Why we complain

My name is Benjamin and I am an inveterate complainer!

I never used to be. I don't really know what's happened to me, but I put it down to a shift in society, succinctly summed up by my father who suggests that "we all know what our rights are these days, but very few of us are actually aware of our responsibilities."

The complaint complains because he knows his rights. The complainee gets shirty because he knows his rights, which include not having someone rail at him unnecessarily. He greet the complainant with sarcasm and disinterest and so the vicious vortex begins to spin. The complainant gets increasingly stressed, his complaint gets escalated, management is brought in, and sooner or later someone who is paid to make apologies gives the apology which, frankly, should have been offered at the coal-face by a person who should have been aware of his customer-facing responsibilities! Everyone's time, in the meantime, has been wasted.

The shift towards a society which knows its rights is largely, of course, a positive one. In the olden days we put up and shut up. Mysterious things happened behind closed doors which we were helpless to alter. People pulled rank. Whistle blowers were demoted. People disappeared. Men marched off to war. My parents' generation are far less likely to complain when things go wrong, and actually get quite embarrassed when they witness people rocking the boat unnecessarily.

I sometimes wonder whether this approach to life is more liberating because it means there's no point in getting our knickers in a twist about the things we perceive we can't control. Maybe our collective responsibility is not to complain as much because by complaining we're triggering the aforementioned vortex and bringing more anger into the world.

That said, I have never personally felt guilty for complaining. I have a very strong sense of my own responsibilities and if something I'm doing or have done is causing distress, it's vital I'm told so I can try to make sure it doesn't happen again.

There is, however, one instance in my life where I utterly regret not causing an absolute stink. My degree at York University was very much compromised by a personality clash with one of my lecturers. I said nothing at the time because I thought, if I did, the other lecturers would pull rank and things would turn nasty for me.

I actually went to university woefully unprepared for anything even remotely resembling musicology. I very carefully chose units which I knew would play to my strengths as a composer and performer, but came entirely unstitched when faced with an entire term studying the music of Sibelius. In the early days of this particular set of lectures, utterly confused by what was going on, I inadvertently asked one or two really stupid questions, which the lecturer thought so dumb, he concluded I could only have been messing about. His response made me feel so stupid that I immediately started goofing about to save face, and thus a class clown was born. Unsurprisingly, I tanked my Sibelius unit, and was handed a somewhat legendary report which was framed on my wall for many years. I've never blamed the lecturer for failing me on this particular unit. It was a disaster which I think we all needed to move on from...

Anyway, that all feels like a massive digression, but the point of the story is that I subsequently did a chamber music unit as part of my degree. Unsurprisingly, I didn't do very well on the essay part, which was worth 40% of the mark, but I worked very hard performing as part of a string quartet by Samuel Barber, which would account for the remaining 60%. Anyway, the professor who marked my essay, a lovely bloke, called me into his office to tell me, politely, that he thought my essay stank. He could see that I was upset but told me that I didn't need to worry because the performance of the Barber quartet had been terrific and he was certain I'd be getting a really high marks. Unfortunately, the chief marker on the practical side of the unit was the same lecturer who I'd so royally pissed off on the Sibelius course. When the marks came in, he'd given the violinists firsts, the viola player a 2:2 and me a 3rd because he said he'd heard that the two of us had "spoken in silly accents during rehearsals." It was fairly shocking to discover that he'd opted to judge me, not on the performance I'd given, but the way I was rumoured to have conducted myself in rehearsals. It was plain, from the big smile on his angry face, that he was avenging a past grievance, for which I'd already been punished.

These days, of course, I would have marched straight to the vice chancellor of the university and vociferously complained. Back then, of course, I simply skulked away. I felt helpless. I felt perhaps my 'cello playing hadn't been up to scratch. I pulled out of the university orchestra, swapped to being a first study singer and never played the 'cello properly again.

I often wonder what happened to that lecturer and whether he ever realised how close he'd come to changing the course of my future. And if he had, whether he'd have cared.

Geyser

I emerged from my house today to find a river of water flowing down Southwood Lane. It was a pretty major deal which had obviously been caused by yet another broken water pipe: a regular occurrence in these parts. A huge geyser of water was spewing out from underneath a plastic traffic bollard and there were massive holes in the tarmac along the road where the water had swept the surface away. I stood next to a woman for some time, trying to ascertain the way to cross the road. We both agreed to save the other if we were swept away!

I came back later to find the river gone, but all the streets in my area sealed off, to the extent that I was effectively marooned. It took me half an hour to get to the gym, snaking my way around the streets, using every ounce of local knowledge I possess. Fortunately our water supply hadn't been cut off.

I was pleased with myself today. I finished another draft of Em and sent it out to Philippa to read who's going to give me a set of notes. I spent the afternoon doing admin, tidying up an application and working my way through a list of things to do which had built through the Christmas period. Tax went off yesterday. Fingers crossed I won't be hit by a shocking bill.

I switched the telly on whilst eating my tea. Adverts as usual. I can't ever seem to time turning the telly on to see anything other than adverts. Today's selection were particularly galling, the worst of which was for Disneyland Paris. The theme of the advert was sparkle. I kid you not. They know their institution is built on the pink, shiny dreams of 8 year-old girls. The advert is filled with all sorts of images of shiny things. Dresses. Fireworks. Shooting stars. Magic wands. Jewels. It looks like the Blue Peter studio at Christmas time. And the tag-line? "The one thing that shines brighter than anything else is the sparkle in your children's eyes." Barf

Palladium Panto

We went into central London this evening to see the pantomime at the Palladium. It's the first West End panto in many years and it was an absolute pleasure to watch.

We took the tube in. Nathan sat down and I stood in one of the vestibules near the doors, minding my own business, reading a newspaper. I was quite engrossed in a piece in the Metro about Charles Manson, who is apparently about to shuffle off into the wilderness. Probably about time. Anyway, I was vaguely aware that the tube had pulled into a station and moments later I felt the most enormous slap on my arse which made me yell out loud through shock. I composed myself and assumed I'd turn around to see someone I knew, but was astonished to find a little old lady standing there looking rather sheepish. People sitting opposite me on the tube were laughing hysterically. It seems the old lady had tripped whilst getting onto the tube and slapped my arse in an attempt to keep herself upright, which she'd managed to do! It was utterly surreal. I haven't had my arse slapped a great many times in my life, but this was certainly the biggest wallop it's ever received!

Speaking of smut, the panto was wonderful. Utterly diverting. It transported us both into a 1970s world of glitter, double entendre, spinning lights, swirling costumes and pyrotechnics. The cast was stellar. Where else would you get to see Paul O'Grady and Julian Clary sharing top billing. I believe they're good friends in real life, and they certainly seemed to have a great rapport on stage. Surprisingly, their comedy alter egos don't cancel each other out. O'Grady is the housewives' choice and kept it sardonic and relatively clean. Clary did the filthy double entendres, in fact, quite a lot of the time, double became single and I found myself gasping and checking around to see how the parents of the children in the audience were responding. Thing is, Clary is a master, so I'm quite convinced the kids would simply have thought he was goofing around and saying rude things which only parents would understand.

As it happened there were surprisingly few children in the capacity audience. I have never sat in a theatre where every seat was filled like that. We almost had to fight our way in. 

The cast also included Nigel Havers, Amanda Holden and Lee Mead, who has started singing with a very strange, somewhat strangled American accent. Surely when you play Prince Charming you have to keep the vocals plummy and even if you go for an American accent when you sing, it has to sound nice! If he's the best we've got in terms of West End talent, then we're done for.

That said, by early January, pantomime performers have usually sung themselves ragged and are doing anything they can simply to generate sound. Paul O'Grady was suffering from a cold, which, I assume, explained the arrival on stage of a hitherto unintroduced ensemble member, brilliantly fronting a massive gospel number. One assumes this was O'Grady's understudy.

One of the stars of the show was ventriloquist, Paul Zerdin, whom, I read, won America's Got Talent (despite being a Brit.)

As is often the case with panto, the music was a mixture of original songs and well-known pop with new lyrics. As such it ticked all the boxes, but I'd have shot the lyricist for his almost inveterate inability to scan lyrics properly. I'm witnessing this increasingly in West End shows. It is vital to stress words in music in a natural way, or your singers sound retarded and no one in the audience knows what's being said!

The audience seemed to have a wonderful time, although every time something big happened on stage, the mobile phones all came out and everyone started filming. At one point I just wanted to shout "enjoy the moment, people!" I looked at the guy to my left, and discovered he was on Facebook posting pictures of himself watching the action. It was almost too meta. Minutes later, he was on an online gambling site. Plainly he'd paid £40 merely to be able to say that he'd sat in the Palladium whilst a show happened in the background!

Brunch in the hill

I was meant to work today but slept in late. Nathan finished his job at the Royal Festival Hall last night and went out to celebrate, and I stayed up late writing. Before I knew it, it was 3am, and then it was 10.30am!

Llio texted to ask if I was free for brunch with her Mum in Muswell Hill, and I jumped in the bath, got dressed and walked up through Highgate Woods to meet them. It's been cold and damp today. I could feel it in my ankles. I met a lovely Danish woman en route who asked me the way to Queen's Wood. (We have a lot of woods in Highgate!) I dutifully pointed her in the right direction and asked if she was off to the vegetarian cafe there. "No" she said, "I'm going to the playground..." I was very pleased to be able to tell her that there was a world class adventure playground in the very wood in which she was walking. I can't actually think there's any type of playground in Queen's Wood. It's a darker, altogether less child-friendly place. Local people: was I wrong?

Brunch with Llio and her Mum became lunch and then a lovely afternoon of chatting back at Till-Taylor-Towers. They were both on superb form, and we had a lot of fun. Silvia was wearing an amazing 1960s-inspired, Joan-Littlewood-esque cap. On Silvia it looked incredibly glamorous. It was as though she'd just popped up to Muswell Hill from Carnaby Street. In the era when Carnaby Street was cool, cause god knows it's a shite-hole these days!

We had another altercation at the gym today which ended with a death stare from another angry young man who really didn't want to hear it when we politely pointed out what a complete arse he was being. I won't bore you with the story. It would merely remind me how bored I'm getting with this sort of behaviour. Or how old I am these days! #GrumpyOldMan #Wasn'tLikeThisInMyDay

New art

I got stranded in a queue in the post office yesterday which involved standing behind a pair of the noisiest little children I've ever encountered. They were making noises the like of which I've never heard. Mummy was trying to reason with them, but they thought she was playing a game. In the end she suggested they play in the photo booth, which created a really fun game involving pulling the curtain back and screaming "hello" at the tops of their lungs. When Mummy said "shh," the game became to scream louder. It was one of those ear-shattering noises which instantly made me want to either scream, dig my nails into the back of my hand or immediately burst into tears. I actually felt very sorry for the Mum. Two young lads under five? No thank you!

The rest of the day was all about continuing to plough through Em. I stumbled upon another lyric which I'd plainly deserted after about an hour's work. Half of it made no sense whatsoever and the rest of the words were an assortment of desperate cliches and platitudes. I felt deeply in ashamed. Note to self: must do better.

PK emailed later on to share with me the art project that his wife, Olivia and son, Antoine have been working on recently. The project focusses on female leaders from the 16th Century. Olivia has composed, performed and produced the music, and Antoine has provided the animation, which is stylised and really very quirky. Olivia's music is wonderfully challenging: confrontational electronica, stunningly layered. The third track, My Crown, is my favourite and features some glorious violin playing courtesy of my best mate, Fiona.

I enclose it here because I want to make it clear to some of these arts administrators that highly innovative and thought-provoking work IS being done by many artists who have simply been honing their craft under the radar. There's a hideous arrogance within my industry where leading figures appear to be more interested in creating new artists from scratch based on the type of person they feel OUGHT to be making art, rather than promoting what is already there just under the surface, or the glass ceiling, or whatever else we want to call it. It's a slightly subtle point that I'm making, but, if you take nothing else from this blog, you may find yourself discovering a new writing talent. But, for heaven's sake, if you do like what Olivia's done: get out there and share it with the world. It's almost impossible for a recording artist to get their work out there these days without the backing of a major record label. Enjoy!

https://vimeo.com/album/4287533

The air of entitlement

I went up to Costa Coffee this morning to do some writing. I have a huge penchant for writing on Bank Holidays. It makes me feel unbelievably virtuous, and I rather like the different pace of life. No posh school children, no travelling salesmen and no yummy mummies plotting charity fundraising galas. (Ah! Highgate!)

What I DID find myself tuning into, however, was the sound of two five-year olds chanting, "baby-ccino, baby-ccino, hurry up, hurry up" ad nauseam. A baby-ccino (for those without children born in the last ten years) is a license to print money at the expense of indulgent parents. It's a cappuccino for babies. Another ghastly portmanteau. Hot milk with a few sprinkles of chocolate. Rip off Britain. 

I went back to the gym just before lunch. I'm officially back in the saddle. It went rather smoothly and I feel so much better as a result, almost as though my arteries are no longer clogged up with Quality Street.

There was a bloke in the changing room who plainly considered his personal music to be so important that he felt the rest of the changing room ought to listen to it whilst he cooled down from his work out. And and it wasn't just any sort of music. It was rap music where every other word was either f**k or s**t. I tuned in at one point to hear the phrase, "the only thing you can count on in life are taxes, death and rape." Charming. He was happily joining in with the last word of every line, which brought even more attention to the foulness of language.

The lad had a distinct air of entitlement about him which suggested that there was no point in telling him to turn his mucus (no typo there) down or off. There is an aggression present in some young black men which can sometimes be staggering. Yes, I am aware that the same arrogance and aggression can be present in young men (and women) of all colours and creeds and furthermore that there could be some kind of innate fear in me which is somehow more likely to spot this sort of behaviour in young black men.

I don't feel like a racist, but I'm certainly aware that I respond negatively to those who delight in aggressive behaviour be they black or white. I have extremely liberal morals. If it doesn't cause anyone else unwanted pain, I pretty much think it's fair game, but what I find difficult in society at the moment, is that if you try to suggest that there are specific problems lurking within a minority group, there's always someone on standby to scream racism.

Plainly not all young black men behave aggressively, and it would be wholly unacceptable to claim as much, but if there is evidence which suggests that young black men are more likely to behave in an antisocially aggressive manner, for whatever reason, I would argue that there's an obligation to look into the issue. The problem is that no one is brave enough to suggest this particular thesis be tested. The only people who stick their heads above the parapet in this argument are ghastly right wing self-publicists, like Katie Hopkins, who say everything for shock value and, quite rightly, get torn apart by the world.

As a gay man, of course, I am only allowed to talk with any degree of authority about my own community. But there is a parallel. Gay men of my generation tend to be more promiscuous. I use my words carefully. Not all gay men of my generation are promiscuous, but a larger percentage are. Promiscuity is not a bad thing in my books, but the spread of AIDS was, and it was important to find ways to stop it. Homophobia, lack of role models and simply being men, forced gay men into the fringes of society, where, for countless generations, they developed their own codes of conduct and concepts of morality. And though it's incredibly controversial to say, promiscuity almost certainly led to a faster spread of HIV/AIDS within the gay community. Thatcher's government set out to make gay men feel even more isolated, and it was only when we were welcomed in from the cold with the annulment of laws which promoted homophobia, that the behaviour of gay men started to change and the stigma was reversed. I would say most young gay men these days have remarkably similar morals to their straight counterparts.

So, I suppose the important question to ask is whether we NEED a situation to change. It could be that I am simply old and out of touch, and that this sort of vaguely aggressive behaviour is the shape of things to come and a thoroughly acceptable development for society. But if there is an issue developing, I suggest it might be worth some form of open-minded discussion.

Million Dollar Quartet

Last night was great. We went to my friend Matt's house and stayed there until 2am with the old gang who I haven't seen for way too long. Philip Sallon was there in sparkling, utterly outrageous form. We ate Chinese food and watched a giant TV screen with a multitude of pop videos from the 60s, 70s and 80s on it. At Midnight, as is the custom, Nathan and I had a private moment listening to ABBA's Happy New Year.

Today went in a slightly different direction from the one I assumed it was going to go in. The plan had been for my parents and me to see the matinee of Million Dollar Quartet, the show Nathan's been ticketing at the Royal Festival Hall for the past couple of months. I was going to spend the morning writing and then drift into town for a late lunch.

Just before Nathan trotted off to work, however, I received a panicked email from the parents telling me that all the trains in their neck of the woods had been cancelled and that they had no way of getting into central London. My Mum was devastated and broke my heart by telling me she'd laid all the clothes out on the bed that she was planning to wear. So, to cut a long story short, I jumped in the car and, without so much as a bowl of cornflakes in my belly, drove up to Thaxted to pick them up. It seemed the least I could do. And frankly, my Mum's top deserved an outing. She looked fabulous.

The journey up to Thaxted and back was very speedy. There was very little traffic on the roads, so I was up and back to Highgate within two and a half hours. It was raining horribly when we got back in to London, however, and a car sailed through a puddle right next to me as we were waiting to cross the road. A great wave of water covered my legs in muddy wetness.

The area around the South Bank must have been brutally pelted with rain because we were having to jump over giant puddles and little rivers in the road.

It was worth it, however. I wasn't altogether sure Million Dollar Quartet was going to be my cup of tea. I have limited tolerance for both rock n roll music and juke box musicals, but the quality of musicianship from the performers was absolutely extraordinary. Martin Kaye, as Jerry Lee Lewis absolutely stole the show, with effortlessly charismatic acting and virtuosic piano playing. The moment he walked onto the stage, I found myself wondering where on earth they'd found him. Answer: America, where they revere musical theatre.

The parents loved the show. Rock n Roll was my Dad's first great passion and seeing the raw energy on stage, I was suddenly able to see the genre as something more than a set of simplistic chords crudely banged together by part-time musos. Rock n roll was a movement, a lifestyle, which was probably far more shocking to the older generation than punk became twenty years later. As we left the theatre, my Dad asked if I'd finally understood what it was which made rock n roll so compelling to his generation, and I was able to answer, with absolute honesty, that I did.

We walked across a hugely windy Hungerford Bridge for a delicious meal in one of the Italian restaurants on Villiers Street. Free panettone? Result.

I've been very sad to read about the mass shooting in Turkey. With each new atrocity of this nature, however, I find myself becoming more and more desensitised and this worries me enormously. I was, however, somewhat horrified to see the BBC using a stock image of the club which appears to show hundreds of staff with their hands in the air as though surrendering to someone holding a gun. I think they might all be waving, but perhaps a little more thought could have gone into deciding which picture to use. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-38484029

For me the most unusual aspect in this particular story are the reports about how many women apparently instantly fainted when they heard the gunshots. This surely can't have helped the mayhem, and may well explain why those who survived the attack felt sure the death toll was far higher than the figure of 39 which is presently being bandied about. I'm not sure that women in the UK would have fainted under similar circumstances, and this sort of makes me wonder if a kind of fragility emerges in Muslim women as a result of how they are treated/ expected to behave in society.




I'm not sure if what I'm writing is particularly appropriate so soon after such an awful tragedy, but the image struck me as noteworthy.