Ban Christian marriage?

So the Tory government is finally beginning to show its repugnant true colours. Michael Gove’s education policies are taking every ounce of music out of schools. He wants to abolish the BBC and he wants to make the rich richer. This year he supplied every child in the UK with a copy of the King James Bible, which he describes as “the most important book in the English language.” He looks like a trout. Another one of that sorry lot Jeremy Hunt, who’s now the health secretary, wants to reduce, by half, the window in which a woman can opt to have a termination. Abortions, in his opinion, should take place within a 12 week period. Some people don’t even realise they’re pregnant by 12 weeks, and it certainly takes a lot longer to work out if a child has a terminal or life-threatening disease or disability. A woman called Barbara wrote the following post in response to Theresa May, who seems to be of a similar belief.

So back to the backstreet abortionists then Theresa? If I was asked if I had known that my son would be born disabled would I have asked for an abortion? Yes, I would! He has suffered so much however hard I have worked. All my friends and relatives are dead and we live in a part of town that has become a student area, so there are no' friendly neighbours'. I worry so much now that I am 86 as to how what will happen to my disabled son, who also is autistic with learning difficulties. He would not want to leave our home, but how will he cope now that services are being cut to the bone?

Before I move on to cheerier issues, it’s important to note that Theresa May, like Michael Gove lists God amongst her hobbies. In my view it is vital that politicians understand that religion cannot and must not shape politics. I have nothing against the Christians. Some of my best friends are Christian. But Christians need to remember that Christianity is a life-style choice, one which is best kept behind closed doors. Now where have I heard that before?

I’m being facetious. We must learn to be tolerant. The next thing we know, they’ll be trying to prevent Christians from getting married...

We’ve just returned from a music quiz in Bishop’s Stortford, which I’m proud to announce we won. 8 bottles of wine between 7. Thank you very much. We won by four points; the sum total of freakishly lucky guesses that we made in various rounds. We had a fair amount of knowledge between us on the team, but we were on fire when it came to guessing!

I’ve returned rather late, and very much need to go to bed.

Wiped out

I woke up feeling exhausted and wiped out, and sat on the sofa in my living room all day trying to raise some interest in the Requiem. It’s proving to be a great deal harder than I’d thought. Those who hear it seem to be hugely impressed. I’ve had two letters through the post in as many days; one from a sociology lecturer at Sheffield University. Both say how impressed they are by the work. There have been scores of emails and text messages, all saying the same thing. I’ve never had this kind of response to one of my works before.

Trouble is, it doesn’t have a massive team of people behind it. I don’t have a plugger to convince Classic FM that the sound-world the work occupies isn’t too unusual or dark for the station. Simultaneously, it would be nice to convince a publisher to take me or the work on. I’ve already had two requests from amateur choirs to look at the music for example. It strikes me it’s a no brainer – there’s money to be made - but all roads in the publishing world seem to lead back to one of two women, who don’t seem to be at all interested in my work!

This is going to be a long, hard slog, and today the enormity of the problem hit me. I’ve sold about 150 CDs. I need to sell 2000 to break even! I've done two interviews about it on the BBC in Newcastle and Carlisle and not sold a single unit up there. Does anyone have any ideas? I’m kind of stumped right now and the sad truth is that if the piece makes a catastrophic loss, I’m never going to be able to make another album!

100 years old Drag Queens

I’m returning to London from Newcastle through the flooded fields of Yorkshire. The North East of England has taken an absolute pounding in recent days; the rivers are swollen to bursting point, and the cows are horses are huddled miserably in the corners of water-logged fields. Still, the sun is presently shining, casting long shadows across the countryside and a clean, green light onto the tree tops. I stare towards the distant grey hills of the Yorkshire Moors wondering how many of the roads in the Vale of York I’ve travelled along.

The woman sitting opposite me is collapsing under the weight of her victimhood. Five seconds ago, my foot brushed past the tip of her enormous ogg boots and she started writhing like a woman in labour whilst staring at me. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You kicked me!” She said, her face contorted in the agony of a footballer trying to get a penalty. To give her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps the skin of her feet was recently taken off in a freak accident involving a bottle of vinegar. Perhaps I have carbolic acid on the toes of my shoes. I’ve never known such an over-reaction to a tiny little tap. I apologised, but the tone of my voice told her she was a silly little thing. She immediately fell asleep and I exchanged glances with the nice woman opposite.

I’ve been in Newcastle for the last two days doing publicity for, and having various meetings about the 100 Faces project. We were sorting through the entrants today; individuals of all ages with tales of happiness and tragedy from as far south as York and Barrow-in-Furness, all the way up both coats to Berwick-Upon-Tweed and Carlisle. We’ve now found people to represent 80 of the 100 years since 1912. Unsurprisingly, the majority of the ages which are missing are in the 80 plus category, although we have found two 100 year-olds! Two! It’s almost inconceivable that we have to say no to one of them. Couldn’t one of them pretend to be 99, or something? Sometimes I wish I weren’t such a purist! We also seem to have an absolute glut of interesting people who were born in 1962. Perhaps becoming 50 makes people reappraise their lives, and suddenly decide to start the process of living.

The BBC put me up in a lovely hotel. My bedroom overlooked the Tyne somewhere between the Metro Bridge and the swing bridge. I went to bed with the curtains open so that I could see the watery river lights reflecting onto the ceiling of my room. I felt very grand indeed.

Last night we went out to the Pink Triangle, an area of gay bars and clubs to the West of the train station. We were searching for a drag queen. The people who feature in the 100 Faces project need to reflect the diversity of communities across the North East and Cumbria, and the vicious drag queens of Newcastle are legendary! One stood rather superciliously behind the DJ desk in one of the bars wearing a Lady Di wig and giving withering looks to the punters. Periodically she’d use her rich baritonal voice to utter something vile or acerbic into a microphone. She simply didn’t give a shit. Death would have been too good for her audience.

The Pink Triangle was almost empty and seemed to have quite strange atmosphere about it. George Michael was playing at the arena and the Lady Boys of Bangkok were shrieking out Cher songs in a tent in the middle of the Life Centre so perhaps the gays were elsewhere. One of the bars was filled to the brim with straight women in high-heeled shoes, slutty mini-skirts and lurid satin shirts dancing to a Steps Medley. In front of them, a bloke wearing high-wasted jeans, and looking every bit the train-spotter, was half-heartedly doing every single Steps step. He obviously felt too cool to give it large... but he was wearing stone-washed jeans and dancing to Tragedy. The name of the song said it all.

350 years ago, Pepys was blaming his wife for a spate of lie-ins. He worked until 9 at night, examining the particulars of the sinking of one of the Navy fleet off the coast of Holland. The weirdly named Satisfaction had apparently gone down as the result of pilot error.

Still no clout!

I was forced onto a crowded commuter train this morning for the first time in an age. I’d forgotten quite how hideous the experience can be. The trains were so crowded that I found myself for at least 20 minutes in an ever-growing scrum of people at Highgate waiting patiently as train after train pulled into the station and left again without anyone being able to get on board. These cattle trucks seem to go more slowly the more people there are on board, obviously just to add to the general hell of the situation. The sweat starts to pour from your forehead and then trickles down your back. You lose your balance as the train inexplicably lists to one side. You fall against someone, who loses their patience and gives you a dirty look. You arrive at your destination, starting the day feeling angry and uptight and smelling of wet dog and someone else’s breakfast...

I had a rather unpleasant email exchange yesterday with a theatre director. A friend of mine has written a pretty decent play, which I’ve promised to help him to promote. The director I contacted on his behalf is a good friend and a highly-respected director and I thought they might both benefit from an introduction. My writer friend had already written to the director (on my advice) a few weeks ago but heard nothing, so I thought I’d give him a nudge. The ensuing exchange was a little upsetting, and I ended up feeling rather worthless.

Thing is, we all know that there are two lists in this world; the list of people who are recommended by trusted colleagues and the list of people who are, well, unsolicited. Whenever I feature on the second list, the horrible truth is that people are very unlikely to bother to reply to me. It’s the nature of our industry. There are thousands of wannabes, all talking the talk and chancing their luck. When I worked in casting, for example, we’d get 20 or 30 letters a day from actors, which immediately went in the bin unless they really stood out! If an agent, however, or fellow industry professional went to the effort of contacting us to say we ought to meet someone, we’d go out of our way to see them, if for no other reason, just to let them know that we valued their judgement and their status in the industry. It’s the same in every profession. I guess it’s why head hunters exist.

Problem is, when you put your neck on the line and make a recommendation, it can be really humiliating if it’s rebuffed. Maybe my friend’s theatre has a socialist policy where everyone goes to the back of the queue regardless of status or quality? Perhaps all plays are read blind so that no favouritism takes place? Maybe he’s snowed under at the moment, and sick to the back teeth of industry professionals getting in touch and asking him to read plays? But if Lord Lloyd-Webber contacted my director friend suggesting he read a play, would he be told to submit the piece as per instructions on the theatre’s website...?

Seventeen years in the business, and still no friggin’ clout!

October 3^rd, 1662, and Pepys and Elizabeth ate herrings for lunch, the first of the season. Pepys spent the afternoon with Captain Ferrers, a man who seemed to draw trouble and mayhem towards him like a magnet. I suspect these days he’d probably be diagnosed with some form of mania, because, in the heat of the moment, he was apt to throw himself out of first floor windows for dares of his own making. On this occasion he was nursing a cut hand from a sword fight he’d picked with one of Lord Sandwich’s footmen. Ferrers, who had been in the Huntingdonshire delivered a letter from Pepys’ father, naming October 13^th as a day for the family to go to court to settle some outstanding financial business. Pepys decided that Ferrers must have been walking about with the letter in his pocket for some days, writing; “it is great folly to send letters of business by any friend that require haste.” He’s not wrong. I once gave a card to a friend who said he was going to a post box. The card never arrived!

Becoming Human

Another day of rest. I’m slowly drifting back down to earth and feeling almost human again. Almost. I never feel entirely human.

I’ve been sending emails all day and paying the last few invoices associated with the Requiem. The good news is that I’m not yet in the red, so must have come in pretty much on budget.

The live premier film went up online today and it all looks rather good. It’s very rare for the atmosphere of a live event to come across on film, or for the sound quality to be so high.

I went for a run to celebrate freedom; up to Muswell Hill, and back to Archway Road via Cranley Gardens where I collapsed in a heap. I want to be lithe by Christmas. I looked through a set of photos of the premier and couldn’t distinguish myself from a sack of potatoes.

I see the lovely Letitia Dean has gone back into Eastenders with an enormous blond barnet, which is the first thing to enter a shot and the last thing to leave it.

350 years ago, Elizabeth Pepys had returned to London from Huntington and found a newly extended and refurbished house which she very muched liked. Pepys was pleased to report that she was a little fatter than she'd been when she left. Comely was good in those days. Pepys immediately took her to bed where he “had her company with great content and much mutual love.”

Whilst away, Elizabeth, who was probably quite a demanding woman, had managed to fall out with her in-laws and her houseboy, Wayneman, who, by her reckoning, was going off the rails.

September 29th was Michaelmas day, which meant Pepys’ various abstemious resolutions were over, so he spent the next few days taking his wife to the theatre and drinking copiously, promising to get back on the wagon as soon as he could. They went to see A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream at the King’s Theatre, which didn’t impress Pepys in the slightest; “the most insipid, ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life.” It’s a quote which made its way into the Pepys Motet, because it struck me as so bizarre. The following day, they saw The Duchess of Malfi and Pepys discovered that he was worth 680l, which made him feel very excited.

Big Issue

We've just been to see Ghost. Our friend Mark is in the show and got us wonderful seats in the stalls for a very reasonable rate. 

It's a great show and I think it's a shame that it's closing. Who can fail, really, to be moved by a show about love and loss? It reminded me of my Auntie Gill whom I seem to recall was greatly moved by the film when it first came out, just after she'd lost her husband. 

The projections and illusions in the piece are extraordinary; people appear and disappear in clouds of white smoke. Whole cityscapes drift across the stage...

We dropped Cindy off at Heathrow this morning and returned to the house to do some serious spring cleaning. I focused on the kitchen, stuck my iPod speakers on loud and cleaned the place from top to bottom. It was deeply therapeutic. 

That's about all there is to say. I was horrified to discover that we didn't sell any more copies of the CD today. I'm not sure what else I can do. A lot of people suggested sites like Pledge Music when I was initially trying to fundraise. These are the sites where creative people offer to do private concerts for fans and give signed posters etc in return for money up front. I've always found that sort of thing deeply embarrassing. I don't really have fans. What I did, however, think, was that it would be relatively easy to push a few CDs around some of my friends... Sadly, I'm already feeling like a beggar and I hate it. I hate the fact that I feel resentful towards people who say they'll buy a CD simply to get me off their backs ...and then don't. I also hate the fact that I am striking up conversations with Facebook "friends" I've not spoken to for years, simply to try to get them to listen to the excerpts of the work on the website. I feel like a nuisance, but what else can I do without a PR person or marketing team? There's obviously a tipping point when a work starts to sell itself by word of mouth, but I don't know how to get it to that stage. The one thing which I feel justified to be irritated about is people who ask for a copy of the CD for nothing! 

Earlier on, one of my close friends tore a strip off me, telling me that her other friends who make albums never try to push them on her. It was like a dagger in the heart. I felt like a Big Issue salesman. It's astonishing that, just 24 hours after a massive success, I can end up feeling so shitty! Post show come down, I guess. 

Wiped out

I've felt pretty wiped out all day. Nathan has a cold. Fiona came to visit in the late morning and we went to Ali Pali to let go of her grandmothers' balloon. The wind was good and high, and as Fiona let go of the string, it flew at top speed into the air and disappeared into the clouds. 

We made an enormous roast dinner and sat like a row of corpses in the sitting room all afternoon.

We walked to Tufnell Park to see two of Fiona's friends, and then drifted back to Highgate where we dipped chunks of bread into olive oil whilst watching Downton Abbey. 

I'm tired and fuzzy, yet thrilled by the many messages I've been sent about last night. Many seem to think I've written something special. I do hope so. I'm certainly thrilled that so many seem to have responded to the piece in a sort of visceral way; allowing the beats and the emotion of the music to pass through their bodies.