We sat down to watch last weekend's Strictly Come Dancing this evening, but there was something wrong with our router, which meant our options were either to watch the piece with enormous pixilations across the screen, or with periodic interruptions from the dreaded iPlayer spinning sun.
This evening, the BBC launched a new music initiative (I'm actually not sure what BBC Music is, but I'm sure it's both wonderful and of no use whatsoever to me!)
Anyway, the film they've chosen to launch it with is apparently the product of the longest gestation period of any trailer ever made. It's plainly also one of the most expensive trailers ever made. It's a Perfect-Day-meets-Band-Aid type of film, with all sorts of luminaries like Elton John, Kylie and a lots of classical musicians that aren't quite as familiar. It's CGI'd to the hilt. Kylie floats on in a bubble and everyone ends up flying around in clouds painted on a theatre ceiling. It's spectacular and beautiful... And all proceeds go to Children In Need...
Anyway, the comedy part in all of this is that the song is a cover version of God Only Knows, just like we had at our wedding, performed... Wait for it... at the old theatre in Alexandra Palace!
Comparisons are being made left, right and centre. Brother Tim has put both sequences up on his Facebook page. I love a good coincidence. I should point out that our version took five minutes to film rather than 2 1/2 years!
I was at the osteopath today, and sat in the waiting room observing people who were obviously in crippling pain. One poor woman could barely stand up from her chair. Another man, who seemed quite young and handsome, stood up, and walked towards the door with the most curious limping gait. It was only when I looked down at his feet that I realised his shoes were entirely ground down on one side. All too often our shoes exacerbate our postural problems! My trainers are utterly disastrous... I looked at them earlier on and felt ashamed.
Tuesday, 7 October 2014
Monday, 6 October 2014
Parody
In my bid to be more of a man-about-town, I have just returned from seeing Forbidden Broadway at the Vauderville Theatre. Nathan has just reminded me that the Vauderville is actually a theatre in which we've both performed, in slightly sadder circumstances, at the memorial concert of our dear friend Kevin. Funnily enough, one of the songs in the show tonight was a pastiche of Super Trouper, and I found myself paying particular attention to what the pianist was doing, remembering the trouble I'd had learning the song's strident bass line with my left hand. It didn't strike me until later that I was remembering playing the song at Kev's memorial in the very theatre we were sitting in.
Forbidden Broadway is a wonderful show which I would recommend to anyone who loves musical theatre. All four performers were remarkable. Insanely talented. It's one thing to sing those songs, but to simultaneously impersonate the grand divas that did them originally is something else. Christina Bianco, in particular, was belting out big chesty Idina Menzel numbers before turning her hand to coloratura arias by Bernstein with top Es and Fs.
The very fact that the theatre industry is buoyant enough again to sustain a parody show in a West End venue is very good news indeed. It's an indication of a community dusting itself off and standing proud again. I'm furthermore pleased to report that the stalls were full to the rafters, and that the audience seemed to be full of people who understood all the references and got most of the in-jokes... an indication that they'd seen the shows being pastiched.
I don't know when Forbidden Broadway was last in London, but probably not for years. The last time I saw it was in New York in about 2003. Nathan saw it Stateside in 1996 on a break from his run in Miss Saigon. He tells me he was particularly thrilled when they did a send up of that particular show. As they did tonight... Quite bitingly.
It's funny; they're mercilessly rude about the shows they feature, but, being "done" in Forbidden Broadway remains a true indication of having made it!
One day we'll see them ripping into Brass.
I saw Joe Luis Robinson for the second time in as many evenings tonight, which was lovely. That's what happens when you become a man about town. You meet other men about town. That, or he's like a number 19 bus. You wait to see him for ages...
Forbidden Broadway is a wonderful show which I would recommend to anyone who loves musical theatre. All four performers were remarkable. Insanely talented. It's one thing to sing those songs, but to simultaneously impersonate the grand divas that did them originally is something else. Christina Bianco, in particular, was belting out big chesty Idina Menzel numbers before turning her hand to coloratura arias by Bernstein with top Es and Fs.
The very fact that the theatre industry is buoyant enough again to sustain a parody show in a West End venue is very good news indeed. It's an indication of a community dusting itself off and standing proud again. I'm furthermore pleased to report that the stalls were full to the rafters, and that the audience seemed to be full of people who understood all the references and got most of the in-jokes... an indication that they'd seen the shows being pastiched.
I don't know when Forbidden Broadway was last in London, but probably not for years. The last time I saw it was in New York in about 2003. Nathan saw it Stateside in 1996 on a break from his run in Miss Saigon. He tells me he was particularly thrilled when they did a send up of that particular show. As they did tonight... Quite bitingly.
It's funny; they're mercilessly rude about the shows they feature, but, being "done" in Forbidden Broadway remains a true indication of having made it!
One day we'll see them ripping into Brass.
I saw Joe Luis Robinson for the second time in as many evenings tonight, which was lovely. That's what happens when you become a man about town. You meet other men about town. That, or he's like a number 19 bus. You wait to see him for ages...
Cabaret
I'm currently on a 134 bus heading back from Central London with Nathan, Lli and Lli's Mum, Silvia.
We've been at the writer's cabaret all night, where I sang Abba's Happy New Year and Nathan and I sang Love Is Everyone from our wedding. It was a deeply surreal, terrifying, yet wonderful experience. It suddenly struck me, as I sat down to play, that I've never sung into a microphone whilst playing the piano in public before. It's a curious experience. You have to keep your head entirely still, which is useless if you move around as much as I do whilst playing the piano!
The premise of the evening was that each of the writers sang a cover version of a song which has inspired them before performing one of their own songs. My piano playing is so ropey that most of my best compositions (and indeed the songs which have inspired me over the years) were entirely out of the question. Fortunately, Love is Everyone is relatively easy to play, as well as being the nearest thing I have to a hit, and Nathan's being there next to me as co-writer and co-vocalist made me feel a lot less panicky. I was hugely nervous... I think all of us were. Writers are often just not used to performing, and yet our standards are incredibly high...
Happy New Year was an eccentric choice to perform in October, but it's a song with great significance for me. It's one of the most beautiful ABBA lyrics. "Man is a fool, but he thinks he'll be okay, dragging on, feet of clay, never knowing he's astray, keeps on going anyway..." And those words were written in a second language!
I can't tell you how lovely it was to be surrounded by fellow composers, all of whom were remarkable in their own way. The evening's MC was the lovely Bobby Cronin, a hugely well-respected cabaret song writer from New York. The rest of the writers were Brits, and we all had very distinct styles, from the beautiful lilting folk of Eamon O'dwyer to the Disneyesque joys of Jake and Pippa, who are writing next year's new commission for NYMT. They were the stars of the show really... They have a fabulous working relationship which seems to be entirely based on rather public rowing! Frankly, I could watch them for hours, singing then rowing, then singing then rowing again...
After the gig we went off to the 24 casino at the old Hippodrome, which is a really very pleasurable place to sit late at night. Nathan tells me it can get minging, but food is very reasonably priced and it wasn't too loud.
Top marks of the day go to Perry, who was the ONLY NYMT member to come to the gig, despite it being not just me performing, but Jake and Pippa. Life, when you're a wannabe performer, is all about networking, and taking every opportunity you can to get yourself out there. Perry's presence was rewarded with a whole room of important people to meet including a top casting director and, of course, all the writers who were there. I hope he gets a decent opportunity as a result. He deserves it for his tenacity.
We've been at the writer's cabaret all night, where I sang Abba's Happy New Year and Nathan and I sang Love Is Everyone from our wedding. It was a deeply surreal, terrifying, yet wonderful experience. It suddenly struck me, as I sat down to play, that I've never sung into a microphone whilst playing the piano in public before. It's a curious experience. You have to keep your head entirely still, which is useless if you move around as much as I do whilst playing the piano!
The premise of the evening was that each of the writers sang a cover version of a song which has inspired them before performing one of their own songs. My piano playing is so ropey that most of my best compositions (and indeed the songs which have inspired me over the years) were entirely out of the question. Fortunately, Love is Everyone is relatively easy to play, as well as being the nearest thing I have to a hit, and Nathan's being there next to me as co-writer and co-vocalist made me feel a lot less panicky. I was hugely nervous... I think all of us were. Writers are often just not used to performing, and yet our standards are incredibly high...
Happy New Year was an eccentric choice to perform in October, but it's a song with great significance for me. It's one of the most beautiful ABBA lyrics. "Man is a fool, but he thinks he'll be okay, dragging on, feet of clay, never knowing he's astray, keeps on going anyway..." And those words were written in a second language!
I can't tell you how lovely it was to be surrounded by fellow composers, all of whom were remarkable in their own way. The evening's MC was the lovely Bobby Cronin, a hugely well-respected cabaret song writer from New York. The rest of the writers were Brits, and we all had very distinct styles, from the beautiful lilting folk of Eamon O'dwyer to the Disneyesque joys of Jake and Pippa, who are writing next year's new commission for NYMT. They were the stars of the show really... They have a fabulous working relationship which seems to be entirely based on rather public rowing! Frankly, I could watch them for hours, singing then rowing, then singing then rowing again...
After the gig we went off to the 24 casino at the old Hippodrome, which is a really very pleasurable place to sit late at night. Nathan tells me it can get minging, but food is very reasonably priced and it wasn't too loud.
Top marks of the day go to Perry, who was the ONLY NYMT member to come to the gig, despite it being not just me performing, but Jake and Pippa. Life, when you're a wannabe performer, is all about networking, and taking every opportunity you can to get yourself out there. Perry's presence was rewarded with a whole room of important people to meet including a top casting director and, of course, all the writers who were there. I hope he gets a decent opportunity as a result. He deserves it for his tenacity.
Saturday, 4 October 2014
Laundrettes and hens
The rain today has made me incredibly unhappy. I had to drive Nathan to a service station somewhere on the M40 this morning, and the entire journey was marred by rain which seemed to be coming at us horizontally. To make matters worse our wing mirror got smashed a few days ago. It was like looking into a kaleidoscope...
Nathan deposited, I returned to London, did a bit of writing in the kitchen, and then decided it was time to brave the rain again. Our washing machine is still broken so I needed to go to the laundrette...
Our local laundrette is actually only two doors down, but upon entering, I was informed that their boiler had broken and that I would either have to wash my clothes in cold water or find somewhere else. "Are there any other laundrettes on the Archway Road?" I asked. "Maybe," said the Polish attendant, who was considerably more grumpy than the lovely lady who'd served us when we were last in there. "I think perhaps there's one towards Suicide Bridge..." She didn't call it Suicide Bridge, of course. She probably hasn't lived in North London for long enough to know this particular bridge's grizzly reputation.
So, anyway, off I trotted to Suicide Bridge, heavy bag of washing cutting into the inside of my knuckles, to find two dry cleaners masquerading as laundrettes, which offered to do my laundry at a wildly inflated cost, with a two-day turn around. Useless.
...So I decided to turn around and head instead to Muswell Hill. Muswell Hill is the answer to every prayer...
I jumped on the 134 bus. It stopped outside my house and the driver made an unintelligible announcement which sounded like the teacher in Charlie Brown. I had to go to the front to ask him to repeat himself. Due to roadworks on the Colney Hatch Lane, 134 buses would not be going to Muswell Hill. If I wanted to go to Muswell Hill, I'd need the 43 bus.
So off I got. I think the term on London buses is alighted. So off I alighted, and hauled myself through a series of puddles onto the 43 bus, suddenly rather desperate for the loo. I have run out of data allowance on my phone for the month, which means I can't access anything via 4G when I'm out and about. The alternative is paying £16.99 for a top up, which I'd really rather not do. This meant I was unable to use google to find a list of local laundrettes...
I wandered aimlessly around Muswell Hill, talking to Fiona on the phone. In the end she googled one her end and after much to-ing and fro-ing, I found it nestling under a shed load of scaffolding. My feet by this time were soaked through and I was utterly fed up. Total time taken to pop to the laundrette: 3 1/2 hours. Cost of two buses, plus laundry: £10.70. Level of dissatisfaction: dangerously high.
By the time I'd got home, it was time to go out again. This time to Abbie's hen do, where male friends were only invited for the evening. This is a vast improvement on not being invited at all, particularly, as has happened on more than one occasion, the bride is a very close friend. I'm not sure what it is that women do on hen dos that they think their close male friends (particularly the gay ones) won't also want to do, but this is only the second hen-do I've been invited to and the first I've been able to attend!
Heterosexual weddings seem to me to be filled to the brim with out-dated, misogynistic cliches. Why have bridesmaids? Why is it only the best man and bride's father who get to make a speech? And why do women drape themselves in fluffy white meringues? I wanna see a bride in bright crimson to reflect her inner daemon! Or better still, a bride wearing trousers with a groom holding the flowers. Or a wedding without a cake which no one eats! The best weddings I've been to are the ones which buck the trend a little, and they're usually the ones without a wedding planner!
When we got married the florist couldn't believe we only wanted green carnations. "Okay, we'll base everything on carnations, but perhaps some lovely purple irises as well?" She was very surprised when we said the only other thing we'd accept was green foliage. Ivy. That sort of thing. "We're blokes" we said, "it's only because it's on telly that we're having flowers at all..."
I'm hoping that gay people getting married will breathe some new life into the institution and break down the boring stereotypes!
Anyway, the hen do was a lot of fun. I met Sam beforehand for a lovely cup of tea in a cafe and then we took a deep breath to embrace the hens who were all wearing basques and decorating cakes with pictures of willies. So THIS is what girls do on their hen nights! As the evening wore on, and people became a little drunker, there was a big round of "I Have Never" which I don't reckon I've played for twenty years. You know the game... You take it in turns to make a statement, usually rude, like "I have never had sex in a car" and then everyone who HAS had sex in a car has to drink. The aim of the game is to wheedle out the renegades from the holier-than-thous. Trouble is, there are those of us who have been around the block so many times we were permanently drinking, whilst some of Abbie's more religious friends looked at us aghast!
Home on the last (ish) tube home from Parson's Green (where?) to wait up for Nathan, who has been doing a gig in Manchester all day today. Hopefully he'll be back before I start to feel like Madam Butterfly!
Nathan deposited, I returned to London, did a bit of writing in the kitchen, and then decided it was time to brave the rain again. Our washing machine is still broken so I needed to go to the laundrette...
Our local laundrette is actually only two doors down, but upon entering, I was informed that their boiler had broken and that I would either have to wash my clothes in cold water or find somewhere else. "Are there any other laundrettes on the Archway Road?" I asked. "Maybe," said the Polish attendant, who was considerably more grumpy than the lovely lady who'd served us when we were last in there. "I think perhaps there's one towards Suicide Bridge..." She didn't call it Suicide Bridge, of course. She probably hasn't lived in North London for long enough to know this particular bridge's grizzly reputation.
So, anyway, off I trotted to Suicide Bridge, heavy bag of washing cutting into the inside of my knuckles, to find two dry cleaners masquerading as laundrettes, which offered to do my laundry at a wildly inflated cost, with a two-day turn around. Useless.
...So I decided to turn around and head instead to Muswell Hill. Muswell Hill is the answer to every prayer...
I jumped on the 134 bus. It stopped outside my house and the driver made an unintelligible announcement which sounded like the teacher in Charlie Brown. I had to go to the front to ask him to repeat himself. Due to roadworks on the Colney Hatch Lane, 134 buses would not be going to Muswell Hill. If I wanted to go to Muswell Hill, I'd need the 43 bus.
So off I got. I think the term on London buses is alighted. So off I alighted, and hauled myself through a series of puddles onto the 43 bus, suddenly rather desperate for the loo. I have run out of data allowance on my phone for the month, which means I can't access anything via 4G when I'm out and about. The alternative is paying £16.99 for a top up, which I'd really rather not do. This meant I was unable to use google to find a list of local laundrettes...
I wandered aimlessly around Muswell Hill, talking to Fiona on the phone. In the end she googled one her end and after much to-ing and fro-ing, I found it nestling under a shed load of scaffolding. My feet by this time were soaked through and I was utterly fed up. Total time taken to pop to the laundrette: 3 1/2 hours. Cost of two buses, plus laundry: £10.70. Level of dissatisfaction: dangerously high.
By the time I'd got home, it was time to go out again. This time to Abbie's hen do, where male friends were only invited for the evening. This is a vast improvement on not being invited at all, particularly, as has happened on more than one occasion, the bride is a very close friend. I'm not sure what it is that women do on hen dos that they think their close male friends (particularly the gay ones) won't also want to do, but this is only the second hen-do I've been invited to and the first I've been able to attend!
Heterosexual weddings seem to me to be filled to the brim with out-dated, misogynistic cliches. Why have bridesmaids? Why is it only the best man and bride's father who get to make a speech? And why do women drape themselves in fluffy white meringues? I wanna see a bride in bright crimson to reflect her inner daemon! Or better still, a bride wearing trousers with a groom holding the flowers. Or a wedding without a cake which no one eats! The best weddings I've been to are the ones which buck the trend a little, and they're usually the ones without a wedding planner!
When we got married the florist couldn't believe we only wanted green carnations. "Okay, we'll base everything on carnations, but perhaps some lovely purple irises as well?" She was very surprised when we said the only other thing we'd accept was green foliage. Ivy. That sort of thing. "We're blokes" we said, "it's only because it's on telly that we're having flowers at all..."
I'm hoping that gay people getting married will breathe some new life into the institution and break down the boring stereotypes!
Anyway, the hen do was a lot of fun. I met Sam beforehand for a lovely cup of tea in a cafe and then we took a deep breath to embrace the hens who were all wearing basques and decorating cakes with pictures of willies. So THIS is what girls do on their hen nights! As the evening wore on, and people became a little drunker, there was a big round of "I Have Never" which I don't reckon I've played for twenty years. You know the game... You take it in turns to make a statement, usually rude, like "I have never had sex in a car" and then everyone who HAS had sex in a car has to drink. The aim of the game is to wheedle out the renegades from the holier-than-thous. Trouble is, there are those of us who have been around the block so many times we were permanently drinking, whilst some of Abbie's more religious friends looked at us aghast!
Home on the last (ish) tube home from Parson's Green (where?) to wait up for Nathan, who has been doing a gig in Manchester all day today. Hopefully he'll be back before I start to feel like Madam Butterfly!
Friday, 3 October 2014
Opportunity Knocks
I sat at the kitchen table writing this morning, bare-footed, enjoying the experience of rolling a little ball of foam around with my toe. This is not unusual for me. I don't really know how to be inactive, so part of me is always fidgeting with something.
Anyway, it was only when the foam ball began to disintegrate that I bothered to look down and saw that I was actually rolling a dead wasp around! Not only that, but the little bastard had stung me... Or more accurately I must have ground its stinging mechanism into my toe because it went all numb and itchy! Hysterical.
I did a morning's writing and then hot-footed it to Highbury to meet Jake and Pippa who are going to be writing next year's NYMT commission. I thought it might be nice to introduce myself to them in the interests of musical theatre writers sticking together and supporting one another. Now that I have a community of this nature, I am determined to become the life and soul of it - even if I do feel like the elder statesman!
I took a bus from Angel into London asking the driver if he went into the centre of town. When the bus eventually stopped at Marble Arch, I realised how Soho-centric I've become. It wouldn't have occurred to me to call Marble Arch the centre of town!
Anyway, I took the opportunity to do some shopping on Oxford Street, before having a hair cut on Old Compton Street. It seems that all the hairdressers these days are Italian. They used to be Australian.
On the way home I read a comment left by a chap called John Watson on one of the films accompanying my requiem on YouTube. It was a lovely comment, but it forced me to think...
"I don`t quite know why your music and compositions are not more widely broadcast. I watched the various snippets of "Symphony for Yokshire" that were broadcast as idents on BBC 1 a couple of years"
And it struck me... I don't actually know why my music hasn't reached a wider audience - perhaps I've always been in the wrong place at the wrong time - but I definitely think the time has come for more people to hear my music. From here on, I, Benjamin Till, will make opportunities for myself!
Anyway, it was only when the foam ball began to disintegrate that I bothered to look down and saw that I was actually rolling a dead wasp around! Not only that, but the little bastard had stung me... Or more accurately I must have ground its stinging mechanism into my toe because it went all numb and itchy! Hysterical.
I did a morning's writing and then hot-footed it to Highbury to meet Jake and Pippa who are going to be writing next year's NYMT commission. I thought it might be nice to introduce myself to them in the interests of musical theatre writers sticking together and supporting one another. Now that I have a community of this nature, I am determined to become the life and soul of it - even if I do feel like the elder statesman!
I took a bus from Angel into London asking the driver if he went into the centre of town. When the bus eventually stopped at Marble Arch, I realised how Soho-centric I've become. It wouldn't have occurred to me to call Marble Arch the centre of town!
Anyway, I took the opportunity to do some shopping on Oxford Street, before having a hair cut on Old Compton Street. It seems that all the hairdressers these days are Italian. They used to be Australian.
On the way home I read a comment left by a chap called John Watson on one of the films accompanying my requiem on YouTube. It was a lovely comment, but it forced me to think...
"I don`t quite know why your music and compositions are not more widely broadcast. I watched the various snippets of "Symphony for Yokshire" that were broadcast as idents on BBC 1 a couple of years"
And it struck me... I don't actually know why my music hasn't reached a wider audience - perhaps I've always been in the wrong place at the wrong time - but I definitely think the time has come for more people to hear my music. From here on, I, Benjamin Till, will make opportunities for myself!
Thursday, 2 October 2014
Racism and pigeons
Nathan read an article to me today about a work by Banksy being painted over because the council deemed it "offensively racist." The irony of this particular Banksy painting, of course, is that is was actually a parody of racism. The work depicted a set of rather dull-looking pigeons holding banners which said things like "migrants not welcome" and "go back to Africa" whilst a beautifully-coloured parrot shivered and looked a little sad on the end of the ledge...
The very fact that all this nonsense is happening in Clacton ought to tell anyone that Banksy was making a political statement; holding a mirror up to the people of the town and their infamously right wing views on UK independence and immigration. The very fact that it's been painted over - BY THE COUNCIL - probably says more than anything else! It's a gross act of vandalism.
When will people stop getting so offended and taking themselves so blinkin' seriously? Life is not worth living if we destroy satire, humour and great art because it might offend...
Sadly I think this nonsense is the flip side of people like me gaining the right to get married. People are now so worried about the rights of minorities, and generally saying the wrong thing, that they'll end up smoothing out all the charming wrinkles of society.
Even my employer, the great BBC, is losing its sense of humour. In the wake of Jimmy Savile, everything is being washed and washed again to the extent that only the blandest colours remain. Their refusal to put my 100 Faces film on YouTube because it featured "vulnerable people" (which is what children and disabled people are now being patronisingly called) was part and parcel of the same problem.
My boxer shorts have now entirely lost their elastic. As I walked home from the gym, holding way too many bags to remedy the problem, I could feel them falling to my knees within my trousers which I thought was quite some achievement!
The rest of the day was spent not doing enough work. I've finished the first 2-minute song for the Fleet Singers, and done a little bit of piano practice for Sunday's concert, all the time wondering why on earth I'm putting myself through the indignity of singing in front of a live audience! Still, if you want to come, it costs £9 or £12 (all of which goes to a Manchester home for dogs). Here's a link for tickets.
http://nextuk.ticketsource.co.uk
I can't guarantee political correctness, but I can guarantee a good night out!
The very fact that all this nonsense is happening in Clacton ought to tell anyone that Banksy was making a political statement; holding a mirror up to the people of the town and their infamously right wing views on UK independence and immigration. The very fact that it's been painted over - BY THE COUNCIL - probably says more than anything else! It's a gross act of vandalism.
When will people stop getting so offended and taking themselves so blinkin' seriously? Life is not worth living if we destroy satire, humour and great art because it might offend...
Sadly I think this nonsense is the flip side of people like me gaining the right to get married. People are now so worried about the rights of minorities, and generally saying the wrong thing, that they'll end up smoothing out all the charming wrinkles of society.
Even my employer, the great BBC, is losing its sense of humour. In the wake of Jimmy Savile, everything is being washed and washed again to the extent that only the blandest colours remain. Their refusal to put my 100 Faces film on YouTube because it featured "vulnerable people" (which is what children and disabled people are now being patronisingly called) was part and parcel of the same problem.
My boxer shorts have now entirely lost their elastic. As I walked home from the gym, holding way too many bags to remedy the problem, I could feel them falling to my knees within my trousers which I thought was quite some achievement!
The rest of the day was spent not doing enough work. I've finished the first 2-minute song for the Fleet Singers, and done a little bit of piano practice for Sunday's concert, all the time wondering why on earth I'm putting myself through the indignity of singing in front of a live audience! Still, if you want to come, it costs £9 or £12 (all of which goes to a Manchester home for dogs). Here's a link for tickets.
http://nextuk.ticketsource.co.uk
I can't guarantee political correctness, but I can guarantee a good night out!
Bradford!
My alarm went off at 6.30am and I was surprised to discover that it was still dark outside. The halogen street light outside our living room window has broken down and is permanently flashing on and off. On for two seconds. Off for two. On for two... It feels rather like one of those New York apartments you get in the movies, where a giant neon light outside gently strobes to show that the people who live there are poor but desperately cool! I think it's rather romantic. Nathan hates it. This morning it simply felt surreal.
I stumbled around the house trying to make sense of what was going on. It felt as though someone had stuffed a layer of cotton wool into the crevices between my brain and face. I lay in the bath, trying to keep myself awake by thinking about all the people I know who would already have been awake. Brother Edward definitely. Ellie. Maybe Tina. I think Philippa once confused me by suggesting her crew were always up at 6.30am. At the time I didn't know there were two 6 o'clocks in a day!
I made the mistake of trying to trim my bushy, old man side burns in a bathroom mirror which was covered in steam. I was trying to use a pair of blunt, rusty scissors. Hack, hack, hack. Great chunks of pure white and orange fell into the sink. I managed to make myself look like someone with alopecia of the beard.
Matt Lucas sent us a lovely present through the post yesterday, a newly-released 35th anniversary CD version of ABBA's seminal Wembley Stadium concert. It's fairly bizarre to hear the girls singing live; a genuine demonstration of how much they pushed their voices in the studio. Frida's voice overwhelms Agnetha's when the two sing together, and both do a fair amount of copping out by popping into their head voices mid-phrase and using vocal timbres which put less pressure on their vocal chords, sometimes to a point that their uber-familiar voices become unrecognisable. I read in the CD notes that Frida was actually suffering from a sore throat and spent the days of the London gigs in Harley Street. This could explain why she wasn't taking any risks, although, perversely, it's Agnetha who sounds bunged up.
The sun was rising as I made my way to the tube. A great big smudge of yellow in the Eastern sky was throwing threads of light like marble across the sky. It struck me that the sunrise is God's wonderful reward for the early bird, although I think something similar about the stillness which a night owl like me experiences in the wee smalls.
By the time I'd reached kings cross it was pissing it down with rain. September may have been the driest ever on record, but October is bound to be the wettest!
My train for Bradford left at 8.03am and I was horrified upon collecting the tickets that they had cost the BBC £166! In my view there's not a justification in the world for a train which costs that much money. I wasn't in first class. I wasn't sitting on a gold-embossed chair. In fact, I didn't even have a table to work on. In a world where we're meant to avoid driving as much as possible, it seems almost ludicrous to charge these kind of amounts to sit in a train for two hours.
I was in Bradford for a meeting with the BBC and David Wilson from Bradford Film to talk about a possible project in the city. It's very early days, and there will be nothing to report for some time, but Bradford is certainly a rather fascinating city.
After the meeting, David (whom I liked enormously) took me on a little tour of the city centre. It's much more attractive than I'd assumed, and his passion for the place was deeply infectious. I've actually only visited the city twice, and on both occasions the only place I saw was the national film and television museum. It was there, in fact, where I got to hold the Play School toys, in the process fulfilling a life time's ambition. Jemima the rag doll is every bit as fit in person as she is on screen!
I guess I have been guilty of stereotyping Bradford as "Bradistan" with its antisemitic MPs and racial tensions. What I actually saw was a bustling city centre, filled with stunning Victorian architecture, where everyone seemed incredibly friendly. I look forward to dispelling my own myths about the place if I get to work on the project.
This evening we held a little choir rehearsal at our house. It's Abbie's wedding in a week-and-a-half's time and a group of us are singing her a specially-composed setting of a Shakespeare sonnet. I often wonder what the neighbours must think when they hear live choral music drifting through the walls. Bloody bohemians.
On my way home from Bradford I had a phone call from my agent asking me to sing (yes sing) in a cabaret on Sunday night. The event is being organised by Bobby Cronin, a New York-based writer. He does something similar Stateside. The idea is for composers to sing a song which has inspired them and then perform one of their own compositions. It is, of course, terrifying for me to even contemplate sitting in front of an audience whilst singing, but I think it's a really important thing to do, not just because all proceeds from the evening go to a charity which rescues dogs, but because it establishes a community of British musical theatre writers.
So if anyone fancies coming along to say hello, and to support me, lots of other talented writers and, of course the sad dogs of Manchester, then the cabaret is at Freedom bar on Wardour Street at 7pm this coming Sunday. If you're lucky you might catch a little impromptu performance of something from our wedding...
I stumbled around the house trying to make sense of what was going on. It felt as though someone had stuffed a layer of cotton wool into the crevices between my brain and face. I lay in the bath, trying to keep myself awake by thinking about all the people I know who would already have been awake. Brother Edward definitely. Ellie. Maybe Tina. I think Philippa once confused me by suggesting her crew were always up at 6.30am. At the time I didn't know there were two 6 o'clocks in a day!
I made the mistake of trying to trim my bushy, old man side burns in a bathroom mirror which was covered in steam. I was trying to use a pair of blunt, rusty scissors. Hack, hack, hack. Great chunks of pure white and orange fell into the sink. I managed to make myself look like someone with alopecia of the beard.
Matt Lucas sent us a lovely present through the post yesterday, a newly-released 35th anniversary CD version of ABBA's seminal Wembley Stadium concert. It's fairly bizarre to hear the girls singing live; a genuine demonstration of how much they pushed their voices in the studio. Frida's voice overwhelms Agnetha's when the two sing together, and both do a fair amount of copping out by popping into their head voices mid-phrase and using vocal timbres which put less pressure on their vocal chords, sometimes to a point that their uber-familiar voices become unrecognisable. I read in the CD notes that Frida was actually suffering from a sore throat and spent the days of the London gigs in Harley Street. This could explain why she wasn't taking any risks, although, perversely, it's Agnetha who sounds bunged up.
The sun was rising as I made my way to the tube. A great big smudge of yellow in the Eastern sky was throwing threads of light like marble across the sky. It struck me that the sunrise is God's wonderful reward for the early bird, although I think something similar about the stillness which a night owl like me experiences in the wee smalls.
By the time I'd reached kings cross it was pissing it down with rain. September may have been the driest ever on record, but October is bound to be the wettest!
My train for Bradford left at 8.03am and I was horrified upon collecting the tickets that they had cost the BBC £166! In my view there's not a justification in the world for a train which costs that much money. I wasn't in first class. I wasn't sitting on a gold-embossed chair. In fact, I didn't even have a table to work on. In a world where we're meant to avoid driving as much as possible, it seems almost ludicrous to charge these kind of amounts to sit in a train for two hours.
I was in Bradford for a meeting with the BBC and David Wilson from Bradford Film to talk about a possible project in the city. It's very early days, and there will be nothing to report for some time, but Bradford is certainly a rather fascinating city.
After the meeting, David (whom I liked enormously) took me on a little tour of the city centre. It's much more attractive than I'd assumed, and his passion for the place was deeply infectious. I've actually only visited the city twice, and on both occasions the only place I saw was the national film and television museum. It was there, in fact, where I got to hold the Play School toys, in the process fulfilling a life time's ambition. Jemima the rag doll is every bit as fit in person as she is on screen!
I guess I have been guilty of stereotyping Bradford as "Bradistan" with its antisemitic MPs and racial tensions. What I actually saw was a bustling city centre, filled with stunning Victorian architecture, where everyone seemed incredibly friendly. I look forward to dispelling my own myths about the place if I get to work on the project.
This evening we held a little choir rehearsal at our house. It's Abbie's wedding in a week-and-a-half's time and a group of us are singing her a specially-composed setting of a Shakespeare sonnet. I often wonder what the neighbours must think when they hear live choral music drifting through the walls. Bloody bohemians.
On my way home from Bradford I had a phone call from my agent asking me to sing (yes sing) in a cabaret on Sunday night. The event is being organised by Bobby Cronin, a New York-based writer. He does something similar Stateside. The idea is for composers to sing a song which has inspired them and then perform one of their own compositions. It is, of course, terrifying for me to even contemplate sitting in front of an audience whilst singing, but I think it's a really important thing to do, not just because all proceeds from the evening go to a charity which rescues dogs, but because it establishes a community of British musical theatre writers.
So if anyone fancies coming along to say hello, and to support me, lots of other talented writers and, of course the sad dogs of Manchester, then the cabaret is at Freedom bar on Wardour Street at 7pm this coming Sunday. If you're lucky you might catch a little impromptu performance of something from our wedding...
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