Olympic Junkie

I’m watching the Olympics like a true junkie at the moment. I’d intravenously inject newsfeeds if I could. Periodically I treat myself for working hard by having a quick look at the BBC website to see if we’ve won any more golds. I’m always the same with the Olympics. The first one I can remember was 1980. We were on holiday in Tenby and must have been lucky enough to have a television in our guesthouse room. With this in mind, it’s probably quite surprising that I was so profoundly against the Olympics being staged in London. In fairness, my beef was always that I felt money was being diverted from the arts in order to stage the event, and that ordinary Londoners were being screwed over in the process. I still believe this to be the case, but am simultaneously very pleased to belong to the hosting nation, and ferociously proud of the GB athletes who have done so well. The Olympics are genuinely proving to be an antidote to the pain of this year’s bad weather and the awful financial situation we’re all in, and for that, I’m hugely grateful. My hard-line position thaws with each day, and sometimes I even find myself wishing that I’d booked to see an event; how many of us wish we were in the main stadium on Super Saturday, for example?

What bores me, however, (as a veritable connoisseur of the BBC’s coverage) is these silly glamour-pusses who are dusted up and stuck in front of BBC cameras to work as the anchors for Olympic coverage. You know the ones; zero personality, lip-gloss like olive oil, perfect complexions generated by trowel-loads of make-up and, more crucially, no interest in sport. I’m not talking about the wonderful female presenters who genuinely do know their stuff. Sue Barker – great. Denise Lewis – great. Clare Balding – double great (God, I love that woman)... But for every one of those genuine sports women, there’s three of these blandly attractive female presenters. I watched a woman this morning describing one of the corners of the triathlon route as a “hair pin bend” and worrying that the blokes running ‘round it might slip over. The person who she was interviewing stared at her disbelievingly. They’ve started parachuting these women onto football shows as well, thereby creating an own goal for the BBC. They do it, of course, to prove that sport isn’t a male-dominated world, but by selecting personality-free dolly birds, they play into the hands of chauvinists, who will either objectivise the women or legitimately argue, “well if that’s the best you can do, women obviously don’t know a thing about sport.” News anchors are the same. There’s a revolving series of silly young women who seem to present BBC London news, all, we assume, hoping to be promoted to prime time entertainment slots as quickly as possible. When will the BBC stop sacking the women with wisdom and age on their side, simply because they’re not perceived as totty any more?

I’ve been in Durham all day. Another first! We’ve been making a film to launch my next project, 100 Faces. The question we’re asking people across the North East and Cumbria: Why was 2012 important for you? We “vox-popped” that very question to a number of Durham’s finest today. It’s astonishing how open and willing to chat people are in the North East. We had some wonderful answers; “2012 was the year I got back together with my wife after splitting up for 2 years” and perhaps my favourite, which came from a 10-year old lad; “2012 was the year I finally made double figures!”

I’m afraid it’s still a secret what I shall be doing with the answers to these question, but the launch will happen next Wednesday, so if you live in that region, keep your eyes and ears peeled...

On the way back from Durham, I achieved another mini-first by visiting the curiously named Durham suburb of Pity Me, which features on the soundtrack to my A1 film. “Why is there a town called Pity Me?” The lorry driver asks. I’m still none the wiser. When I asked one of the residents the question, she looked a bit confused and said “I think the name goes back to the 16^th Century.” Wikipedia offers up a number of theories, one of which suggests the name might have been coined in the 19^th Century as “a whimsical name bestowed on a place considered desolate, exposed or difficult to cultivate...” Surely there are maps from earlier than the 19^th Century which would show if this were a valid theory?

August 7^th, 1662, and Pepys was, once again up at 4am and in the office, working hard, by 5. He continued to find great pleasure in the work he was doing, and felt greatly proud of himself for abstaining from wine, plays and adultery!

A little visit

I’m in Cumbria of all places, speeding across the gloriously beautiful Pennines to Newcastle on one of the prettiest train journeys I’ve ever taken. I keep hoping to see a bit of Hadrian’s Wall. One of my greatest ambitions in life is to see one of the relatively intact sections of this mystical monument. We tried to find it as children, but didn’t know where to look.

My next project for the BBC involves working right the way across the top of England... True North, if you like; basically everything between Scotland and Yorkshire and Lancashire. It’s one of those British regions without a name, and I suspect people in Newcastle would question how much they had in common with Cumbrians, Northumbrians, or Teesiders. It’ll be really interesting to see what emerges.

What became immediately apparent in my meeting last week was that I didn’t actually know anything about Cumbria. I must have passed through it several times on my way up to Glasgow, and remember once stopping off for lunch in, I think, Penrith, but I’ve never visited the Lake District, and when people started mentioning places like Barrow-In-Furness, I couldn’t even bring an image of a place to my mind.

Cumbria for me is that slightly terrifying place where Windscale Nuclear Power Station was. I think the nuclear reactors got into trouble at some point in my childhood and I thought the world was coming to an end.

The Lovely Nell from BBC Cumbria offered to give me a special tour of the county and I couldn’t wait to get up there. I am a great fan of exploring new corners of Britain, and the opportunity to be shown around by a local should never be passed up.

The tour started in Carlisle, which I found surprisingly attractive, even in the pouring rain. The area around the Cathedral is particularly pleasant, and I was very taken with a little row of Victorian shops opposite the BBC building there including a hoover shop, which I’m told has the friendliest staff you’re ever likely to find.

From Carlisle we travelled East to Wigton, a market town which seems to have been engulfed by a giant plastics factory, and from Wigton we went to the curiously-named, hugely-isolated seaside village of Silloth, where we ate chips on the beach, and wandered around an arcade with enormous shatter-proof windows which looked out onto the angry brown Irish sea. “Is the sea round here always brown?” I asked. Apparently it is.

Silloth feels like a rather sad little place. It’s absolutely charming. A wide cobbled street and a series of tree-lined parks separate seafront houses from the sea itself. I don’t know if the tide was in, but there didn’t seem to be any sign of a beach. A pathetic little funfair shivered in front of a factory. Two children were spinning endlessly on a waltzer, the fairground attendant no doubt thrilled to have a couple of quid’s worth of custom. A married couple ate chips from the back of the only car parked in the funfair’s car park. When we returned half an hour later, the place was entirely empty. The strange fairground whooshes, bell-tings and heavy-bass chart music continued, as did the enticing and inane flashing lights, but there was absolutely no one there to play. A little piece of me died.

The Cumbrians seem very friendly, if not a little reticent. There’s definitely a guardedness that isn’t present on the East coast. Across the Solway Firth we could see the mountains of Scotland shrouded in mist, hiding secrets which we’ll never be able to access.

We drove south along the coastal road, past mile after mile of empty beach, past little houses with their hatches battened down, chips shops with pink neon signs dancing in the grey sky and windswept sand dunes bedecked in purple and yellow flowers.

Before long we were entering Whitehaven, diving through a Victorian house-lined ravine into the town centre with its smashed church windows, and deserted houses sliding down hillsides. This is where Derek Bird went on his shooting spree and the town genuinely feels like it’s sinking underneath the weight of the pain. Tainted by death, it feels, like a recently bereaved widow.

Sad as these coastline towns may have seemed, there is something filmic and intriguing about the area. It draws you in and fills your head with questions.

350 years ago, and Pepys diary was full of intrigue. Sir William Batten was losing his grip; and potentially his position at the Navy office. Lord Sandwich's spoilt son had taken to fighting duels, and losing them with no honour (usually by running away). Pepys worked late into the night, and was paid a little visit; "writing in my study a mouse ran over my table, which I shut up fast under my shelfs upon my table till tomorrow"

Cambridge joy

We’ve been in Cambridge all day, celebrating my birthday in an unofficial sort of way. We arrived in a rain storm, and the forecast was fairly dire for the rest of the day, so we sat under a tree, in a miserable heap, trying to eat a picnic whilst the rain lashed down around us. I guess it was a fairly miserable moment for us all. The tree kept us relatively dry, and there were tiny slithers of blue in the sky, but periodically an enormous drip of water would land on my head and a sense of sadness would engulf me once again. All hopes of punting out into the countryside around Grantchester vanished. The idea of being stranded on a punt which was slowly filling with water made me shudder.

We decided instead to wait for the rain to clear and hope for enough of a window in the weather for a quick punt along “The Backs.”Oddly, just as I was about to throw in the towel and suggest we just went to the pub, the sun popped out, and suddenly there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

My companions for the day were Ian, Jem, Nathan, Sam and James from the choir, Brother Edward and Sam’s Matt. It was a very gay day, and as a result, we all felt incredibly relieved to be joined by the feminine energy of James’ friend Gill, and, of course my brilliant parents.

We hired two punts and, whilst drifting along The Backs, Brother Edward (a Cambridge graduate) offered us all fake information about the colleges we were passing “this college was built by students from an Ikea flat pack in the mid 1990s,” he said, and as we passed a 1960s block of flats, he told us we were passing a "fine example of Norman architecture." Heaven knows what the American tourists must have made of it all.

We kept expecting the rain, but it never came, so after returning the punts, we went to Jesus Green, and sat on a bench playing a most ridiculous game involving cards and spoons. I don’t often laugh so much that I can’t breathe, but there was something really wonderful about the company, and something very amusing about the game.

We took silly photographs outside King’s College, as the clouds turned from white to black and an eerie wind started to whistle through the Cambridge lanes.

The rain came in bucket loads, just before we reached the train station on the journey home, but as we charged though the countryside towards London, the evening sun started dancing across the fields and glinting in our faces through the train window. More photographs. More laughter. Pains in my arms from the punting... but all worth it. A wonderful day.

Just how cool is it that the Royal Mail are painting their post boxes gold near to the homes of the Olympic athletes who have won their events?

August 5^th, 1662, and Pepys finally made it back home from his boat journey from Rochester at 3am. His long suffering, deeply faithful servant, Jane, waited up for him, and he slept until 9am, relieved that tiling had finally started on his newly extended house. Very soon it would be able to start raining again without Pepys going into apoplexy.

Long jump

Is it just me, or is some of the cycling in the Olympics utterly baffling? For starters the events all have weird names, like The Omnium and The Scratch Race, but some of the rules themselves are really strange. They need to be desribed in detail by experts because the presenters haven't got a clue what's going on, and however hard you concentrate, it's impossible to follow them. I think they get made up for a laugh...

I've done nothing but sit on the sofa watching the Olympics today – and I’ve had a very lovely time, thank you very much. Sometimes, as I watch the athletes running around the track, I wonder how far behind them I would be if I ran next to them. Just how fast are those people running? I'm watching the long jump at the moment and wondering if I would now be able to do the event to a world class standard having seen the way the jumpers sort of run through the air after taking off. I think my best ever long jump at school was about 2 meters - surely, having seen how it's done, and even with my little legs, 8 meters would be well within my grasp? I had to give up sport in my fourth year at school to do music. My mate Tammy had to stop doing the long jump because her boobs were too big. She used to hold them as she ran down the track.

Is it just me, or are these Olympics really moving? Or am I simply in a daze of requiem sadness?

I’ve plainly got nothing else of any interest to say...

Pepys spent the day 350 years ago in the Rochester area examining various ships, forts and naval stores. The decision was made to start the journey back to London after dark, but a series of incompetent boatswains and some seriously inclement weather, meant they made slow, and in many cases terrifying progress. They alighted at Gravesend to catch their breaths and have a quick bite to eat whilst being entertained by a “drolling, drunken coachman,” before heading back to their boat,

It being very dark, and the wind rising, and our waterman unacquainted with this part of the river... I in such fear that I could not sleep till we came to Erith, and there it begun to be calm, and the stars to shine, and so I began to take heart again... and so made shift to slumber a little. Above Woolwich we lost our way, and went back to Blackwall,and up and down, being guided by nothing but the barking of a dog, which we had observed in passing by Blackwall

Angmeringagain

I woke up this morning feeling like I'd died and been buried in the night. It was fabulous to be in Fiona's cozy flat, but I was sitting on Hove beach until 1.30am recording my audio blog and it was bracing to say the least.

I hauled myself up to the train station to eat my customary breakfast plate of beans on toast at my favourite cafe. Sadly, they forgot about my order, and I sat patiently, like a pathetic little dog for half an hour, my stomach in knots, desperate for food. 

I missed the train to West Worthing by seconds, chiefly because I now have so many used train tickets, receipts and seat reservations in my wallet that I couldn't pass through the barriers in time.  I instantly  discovered that the next train was running 20 minutes late. There was some confusion about which stations it was scheduled  to stop at, and as we trundled along the coastal track, I became convinced that I was sitting on one of the curious trains which, for seemingly no reason, bypass West Worthing and the next five stations before trundling off to Portsmouth again.

I'd learned about these silly trains the hard way when, some months ago, I ended up in a random place called Angmering, feeling desperately angry and sorry for myself. 

The train pulled in at Worthing, and I jumped off and rushed up to the man wearing an Olympic-branded "here-to-help" day-glow tabard, who was standing proudly like a munchkin on the platform. "Am I right in thinking this train doesn't stop at West Worthing?" I asked. "You're wrong," he said, "it does! Quickly get back on before it leaves." I did as he said, feeling relieved and grateful that he'd been in the right place at the right time, despite having dodgy hair and looking like he'd melted in the rainstorm we'd just had. 

The train picked up speed as we shot through West Worthing, and the next stop, and two more after that. And suddenly there I was all over again. Angme-bloody-ring! 

I phoned Nathan for a whinge. "Take a deep breath and start the day again," he said. And as the train pulled into the station, I remembered the lovely hole-in-the-wall-style cafe on the platform which had made my previous trip round the Wrekin worthwhile. The place was like something from the 70s, covered in bunting, selling everything from home made cakes and lollies to books, bacon butties and buckets and spades. 

I told the woman behind the counter that her charming cafe was the one positive thing about ending up on the fast train to Angmering. She said that I'd made her day and we got chatting. She told me all about the mobile homes in Angmering and then gave me her potted life story, which has got to rank amongst the most action-packed/lucky/unlucky lives in history. "I'm a cat with 89 lives," she said, before launching into a five-minute soliloquy, which started, "well, like many young children, I was sexually abused by family members..." 

And then it all poured out... She'd survived a house fire, been swept out to sea and rescued by coast guards. She'd been stabbed and strangled. She'd had 7 motor bike crashes and been run over twice, once deliberately. A broad smile burst onto her face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud as the tales of woe continued. "I'm not a victim anymore," she said, "I always look on the bright side of life..." 

The cause of most of the mayhem, I learned,  was her first husband, who regularly beat her up and then repeatedly tried to kill her after she'd finally told him enough was enough. 

"When I'd finally dealt with all that, I decided to start facing my fears," she said. "I work with knives every day in the kitchen, I regularly visit the places where the bad things happened, and," she said gleefully, "my ex-husband went to Thailand on an holiday the week the tsunami happened... And no one's heard from him since!" Ah! The wheels of karma. 

She was adorably upbeat and continued to talk to me right until the train doors closed to take me back to West Worthing. "Come and visit me again!" she shouted, like I was a long-lost brother. I blew her a kiss as the train pulled away. She caught it and mimed putting it in her pocket. I will visit her again. Genuinely. 

350 years ago, Pepys woke up in Rochester, obviously in a very good mood, because he used the adjective "fine" five times in the space of the first paragraph of his diary entry. The weather was fine, a walk around the docks was fine, as was his breakfast of sweet meats, the furnishings and finally the garden of his host.

He went to church -twice - to ogle at the pretty Kentish ladies, and spent the afternoon examining various Navy yards and dry docks, before walking leisurely through sun-drenched fields until dusk. Ah! To peek just once into that 17th century world.

Stress head

It struck me at about 6pm today that I'm stressed out of my tiny mind. Much as I'd like to say that the experience of camping in Cornwall was both fun and deeply relaxing, the combination of sleeping on grass, not being able to take a bath and being woken up at 7.30 every morning by excited children rather took its toll. 

I returned from camping and almost immediately jumped on a train to Newcastle, and then had to be up with the lark this morning to stagger across to East London to edit the third film about the requiem for The Space.

I'm now at Victoria station, about to head to Hove, where, before bed time, I have to record another audio blog, this one whilst sitting on the beach. I am in desperate need of a lie-in, or a day of watching the Olympics, but my diary is full until a week on Saturday. The sum total of my food intake today. One weetabix and a 2 pieces of toast with marmite. 

I got to East London and was really ratty with Hazel the editor whom I like enormously. I simply didn't have the energy reserves to remember my manners, which I'm very angry about. I ache all over; every inch. I just want to bury my head in a little blanket and sleep. 

Now the train to Hove has been delayed by a track side fire. I shouldn't find this stressful, but I do. 

350 years ago, Pepys made the epic journey to Rochester, which started with a short hop along the Thames to Greenwich. The water taxi was forced to make a u-turn, however, because his clerk had forgotten to pack his riding boots. 

In Greenwich, Pepys was fed and watered by George Cocke and his handsome wife. A frugal but delicious meal, which included plates of fruit. Pepys was delighted to find mulberries, the first he'd eaten since a childhood visit to Kent.

From Greenwich, they travelled by boat to Gravesend, but arrived after dark. They stuck to the  plan of riding horses to Ashford despite the darkness and Pepys worrying about a pain, which one assumes was what he normally referred to as his "old pain" as, before going to bed, he regaled his travelling companions with gory accounts of his successful operation to remove a bladder stone the size of a tennis ball! Straight through the perineum. Ouch!  

Kee-yah

The woman on the train in front of me has one of those comedy Northern Irish accents. She says “key-ahh” instead of “car”, “hise” instead of “house” and “so she does” as often as she can. There’s a brutal nasality in her voice, which means she can be heard talking on the phone in the next carriage.

I’m somewhere in Lincolnshire, heading back from Newcastle, where we've just had a meeting for my next project. I can’t reveal too much about what we’re doing, but its working title is “100 Faces”, which might offer a few clues. I met Alistair and Helen at the railway station, and we immediately started reminiscing about the Metro project, which was launched 2 years ago now. Having caught up on how everyone was doing, and travelled round the Wrekin to get to the BBC in Newcastle on account of one of the Olympic football matches being played at St James’ Park, we settled down in meeting room 2 with about ten other people, to thrash out some of the finer details of the project. We even had a buffet lunch, which was entirely beige, but absolutely delicious, with more vegetarian food in one place than I’ve seen in all my journeys north of London.

I was back at Newcastle station before I could blink. I adore train travel. Give me a power cable, a cup of tea and no screaming children and I’m as happy as Larry.  

Passing through Lincolnshire is still a distressing experience, however. It’s now almost exactly a year since I was crushed by a somewhat misinformed judge - in a pokey East Midlands courtroom, whilst experiencing the early symptoms of whooping cough - and still the potato-covered fenlands in this part of the world make me feel physically sick. And bitterly angry. And a whole host of emotions that I don’t feel proud to experience. I still occasionally wake up in the night in a cold sweat. I always had such a profound respect for the legal system and genuinely believed that the truth in these situations would always out, and yet on that day, my trust was completely shattered. I stare out across the flat cornfields for answers; and yet in the mile upon mile of farmland which stretch out like a chess board from the window to my left, I find none.

It’s strange, but when the rolling hills of Rutland begin to make their presence felt, I feel the cloud lifting from me. Such a funny thing, life...

Here we are in Land's End by the way

In a daze in a maze

...And here's Meriel wearing the headache strip which I thought was a sanitary towel

It was a roguish Pepys who wrote a diary entry on August 1^st, 1662. I feel, really, he says it in his own words best, so here he is...

I was sorry to hear that Sir W. Pen’s maid Betty was gone away yesterday, for I was in hopes to have had a bout with her before she had gone, she being very pretty. I had also a mind to my own wench, but I dare not for fear she should prove honest and refuse and then tell my wife

could this be the scariest ride in the world?