god

There's very little to say about today other than that King's Cross station seems to be in complete disarray. Some shenanigans are happening with the Northern line and the way you access it from ticket halls, and it's now impossible to exit the station without a ridiculously long underground walk, which deposits you in the shiny little aluminium plaza behind the station where the gas works and prostitutes used to be. When I last came to the station you could opt to exit almost directly onto the Euston Road via the old ticket hall where the terrible fire was. Fiona was at this very station earlier complaining of insanely lengthy queues for loos and taxis. As is so often the case in the UK, it would appear that money has been ploughed into the building (making everything look shiny and industrial chic) with an almost complete disregard for practicalities. Thar said, the newly refurbished station itself, with the giant plaza out front looks absolutely stunning, I just wish I hadn't been too irritated by all that walking to fully appreciate it!

In recent days I've noticed rather a lot of born again christians standing in public places, handing out magazines and pamphlets. I passed a gaggle of them wearing their sensible shoes and tweedy skirts at Victoria yesterday and they were working King's Cross earlier on like dead-eyed, modern-day whores. Whores, of course, with less value to society. It is, in my view, a cynical and deeply transparent act: the Muslims have started to misbehave, so the Christians go on a recruitment drive, desperately hoping for Armageddon whilst they're on earth so they can watch people suffering. They refuse to engage in plans to save this planet, because its very destruction is in their interest. They attempt to pick off the vulnerable; the easy prey, the mentally ill or those who have been shat on by society. It's dull beyond words - and a little dangerous. Stick them all on an island and force them to function like human beings. It'll be like Lord of the bloody Flies!

I worked all day on the finer details of the first part of my composition for the Fleet Singers. I'm going through the piece with a fine-tooth comb, stripping back some harmonies, and bringing others into focus. It's a time-consuming process, but one which I enjoy thoroughly. It's where mathematics and logic come to the fore. The raw, creative, emotional splurging is done and dusted on this project.

I drove to the gym earlier, and managed to get hemmed in by several cars in the car park. It was one of those ridiculous scenarios when I literally had to extract myself an inch at a time. I was there for at least ten minutes, my face flushing bright red when ever anyone passed and stared. By the time I freed myself I was shaking like a tragic leaf. Experiencing mayhem in the process of parking is one of the most emasculating things known to man!

I've run out of oats, so can't treat myself to a pot of porridge in front of the telly tonight. Does anyone remember the story about the little girl who wished for porridge and her wish came true and the porridge kept pouring out of the pot? "Stop little pot, stop!" She yelled as the porridge poured into the village and started drowning little old ladies. I was never sure what the moral of that particular story was. I mean, wishing for food, particularly a super-food like porridge strikes me as a very sensible thing to do if you're hungry and can't afford any oats. Porridge is more filling than goji berries. She wasn't wishing for money, or cocaine or beef burgers.

I suspect the moral of that particular story was that one that says poor people shouldn't have ideas above their station. If god wants you to die of hunger, it would be rude to disobey him. I'm pretty sure, however, that if there IS a god, that he wouldn't operate like that. I don't think he'd much want his flock to stand outside train stations handing out magazines either.

The Circus

Fiona finally arrived home at about midnight last night, and I had a banquet waiting for her of soup and bread, asparagus with parmesan, and a lovely salad. She looked insanely tired, unsurprisingly for someone who'd just played the last date on her world tour with the band Placebo.

Today was all about deliveries: enormous boxes from the States, a brand new telly from John Lewis and a new modem from the man at Talk Talk. She's now set up for the winter. We plugged the TV into the aerial and were astonished to find it worked. In both of our experiences, these things are rarely simple, and usually require some pimple-faced youth to turn up and make us feel incredibly stupid.

The sea in Hove was turquoise and rough. Strong winds in the night had blown large quantities of shingle off the beach and onto the Tarmac promenades.

We had lunch in a little cafe on the beach front, staring out across the brown metallic remains of the old pier, longing to be able to see it in all its Victorian splendour again. They're building a giant tower there now. It's some kind of viewing platform which will no doubt stand out like a sore thumb and be prohibitively costly to visit.

I came home at exactly the wrong time. Victoria Station was busy like nothing I've ever witnessed. The underground ticket hall was filled to the brim and there were guards manning giant metal gates at the station entrance to stop people flooding in when things became untenable. There was no way on earth I could imagine staggering down there with all those people. It's a gift for terrorists and a complete nightmare for just about everyone else. I can't begin to imagine why people would put themselves through that level of humiliation on a daily basis.

Instead I decided to walk North from Victoria with the plan of finding a Northern line station which might prove less busy. On my way along Victoria Street, I passed pubs filled to the rafters with people. Queues of them ten or eleven deep at the bar, no doubt all shouting loudly at one another to make themselves heard above the shouting. There are few words to describe how little London's infrastructure works, and how horrific it can be at this sort of time. Cattle are frequently treated better...

The BBC contacted me this morning with the irritating, if not entirely unsurprising news that the next project I was hoping to be working on has fallen through. This is the second project in development at the BBC to collapse within two weeks. Of course, this means when I finish the Fleet Singers piece, I shall have nothing in the diary, which is a hugely depressing way to finish such an impressive year, and a lesson to us all that the life of a freelance creative can be a perilous roller-coaster.

Of course, with this latest project to hit the skids, it was only me, as chief creative, who'd had to block out three months in my diary, time which I'll never refill, because the project launch was already meant to have happened.

The problem, of course, is that the BBC has managed to get itself into a situation where a great deal of its output can't be created in-house. People, like me, with the creative and technical skills required to actually make programmes, are farmed in these days to make the shows which win the awards which allow the in-house commissioners and broadcasters to pat themselves on the backs.

And yet, certainly in my experience,  creative freelancers are treated like play things. Someone with a salaried job at the BBC comes up with a charming, yet half-baked idea, and, without offering any payment, calls in a freelancer to help flesh it out.  A pitch is developed, which fails when some kind of internal BBC process reveals that a similar project is in development elsewhere in the corporation, or that the project doesn't tick enough of the BBC's boxes. This process always leaves the freelancer with the same question... Why on earth did these discussions not take place before the freelancer was brought in? The answer, however, is always the same: because the freelancer is expected to develop ideas for nothing if he's ever going to be commissioned for real, and because the commissioner is not required to behave with any more responsibility. Tomorrow morning, they will still have a job, and the process can start all over again with a new idea and a different creative with another set of vital skills. Meanwhile, the freelancer loses a big chunk of potential earnings and suddenly doesn't know how to pay his rent! It's nobody's fault. It's simply the way that things have become, but it's definitely a frustrating circus, one in which, sadly, we're all expected to perform!

There. Rant over. Back to heavy duty hustling first thing in the morning.

Fireworks and fortieths

I’m on a train to Hove, listening to the guard on a tannoy trying to explain that the train we’re riding is due to divide at Hayward’s Heath, and that the carriage numbering system on the dot matrixes is displaying the wrong information. On and on he goes… every time the train stops at a new station. A baby is incessantly crying near his microphone, so the sound being broadcast is like some kind of representation of Dante’s Inferno. Added to the guard’s concern is the fact that those on the Lewes-bound part of the train should expect an incredibly crowded service due to it being Bonfire Night, and Lewes therefore being rammed with pagans and revellers watching an effigy of the pope being burned. I have many friends in Lewes who tell me it’s a tremendous experience which I ought to see one year, but the notion of crowds of people, all letting off firecrackers and behaving like tits fills me with a sense of terrible dread. I once got caught in something of a crush of people in Berlin on New Year’s Eve where people were literally lobbing fireworks into the crowd and causing mass panic. Never again!

Without wishing to sound too cruel, it appears there’s a convention for people with facial disfigurements somewhere in East Sussex. I am sitting opposite a man with an enormous, bright red birth mark which stretches from his forehead to his chin, and there’s a little girl opposite with a nose like a cucumber. A man has just walked down the aisle with no discernible muscles in his mouth, so I’m pretty convinced we’ve either transported ourselves to the Victorian era, or they’re all heading to the same place!

On my way down to Victoria Station I stopped off in central London to meet Nathan for lunch. We returned to our favourite little back street pizza joint, but the ambience was somewhat less subtle than it was on our previous visit. A loud-mouthed Polish woman decided to put all the chairs on the tables and wash the floor with a ghastly-smelling mop whilst talking in a gratingly loud voice to other members of staff. I have never been mopped out of a restaurant before!

I walked to Victoria via Trafalgar Square and was inexplicably moved by the sight and sound of a busker singing Free Fallin’ surrounded by a group of those strange people who dress up as Yoda and that wizard in the Hobbit, using long robes and trickery to appear to float in mid air. I’ve no idea why four of them were working the same patch, but they were all bobbing up and down to the music and I rather liked them for doing it. Sometimes I feel very proud to be a Londoner. I like the way that London presents itself to visitors. 

The man opposite me on the train has worked his way through four cans of beer since getting on. I’m not entirely sure how anyone can drink that much, so early in the day. Neither am I really sure how or why anyone would want to drink beer. The yeasty smell coming off the empty cans is appalling.

I’m heading down to Hove to celebrate Fiona’s 40th birthday with her. She’s in transit today, and arriving at her little flat very late this evening. I figured it would be nice to be there when she arrives with a plate of food and a bottle of wine.

…I arrived in Hove after dark, with the sound of fireworks cracking and spluttering in the distance. The air was thick with a heady mix of gunpowder and woodsmoke, a deeply nostalgic smell which reminds me of my childhood. I’m not aware that we get it that much in London. One assumes it’s blocked out by the stench of pollution.

Two doggies

On my way to the osteopath this morning, I walked through a pocket park where two dogs were playing. One of the dogs was no bigger than my foot, whilst the other was a giant St Bernard, which looked remarkably like a bear. It was intriguing to see the little dog seeming so exquisitely unconcerned by the power and size of his friend. The two owners looked on, profoundly amused, as the little one attempted to jump onto the big dog's back in a sort of sparring-cum-mating ritual. I believe that's what you call punching above your weight!

After osteopathy, where I was crunched and battered for the best part of an hour, I sat and worked in my favourite Starbucks in Borough. You'll all be relieved to hear that Starbucks has officially announced Christmas. There were little glittery trees all over the counters and a special Christmas-flavoured cappuccino was being promoted like a boy band on its last legs. I could do without Christmas for at least a couple more weeks!

It became apparent at one point that I needed the loo, and as the sensation slowly grew, I found myself repeatedly glancing over at the queue for the single-occupancy unisex cubicle, hoping every time I looked that it might have got a little shorter. Of course, Sod's law dictated that the more desperate I became, the longer the queue got. There seemed to be a never-ending flow of Japanese people coming off the street specifically to use the facilities. Heaven knows where they'd all been or why they were all Japanese, but there they were... Queuing. Eventually I resigned myself to actually joining the queue, astonished by how long some of the people were taking. Women particularly. I mean, what on earth do women do in loos? I had visions of some of them having poos, and being too embarrassed to open the door immediately, and spraying perfumes and wafting their arms around for hours to disperse the smell.

I went into Central London and continued writing in a cafe on Wardour Street before meeting Nathan for a late lunch, astounded by the change in the weather. It is now incredibly cold: 15 degrees cooler than it was on Hallowe'en and dropping. Icy rain dripped down the back of my neck and made me long to be back home, curled up in the sitting room.

The plaudits and congratulations continue to come flowing in following last night's award. A lot of people seemed genuinely pleased that I finally seem to be getting some sort of recognition for my work after having slogged my way through the first twenty years of my career. I do hope this is the case. I want a mortgage and a pension like everyone else I know. As we walked back into our bohemian garret with threadbare towels hanging on the doors, and damp patches on the ceiling, we both wryly commented on the irony of having just got back from a glitzy televised award ceremony. Seconds later, Nathan turned to me and said, "don't we get to do the most amazing things?" And he's right. We do. And I would trade in all the luxuries in the world for my life right now.

We won... Again!!

There was a spectacular sunset in London today. We emerged from the gym to find the entire sky ablaze. It genuinely looked like the clouds were on fire. Bright orange. The colour of a pumpkin. Stunning.

The gym was tough. I'm back on a healthy-eating, gym-bunny kick, but there's something wrong with the inside of my foot which makes running rather painful.

We came home from the gym and speedily got ourselves changed into glad rags. It was the Grierson Awards tonight, at the Queen Elizabeth Hall; one of those industry awards where no one quite knows what to wear. Both of us eventually opted for the dressed-down suit look. It's always best to try to look like you're not fussed if you lose or win!

Fortunately we won! We are now the official and hugely proud winners of the Grierson Award for best entertaining documentary. Heaven knows how we did it. We even beat Gogglebox!

We were a little more prepared in terms of speeches. My task was easy. I simply made a joke about having been nominated for a Grierson in 2008 and not wanting to be a bridesmaid at my own wedding!  I think I then tapped the statuette on the head and said "and I finally got my man" before tapping Nathan and saying "and in the process, finally got this man!" Nathan's bit of the speech was much more considered and political, and got a brilliant response from everyone in the audience. I got the impression we were a popular win and afterwards hoards of people came rushing up to us to congratulate us, many of whom had been on the voting panel.

I can't really remember much about going up onto the stage. I remember, as the clips from all the nominations were being shown, thinking it rather odd that a television camera was in my face. I was practising my "never mind" look, thinking they were merely filming me as a gracious loser, and then Micky Flanagan was announcing that we'd won! I floated onto stage and then floated off again... That's genuinely all I remember!

The highlight of the night was probably meeting Sue Perkins, who threw her arms around us and said what we'd done was important and how proud she was of us and our film. We obviously told her that we were massive fans of Bake Off, and that we had been since before it had gone mainstream! I also reminded Sue that I'd done her autocue 100 or so years ago.

All in all it was a wonderful evening. We hung out with the team from Educating Yorkshire, and probably would have danced the night away with them, and a host of other people, had it not been for the fact that Nathan is up early in the morning!

We got a taxi back to North London with some of the team. I'd not taken a taxi in London for so many years that it all felt rather decadent. Instead of taking it all the way home, we got out on Swain's Lane and walked home through Highgate Village, which seemed remarkably calm in the still evening air. Hurrah for life. Really!

More poppies

We're on the tube, heading home from Moorgate Station. An old lady with teeth like tombstones and ludicrously baggy tights is playing recordings of a Pakistani woman singing what sounds like a Pakistani tongue twister on her smart phone. It is loud, and irritating in the extreme. The entire carriage is rolling its collective eyes.

We've just spent a very lovely day with the family which started at Spitalfields Market in the East End. My mother absolutely adores it there. She loves the bustle, and the rows and rows of alternative stalls. I think they remind her a little of the 1970s; those long summer days, which for us seemed to be largely spent on a commune in Bedfordshire. The smell of joss sticks always takes me back to my early childhood, so whenever I'm in the vicinity of hippies, I, too, am engulfed by nostalgia.

We met Brother Edward and Sascha and had lunch in Giraffe, which was rather pleasant. I remembered to tell the waitress to avoid covering everything in rocket. Vegetarian food these days is always bedecked in rocket. It's almost as though the people who serve it think the portions don't look large enough, so take a great big handful of the stuff to justify charging the same price as a meat dish. The problem with rocket is that it's bitter. It overpowers everything else on the plate, which is just insane for lettuce!

From Spitalfields, we walked through the city to the Tower of London, to pay a homage to the 900,000 porcelain poppies nestling in the tower's moat. Neither Nathan, nor the parents had seen them before, and they're certainly proving popular with the general public. So many people are now visiting the site that they've had to introduce a one-way system to the footpaths which snake around the Tower. Huge wooden fences have been put up in certain places to stop people gathering in areas next to busy roads.

The installation - and the way we've taken it to our hearts - certainly makes me feel proud to be British. Everyone there was taking it incredibly seriously and I was deeply moved to see the groups of volunteers who are still planting poppies; a mixture of military types and ordinary people including several children.

We walked back to Liverpool Street via the Monument, which I have promised to visit at some point. I'm told the views from the top are extraordinary. Not epic and spectacular, like the Shard, but surprisingly impressive for just 300 steps! "Tall enough," says my mate Ted.

We had tea in Liverpool Street station, somewhat perturbed by the sight of policemen wandering about with large machine guns. We're told a terrorist attack is imminent, and one assumes it will be nasty when it comes.

This evening is all about snuggling up in front of the telly. Nathan's exhausted and we have to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for tomorrow's Grierson awards!

Fireworks

I dropped Nathan off at a roundabout on the M4 this morning. He was off to do a gig, not just in Wales, but somewhere 2 hours west of Swansea. I didn't know that Wales extended that far west! He was heading for the middle of nowhere, that's for sure, a tiny coastal town now doubt, with just the sea as its companion. A few hours after he'd entered Wales, he sent a text asking me to email him a document, which I duly did, and he duly received. I remembered a trip to Hay on Wye in 2000 with Sam, when our mobile phone reception basically disappeared somewhere in Warwickshire and never returned until we hit the same spot on our homeward journey. How astonishing and unstoppable technology is...

There had been a car fire on the Westbound M4 carriageway which was causing a traffic jam, which I didn't fancy being part of on my way home, so I decided to take the A4 back to London. It took rather longer than I'd hoped, although it did introduce me to a whole suburban landscape around Heathrow airport which I didn't know existed. I found the experience of seeing aeroplanes taking off at such close proximity rather disconcerting. They literally seemed to be taking off above my head. I also got to experience the half-world where the A4 runs underneath the M4 for some miles. The motorway sits on decayed concrete stilts above the road, and in its shadow are all sorts of curious shops, houses and, rather surreally, a car which had smashed into a wall and simply been left.

I've been experiencing rather tender gums over the last couple of days. I'd put it down to the weather, or just one of these things, so was therefore perplexed to discover that a wisdom tooth seems to be coming through on the top left side of my mouth! I would have thought the age of 40 was a little late for these sorts of shenanigans, and I'm particularly confused, because, when I was 21, I thought I'd had all my wisdom teeth removed! I do remember them saying to me that they were going to put me under and then decide if they were going to remove two or four but I assumed they'd removed four because, well, frankly, it all hurt so much back there afterwards that I couldn't imagine they'd only done half the job!

Mind you, immediately after the operation I was completely out of it. When they first woke me up, I accused the nurse of being the Angel Gabriel, and then found the concept so hysterically funny that I my mother was telephoned to pick me up much earlier than anticipated because I was disturbing other patients by laughing so much!

I sat and watched Strictly Come Dancing on my own tonight with a plate of pasta and some tinned pears, keeping one eye on the fireworks bursting up behind the trees next to the tube opposite. This evening is the date of the famous annual fireworks display at Alexandra Palace, which lies behind the trees on the horizon. They were obviously putting on quite a show because there were all sorts of explosions going off, some of which were literally shaking the house. There then followed a flurry of mini-displays, closer to home, which were making even more racket. Heaven knows what all the local cats and dogs were thinking! It's the perfect night for fireworks however. Not a cloud around and a bright half moon in the velvet-black sky.

It's now 2am, and I am waiting to pick Nathan up from the place I dropped him off some 14 hours ago. Thank God for BBC4 and it's relentless episodes of Top of the Pops! I'm surprised they can find any episodes which aren't tainted by Operation Yewtree, but I'm eternally grateful to the sounds of 1979 for keeping me awake!