We went to Venice Beach today and strolled along the grubby boardwalk to Santa Monica pier.
It's been fairly overcast today, but down in these parts one can still get burned through white cloud, as I found to my great cost in San Fransisco last summer, so we very wisely plastered ourselves in sun cream.
Venice Beach is the Camden Town of LA. The dope-soaked air hums with the sound of hippies busking and all sorts of restaurants, bars and shops selling crystals and tie-dyed scarves spill out onto the beach.
We walked past the House of Ink, which has become famous as the location in the show Tattoos After Dark, which Nathan and I have been watching keenly of late. It was actually quite thrilling to be there!
It was everything I expected Venice Beach to be in terms of ludicrously muscly and beautiful people darting everywhere on Segways, roller blades and electronic skate boards. One bloke was being pulled along on his skate board by a dog.
At one stage we were approached by a young black lad who asked us if we'd like a copy of his album. Our friend, Luke, stopped to take a look, before politely saying he didn't have any cash on him to buy one. The bloke suddenly turned nasty; "so what? You don't like black people?" He then pursued us down the board walk yelling obscenities. Chip. On. Shoulder.
There were lots of people selling art along the board walk. Many of them were selling really lovely pieces for next to nothing, which made me very sad. Some of them were selling absolute rubbish. Proper tat. But then what is worse? Great art that doesn't sell, or a deluded artist whose work is rubbish?
We had lunch outside a charming little cafe whilst a busker on the sidewalk softly sang to us. She sounded like Christine McVie and made such a lovely sound that Nathan immediately went over and bought her album. I think the act of actual busking here must be illegal, because most of the people singing on the boardwalk were selling albums with little signs which said "will accept tips." There certainly weren't any people playing in front of little hats full of loose change.
We walked along the sea front to the Santa Monica Pier, which is a fairly old school sort of a place with terrible rides, and copious stores selling strawberry lemonade and churros. We spent a long time dropping quarters into a coin drop machine and ended up with a Minion toy each after winning a bewildering number of tokens, which might have been as a result of dropping huge quantities of quarters into the machine!
Our taxi driver home was a curious chap. As we drove along, he pointed at a massage parlour and said "they give the best massages in LA in there." I asked why, and he told me it was because the women who do the massages (how can I put this?) offer happy endings... which, for a car filled with gay men felt like a somewhat misjudged statement!
We had dinner in a very fancy restaurant tonight up in Beverly Hills, which is known for its steak dishes, which would have been disastrous for me had they not made me a delicious salad and given me fries covered in Parmesan and truffle!
Tuesday, 7 July 2015
Monday, 6 July 2015
Hurray for Hollywood
Matt gave us some melatonin tablets last night which have knocked any jet lag we might have had right on the head. They're an astonishing form of alchemy. And all natural, I'm told.
We stayed up really late last night. I think it was, like, 10am British time before we eventually went to bed, which means we stayed up for something like 27 hours.
Matt had a party at his house for Independence Day. We ate Chinese Food and cookies and spent the night swimming in the pool which gets lit up at night in beautiful colours. I think there were maybe twenty of us there, very few of whom were actually American, so I wasn't able to learn about the fancy Fourth of July customs I'd hoped we might have been able to observe. I have learnt, however, that the yanks tend to say "happy 4th" to one another as a charming little abbreviation. I don't think that's a reference to the 4th amendment. Searches and seizures and all that.
The 4th July was actually my Grandmother's birthday. I think she'd have been 102 this year.
We woke up today at 9am LA time and spent the morning pottering around the pool.
We walked along Santa Monica Boulevard at mid day to find some brunch, which became lunch by the time we'd spent an hour smelling scented candles in a specialist candle shop!
Santa Monica Boulevard is the gay part of the city. There are rainbow flags and dog grooming parlours on every corner. It's a very wide street lined by low, rather flimsy, often wooden buildings. A lot of the buildings here are wooden because of the earthquakes.
We had lunch in a very eccentric, rather shambolic French restaurant which doubles up as a load of weird shops. It turns out that everything in these parts is a bit disorganised; a fact which we've learned to our cost several times already today, with taxi drivers cancelling at the last moment and various roads getting closed on a whim and without warning!
We took an uber cab up to Griffith Park, a huge nature reserve in North Hollywood, where an observatory and Planetarium sit at the top of a very high hill, from which the views are spectacular. You can see the whole city spread out before you like a giant Google satellite map. It's a stunning sight.
The planetarium was a delight. You sit in a domed theatre and watch a film projected onto the roof which takes you on a guided tour of the universe. There's a wonderful moment when the entire roof fills with fluffy white clouds and a bright blue sky which darkens and darkens before a complete night sky full of twinkling stars appears. I found it rather moving. I told Nathan there was dust in my eye...
We had an altercation at the top of the hill with a curiously mad woman whom I bumped into as I was trying to take a photograph of the gang. It was a rather innocuous little collision but she grabbed her elbow like I'd hit her with a frying pan and screamed "OH MY GOD," literally at the top of her lungs to the extent that everyone on the viewing platform turned around and stared wondering if someone was being mugged. "Are you okay?" I asked. She refused to answer and merely stared at me with hatred in her eyes, before limping away, handing her husband her camera bag and saying "take this, I'm losing all my grip" in a deeply dramatic way. Plainly the husband had seen the act before, because he didn't react to her in anyway. He merely took the bag wearily and wandered off. I've never known the like.
The hills around the observatory seem very inviting. The Angelinos like hiking in the mountains, but be aware: there are jackals and strange snakes up there. We passed several signs warning us about rattle snakes.
The iconic Hollywood sign watches over much of this part of the city. It's actually considerably larger than I thought it would be. And when you first see it, it genuinely takes your breath away. I think I'm right in saying the sigh used to say "Hollywoodland." Nathan didn't believe me when I told him.
I have a feeling that Santa Monica Boulevard is actually part of the historic Route 66. Does anyone reading this know if this is the case?
They're plainly more religious over here. We passed two men holding a massive sign in the street which said "Jesus Christ King of Kings Lord of Lords." A bit unnecessary, I thought. He's not a golf sale.
We had tea at Soho House, looking out over downtown LA, which was lit up like an enormous Christmas tree. Perfect.
We stayed up really late last night. I think it was, like, 10am British time before we eventually went to bed, which means we stayed up for something like 27 hours.
Matt had a party at his house for Independence Day. We ate Chinese Food and cookies and spent the night swimming in the pool which gets lit up at night in beautiful colours. I think there were maybe twenty of us there, very few of whom were actually American, so I wasn't able to learn about the fancy Fourth of July customs I'd hoped we might have been able to observe. I have learnt, however, that the yanks tend to say "happy 4th" to one another as a charming little abbreviation. I don't think that's a reference to the 4th amendment. Searches and seizures and all that.
The 4th July was actually my Grandmother's birthday. I think she'd have been 102 this year.
We woke up today at 9am LA time and spent the morning pottering around the pool.
We walked along Santa Monica Boulevard at mid day to find some brunch, which became lunch by the time we'd spent an hour smelling scented candles in a specialist candle shop!
Santa Monica Boulevard is the gay part of the city. There are rainbow flags and dog grooming parlours on every corner. It's a very wide street lined by low, rather flimsy, often wooden buildings. A lot of the buildings here are wooden because of the earthquakes.
We had lunch in a very eccentric, rather shambolic French restaurant which doubles up as a load of weird shops. It turns out that everything in these parts is a bit disorganised; a fact which we've learned to our cost several times already today, with taxi drivers cancelling at the last moment and various roads getting closed on a whim and without warning!
We took an uber cab up to Griffith Park, a huge nature reserve in North Hollywood, where an observatory and Planetarium sit at the top of a very high hill, from which the views are spectacular. You can see the whole city spread out before you like a giant Google satellite map. It's a stunning sight.
The planetarium was a delight. You sit in a domed theatre and watch a film projected onto the roof which takes you on a guided tour of the universe. There's a wonderful moment when the entire roof fills with fluffy white clouds and a bright blue sky which darkens and darkens before a complete night sky full of twinkling stars appears. I found it rather moving. I told Nathan there was dust in my eye...
We had an altercation at the top of the hill with a curiously mad woman whom I bumped into as I was trying to take a photograph of the gang. It was a rather innocuous little collision but she grabbed her elbow like I'd hit her with a frying pan and screamed "OH MY GOD," literally at the top of her lungs to the extent that everyone on the viewing platform turned around and stared wondering if someone was being mugged. "Are you okay?" I asked. She refused to answer and merely stared at me with hatred in her eyes, before limping away, handing her husband her camera bag and saying "take this, I'm losing all my grip" in a deeply dramatic way. Plainly the husband had seen the act before, because he didn't react to her in anyway. He merely took the bag wearily and wandered off. I've never known the like.
The hills around the observatory seem very inviting. The Angelinos like hiking in the mountains, but be aware: there are jackals and strange snakes up there. We passed several signs warning us about rattle snakes.
The iconic Hollywood sign watches over much of this part of the city. It's actually considerably larger than I thought it would be. And when you first see it, it genuinely takes your breath away. I think I'm right in saying the sigh used to say "Hollywoodland." Nathan didn't believe me when I told him.
I have a feeling that Santa Monica Boulevard is actually part of the historic Route 66. Does anyone reading this know if this is the case?
They're plainly more religious over here. We passed two men holding a massive sign in the street which said "Jesus Christ King of Kings Lord of Lords." A bit unnecessary, I thought. He's not a golf sale.
We had tea at Soho House, looking out over downtown LA, which was lit up like an enormous Christmas tree. Perfect.
Sunday, 5 July 2015
Santa Monica Boulevard
So here we are in Los Angeles, staying with my old mate Matt just off the Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverley Hills. He has the most beautiful house with a glorious natural pool with waterfalls which we've spent the past hour swimming in. This trip is his wedding present to us. I think it would be hard to imagine a more generous or exciting gift.
The flight here was probably as good as could be expected for a man so pathologically terrified of flying. There was a bit of gentle turbulence to keep me on my toes, but there were no delays, no engine explosions, no terrorist activity and very few stinky people. The woman in front of me reclined her seat almost as soon as she got on board, which instantly meant my legs were folded into a strange contortion and I felt crotchety for a full ten hours.
We did the proper thing, and to ward off deep vein thrombosis, got up to stretch our legs periodically. At one stage we looked down over Greenland where scores of icebergs were floating in the sea. I initially mistook them for clouds, which seemed so tiny that I thought we'd gone into space.
We watched The Imitation Game, the film about Alan Turing and the Enigma machine. It's a terrific movie which tells a tremendous story, and I could almost spit with rage when I think what they did to that genius of a man simply because he was gay. I mean chemical castration? It's barbaric. We robbed ourselves of a great mind, which could have achieved amazing things in the field of computational science. Mind you, at the end of the film they announced that 49,000 men had been prosecuted in the UK for "gross indecency." A staggering figure, which is meant to be tempered by knowing that the Queen officially pardoned Turing in 2013, in the process acknowledging his astonishing war work. "Quite right!" I hear you cry. But what about the other 48,999 men?
We were through customs in a matter of minutes, which is very unsettling for the U.S. where there's often a mega-long queue.
We were met at the airport by a chauffeur holding a plaque with our names on which felt a bit fancy.
He drove us along a 14-lane freeway which is my first experience of anything quite so epically American. The roads around here are lined with glorious flowers and palm trees. Just as you might expect, really.
It's July 4th today, which I understand is big news for Americans. It's terribly sweet of them to celebrate no longer being a burden to the Brits. The chauffeur told us that private fireworks have been banned this year in the city. It was a sudden and last minute thing which he puts down to a heightened threat of terrorism. There are heavy fines for anyone who breaks this particular law, which has apparently caused mayhem. Fireworks manufacturers are going bust.
On our way to Matt's we passed the Beverley Hilton, which is where Witney Houston died. We're told the street was covered in flowers for weeks afterwards.
Right. I'm going to have a little snooze before a party Matt's holding tonight. It's very late in the UK isn't it?
The flight here was probably as good as could be expected for a man so pathologically terrified of flying. There was a bit of gentle turbulence to keep me on my toes, but there were no delays, no engine explosions, no terrorist activity and very few stinky people. The woman in front of me reclined her seat almost as soon as she got on board, which instantly meant my legs were folded into a strange contortion and I felt crotchety for a full ten hours.
We did the proper thing, and to ward off deep vein thrombosis, got up to stretch our legs periodically. At one stage we looked down over Greenland where scores of icebergs were floating in the sea. I initially mistook them for clouds, which seemed so tiny that I thought we'd gone into space.
We watched The Imitation Game, the film about Alan Turing and the Enigma machine. It's a terrific movie which tells a tremendous story, and I could almost spit with rage when I think what they did to that genius of a man simply because he was gay. I mean chemical castration? It's barbaric. We robbed ourselves of a great mind, which could have achieved amazing things in the field of computational science. Mind you, at the end of the film they announced that 49,000 men had been prosecuted in the UK for "gross indecency." A staggering figure, which is meant to be tempered by knowing that the Queen officially pardoned Turing in 2013, in the process acknowledging his astonishing war work. "Quite right!" I hear you cry. But what about the other 48,999 men?
We were through customs in a matter of minutes, which is very unsettling for the U.S. where there's often a mega-long queue.
We were met at the airport by a chauffeur holding a plaque with our names on which felt a bit fancy.
He drove us along a 14-lane freeway which is my first experience of anything quite so epically American. The roads around here are lined with glorious flowers and palm trees. Just as you might expect, really.
It's July 4th today, which I understand is big news for Americans. It's terribly sweet of them to celebrate no longer being a burden to the Brits. The chauffeur told us that private fireworks have been banned this year in the city. It was a sudden and last minute thing which he puts down to a heightened threat of terrorism. There are heavy fines for anyone who breaks this particular law, which has apparently caused mayhem. Fireworks manufacturers are going bust.
On our way to Matt's we passed the Beverley Hilton, which is where Witney Houston died. We're told the street was covered in flowers for weeks afterwards.
Right. I'm going to have a little snooze before a party Matt's holding tonight. It's very late in the UK isn't it?
Friday, 3 July 2015
Bang, crash, wallop
Didn't Heather Watson do herself proud at Wimbledon against Serena Williams? I got so into the match that I actually had to stop watching. I'm afraid I'm one of those people who feels that British tennis players often do better when I'm out of the room! Being superstitious is the most ludicrous contradiction for a card-carrying atheist, but I'm the first to say "hello Mr Magpie" when I see one of the critters flying solo, and I rarely walk under a ladder!
My Mother emailed today to say that she didn't have mobile phone signal, but that she'd had a car accident with my Dad in Buxton, Derbyshire. They've been there on holiday. They're apparently both okay. Some boy racer went into the back of them at a relatively slow speed. I bet he was texting. The positive side of the story is how wonderful the good folk of Buxton were with them after the accident had happened. They arrived with Mars Bars, helped them to call the AA and generally took care of them. The taxi driver who was booked to take them back to the hotel even gave them an impromptu tour of the town so that their memories of the place weren't entirely tarnished. I firmly believe that, when the chips are down, you can always rely on the human race to come up trumps. A massive thank you to every single Buxton resident who did their bit today.
I went to Old Street and wrote in a cafe sitting opposite Philippa again. It's a nice little ritual. It stops me from getting lonely or sitting with bad posture, and makes me feel a little like I'm going to work. We worked in two cafes: Hackney City Farm, and a beautiful former dairy just off Columbia Road.
Curiously I bumped into Dylan, Philippa's husband, before I met the woman herself. Dylan was doing child care today with their daughter, my god daughter, Silver. I found them in a recently-opened shop on Columbia Road which sells "natural history" toys and child-friendly stimulus. Anything from plastic dinosaurs to curious little glass vases with strange plants inside which don't require water or soil. There were even basil plants growing in old egg shells. It's a great idea for an area where there are a lot of middle class kids! Silver worked her way through the shop like a dose of salts, becoming particularly friendly with a life-sized plastic flamingo, which she dragged about in her firebrand wake! The shops on Columbia Road tend to open just three days a week. The mayhem and huge popularity of the flower market on the road every Sunday is apparently enough to keep them financially afloat for the rest of the week.
The community around Columbia Road is a very special one. Everyone knows everyone, largely on account of the fact that the majority of them are artists, designers, actors, writers and other freelancers who work from home and therefore don't leave the area during the day. Philippa showed me a picture that one of her friends had taken of a group of kids standing on the external window ledge of one of the terraced cottages in the area. It could have been taken in the 60s or 70s. There was a timeless quality to it, which led me to think that the lives the kids round there live must be halcyon ones.
I had a hopeless fall on the stairs at our house this morning. I was wearing a pair of trainers, which I'll confess is deeply unusual for me, and the carpet under my feet simply gave way, and down I tumbled like a sack of spuds. The racket must have been extraordinary, as my landlady, who runs the shop below, came darting out with a look of terror plastered on her face. It was a bit painful. I'll be honest. And an impressive bruise has been growing on my elbow and upper arm all day! Still, it seems to have got rid of the neuralgia I was suffering yesterday, so small mercies!
I went to Old Street and wrote in a cafe sitting opposite Philippa again. It's a nice little ritual. It stops me from getting lonely or sitting with bad posture, and makes me feel a little like I'm going to work. We worked in two cafes: Hackney City Farm, and a beautiful former dairy just off Columbia Road.
Curiously I bumped into Dylan, Philippa's husband, before I met the woman herself. Dylan was doing child care today with their daughter, my god daughter, Silver. I found them in a recently-opened shop on Columbia Road which sells "natural history" toys and child-friendly stimulus. Anything from plastic dinosaurs to curious little glass vases with strange plants inside which don't require water or soil. There were even basil plants growing in old egg shells. It's a great idea for an area where there are a lot of middle class kids! Silver worked her way through the shop like a dose of salts, becoming particularly friendly with a life-sized plastic flamingo, which she dragged about in her firebrand wake! The shops on Columbia Road tend to open just three days a week. The mayhem and huge popularity of the flower market on the road every Sunday is apparently enough to keep them financially afloat for the rest of the week.
The community around Columbia Road is a very special one. Everyone knows everyone, largely on account of the fact that the majority of them are artists, designers, actors, writers and other freelancers who work from home and therefore don't leave the area during the day. Philippa showed me a picture that one of her friends had taken of a group of kids standing on the external window ledge of one of the terraced cottages in the area. It could have been taken in the 60s or 70s. There was a timeless quality to it, which led me to think that the lives the kids round there live must be halcyon ones.
I had a hopeless fall on the stairs at our house this morning. I was wearing a pair of trainers, which I'll confess is deeply unusual for me, and the carpet under my feet simply gave way, and down I tumbled like a sack of spuds. The racket must have been extraordinary, as my landlady, who runs the shop below, came darting out with a look of terror plastered on her face. It was a bit painful. I'll be honest. And an impressive bruise has been growing on my elbow and upper arm all day! Still, it seems to have got rid of the neuralgia I was suffering yesterday, so small mercies!
Thursday, 2 July 2015
Hottest night ever
The weather turned a bit nasty this morning and went all cloudy and overcast whilst remaining stupefyingly muggy. I walked to my osteopath in Borough just as it started to spit with rain, which, for an hairy man is the worst sort of weather possible. Within seconds I couldn't tell what was rain and what was sweat.
Last night was surreal. I've seldom encountered such a hot night. Hardly surprising. Yesterday was the hottest July day in the UK on record! I slept above the duvet and still felt like I was lying on an electric blanket. At about 5am, I went into the sitting room and lay on the sofa with the telly on in the background. I think it was some sort of house decorating show on Channel 5 presented by that posh bloke, Alistair Appleton, who seems to have shaved his beard off again. I drifted in and out of consciousness, wondering whether I shouldn't just acknowledge defeat and get up. In the end, I went back to bed, and slept in a hallucinatory state until about 9.
My osteopath today was a bit of a Yoda figure (I've never seen a Star Wars film and have no idea what Yoda is, but one of his students described him in those terms, which I took to mean someone with perception and great manual dexterity.) He basically grabbed my neck, effortlessly clicked it in two places and then the rest of my back suddenly felt all supple and wonderful again. There's magic in some fingers!
I went up to Kentish Town after lunch and worked in a cafe. At the moment, I'm trying to get a sense of what it was like to be a radical student in the early 1960s. We all know the issues which got young people all excited in the late 1960s, but what was happening before the summer of love and the massive student uprisings of 1967 and 1968? Did British students really know what was going on in Vietnam in 1964, and if they did, did they care? I'm actually wondering if British students got their knickers in a twist about anything at all. So if you're reading this, and you were a radical student in Britain between 1963 and 1965 (ish), please get in touch!
At 4pm, we had a lengthy meeting with Uncle Archie and Cat about our television project later in the year. I'm afraid I've signed a non-disclosure agreement, so from now on, there may be a lot of rather tantalising passages in this blog where I say things like "I was filming in Durham today" without being able to talk about anything but the journey up and what I had for tea. Suffice to say the project has been green lit and will be happening at some point between now and February. Readers will be the first to know about it.
We walked home over the Heath. There's a route I know which seems to avoid the incredibly steep Highgate West Hill. It's funny, you still end up at the top of Highgate Hill, so it can't actually be any less steep a walk. Perhaps the gradient is softer over a much longer distance. Anyway, the Heath looked particularly green and majestic in the late afternoon sunlight.
We came home and started busily tidying the house. We're going away on our hollibubs on Saturday and want to come home to a nice clean and tidy flat. How ludicrous is that? The strong desire to have a tidy house when you're away, just so you don't feel like terrible sluts when you return! We really went for it. Hoover, polish, bleach... We're exhausted! Still, I had a Mel and Kim album to keep me upbeat, so I'm not complaining. Get fresh at the weekend, people!
Last night was surreal. I've seldom encountered such a hot night. Hardly surprising. Yesterday was the hottest July day in the UK on record! I slept above the duvet and still felt like I was lying on an electric blanket. At about 5am, I went into the sitting room and lay on the sofa with the telly on in the background. I think it was some sort of house decorating show on Channel 5 presented by that posh bloke, Alistair Appleton, who seems to have shaved his beard off again. I drifted in and out of consciousness, wondering whether I shouldn't just acknowledge defeat and get up. In the end, I went back to bed, and slept in a hallucinatory state until about 9.
My osteopath today was a bit of a Yoda figure (I've never seen a Star Wars film and have no idea what Yoda is, but one of his students described him in those terms, which I took to mean someone with perception and great manual dexterity.) He basically grabbed my neck, effortlessly clicked it in two places and then the rest of my back suddenly felt all supple and wonderful again. There's magic in some fingers!
I went up to Kentish Town after lunch and worked in a cafe. At the moment, I'm trying to get a sense of what it was like to be a radical student in the early 1960s. We all know the issues which got young people all excited in the late 1960s, but what was happening before the summer of love and the massive student uprisings of 1967 and 1968? Did British students really know what was going on in Vietnam in 1964, and if they did, did they care? I'm actually wondering if British students got their knickers in a twist about anything at all. So if you're reading this, and you were a radical student in Britain between 1963 and 1965 (ish), please get in touch!
At 4pm, we had a lengthy meeting with Uncle Archie and Cat about our television project later in the year. I'm afraid I've signed a non-disclosure agreement, so from now on, there may be a lot of rather tantalising passages in this blog where I say things like "I was filming in Durham today" without being able to talk about anything but the journey up and what I had for tea. Suffice to say the project has been green lit and will be happening at some point between now and February. Readers will be the first to know about it.
We walked home over the Heath. There's a route I know which seems to avoid the incredibly steep Highgate West Hill. It's funny, you still end up at the top of Highgate Hill, so it can't actually be any less steep a walk. Perhaps the gradient is softer over a much longer distance. Anyway, the Heath looked particularly green and majestic in the late afternoon sunlight.
We came home and started busily tidying the house. We're going away on our hollibubs on Saturday and want to come home to a nice clean and tidy flat. How ludicrous is that? The strong desire to have a tidy house when you're away, just so you don't feel like terrible sluts when you return! We really went for it. Hoover, polish, bleach... We're exhausted! Still, I had a Mel and Kim album to keep me upbeat, so I'm not complaining. Get fresh at the weekend, people!
Wednesday, 1 July 2015
Are you Benjamin Till?
An hour in the morning is all it takes for Highgate Tube, and the entire underground network, to convert themselves from hell-mouths into something pleasurable to use again. I walked down the steep slope to the station at just after 9am this morning next to a girl holding a camera tripod, and a young lad who was plainly some sort of designer. Everything was still and calm. An hour earlier, everyone would have been pushing and shoving their way down the path, swearing and cursing and bracing themselves for the deeply unpleasant journey ahead.
I traveled to Old Street worrying what the rush hour was going to be like for commuters tonight after temperatures reached 30 degrees. Hell on earth I should imagine.
I changed trains at Camden and waited for a few rather full trains to pass through the station. I got into the third, sat down, opened my lap top, created a new document and typed "Em: a musical by Benjamin Till" in large letters. That's it. I've faffed about with the synopsis for plenty long enough, and now I've started writing. It's daunting to think that one day, what I wrote today will find its way onto a stage - except it won't cus what I was scrawling will never find its way into the show because it was rubbish!
Anyway, whilst sitting on the tube, I got one line into the character description of the show's lead role before the bloke sitting next to he nudged me and said, "excuse me, are you Benjamin Till?" "Um, yes..." I rather wondered what was coming. "So you're not writing a critique of an existing show? You're actually writing a musical? The tube is not quite the environment I imagined that sort of thing would happen in. I imagined a writer of musicals would be need to be surrounded by trees and fields." I laughed, remembering a lunatic woman who'd once tried to argue that the music I'd written was rubbish because she'd read in my blog that I'd written it in a cafe!
It made me realise what an urbanite I've become! All of my stage musicals have been set in gritty city environments. I don't suppose I'm a great one for rolling hills and solitude like dear Sir Arnold, who was never happier than writing in the sheep-filled silence of the Black Mountains.
Speaking of writing in cafes, I did a morning's work siting opposite Philippa in a place on Redchurch Street in Shoreditch. It was a curious concrete barn of a place. Very cool. Very Shoreditch. The cafe also sells rather eccentric curios like rustic photo frames and old-school reproduction metal tool boxes. They also sold popcorn making pans, which of course is the sort of thing you'd never use, but that didn't stop me instantly wanting one! The other bizarre aspect of the space is that it's also a male hairdressers. Two very-cool-looking barbers occupy a little alcove in the corner, and trim the braids of bearded Hoxton hipsters. It seems it takes a hell of a lot of work to make someone look like they don't give a damn about how they look!
I wrote rubbish for the best part of three hours. It's a prerequisite of a first day on a project, probably of the first few weeks, when you're getting the shape of the piece, a sense of where the beats need to be and of the detailed research you'll ultimately need to do. It's only then that you can start slowly tidying things up, chipping away at clunky corners. Well, that's how I write at least. That way, if the muse doesn't strike, or is otherwise occupied, you're still moving forward. The muse will come when she's needed...
The cafe was air-conditioned, so when we emerged onto the street at 2pm, we were almost engulfed by waves of what can only be described as Mediterranean heat. It was literally like walking into a fan-assisted oven. It's years, I think, since I've felt heat like that in the UK. I walked at a snail's pace to Old Street tube, suddenly understanding exactly why everything moves so slowly in the Caribbean!
I went from Old Street to my gym in Kentish Town, which, unsurprisingly, was empty. On my way there I was forced to deal with yet another level of intrigue regarding the whole Loose-Women-Thingie-Nolan debacle, which I thought had gone away. I'm not sure for legal reasons I'm allowed to mention the latest incident, but it's a bit of a corker, which I shall be intrigued to watch as it develops!
They were in meltdown at Starbucks near the BBC on Lancaster Place later on in the day. There was no air con and they'd even had to remove the milk from the side counter because it was plainly overheating. The staff were trying as hard as they could to stay calm and friendly, but sweat was dripping down their foreheads. One poor woman was red like a beetroot. It was no way to work. Surely there are work-place laws which ought to have sent those poor kids home.
I met Ellie at the BBC after work and we shuffled our way through the heat into Soho where we sat on the street, outside the Pizza Express where they play a lot of jazz, watching the world going past and talking about our days at York University. I'm feeling very nostalgic at the moment. I suppose that's fairly natural for someone who's 40. Maybe when I'm 41, in about six weeks' time, I'll suddenly start fixating on the future again. It certainly looks like I'll be achieving a great deal more as a 41 year old than I did as a 40 year old.
I traveled to Old Street worrying what the rush hour was going to be like for commuters tonight after temperatures reached 30 degrees. Hell on earth I should imagine.
I changed trains at Camden and waited for a few rather full trains to pass through the station. I got into the third, sat down, opened my lap top, created a new document and typed "Em: a musical by Benjamin Till" in large letters. That's it. I've faffed about with the synopsis for plenty long enough, and now I've started writing. It's daunting to think that one day, what I wrote today will find its way onto a stage - except it won't cus what I was scrawling will never find its way into the show because it was rubbish!
Anyway, whilst sitting on the tube, I got one line into the character description of the show's lead role before the bloke sitting next to he nudged me and said, "excuse me, are you Benjamin Till?" "Um, yes..." I rather wondered what was coming. "So you're not writing a critique of an existing show? You're actually writing a musical? The tube is not quite the environment I imagined that sort of thing would happen in. I imagined a writer of musicals would be need to be surrounded by trees and fields." I laughed, remembering a lunatic woman who'd once tried to argue that the music I'd written was rubbish because she'd read in my blog that I'd written it in a cafe!
It made me realise what an urbanite I've become! All of my stage musicals have been set in gritty city environments. I don't suppose I'm a great one for rolling hills and solitude like dear Sir Arnold, who was never happier than writing in the sheep-filled silence of the Black Mountains.
Speaking of writing in cafes, I did a morning's work siting opposite Philippa in a place on Redchurch Street in Shoreditch. It was a curious concrete barn of a place. Very cool. Very Shoreditch. The cafe also sells rather eccentric curios like rustic photo frames and old-school reproduction metal tool boxes. They also sold popcorn making pans, which of course is the sort of thing you'd never use, but that didn't stop me instantly wanting one! The other bizarre aspect of the space is that it's also a male hairdressers. Two very-cool-looking barbers occupy a little alcove in the corner, and trim the braids of bearded Hoxton hipsters. It seems it takes a hell of a lot of work to make someone look like they don't give a damn about how they look!
I wrote rubbish for the best part of three hours. It's a prerequisite of a first day on a project, probably of the first few weeks, when you're getting the shape of the piece, a sense of where the beats need to be and of the detailed research you'll ultimately need to do. It's only then that you can start slowly tidying things up, chipping away at clunky corners. Well, that's how I write at least. That way, if the muse doesn't strike, or is otherwise occupied, you're still moving forward. The muse will come when she's needed...
The cafe was air-conditioned, so when we emerged onto the street at 2pm, we were almost engulfed by waves of what can only be described as Mediterranean heat. It was literally like walking into a fan-assisted oven. It's years, I think, since I've felt heat like that in the UK. I walked at a snail's pace to Old Street tube, suddenly understanding exactly why everything moves so slowly in the Caribbean!
I went from Old Street to my gym in Kentish Town, which, unsurprisingly, was empty. On my way there I was forced to deal with yet another level of intrigue regarding the whole Loose-Women-Thingie-Nolan debacle, which I thought had gone away. I'm not sure for legal reasons I'm allowed to mention the latest incident, but it's a bit of a corker, which I shall be intrigued to watch as it develops!
They were in meltdown at Starbucks near the BBC on Lancaster Place later on in the day. There was no air con and they'd even had to remove the milk from the side counter because it was plainly overheating. The staff were trying as hard as they could to stay calm and friendly, but sweat was dripping down their foreheads. One poor woman was red like a beetroot. It was no way to work. Surely there are work-place laws which ought to have sent those poor kids home.
I met Ellie at the BBC after work and we shuffled our way through the heat into Soho where we sat on the street, outside the Pizza Express where they play a lot of jazz, watching the world going past and talking about our days at York University. I'm feeling very nostalgic at the moment. I suppose that's fairly natural for someone who's 40. Maybe when I'm 41, in about six weeks' time, I'll suddenly start fixating on the future again. It certainly looks like I'll be achieving a great deal more as a 41 year old than I did as a 40 year old.
For old time's sake... why don't you take a look at this pop video! If you're British and about my age, you'll instantly be transported back to 1987. Guaranteed.
Happy Birthday dear Nathan
It's Nathan's birthday today, and we've had a glorious time in Brighton in what was, surely, the hottest day of the year so far. I actually can't think of a better place to have been on a day like today, although one of life's great ironies is that Nathan suffers from dreadful hay-fever, which is at its most acute on his birthday! He struggled on like a brave soldier, but by the time we'd got home, he could barely open his eyes. "This is like scout camp" he said. "What happened at scout camp?" We asked. "I went, I spent an hour having fun, the hay fever kicked in, my eyes sealed up and I was sent to the scout hut to put my face in a flannel until my Mum could pick me up again." Poor Nathan. Pathan.
So anyway, our wonderful day started at Acton tube where we picked Abbie up. I got out the car to greet her and instantly realised just how hot it was going to be. I bought us croissants for the journey and we reached Brighton in good time, talking mostly about Fleetwood Mac, if my memory serves me.
We took ourselves to the North Lanes for tea in a cafe and a visit to Yak, Brighton's premier knitting shop. I was essentially trying to kill time because I knew that Nathan's Mother and Ron, his Aunt and Uncle, his sister and her fella and Hilary and Jago were all going to surprise him at 12.30 at Bill's Cafe just around the corner. So there I was in the knitting shop, vanishing into corners to "look at yarn" whilst secretly texting people to find out when it was safe to arrive.
It was delightful to see Nathan's face when we walked into the cafe and he saw everyone sitting there. It made the lying and creeping about (which I'm fairly useless at) entirely worth while.
Celia brought chocolate cake and delicious vats of strawberries and cream and we are halloumi and hummus.
After lunch we braved the increasingly boiling temperatures and headed down to the beach where Jago paddled with Nathan's sister, Abbie, Nathan and I swam, Hilary looked glamorous and Celia got so stuck on a bank of steep shingle trying to get back up the beach that she needed two strong men to hoist her back to the promenade. If anyone knows Brighton beach, they'll know there's an incredibly steep bank mid-way down which is difficult to climb in the best of circumstances. I'm ashamed to report that, as her little feet sunk further and further into the shingle, instead of rushing to her aid, I laughed hysterically and took photographs!
From the beach we went to the pier. Of course we did. What else would one do in Brighton? We dropped tuppences into a tipping machine and rode the "dolphin Derby," which is something I've been doing in Brighton for twenty years or more. There's a little stand, up at the end of the pier where large plastic dolphins dance over pretend waves. Rows of people lob balls into little slots of different colours. If you get a ball into the red slot, your personal dolphin starts travelling forward, and suddenly you're in a race with all the other people lobbing balls into the slots. The person with the best aim wins the race. It sounds insanely dull, but it's one of those traditions that no trip to Brighton is worth its sea salt without.
Exhausted by the excitement of the Donkey Derby, most of our party then departed, leaving Abbie, Nathan and I to go on the most insane fairground waltzers, which seemed to spin at the speed of light and made us laugh so much that we thought our heads were going to fall off. On the way back to the beach, we played a quick game of Air Hockey, which I'm pleased to say I won, having come third in dolphin race.
We had a pint (of lemonade, naturally) in a pub just back from the seafront and then returned to the beach for a bag of chips as the sun set.
How much more perfect can a day have been? We got home just in time to watch a "leap second" being added to the day. At midnight, the clocks went from 59 to 60 before going back to 00 again. All rather surreal. If you don't know about leap seconds, read about them here... The question is, can you fit anything worthwhile into the extra second which makes this year longer than the last? We said "I love you" to one another. Had to be done...
So anyway, our wonderful day started at Acton tube where we picked Abbie up. I got out the car to greet her and instantly realised just how hot it was going to be. I bought us croissants for the journey and we reached Brighton in good time, talking mostly about Fleetwood Mac, if my memory serves me.
We took ourselves to the North Lanes for tea in a cafe and a visit to Yak, Brighton's premier knitting shop. I was essentially trying to kill time because I knew that Nathan's Mother and Ron, his Aunt and Uncle, his sister and her fella and Hilary and Jago were all going to surprise him at 12.30 at Bill's Cafe just around the corner. So there I was in the knitting shop, vanishing into corners to "look at yarn" whilst secretly texting people to find out when it was safe to arrive.
It was delightful to see Nathan's face when we walked into the cafe and he saw everyone sitting there. It made the lying and creeping about (which I'm fairly useless at) entirely worth while.
Celia brought chocolate cake and delicious vats of strawberries and cream and we are halloumi and hummus.
After lunch we braved the increasingly boiling temperatures and headed down to the beach where Jago paddled with Nathan's sister, Abbie, Nathan and I swam, Hilary looked glamorous and Celia got so stuck on a bank of steep shingle trying to get back up the beach that she needed two strong men to hoist her back to the promenade. If anyone knows Brighton beach, they'll know there's an incredibly steep bank mid-way down which is difficult to climb in the best of circumstances. I'm ashamed to report that, as her little feet sunk further and further into the shingle, instead of rushing to her aid, I laughed hysterically and took photographs!
From the beach we went to the pier. Of course we did. What else would one do in Brighton? We dropped tuppences into a tipping machine and rode the "dolphin Derby," which is something I've been doing in Brighton for twenty years or more. There's a little stand, up at the end of the pier where large plastic dolphins dance over pretend waves. Rows of people lob balls into little slots of different colours. If you get a ball into the red slot, your personal dolphin starts travelling forward, and suddenly you're in a race with all the other people lobbing balls into the slots. The person with the best aim wins the race. It sounds insanely dull, but it's one of those traditions that no trip to Brighton is worth its sea salt without.
Exhausted by the excitement of the Donkey Derby, most of our party then departed, leaving Abbie, Nathan and I to go on the most insane fairground waltzers, which seemed to spin at the speed of light and made us laugh so much that we thought our heads were going to fall off. On the way back to the beach, we played a quick game of Air Hockey, which I'm pleased to say I won, having come third in dolphin race.
We had a pint (of lemonade, naturally) in a pub just back from the seafront and then returned to the beach for a bag of chips as the sun set.
How much more perfect can a day have been? We got home just in time to watch a "leap second" being added to the day. At midnight, the clocks went from 59 to 60 before going back to 00 again. All rather surreal. If you don't know about leap seconds, read about them here... The question is, can you fit anything worthwhile into the extra second which makes this year longer than the last? We said "I love you" to one another. Had to be done...
Happy 41st birthday, darling Nathan. 13 years together and you're still my better half.
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