting a rubbish barnet! Doctors aren't meant to get ill - and if they do, they're meant to be able to cure themselves!
I leave you with a response to yesterday's blog from my friend Ellie; "further to your blog... There was the case of the drummer who got so depressed he threw himself behind a train!"
Any more drumming jokes are very welcome... And viola jokes whilst you're at it! You can't beat a good viola joke!
Friday, 7 October 2011
Thursday, 6 October 2011
All I do is eat and sleep and sing
We're on the M6 somewhere near Knutsford. We've just stopped at one of those crazy 1960s service stations with the covered walkways over the motorway. I stood for a moment, watching the cars hurtling underneath me. They looked like fireworks.
My lips feel very dry. We've done nothing but eat rubbish food all day.
It's been a long old day up in Glasgow, and driving through the Lake District in gale force winds and sheeting rain was not exactly a bundle of laughs.
We have, however, had a brilliant time. We were playing drums at a conference; a sort of team-building, post-lunch interlude aimed to keep the delegates focussed and entertained. We played for fifteen minutes, but spent 3 hours setting up percussion instruments; one on every chair for each of the 1400 people crammed into the auditorium.
Mark, who lead the session, was, as ever, superb. He's genuinely one of the most charismatic men I know. I very much hope the delegates enjoyed the show. As a non-drummer, I felt as though I was flying by the seat of my pants, but everything seemed to go well. Perhaps I'll become a drummer... No wait, I'm a musician. Q. What do you call a bloke who hangs out with musicians? A. A drummer! Boom boom chink! Q. How do you know if a drummer's at your door? A. The knocking gets faster!
As we packed away the drums and shakers and sundry wooden ethnic-looking instruments, I sang an hour-long non-stop medley of music from the 1970s. It's important to keep the troops entertained. One of the ushers in the venue, stood and watched me with a great big, humourless, special-needs look plastered across her face. After a while she asked if I liked singing. An oddly redundant question, I feel.
Now, is it me, or are the Scots a tiny bit dour? I know it's a cliche and that most of them are not exactly fond of the English, but it would have been quicker to chisle a smile into some of the people I encountered in the city today. Maybe it was the relentless rain...
At breakfast this morning, I found myself surrounded by Russians, who, I'm afraid, also looked like they'd been sucking lemons. All the woman had bright red hair and entirely circular faces. They looked like suicidal pin cushions.
October 6th, 1661 was a Sunday, and Pepys went to church - twice. October marked the official start of the winter season, so many of the church's more wealthy parishioners had returned from country estate that they'd lived in over the summer. Pepys was in his element. There was a very pretty "black" woman - dark haired, rather than dark skinned, and a lady in a flowery satin suit, which he liked very much!
My lips feel very dry. We've done nothing but eat rubbish food all day.
It's been a long old day up in Glasgow, and driving through the Lake District in gale force winds and sheeting rain was not exactly a bundle of laughs.
We have, however, had a brilliant time. We were playing drums at a conference; a sort of team-building, post-lunch interlude aimed to keep the delegates focussed and entertained. We played for fifteen minutes, but spent 3 hours setting up percussion instruments; one on every chair for each of the 1400 people crammed into the auditorium.
Mark, who lead the session, was, as ever, superb. He's genuinely one of the most charismatic men I know. I very much hope the delegates enjoyed the show. As a non-drummer, I felt as though I was flying by the seat of my pants, but everything seemed to go well. Perhaps I'll become a drummer... No wait, I'm a musician. Q. What do you call a bloke who hangs out with musicians? A. A drummer! Boom boom chink! Q. How do you know if a drummer's at your door? A. The knocking gets faster!
As we packed away the drums and shakers and sundry wooden ethnic-looking instruments, I sang an hour-long non-stop medley of music from the 1970s. It's important to keep the troops entertained. One of the ushers in the venue, stood and watched me with a great big, humourless, special-needs look plastered across her face. After a while she asked if I liked singing. An oddly redundant question, I feel.
Now, is it me, or are the Scots a tiny bit dour? I know it's a cliche and that most of them are not exactly fond of the English, but it would have been quicker to chisle a smile into some of the people I encountered in the city today. Maybe it was the relentless rain...
At breakfast this morning, I found myself surrounded by Russians, who, I'm afraid, also looked like they'd been sucking lemons. All the woman had bright red hair and entirely circular faces. They looked like suicidal pin cushions.
October 6th, 1661 was a Sunday, and Pepys went to church - twice. October marked the official start of the winter season, so many of the church's more wealthy parishioners had returned from country estate that they'd lived in over the summer. Pepys was in his element. There was a very pretty "black" woman - dark haired, rather than dark skinned, and a lady in a flowery satin suit, which he liked very much!
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
I called you last night from Glasgow
It's funny where you find yourself on a wet October evening. I'm in Glasgow in an hotel. I've no idea where I am in relation to the rest of the city. There's a river just outside and lots of cranes and things. It feels very industrial in a not very pleasant way. It's all quite grim and dark up here. We got to the Lake District and the heavens opened, and I've not seen the sun since.
Driving up was an adventure. I've come to Scotland to help our friends Lisa and Mark with a drumming workshop, and was picked up by a suspicious-looking white van at Luton airport. We travelled at a good speed all the way up, despite being buffeted almost constantly by high winds which threatened to blow us off the motorway.
My travel companions were Simon and Catherine. New friends. Great fun. There's something about a road trip which bonds people very quickly, and no subject was left undiscussed.
I'm annoyed to report that my cold seems to have reappeared. My glands are up again. I had a frightening episode in the night when I started to cough and then couldn't breath. I was gasping for air, almost choking. Everything felt constricted. In the cold light of day I realise I was have some kind of spasm and from now on, need to remember to stay as calm as possible if the same thing happens again. As Lisa said earlier, "it happens to children. The worst case scenario is that you'll pass out, and at that stage your body will take over and start breathing normally again."
Her words were wise, but it was a frightening experience, so much that I woke Nathan up afterwards to talk things through. He was wonderfully calming, and we had a cuddle until I drifted off to sleep again.
350 years ago, Pepys spent the afternoon hanging a model of a ship from the ceiling of his chamber. He was very pleased with his work and went to The Dolphin for a celebratory drink with Sir William Batten. They ate bloat herrings for their tea, which I'm told were a form of smoked herrings.
Driving up was an adventure. I've come to Scotland to help our friends Lisa and Mark with a drumming workshop, and was picked up by a suspicious-looking white van at Luton airport. We travelled at a good speed all the way up, despite being buffeted almost constantly by high winds which threatened to blow us off the motorway.
My travel companions were Simon and Catherine. New friends. Great fun. There's something about a road trip which bonds people very quickly, and no subject was left undiscussed.
I'm annoyed to report that my cold seems to have reappeared. My glands are up again. I had a frightening episode in the night when I started to cough and then couldn't breath. I was gasping for air, almost choking. Everything felt constricted. In the cold light of day I realise I was have some kind of spasm and from now on, need to remember to stay as calm as possible if the same thing happens again. As Lisa said earlier, "it happens to children. The worst case scenario is that you'll pass out, and at that stage your body will take over and start breathing normally again."
Her words were wise, but it was a frightening experience, so much that I woke Nathan up afterwards to talk things through. He was wonderfully calming, and we had a cuddle until I drifted off to sleep again.
350 years ago, Pepys spent the afternoon hanging a model of a ship from the ceiling of his chamber. He was very pleased with his work and went to The Dolphin for a celebratory drink with Sir William Batten. They ate bloat herrings for their tea, which I'm told were a form of smoked herrings.
Tuesday, 4 October 2011
When the summer's over and the dark clouds hide the sun
I’m rather glad that today is over. I’ve been with my parents in Cambridge. My father was having some tests done at Addenbrooke’s Hospital and had been told he wouldn’t be able to drive home afterwards. He seemed hugely grateful that I was helping out, but frankly, it's the least I could do for a man who's supported me relentlessly for 40 years!
We sat in a waiting room, which was filled to the brim with very frightened-looking men, all of whom were trying to be terribly brave for the people who'd brought them in. There's nothing sadder, in my experience, than a bloke trying to be dignified against all the odds. Some of them were in a proper mess. One didn’t seem to be able to lift his head. Another, a deeply frail old guy, had dressed up in his best suit, but was obviously finding the whole experience a little bit too much to deal with. His wife, who was also wearing her Sunday best, was fussing around and doing what she could against the odds, but everything was looking very bleak and she looked scared. My mother whispered in my ear; “I wonder what these people would have been like on their wedding days.” We spoke for a while about the promises they must have made to each other, "till death us do part." And there they were, 50 years later, bodies turning to dust, still facing problems together, still trying to protect one another, still refusing to give up against all the odds. It was so upsetting.
My Dad, however, emerged from the tests looking surprisingly chipper, and I’m confident everything's going to be just fine.
We drove back to Thaxted and watched Pointless.
350 years ago, London was buzzing with rumours that the French Ambassador was claiming the English had not only supported the Spanish during their recent spat with him, but actually taken up arms against his Embassy. He was stamping his little Gallic feet and had apparently called upon King Charles to apologise. He was even threatening to go back to France, which Pepys seemed very glad to hear!
Pepys met up with Captain Ferrers and they went to the King’s theatre. They arrived late, and only stayed for a short time, because they'd seen the play before and it seemed even worse the second time around.
He returned home to find his wife shouting at the servants who'd apparently been complaining that they weren’t being fed enough meat, a fact which had been made worse by their being given Suffolk cheese instead; a favourite of the Navy, which was renowned for being cheap, rather ghastly, and as hard as concrete! Sam had obviously got himself a whole load on the cheap and didn’t fancy eating it himself.
We sat in a waiting room, which was filled to the brim with very frightened-looking men, all of whom were trying to be terribly brave for the people who'd brought them in. There's nothing sadder, in my experience, than a bloke trying to be dignified against all the odds. Some of them were in a proper mess. One didn’t seem to be able to lift his head. Another, a deeply frail old guy, had dressed up in his best suit, but was obviously finding the whole experience a little bit too much to deal with. His wife, who was also wearing her Sunday best, was fussing around and doing what she could against the odds, but everything was looking very bleak and she looked scared. My mother whispered in my ear; “I wonder what these people would have been like on their wedding days.” We spoke for a while about the promises they must have made to each other, "till death us do part." And there they were, 50 years later, bodies turning to dust, still facing problems together, still trying to protect one another, still refusing to give up against all the odds. It was so upsetting.
My Dad, however, emerged from the tests looking surprisingly chipper, and I’m confident everything's going to be just fine.
We drove back to Thaxted and watched Pointless.
350 years ago, London was buzzing with rumours that the French Ambassador was claiming the English had not only supported the Spanish during their recent spat with him, but actually taken up arms against his Embassy. He was stamping his little Gallic feet and had apparently called upon King Charles to apologise. He was even threatening to go back to France, which Pepys seemed very glad to hear!
Pepys met up with Captain Ferrers and they went to the King’s theatre. They arrived late, and only stayed for a short time, because they'd seen the play before and it seemed even worse the second time around.
He returned home to find his wife shouting at the servants who'd apparently been complaining that they weren’t being fed enough meat, a fact which had been made worse by their being given Suffolk cheese instead; a favourite of the Navy, which was renowned for being cheap, rather ghastly, and as hard as concrete! Sam had obviously got himself a whole load on the cheap and didn’t fancy eating it himself.
Monday, 3 October 2011
She said I began to sing long before I could talk...
I did a morning of work in the cafe and in the mid afternoon went for a long walk with Fiona. We decided it was going to be the last day of sunshine so ambled through the woods into Muswell Hill and then down the steep hill into Crouch End, where we met Vicky Matthews and her lovely son in a pub, where a pint of lemonade cost a ridiculous £3.80! Nicky's son is brilliantly porky. A fine figure of a nine-month-old with a freakish interest in books for one so young! He'll be reciting poems before he can talk! What was it Agnetha said? "Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk..."
We walked home along the disused railway line and watched the sky as it darkened from an odd lemon colour through peach into a bizarre shade of tangerine. They say a strange sunset often signifies a big change in the weather, so perhaps tomorrow will bring rain.
350 years, ago Pepys went to the Tower of London to meet a man who was due to lend him 50 quid. They went to the pub and drank themselves silly. In the evening Pepys called in on Sir William Batten and his wife, who'd both been to see the pretty rubbish play that Pepys had watched the previous day. Elizabeth Batten enjoyed it hugely, and Pepys mocked her thoroughly... Obviously behind her back. He could be a proper little bitch when he wanted!
We walked home along the disused railway line and watched the sky as it darkened from an odd lemon colour through peach into a bizarre shade of tangerine. They say a strange sunset often signifies a big change in the weather, so perhaps tomorrow will bring rain.
350 years, ago Pepys went to the Tower of London to meet a man who was due to lend him 50 quid. They went to the pub and drank themselves silly. In the evening Pepys called in on Sir William Batten and his wife, who'd both been to see the pretty rubbish play that Pepys had watched the previous day. Elizabeth Batten enjoyed it hugely, and Pepys mocked her thoroughly... Obviously behind her back. He could be a proper little bitch when he wanted!
Sunday, 2 October 2011
I never loved you more than on those happy autumn days
We've been at my parents' house in Thaxted all day. It was a last minute decision. When you wake up on October the second and discover it's the hottest day of the year, you have to get out and about.
I knew brother Edward and Sascha were heading up, so it felt like the perfect opportunity for an ad hoc family gathering.
The sun was so hot, but it was a strange, dusty, almost dead heat. Like the heat you'd expect to find in a desert. Dry as toast, rather Mediterranean and certainly very unlike anything I've experienced in this country. It's hotter here than it is in Rome, Athens and LA. We're practically the hottest place in the world!
We walked around the fields and everything felt wrong. Beautiful but wrong. The sun was low in the sky, so the shadows were as long as I've seen. Nathan had his top off and yet we were kicking our way through autumn leaves. The bushes were laden with sloes and juniper berries, and many of the trees were turning brown. But it felt like Spain. Hot. Utterly magical. It must have triggered the Leo The Lion fire energy inside me because I felt truly alive. We came back home and shared the first apple from one of my parents' trees; a fabulously crunchy variety with a proper kick to it. I bloomin' love the autumn!
350 years ago Pepys went to visit his cousin Peg Kite. Great name. She was the daughter of Pepys' Auntie Julian (another fabulous name) and Pepys hated her. In fact he went as far as to describe her as a slut. Steady on!
There was a trip in the afternoon to the King's Theatre to see a play called Victoria Corombona, which Pepys hated. His enjoyment of the piece was hindered greatly by really rubbish seats. 6 days ago at the Union Theatre, I knew exactly how he felt!
I knew brother Edward and Sascha were heading up, so it felt like the perfect opportunity for an ad hoc family gathering.
The sun was so hot, but it was a strange, dusty, almost dead heat. Like the heat you'd expect to find in a desert. Dry as toast, rather Mediterranean and certainly very unlike anything I've experienced in this country. It's hotter here than it is in Rome, Athens and LA. We're practically the hottest place in the world!
We walked around the fields and everything felt wrong. Beautiful but wrong. The sun was low in the sky, so the shadows were as long as I've seen. Nathan had his top off and yet we were kicking our way through autumn leaves. The bushes were laden with sloes and juniper berries, and many of the trees were turning brown. But it felt like Spain. Hot. Utterly magical. It must have triggered the Leo The Lion fire energy inside me because I felt truly alive. We came back home and shared the first apple from one of my parents' trees; a fabulously crunchy variety with a proper kick to it. I bloomin' love the autumn!
350 years ago Pepys went to visit his cousin Peg Kite. Great name. She was the daughter of Pepys' Auntie Julian (another fabulous name) and Pepys hated her. In fact he went as far as to describe her as a slut. Steady on!
There was a trip in the afternoon to the King's Theatre to see a play called Victoria Corombona, which Pepys hated. His enjoyment of the piece was hindered greatly by really rubbish seats. 6 days ago at the Union Theatre, I knew exactly how he felt!
Saturday, 1 October 2011
Thank you for the music
I woke up at about 10am and immediately set sail for Northampton. It ought to have been a fairly speedy journey, straight up the M1, but there are “road improvement works” at Luton which slowed me up considerably. There are always road improvement works at Luton. When they finish one section, I’m sure they simply dig it up and start all over again. The M1 is meant to be our flagship motorway; the speediest route to the North, yet for the last 5 years it’s been impossible to get beyond Luton in under an hour and a half. Grrr...
I reached Northampton just before lunchtime and had a bag of chips at Harry Ramsbottom’s whilst watching the world go by. It’s a troubled town. Northamptonians tend not to bother with their town centre these days and are far more likely to do their shopping down the road in Milton Keynes. The beautiful medieval market square, which used to house one of the biggest markets I’ve ever seen, has borne the brunt of years of council mismanagement. They’ve made parking difficult and expensive. They’ve made the streets complicated to drive around. There are weird one way systems. There are way too many concrete buildings. The place feels unloved. They’ve cleared half the market stalls in the square to create a “performance space” which no one ever performs in, and because half the market stalls have gone, the rest are struggling to attract customers so are closing at a great rate of knots. The area should be filled with street cafes, but instead, bored Somalian lads hang about in little clusters, intimidating anyone who has dared to venture into the badlands.
The people who were shuffling past me seemed inadequate and slightly pathetic. It actually became quite upsetting. I saw a toddler in a push chair wearing eye makeup. I’ve never seen so many ticks and limps and obviously troubled people. The busiest shop was the pawn-broker.
To make matters worse, The Jesus Army were out and about, stopping young people in the streets. They’d erected some kind of marquee and there were a group of chinless types playing some of those grotesquely chirpy Jesus songs on guitars and un-rhythmic bongos. I fail to see how any group of people could want to publically celebrate a) being so talentless b) being so ugly c) being so sinister d) being so smug e) being so unable to think for themselves f) being so fast to condemn and g) annoying the hell out of God! They’d set up a little pair of chairs and a table which had a big bowl of pretzels on it (oy vey) one assumes to attract hungry people and then clobber them with Jesus speak. I’m not sure it counts as an A-grade conversion if a group of homeless people move in to take advantage of free pretzels. A weird women in a fair-isle cardigan was telling them that Jesus loves everyone (obviously she was lying) but that he particularly loves the poor. The homeless people were out of their minds on crack. One of them didn’t seem to be aware of his own existence. A conversation about the existence of God was almost definitely one step too far. I bet the cardigan-beclad perm-headed cow handing out leaflets washed her hands very carefully at the end of the day, smug in the knowledge that she’d bought a few more souls for Jesus. Meanwhile, the crack head had stolen her wallet and used God’s money to buy himself another hit (or a multi-pack of pretzels) Ah, the delicious irony.
I sat in a cafe for a couple of hours writing music, before meeting Debbie outside Radio Northampton. Debbie is an old friend from Music School days. We sang in choirs together. She came punting with me on my 18th birthday. We go back a long way. She looked fabulously cool in a pair of sunglasses.
Northampton was blisteringly hot. It was, in fact, the hottest October day on record, so we went to Abingdon Park and sat in a lovely cafe, before driving up to Kingsthorpe to pick up her lovely kids and deposit them at some kind of Beaver convention. The Beavers, I’m told, are miniature cubs. We were north of the town near Weston Favell shopping centre, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many children swarming around a single concrete courtyard. It was mayhem.
The purpose of my trip to Northampton was to see a memorial concert for a chap called Jack Zerfahs, who taught ‘cello at the music school back in the day. He must have lived to be very old indeed, because he’d semi-retired even back then. He always taught the ‘cellists who set at the front of the orchestras and as such I was always a little angry not to be one of his brood. He ran the auditions and made all the decisions about who sat where in what orchestra, and, I suppose, would be very fast to point out that one of his pupils hadn’t done his or her best if they’d had a bad audition day.
Anyway, the concert was performed by a huge number of people I knew; teachers, former pupils, many of whom I’d not seen for 20 years. Some, like my cello teacher, from the age of 7 to 17, didn’t seem to have changed whatsoever. It was delightful to see her. Others looked grey and wizened. The ensemble was essentially a string orchestra. Fiona was playing. Others from our era looked extremely well. Many had had children. Some were still pro musicians, others had successful city careers. Some of the older kids were there as well; the ones who were glamorous sixth formers when I was 14, and used to scare and excite me in equal measure. I actually struggled to speak to one of them afterwards – feeling that same-old child-like crippling embarrassment as he talked to me about his business restoring stringed instruments. Once a sixth former, always a sixth former!
The quote of the evening had to be from Mr Dyson, who used to run my string quartet. I went up to him, and shook his hand, “I doubt you’ll remember me...” I said. Hoping that he would. He looked hard, and then smiled. “Ben?” “Yes!” I said – thrilled to be remembered. And then he continued – rather proudly... “Benjamin Twigg,” he said. “Till” I said, “Benjamin Till...
Although it’s funny you should call me Twigg...” and then it dawned on me that it wasn’t funny at all. Those who know me well will remember that I was once the partner of a certain New Labour MP, who was elected in what many might think of as the defining moment of the 1997 election. His name was Stephen Twigg and it was the most surreal period of my life. We were plastered across a number of newspapers, and I suppose, as it all happened four or so years after I’d left Northamptonshire, people like Mr Dyson would have read the papers, seen my photograph, and been impressed/ horrified/ excited that I was moving in such impressive/horrifying/exciting circles. In his mind, I guess, I’ll always be associated with that moment in time. He later told Fiona how embarrassed he was about the “gaff.” She (correctly) told him that I’d found it hysterically funny, because it’s exactly the sort of thing that I’d have done myself.
Anyway – it was a fabulous concert and the orchestra played brilliantly.
I went home via Fiona’s parents’ in Collingtree where Fiona’s nephew was staying the night. In a particularly hysterical episode, he was awake when Barbara checked in on him, so she brought him out in his little sleeping bag to say hello and have a little night-time cuddle. He was smiling and gurning like a lunatic and didn’t seem to be at all receptive, even when people spoke directly to him. It was then we realised he wasn’t actually awake at all. His eyes were open, but Oskar was in the land of nod. I guess you really had to be there, but it was brilliantly amusing.
On my way home – at 1am – I got stuck in the mother of all traffic jams on the M1... Same area around Luton. I didn’t get back to Highgate until 3.
350 years ago, Pepys and his wife “lay long in bed” and amongst other things talked about music. Elizabeth wanted to learn how to sing. Co-incidentally, Pepys had booked himself in for a singing lesson with his teacher Mr Goodgroome, that morning, so Elizabeth tagged along. Pepys wasn’t the most tactful man. Elizabeth wasn’t a particularly musical lady. There may be trouble ahead...
I reached Northampton just before lunchtime and had a bag of chips at Harry Ramsbottom’s whilst watching the world go by. It’s a troubled town. Northamptonians tend not to bother with their town centre these days and are far more likely to do their shopping down the road in Milton Keynes. The beautiful medieval market square, which used to house one of the biggest markets I’ve ever seen, has borne the brunt of years of council mismanagement. They’ve made parking difficult and expensive. They’ve made the streets complicated to drive around. There are weird one way systems. There are way too many concrete buildings. The place feels unloved. They’ve cleared half the market stalls in the square to create a “performance space” which no one ever performs in, and because half the market stalls have gone, the rest are struggling to attract customers so are closing at a great rate of knots. The area should be filled with street cafes, but instead, bored Somalian lads hang about in little clusters, intimidating anyone who has dared to venture into the badlands.
The people who were shuffling past me seemed inadequate and slightly pathetic. It actually became quite upsetting. I saw a toddler in a push chair wearing eye makeup. I’ve never seen so many ticks and limps and obviously troubled people. The busiest shop was the pawn-broker.
To make matters worse, The Jesus Army were out and about, stopping young people in the streets. They’d erected some kind of marquee and there were a group of chinless types playing some of those grotesquely chirpy Jesus songs on guitars and un-rhythmic bongos. I fail to see how any group of people could want to publically celebrate a) being so talentless b) being so ugly c) being so sinister d) being so smug e) being so unable to think for themselves f) being so fast to condemn and g) annoying the hell out of God! They’d set up a little pair of chairs and a table which had a big bowl of pretzels on it (oy vey) one assumes to attract hungry people and then clobber them with Jesus speak. I’m not sure it counts as an A-grade conversion if a group of homeless people move in to take advantage of free pretzels. A weird women in a fair-isle cardigan was telling them that Jesus loves everyone (obviously she was lying) but that he particularly loves the poor. The homeless people were out of their minds on crack. One of them didn’t seem to be aware of his own existence. A conversation about the existence of God was almost definitely one step too far. I bet the cardigan-beclad perm-headed cow handing out leaflets washed her hands very carefully at the end of the day, smug in the knowledge that she’d bought a few more souls for Jesus. Meanwhile, the crack head had stolen her wallet and used God’s money to buy himself another hit (or a multi-pack of pretzels) Ah, the delicious irony.
I sat in a cafe for a couple of hours writing music, before meeting Debbie outside Radio Northampton. Debbie is an old friend from Music School days. We sang in choirs together. She came punting with me on my 18th birthday. We go back a long way. She looked fabulously cool in a pair of sunglasses.
Northampton was blisteringly hot. It was, in fact, the hottest October day on record, so we went to Abingdon Park and sat in a lovely cafe, before driving up to Kingsthorpe to pick up her lovely kids and deposit them at some kind of Beaver convention. The Beavers, I’m told, are miniature cubs. We were north of the town near Weston Favell shopping centre, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many children swarming around a single concrete courtyard. It was mayhem.
The purpose of my trip to Northampton was to see a memorial concert for a chap called Jack Zerfahs, who taught ‘cello at the music school back in the day. He must have lived to be very old indeed, because he’d semi-retired even back then. He always taught the ‘cellists who set at the front of the orchestras and as such I was always a little angry not to be one of his brood. He ran the auditions and made all the decisions about who sat where in what orchestra, and, I suppose, would be very fast to point out that one of his pupils hadn’t done his or her best if they’d had a bad audition day.
Anyway, the concert was performed by a huge number of people I knew; teachers, former pupils, many of whom I’d not seen for 20 years. Some, like my cello teacher, from the age of 7 to 17, didn’t seem to have changed whatsoever. It was delightful to see her. Others looked grey and wizened. The ensemble was essentially a string orchestra. Fiona was playing. Others from our era looked extremely well. Many had had children. Some were still pro musicians, others had successful city careers. Some of the older kids were there as well; the ones who were glamorous sixth formers when I was 14, and used to scare and excite me in equal measure. I actually struggled to speak to one of them afterwards – feeling that same-old child-like crippling embarrassment as he talked to me about his business restoring stringed instruments. Once a sixth former, always a sixth former!
The quote of the evening had to be from Mr Dyson, who used to run my string quartet. I went up to him, and shook his hand, “I doubt you’ll remember me...” I said. Hoping that he would. He looked hard, and then smiled. “Ben?” “Yes!” I said – thrilled to be remembered. And then he continued – rather proudly... “Benjamin Twigg,” he said. “Till” I said, “Benjamin Till...
Although it’s funny you should call me Twigg...” and then it dawned on me that it wasn’t funny at all. Those who know me well will remember that I was once the partner of a certain New Labour MP, who was elected in what many might think of as the defining moment of the 1997 election. His name was Stephen Twigg and it was the most surreal period of my life. We were plastered across a number of newspapers, and I suppose, as it all happened four or so years after I’d left Northamptonshire, people like Mr Dyson would have read the papers, seen my photograph, and been impressed/ horrified/ excited that I was moving in such impressive/horrifying/exciting circles. In his mind, I guess, I’ll always be associated with that moment in time. He later told Fiona how embarrassed he was about the “gaff.” She (correctly) told him that I’d found it hysterically funny, because it’s exactly the sort of thing that I’d have done myself.
Remember this?
Anyway – it was a fabulous concert and the orchestra played brilliantly.
I went home via Fiona’s parents’ in Collingtree where Fiona’s nephew was staying the night. In a particularly hysterical episode, he was awake when Barbara checked in on him, so she brought him out in his little sleeping bag to say hello and have a little night-time cuddle. He was smiling and gurning like a lunatic and didn’t seem to be at all receptive, even when people spoke directly to him. It was then we realised he wasn’t actually awake at all. His eyes were open, but Oskar was in the land of nod. I guess you really had to be there, but it was brilliantly amusing.
On my way home – at 1am – I got stuck in the mother of all traffic jams on the M1... Same area around Luton. I didn’t get back to Highgate until 3.
350 years ago, Pepys and his wife “lay long in bed” and amongst other things talked about music. Elizabeth wanted to learn how to sing. Co-incidentally, Pepys had booked himself in for a singing lesson with his teacher Mr Goodgroome, that morning, so Elizabeth tagged along. Pepys wasn’t the most tactful man. Elizabeth wasn’t a particularly musical lady. There may be trouble ahead...
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