The Albert Hall

I spent the morning at the Albert Hall today watching a BBC outside broadcast team rehearsing cameras and things for this evening's Prom, which, for the record is Haitink conducting the Vienna Phil. Aside from the fact that they were playing Strauss and Hayden, which is about as hideous as any Proms programme could be, the experience was absolutely fascinating.

The reason I'd been invited to observe the team, was that, on September 29th, I shall be directing the live streaming of the London Requiem performance. It's a massive undertaking, and it's something I've never done before. When telly is live, all the editing is effectively done by a vision mixer (which could well be me!) and everything is powered by meticulous planning and sheer adrenaline!

My mentor throughout the Requiem project has been a wonderful director at the BBC called Jonathan Haswell, who, tomorrow, will be directing the Last Night of the Proms in 3D! Jonathan has an almost Buddhist-like inner calm and I suspect that this is a pre-requisite of being a successful director of Live TV. To do live classical music, you also have to be a pretty decent score reader, have an insanely logical mind and a great understanding of visuals and musical timings. On paper, I have all the skills in abundance I'll need to do a good job... Except maybe the calmness. My default is to get sarcastic when I'm under pressure and this will not go down too well with a team of cameramen who have seen and heard it all before! They don't take crap. A cameraman will always find a way to make a dick head feel very stupid. A cameraman friend of mine once stapled a crisp packet full of dog poo to the back of the desk draw of an editor who'd crossed him once too often!

This afternoon has been about beginning the process of creating a score for the live performance, which is differently scored to the recording. I'm very tired, and am beginning to will away the month so that I can give my mind a little break.

A very busy day for Pepys, 350 years ago, which saw him calling in on Lord Sandwich and finding no one in, but a woman who let him in, and a girl called Sarah in an upstairs room, whom Pepys had a little fondle with... In fact, he did a little more than that:

I went up to her and played and talked with her and, God forgive me, did feel her; which I am much ashamed of, but I did no more, though I had so much a mind to it that I spent in my breeches

Pepys then went to Whitehall Palace, and was taken to the Queen Mother's "presence-chamber" to observe the royals, almost as though they were animals in a zoo. The new Queen, Catherine de Breganza was there...

though she be not very charming, yet she hath a good, modest, and innocent look, which is pleasing
Curiously, the king's lover, Lady Castlemayne also rocked up, and then the King and the Duke of York with the King's bastard 15-year old son, the pretty spark, James Scott (Mr Crofts). Pepys was thrilled to see them all together in one room, and even more thrilled to hear the queen say a few words of English; "you lie!" were the words she spoke. I bet she got rather used to saying that to him!

Almost cloyed

I am unbelievably tired. Nathan and I sat up until 4am last night, slowly and steadily signing off movements from the Requiem. Seven down, three to go. It was a highly nerve-wracking prospect but it became quite an exciting experience, chiefly because PK was turning out aural gold. He was in Paris. We were in London. That felt pretty cool as well. We watched the X factor, and then every so often a new mix would pop into my inbox for us to approve. We’d listen carefully, fire off a couple of notes back, and return to the X Factor. I kept trying to imagine the studio PK was in, and how he was getting on without the aid of cigarettes or McVittie’s half-covereds.

I woke up this morning, and after dealing with a dustbin which had putrefied in our kitchen and buying the rattie some sawdust to sleep on, I met Rob the cameraman, jumped in a car, and drove up the M1 to Nuneaton. The cemetery in Nuneaton is where my paternal grandparents are buried and the location in which we’d chosen to interview the fascinating Keith Lindsay, author of “And In the End”, a disturbingly amusing book about death. He sat between the graves, regaling us with amusing anecdotes. The ultimate witty gravestone inscription, in my view, belongs to a New Yorker, whose grave reads, “here lies the body of Jonathan Blake, stepped on the gas instead of the brake. I'm told the following also comes from over the pond... “Here lies Ezekiel Aikle, aged 102. The Good Die Young.”

We interviewed Keith with the grave of my Uncle Ben Till poking up in the distance, keeping a watchful eye over proceedings. Before leaving the cemetery, I disappeared to my grandparents’ grave to say hello and tell them about the Requiem. They maintained a respectful silence as I spoke!

From Nuneaton we drove south through Coventry, via the Foleshill Road, which brought back memories of childhood car journeys with Grannie Garner in search of chip shops with queues outside. She would only ever go to a chip shop with a queue because it meant they were frying the fish fresh.

We negotiated the nonsensical ring road in Coventry and travelled further south to Stoneleigh, the little Warwickshire village where my maternal grandparents lived and are buried. The place looked beautiful and green. The sun has been shining all day, and thistledown and dandelion clocks were dancing like will-o’- the wisps around the graveyard. I had been asked to introduce the last film for The Space, and decided to “sign out” beside my grandparent’s grave. It reminded me how much I still miss my Grannie Garner, six full years since she died.

Pepys had a lie-in on this date 350 years ago. The lazy bastard only got up at 6am; deciding to stay in bed to “sweat off” any cold he may have caught on the river the day before. Pepys ate his fifth venison pasty in three days, describing himself as “almost cloyed.”

Chrome

I am on a train returning from Newcastle. The light bouncing off the fields is remarkable. It’s chrome-like; pure and clean, and highly unusual for this time of year. September fields are often shrouded in a dusty, misty light. Maybe that’s what a rubbish summer does to light! I wonder if autumn will come late this year? I get the feeling that the trees are rather enjoying the first sunshine they’ve seen and are in no hurry to start shedding leaves.

We’ve been looking at early entries for the BBC 100 Faces project today. People have been asked to write in and say – in no more than 12 words – what made 2012 significant for them, and we’ve had some wonderful stories, ranging from the 7-year old who learned to ride her bike without stabilizers this year, to the man in his 30s whose family was destroyed by the closure of a mine. Each person selected will represent the year of their birth from 1912 all the way up to 2012, so the oldest person featured will be 100, which is very cool... if we can find someone that age who wants to take part! The oldest entry we’ve had so far comes from an 86 year-old... so we might have to visit a few retirement homes in the coming weeks!

It was, as ever, wonderful to be back in Newcastle; a city which holds so many special memories for me. I lived there for a number of weeks whilst making the Metro films and I think it’s one of Britain’s greatest and most beautiful cities. I still get a genuine sense of excitement as the train pulls into the station just after crossing the Tyne. The view of those extraordinary bridges never gets old.

It was great to see the gang up there again. The set-up at BBC Newcastle is second to none. The talent base they have there in terms of film makers is extraordinary. Curiously, this has a lot to do with children’s television. They made Byker Grove and Tracy Beaker in the region for many years, so there are gaffers, best boys and dolly ops scattered all over the city and its surrounds. It was particularly great to see cameraman Keith again. He arrived brandishing a special Moleskine notebook especially for storyboarding, which he presented to me as a gift.  He’s gone the colour of David Dickenson following a holiday somewhere fancy. His tan made me look like an orthodox jew! I’m really excited about getting cracking on this project. It’ll be nice to have something to move onto when I finally close the doors on the Requiem after two obsessive years!

On my way up to Newcastle, I was forced to change trains at Doncaster Station. I stood for a while in the queue at the Costa Coffee shop, and as it got to my turn, I took out my wallet and was horrified to see a cascade of coins dropping out onto the floor. The woman behind me in the queue; a sprightly Yorkshire lady, made a joke: “oh dear, someone’s chucking his money away,” she said, smiling endearingly, “must have plenty.” There was no attempt to help me – and when I’d finally picked up the last 2 pence, I realised, she’d used the moment to push in front of me! That’s Yorkshire grit for you!

350 years ago, Pepys spent the morning in various Navy stores in Woolwich, Deptford and Rotherhithe (or Redriffe as it was then known), stopping at one point to watch a rather grand boat race which tested the speed of various vessels. He walked for miles and got himself in a sweat so treated himself to a river taxi. The boat journey scared him, however. It was a very cold and windy morning and the Thames was, no doubt, choppy. Pepys returned to his lodgings to “rub himself clean.” This was in the era of the great unwashed. Believe it or not, Pepys was actually frightened of getting himself wet; fearing water brought illness. As a result, he never washed wit water. Totally gipping.

The asylum beckons

It's been a deeply frustrating day which culminated in my laptop breaking down. Two of the keys have now stopped working, so I can’t write the letter n or the letter a without the help of a slave keyboard, which I had to go and buy in PC World in Camden. It’s astonishing how many words have a's and n's in them. My name for starters! One of each.

The good news is that our internet is now working again after just 3 weeks of being non-existent. I phoned Talk Talk again today, and ended up, again, in Manila, talking to a guy with one of those faux American accents they tend to speak with over there, who said; “I am looking at your notes. Can you tell me if you’re calling from your landline?” I hit the roof. “If you’re looking at your notes, you’ll see that I don’t have an effin’ landline. I haven’t had an effin’ landline for 3 effin' weeks... Put me through to your boss NOW!” I was so angry that the moment his boss came on the line (some 6 minutes of simmering-time later) I immediately demanded to speak to his boss. “He’s in a meeting” said the first boss. “Then drag him out (by his hair), or let me speak to someone in the UK who understands what’s going on here.” And then it started to pour out, like ectoplasm; “do not say another word to me until one of these two things is happening.” He started to say something; “not another word!” 5 minutes later I was talking to a lovely lady in Warrington. He’d put me through to completely the wrong office, but she seemed so genuinely horrified about what was happening to me, that she escalated the complaint herself, gave me her personal number, and sorted everything. I’m gonna name her, because she’s worth her weight in gold to Talk Talk. Cheryl Griffiths. She works in Retail and Support. She’s an effin’ angel.

I wish I could say the same for my computer, which I now realise has started to work again, having been completely unusable for most of the day. I have said, many times, whilst working on this project, that I’m just one computer crash away from an asylum. There was a moment of stress at about 4pm today, when I was trying to communicate to the phone engineer from BT, when I thought it was all over. I couldn’t speak. I simply couldn’t get words out. In my defence, I was not helped through the experience by the phone engineer repeatedly calling me David. Those who know me well will know that David is my actual christian name. Benjamin is my middle name, but no one's ever called me anything else... Unless I'm doing something official., that is. I'm David on bills, and on passports, and I was David in his notes... which was horrifically shortened to Dave, again and again and again. He was one of those people who likes to say a name repeatedly, like a form of polite tourettes. But my name isn't Dave. It's not even David. Another day like this and I’ll qualify for some kind of 100 meters dash at the Paralympics!

Pepys went to Trinity House 350 years ago and listened to some good music whilst discussing the difference between the navy fleet at the time and the fleet during Queen Elizabeth’s reign, which was as close to Pepys’ day as World War Two is to us. The defeat of the Armada was already a legend of magnificent proportions, however... As was the queen herself. Muchly deserved, I feel. What tickled Pepys’ fancy rather less, was having to hang out with the two Sir Williams, who he'd come to loathe. Special venom was reserved for the wife of Sir William Batten:

Lady Batten and her crew, at least half a score, come into the room, and I believe we shall pay size for it; but ‘tis very pleasant to see her in her hair under her hood, and how by little and little she would fain be a gallant; but, Lord! the company she keeps about her are like herself, that she may be known by them what she is.

Sad cat

There's a little cat in the next door neighbours' yard who wears a cone of  shame around his neck, and one of those little blouson jackets designed to stop him scratching himself. I've never seen an animal look more sorry for itself. I called to see if I could get him to come closer. I wanted a picture of his sad little face for this blog. I made the "puss, puss, puss" sound that all cats seem to respond to, and he eventually ambled over, albeit suspiciously. Unfortunately the gate to the yard was closed, and when he tried to stick his head through the bars to join me, the cone around his neck prevented him and he got stuck for a bit. I felt dreadful! 

I'm at The Slaughtered Lamb in Clerkenwell, watching Eric Pulido from Midlake doing a set with a number of special guest slots provided by mates of mine including John Grant, Fiona and her husband, Paul. Beautiful music, sublime singing, great musicianship... But the hottest venue I've ever been inside! As Nathan said; "I'm chafing just standing still."

I spent the entire day doing admin for the requiem release. Who'd have thought releasing an album was such a mine field? I've spent much of the day close to tears, taking one step forward and three back. I even had to buy a friggin' bar code today! There are licensing forms galore and I have strings of letters coming out of my ears. And all the time, I'm sitting in a cafe because we have no Internet at home. I wish I had someone with me who understood this crap, because there's a massive learning curve cropping up with every new email! Meanwhile I'm proofing the art work and trying to get final musical notes to PK before the album gets mastered... My shoulders hurt like hell. Is this stress? 

On September 3rd, 1662, Pepys noticed the days shortening for the first time. The 1660s were still an era when people's lives were dictated by sunlight hours. For much of the high summer, Pepys was up at 4am, which had dropped to 5am by this particular date. 

He went to an auction in the afternoon to watch old Navy stock being sold off. Auctions in those days were controlled by a candle; people would keep bidding until the flame went out by itself, and the person with the bid at that moment would be the winner. Pepys met a man who reckoned he could tell the moment that the flame was about to go out because it always flared up a bit. He must have been on to something because Pepys watched him winning bid after bid! 

Coffin!

This morning, during my jog around Highgate, I found myself, for a while, behind a bloke who was also running. He was holding something big and black, and as I crossed the road and looked back, I realised it was a cardboard coffin! I have no idea where he was heading, or why he was running. Rather disturbingly, he seemed to be making for Queen’s Woods! As I ran away, it occurred to me that we were on Cranley Gardens; once home to serial killer, Dennis Nilsen, who murdered 3 of his 15 victims in a house on the street. He apparently flushed as much as he could of their remains down the toilet and stored what wouldn’t flush in a wardrobe in his house. Astonishingly creepy.

I jogged into Queen’s Wood and was rather surprised to find a rather lengthy trail of piles of white sawdust leading from the main path to a very small clearing in the trees. Glinting in the dappled sunlight was a large carpet of white sawdust with a box resting on top. As I ran towards it, I thought I might be about to stumble upon some kind of freshly dug grave, and my heart leapt into my mouth having witnessed what I’d just seen on Cranley Gardens. What I found in the clearing, however, was slightly more surprising; a picnic basket, a blanket, cutlery and wine glasses set out for a romantic picnic... But no one around! It was like the Marie Celeste. I can only assume some very lucky young lady was about to be given the romantic afternoon of her life, and that I’d emerged just after the young man, who’d set things up, had vanished behind a tree, waiting for his beau to appear...

As I ran back to the house, I passed a young lad, who’d set up a little trestle table on Southwood Lane to sell his old books for £1 each. He looked sad yet hopeful, and the sight broke my heart. I dashed into the house, grabbed a quid, and handed it to him. “There”, I said... “that’s to celebrate your first step towards becoming an entrepreneur!” His face lit up. By this stage, another middle class Highgate-type had made her way to his stall, and I reckon the lad was quids in for another sale!

I went to Abney Park cemetery this afternoon to take a photograph of Katina, our alto soloist, for the Requiem album booklet. We had a riot taking photographs of her holding a little lacy handkerchief that had belonged to her Grannie (also called Katina.) She is such a funny girl; almost incapable of taking anything seriously, although she put the fear of God in me by telling me a list of things I needed to sort out for the recording of the requiem before I’d be able to release it in any format. Who’d’ve thought you needed to buy a bar code? I feel like such a hick from the sticks in this regard. I wish I had someone to take care of all of this on my behalf.

On the way to the cemetery I listened to radio reports about the Paralympics. I’m becoming increasingly fascinated by these games and the sheer number of different races that have to take place to ensure parity amongst competitors. There are, I think, 17 different 100 metre races, which, I’m told includes one for stupid people, or in less un-PC terms, people with lower levels of intelligence. I’m sure there’s an even more PC version of the phrase, but I prefer stupid. Now, here’s my issue: Surely, being stupid doesn’t mean you run any less quickly than someone of above average IQ? Frankly if you’re so dumb that the concept of running fast, in a forwards direction, and in a straight line eludes you, then you’re not fit to be on a running track? Are some people so stupid that they run backwards? Is this a genuine risk?  I think when mental disability enters the frame; you get into all sorts of grey areas, which ultimately lead to the question of whether these people actually want to be there or not!

On the way home, I listened to a report about the youth orchestra of Iraq; a group of young people who must surely be amongst the greatest ambassadors for music in the world. These kids are almost all self-taught. When the situation in Iraq became unstable, most of the music teachers fled the country. Most of the kids in the orchestra downloaded sheet music from the internet and watched music tutorials to teach them fingering for their chosen instrument. Western instruments, in Arabic countries, are regarded with suspicion, and one young girl was forced to disguise her ‘cello in a large box on her way to school every day. It warms me to the bone to think that music has the ability to live on, whatever silly regime or destructive religion tries to prevent it, and because of this, I believe now even more than ever, that if there is a God, he lives through music.

September 2^nd, 1662, and Pepys had a rather perfunctory day, which involved a bit of office work, a bit of personal business (involving his brother’s recent betrothal) and an obligatory stint watching – and probably goading – the workmen who were building the extension on his house.

Captain Caveman

Not a great deal happened today. I went into town to meet Nathan and Jim for lunch. They ate burgers. I had something which involved a mushroom and a fair amount of garlic.

I spent the rest of the day doing admin; trying to come up with loads of ways of marketing the Requiem, and sorting out a final set of notes to give to PK before the Requiem goes off to be mastered and there's nothing else I can do to change it! I’m feeling the pressure, obviously. I’m about to hand my baby over for the rest of the world to rip apart... or worse still, ignore.

I went running for the first time in a while, and my body responded well. I’ve been looking like Captain Caveman for way too long. I think it knows that and wants to help.

I ate soup for tea.  I felt slightly disappointed as I looked at it sitting there in the bowl, though it was good to get some plain food inside me after a week and a half of stuffing food down my throat like my mate Philip whenever there’s a free buffet.

Did anyone see Richard Whitehead in the 200 meters Paralympics final today? He was nowhere in the race, and then, in the last 50 meters, looked like someone had put a motor onto his blades. The joy about watching these games is that people can end up winning by massive margins. Oscar Pistorius, for example, seemed to win the 200 meters by about 200 meters!

350 years ago, Pepys found himself at The Wardrobe, with a junior colleague, playing music by Matthew Locke. Pepys loved music, and this was the first he’d heard “in a great while.” Imagine that? These days we’re surrounded by music; it’s almost inescapable.

Pepys spent the evening with two workmen removing all of his goods from William Penn’s house and putting them into a tiny rented room to be “quit of any further obligation to him.” Pepys got into a tizzy in the evening after losing his keys, and receiving a letter from his wife in the country which said their “boy” Wayneman was playing a rogue. A troublesome lad; probably somewhere between 10 and 12 years old, Wayneman was shipped off to the Bahamas in late 1663. Pepys refused to step in and help, fearing that “to keep him in England would eventually take him to the gallows...”