I save the sugar bit for the wine!

I didn’t sleep very well last night. I think I was cold, which is really strange for me. The duvet on the bed was as flimsy as paper, and I fell asleep with the television on. I woke up periodically through the night to hear little snippets of various TV programmes, culminating in BBC Breakfast. It was very surreal. I got up having subconsciously ingested the main headlines of the day and learnt how to sign the word "explosion."

I had a horrible breakfast near the train station; half-cooked mushrooms on soggy toast, before meeting producer Paul by the train to Hattersley. The weather turned nasty as we trundled out of Manchester. A thin rainbow was glowing in an otherwise angry sky and then it started to rain.

The walk from Hattersley train station to the community centre where we were basing ourselves for the day was cataclysmic. The skies opened and we were attacked by millions of razor-sharp hail stones, one of which lodged itself in my eardrum and melted painfully.

The community centre was buzzing, however; filled to the brim with tables neatly set out for a Christmas party. Sitting at the tables were 150 elderly people tucking into plates of pork pies and turkey sandwiches. A middle-aged man with a mullet was singing classic hits to backing tracks, whilst his wife sat at a computer looking like the lovely Debbie McGee. We felt a little bit like intruders and, as we arrived, the community centre manager rushed over to say she’d been trying to contact us to tell us that today wasn’t a very good day for us to start our search.  

As it happened, it turned out to be the most perfect day to hang around the community centre. Everyone was in a really good mood, we were able to make a little announcement to tell people what we were doing, and we were very wonderfully welcomed into the community fold. Hattersley estate, with its links to the Moors Murderers and Harold Shipman, has had a lot of unnecessary bad press over the years, but, and maybe even because of the press, its sense of community spirit is remarkable. We were sat down, given a cup of tea, and then a lovely plate of meat, and then even a little Christmas present.

We met some proper characters including a wonderful lady who cares for a blind gentleman who’s also slowly going deaf. She is literally becoming his eyes and ears, and he is utterly dependent on her, which is particularly sad as he’s a pianist and she used to depend on him as her accompanist when she sang.

Quote of the day came from a lovely woman with purple hair, who, upon winning three pots of jam in the raffle, took a large glug of wine and announced excitedly; “I love the pots... I can’t eat the jam, of course, I’m diabetic. I save the sugar bit for the wine.”

350 years ago, and Pepys was hanging out with a Captain Ferrers and a German gentleman, one of Montagu’s footmen, called Emanuel Luffe, who borrowed Pepys’ theorbo, and by playing beautifully reminded Pepys what a wonderful instrument he’d acquired. Ferrers and Luffe departed after a breakfast of mince pies, but the German returned minutes later, covered in blood, nursing a massive wound to his head, saying that Ferrers had been killed by a waterman at the Tower Stairs. Pepys immediately rushed to the place where the murder had happened, but found all was well. Captain Ferrers, in true Ferrersian style, had picked a fight with a couple of watermen, provoked a rather sound beating for himself and his German companion, who had rushed at one of the watermen with his sword, before heading back to Pepys’ house for extra manpower. In the meantime, Captain Ferrers, who had at least nine lives, had escaped on a passing boat. Pepys returned to his house to find his wife dressing a wound on the German’s head. Luffe was presented with a cravat to protect another wound on his neck, and a crown as a thank you for protecting their troublesome mutual friend.

Is it grim up North?

I'm on a train, wending my way through the Midlands towards Manchester. I have no idea where we are, and it's incredibly dark outside, so I can't see if there's snow on the ground. I've heard it's very cold up north, however. It always is when I start these film projects. Last year, my trip to Newcastle was accompanied by some of the coldest weather the North East has ever experienced. My first meeting about this project was two years ago, and happened on another snowy day. The latter part of my journey from London to Manchester was terrifying. The city centre was experiencing a white-out and I was weeping as I drove along. I went into a massive spin at one point and simply deserted the car where it came to a halt, somewhere near the pavement, somewhere near the BBC!

I'm excited and nervous because, as ever on these projects, I've no idea who I'm going to meet, what I'm going to write, or what the film is going to be about. All I know is that it will be fabulous! 

I spent the day with Penny in the East End. We're making an application for funding for a performance of the Requiem in a graveyard next September and were talking to Rich Mix about the possibility of their coming on board. They seemed to love the idea, as everyone has, really. This particular work has stirred up so much emotion and imagination. Everyone has a different, yet equally interesting take on how it might be used as the basis for outreach work, or associated projects. I suppose the bottom line is simply that death is inspiring. Perhaps I am also inspiring.

I got to Euston station way too early and the place was rammed with commuters heading home. There was nowhere to sit, so I found myself perching on a little ledge behind the Sock Shop. Periodically, a train would be announced and a terrifying, seemingly endless cluster of people would rush past me in the direction of the platforms. None of them seemed to notice me squatting there at knee height, and they kept knocking my suitcase over without apologising. On one occasion I vanished temporarily underneath a passing coat. It smelt musky and damp, like a gym changing room. The only person who came close to spotting me on my little ledge, merely commented on the paper cup I'd left on my right hand side. "Mind the paper cup, Mum," she said, "it might have something in it." Mum trod on it, and tea squirted onto my trouser leg. 

The man sitting next to me, who I know has seats booked for himself further down the carriage that he "couldn't be bothered to walk to," is coughing like a maniac. Normally I wouldn't be bothered, but having still not entirely got over the whoops, the experience is terrifying me. He's also giving off a huge amount of heat, so  trapped between a radiator under the window and Fuzzy Bear, I feel like a toasted sandwich. 

350 years ago, the Navy office did a trade deal with the East India company. Bombay had just become part of the British Empire as a result of Charles II's union with Catherine de Braganza. 

The Navy crew went to talk to the King about the deal, but there was a major falling out on the way home after Pepys jokingly accused Sir William Batten of only wanting to visit the Three Tuns pub to catch an eyeful, and probably cop a feel of the pretty bar woman there. Not a word was spoken all the way home and their relationship would never fully recover! 

British Pride

I don’t have anything to say today. Not one thing. I’ve not done anything interesting. I’ve merely sat at various tables, attempting to tick mundane tasks off a list written on the back of an envelope. I’ve done washing, I’ve tidied things, I've sent invoices, I've played with the rats, I've sent ideas for projects to various producers, drank copious mugs of tea, sent a shirty email to an agent who crossed someone I care about. Nothing of any great consequence and certainly nothing to write about in great detail.

I notice that the government has decided to double the budget for the Olympic games opening ceremony. Another £41m to spend on a massive display of British pride. No doubt an old rocker will play guitar licks, and Leona Lewis will wail a bit, whilst 26,000 deaf school children hold little cards above their heads to form a variety of world flags whilst signing "Hey Jude" or Elbow's "One Day Like this a year will see me right." I’m pretty sure there’ll also be some optical illusion/ lighting effect which turns the entire stadium into a lake, whilst a life-sized ferry floats through the sky on wires. There's a limit to what you can do in a circular stadium when it's raining. The audience will all be given glow sticks - and from helicopters the whole place will look like the milky way. I suspect the injection of cash will mean the key artists double their fees. The 25,000 school children, wheelchair dancers and community choirs, however, will still earn nothing.

I was really proud when I heard that the original plan for the ceremony reflected the austerity of our times. When there’s less money, people have to be inventive. Leona Lewis drops off the list of performers, but you get someone less well known - but crucially, better! We all know we can’t afford the Olympics. They're going to cripple the economy, and I hate the fact that we’re using the platform to try to pretend to the rest of the world that we’re fine and dandy. What’s wrong with an austere opening ceremony? Why don't we spend £40m on creative projects outside London for people who can't afford to be there?

350 years ago, and Pepys went for a fourth sitting with Mr Savill the portrait painter. The picture still wasn’t pleasing him, and he was starting to get worried. Pepys had mince pies for lunch. Sadly, I think it was a coincidence that he ate them so near to Christmas, as they used to be eaten all year round. They were enormous things as well – a savoury/ sweet mix of meat, fruit and sugar which could weigh up to 20lbs. Still, they were obviously something a bit decadent, reserved for a special occasion, as Pepys used them as the basis for an impromptu party. The evening was spent at the theatre, seeing Hamlet.

All change

It's gone very cold and we've retreated into the sitting room to watch The Cube whilst eating a pizza. 

We've been helping Jem and Ian to move this afternoon. They've  left the horrors of Streatham and are now in the relatively civilised confines of Totteridge and Whetstone, which is only a ten minute drive from us. 

Their new flat is lovely; incredibly light and very open plan. It's part of a  1960s block, which would have been very fancy when it was first built. Many of the original features are still there, including sliding internal doors and enormous picture windows. 

There's nothing else to say about today. I'm just trying to relax so that I can face my incredibly busy week in Manchester with properly recharged batteries.

Wednesday 4th June, 1661, and Pepys went to Whitehall by boat with the two Sir Williams. At Westminster Stairs, where the boat was moored, Pepys discovered the corpse of a man who'd drowned in the Thames the day before. One assumes, in those days, it was no one's problem, so the corpse, like the heads of traitors on various spikes across the city was probably merely left to rot, or kicked back into the river to float somewhere else. 
 
Pepys went to his painter to collect his wife, who was also having her portrait done. They went to the theatre, but arrived too late for the show, and Pepys wasn't feeling too good (describing himself as being a bit "out of tune") so they went home and read until bedtime. 

Strange lights

Whilst driving through the country lanes that twist their way towards Stansted Airport from Thaxted this evening, I became very conscious of the strange reflections that the headlights of my father's  car were casting in the sky on the left hand side of the car. A shower of feint lights seemed to be dancing in the darkness. 

I pointed them out to my Mum, who said "gosh, is that just the effect of the headlights?"

...It wasn't. We turned a corner and drove along a straight section of road, where the hedges were low, and were astonished to discover that the lights in the sky were nothing to do with our car. 

I warn all readers that there is no satisfactory end to this story. I will probably never know what caused the phenomenon. Low in the Eastern sky, two smudgy rings of light were hovering in the sky. The rings spread out and then closed in again, repeatedly, like one of those bizarre electric jelly fish you get miles below the surface of the sea.

It was plainly not something supernatural. I'm sure it was merely a set of party lights on the ground that were somehow being reflected by low-hanging cloud. It was, however, rather odd to see, so close to the airport, as though some strange space ship was trying to make contact with the metal flying birds it had observed on earth! 

I had a lovely afternoon today on Upper Street with Julie and the guys who run the beach bar we used to hang out in in Italy. It was such a privilege to  hang out with them. They've become complete Anglofiles and were photographing every street sign, antique store or display of wool that we passed! 

I don't think there's anything more important in life than enthusiasm. I have inherited a love for life from my parents, who I guess must have taught me that there's something uniquely interesting or entertaining in any situation. "Only boring people get bored," my mother would say, and she was right. Boredom is dangerous. Those without a lust for life become engulfed by bitterness which eats away at them from the inside. I therefore greatly appreciate the great lovers on this planet. They're the ones who will keep us going when we're all forced to return to more simple living. 

Less fun was trying to find a space on Upper Street, where parking only becomes free on a Saturday after 1.30pm, and otherwise costs a staggering £5 per hour. I drove round and round desperately looking for a meter, only to find one that was broken. The only method of payment available was the dreaded automated phone system. I was in my parent's car, and its registration wasn't logged on the system under my phone number. My most recent debit card was similarly unrecognised by the computer voice, which eventually decided it was best all round if the virtual conversation was brought to an abrupt halt. "Goodbye!" she said, before f***ing off! 

By the time I'd called again, and painstakingly typed various letters and numbers into the system, periodically failing, and needing to start all over again, it was almost half past one. The whole process took precisely 23 minutes, which cost the council about £2 in lost parking revenue.

350 years ago, and Pepys sat for Mr Savill the painter. He obviously had a crafty peak at the unfinished picture, because he left feeling unhappy that the image wouldn't be a good likeness. 

He lunched with Lady Sandwich and a ghastly woman who talked obsessively about the importance of being on trend when it came to fashion, and spent hours rubbishing country gentlewomen for their outdated taste in clothes. Pepys was unimpressed, despite being something of a 17th Century dandy himself. 

He had a run of very vivid dreams that night. He dreamt that his wife had been thrown badly from a horse and broken her leg and then that he himself was in so much pain that he woke up... In terrible agony. Fortunately, it appears the pain was psychosomatic, as the following day, he was as fit as a fiddle. Maybe waking up with the terrible pain was also part of the dream. Poor Pepys, ever worried by his health. 

Floods and sewage workers

I am about ready to drop. My eyes are going slightly blurry as I type and my face feels hot. I’ve been a very busy boy this week and cannot wait for the weekend.

Today, I was up at ridiculous-o’clock to go to Birmingham. Unfortunately, none of the taps in the house seemed to have water coming out of them, so I was forced to do the thing I hate most in the world – and start the day without a bath... or a cup of tea.

My mood was lifted, however, by the dawn sun, which was casting the most extraordinary light on one side of the pavement of the A1 outside. I watched, transfixed, for some minutes as commuters emerged from the shadows and immediately brought their hands up to shade their eyes from the intense orange light, which lit them up like halogen lights.

As I was preparing to leave the house, I found the chap who lives in the downstairs flat – also called Ben – rather pathetically standing at his door. It became apparent that the cause of the lack of water was something to do with his flat. When he woke up this morning his kitchen was under a good inch of water, which was still pouring out of his washing machine. It was dripping down into the shop below. The poor man had tried to mop the water up, and then thrown every towel he owned on the kitchen floor, but the water continued to pour, and his face continued to redden and sweat.

I felt awful leaving him to his crisis, but I needed to be in Birmingham. I cruised up the M1 at hyper-speed. 8.30am is obviously a good time to head north out of London. I was at Watford Gap within about an hour, so stopped off for a cup of tea and a nose about. Watford Gap was the focus of one of my musical films, which featured all sorts of friends from back home in Northamptonshire. It was a wonderful project, and the place is full of happy memories. It’s a troubled place, however. Once almost legendary as the spot where all sorts of pop and rock stars converged in the wee smalls after gigging around the country, it had character and charm. It’s now part of a generic chain of service stations; branded to the heavens, and decorated cheaply. It had a refurb before we shot the film, and it’s had another once since. It still looks tatty. Like a Woolworth’s shop. You don’t even enter the place by the main doors any more – and horror of horrors, the Wimpey has now been replaced by MacDonalds.

The job I was doing in Birmingham involved teaching a group of sewage workers how to sing, but they were a fabulous bunch of people. It was an absolute privilege to work with them. They were charming, friendly and up-for-it, which made my job so easy. I taught them to sing Winter Wonderland in two-part harmony, whilst ringing hand bells, and making the sounds of snow. Every time I get north of Watford Gap, I realise how much more friendly the people are. There was no edge to any of them. They were true West Midlanders. A number of them were from Coventry, which pulled my accent all over the place. I sounded like Cat Dealey by the time I left! The guy that met us knew my Grandfather’s butcher shops in the city and sounded like my old Uncle Charlie. I recognised immediately that he was from Cov and the first question I asked him was “so, where in Cov are you from?” “Coventry” he said – before realising quite how specific my question had been. I explained my link, and later over-heard him telling someone that I had a broad Coventry accent as well. I must have done by the time I’d finished talking to them all. It’s an accent that makes me feel very safe.

I came home via Northampton, and picked Fiona up in Collingtree where she’d been spending a couple of days with her family. Barbara, her mother, created an enormous and glorious collation of food in the time it took me to play Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends with Fiona’s hysterical nephews. There were five different types of cake. It would have been rude not to sample them all.

We drove back to London nattering – and here I am, really. The top half of me suited and booted, the bottom half wearing pyjamas.

It’s the second of December. Can someone tell me where the year went?

December 2^nd, 1661, and Pepys went for a sitting with the painter, Mr Savill, who was doing his portrait. Mr Savill was ill, however, so no work got done. The rest of the day was spent with various friends, their various mistresses, in various pubs, at various theatres, drinking merrily.

Turncoats and snubbers

I'm on the newly refurbished Northern Line platform at Tottenham Court Road. I use the word refurbished with a pinch of salt. The walls are barely plastered and the whole place looks distinctly unfinished. It's either some form of shabby-industrial-chic statement, or the money/ time ran out and this was the best they could do!

Another day spent in the bowels of BBC Television Centre. I haven't seen anything like enough daylight. I've also eaten rather too much canteen food, so feel bloated and tired. 

Matt's show was brilliant tonight. The guests were Louis Walsh, Jermaine Greer and Clive Anderson, and the humour bubbled up really nicely without anyone trying too hard. All the guests came across as genuinely nice people, so I was a little disappointed to be slightly snubbed by Professor Greer afterwards. 

She'd announced to the audience that she lived on Junction 9 of the M11, which is just north of Thaxted, so afterwards I sidled over, announced that I'd been doing autocue, and mentioned that my parents lived in Thaxted. "Oh" she said, imagining, I'm sure, that I'd crawled out from a slimy pit and was going to request her autograph. Her tone was so dismissive that I instantly felt ashamed and started to burble. "Is that close to you?" I asked. She looked over my shoulder, "Thaxted is south" she said, "at junction 8." "Yes" I said, "but it can't be that far away. Which village are you in?" There was a stunned silence, like I'd just asked for her age, followed by her bra size. I felt even sillier and burbled on... "you must live near Saffron Walden, or Duxford, or something like that?" "Something like that" she said, and nodded and moved on to the man behind me, painting a glorious smile across her face because he was a somebody, and to her, I was a nobody. Quite why she didn't have enough charm to say, "isn't Thaxted beautiful" or ask if I'd grown up in the area, I've no idea. 

I hope one day that someone will make her feel as silly as she made me feel. 

December 1st, 1661 was a Sunday, and Pepys entertained an old university friend whilst Elizabeth went to church. They ate Braun and "rare" gherkins, drank a great deal of wine and gossiped about politics. Pepys referred to the bad treatment of the "poor cavillers" during the interregnum. Turn coat!