Pease Poodle

It’s been a glorious, glorious day. I spent the past 6 hours with Christopher and Meriel in Brighton. The sun shone endlessly and the sky was cloudless and deep blue. We ate chips on the beach, paddled in the sea, and played on the dolphin derby. We went to a Victorian penny arcade and wasted hundreds of ten pence pieces on various pinball machines and automata. We journeyed through a house of horrors on a ghost train at the end of the pier and rode a giant chicken on a merry-go-round whilst Keep The Home Fires Burning played on a pipe organ. I’ve laughed until my cheeks ached, sung Judy Garland songs, eaten doughnuts and had chocolate milkshakes. My teeth are ready to fall out and the back of my neck is burnt, but I don’t care. It’s been a glorious, glorious day.

My extraordinary companions

We’re now in Tunbridge Wells watching Hannah Waddingham performing a cabaret. She ended the evening with an extraordinary rendition of Send In the Clowns whilst the audience literally held its breath.

Christopher, who’s American, is having enormous problems remembering the names of the various quaint English town we’ve been passing through on our journey. He keeps referring to this place as Cotswold Minge and the already bizarrely named Pease Pottage was recently regurgitated as Pease Poodle, which I almost prefer!

Whilst passing through Lewes on our way here, I saw a dark-haired woman standing with her back to me in front of a news camera and immediately recognised her as my dear friend Claudia. I went back round the one-way system so that I could pull up alongside her and give her the fright of her life, just before she went live on the BBC regional news! It was wonderful to see her. The perfect end to a perfect day...

Claudia and her fluffy boom going live...

Not a great deal happened on board The Charles on Sunday 3rd June 1660; no games of nine pins or idle gossip or even news from London. Pepys returned to his personal accounts and discovered that he was actually worth the tidy sum of £100, which I’m told is about £9000 in today’s money. When you consider that he ended the diary worth something in the region of £10,000 pounds in 17th Century money, we begin to get an idea of quite how wealthy he became, and why he was able to leave such an impressive library of books to the world.

Not I

I sat opposite a man with tourettes in the cafe today. Watching the well-heeled people of Highgate trying to politely ignore his outbursts was almost as entertaining as the noises he was making. He was more of a shrieker than a swearer. Cat meows and geese honks seemed to be his speciality, but he was also a virtuoso when it came to random whistles; long-held notes which got louder and louder until everyone’s ears began to vibrate. They were playing havoc with my composing until I noticed that one particular pitch fitted perfectly with the bar that I was writing at the time, so I wrote it into the score! The whole episode reminded me of Beckett’s, Not I, and still, if I could turn back time and watch just one piece of seminal theatre, I’d choose to see Billie Whitelaw’s mouth, performing that play whilst hovering in a tiny spotlight, 20 feet above the Royal Court stage. I recently discovered the film of her performing the piece on You Tube. It’s extraordinary


I’ve just returned from a recording session in Limehouse where I was playing ‘cello on the new album by a singer songwriter called Simon Grainger. He’s a very interesting character who writes music which is incredibly dark and moody, but occasionally fizzes into rather extraordinary episodes of electro-pop. It’s an interesting combination... particularly when you add a sobbing ‘cello!

We’re currently sitting in Highgate Village with our close friend, Christopher Sieber, who’s come to stay with us from New York. He’s brought some glorious weather with him, but more worryingly, seems also to have brought a little slice of the American’s trigger-happy gun culture. Something awful happened in Cumbria this afternoon and many people have been killed by a rampaging gunman who shot at innocent people from behind the wheel of a taxi. It’s horrific. It’s occasions like this that always take me back to a rather surreal day in 1989, when a gunman rushed into our school and shot the Deputy Head right outside our classroom. Fortunately for us, it was January, and the windows were entirely misted over with condensation. I dread to think what we’d have witnessed if the lunatic had waited until the summer...

Pepys had a veritable heart-to-heart with Montagu on this date 350 years ago and took the opportunity to thank him for all he’d done for him over the past few months. Montagu was incredibly gracious and told Pepys that he hoped to do him a “more lasting kindness” if things with the King continued to go as well for him as they had been. His passing comment, which Pepys chose to quote verbatim, was thrillingly tantalising; “we must have a little patience and we will rise together”. Wow!

Redemption from Tyranny

It’s been a somewhat frantic day. I’m feeling a very tangible sense that time is running out. I sat in the cafe composing for 6 hours flat, desperately trying to make inroads into the last movement whilst wishing that I could press a button and hold time, even for just a day, so that I could finish what I’m doing and then dive back into the world when I’m ready for it to start turning again.

I’m afraid there’s not much more to report. It’s been raining miserably all day and water has been dripping through the skylights in our loft and onto the bed up there. I’m currently taking a break to eat some food and watch Britain’s Got Talent, but then the work needs to start again. I can see myself having to write until the wee smalls...

Some of the musicians from the project are now phoning up to point out some of the mistakes I’ve made in the process of writing up the parts. Obviously it’s incredibly important that they feel they can do this, but it can be highly stressful and ends up lodging unnecessesary seeds of doubt in my mind. It makes the limited rehearsals I have in Yorkshire even more important, especially for some of the stranger instruments in the piece...

Friday 1st June 1660, and Pepys “fooled away” the afternoon with endless games of ninepins, all of which he lost. Letters came from London bringing news from a city that was feeling “gallant and joyful.” Parliament had ordered that the King’s birthday, May 29th, should be kept forever as a “day of thanksgiving for our redemption from tyranny.” I’m not sure Parliament stipulated how long “forever” needed to be, but I’m pretty certain the bank holiday we've just had celebrated Whitsunday rather than an escape from tyranny!

Pepys discovered that his wife had been in London for the past week, and had therefore been lucky enough to witness the King’s entrance into the city. Much as I’m sure she found the whole experience hugely exciting, the message that came back to her husband was loud and clear. She was missing him, missing her home in Axe Yard and she wanted him back...

Hopping in and out of the shadows

It feels incredibly odd to be working on a bank holiday. It's like there’s some kind of anti-work fog floating through the air. You look out onto the street and people seem to be drifting purposelessly. You turn the television on for company, and instead of daytime chat shows and quizzes with complicated rules, they're showing obscure Judy Garland films. Fiona called me up at lunchtime and asked if she could come over. She had a stack of admin to do before leaving the country and was having the same problem. She felt that being in the presence of another person working would spur her on, so we spent the afternoon holed up in the loft with me banging my head against a wall, trying to write the final movement of the Yorkshire Symphony, which features perhaps the most bizarre line-up of players. How on earth am I going to write for a rock band, a euphonium and a Wurlitzer!?


At about 5pm, the attic air became stifling and we took ourselves for a walk across the heath. It was a good decision. It had been cold and overcast all day, but the sun was suddenly shining and it felt quite magical to be hopping in and out of the long, early-evening shadows.

We sat inside a hollow tree and met a family of rats living by the side of one of the ponds. They seemed to be incredibly tame. We tried to feed them pieces of dried mango, but a golden retriever came lolloping over and spoilt our fun! We wandered through the fair, which is back in town again. After a slightly disappointing visit to a travelling hall of mirrors, I bought a toffee apple, which tasted heavenly. Every bite brought with it another happy memory of Hallowe’en parties from my childhood.

May 31st 1660, and Pepys spent a pleasant day on board The Charles. He played some songs written by the composer Henry Lawes, was given a pair of light-blue silk stockings and walked until 10pm on the deck with the captain of the boat; his mood much improved by being no longer in pain down below.

“This day the month ends, I in very good health, and all the world in a merry mood because of the King’s coming...I expect every minute to hear how my poor wife do. I find myself in all things well as to body and mind, but troubled for the absence of my wife.”

So he hadn't forgotten she existed. I was beginning to worry.

Euroriot

Eurovision was an absolute riot. About 30 people managed to cram into our tiny living room and each and every one of them seemed incredibly happy to be there. Jim made the most astonishing scoreboard for the wall. I've never seen the like. Everyone registered their votes with pieces of coloured card of varying lengths. The song you liked the best was awarded the longest piece of card and so on down to your tenth favourite, which was given the smallest. The countries were written in a line at the bottom of the wall, and as people stuck their different pieces of card, end to end, on the scoreboard, the columns representing our favourite songs grew and grew. The winner ended up with a column that went from the floor to the ceiling. It was very incredibly exciting to see the votes piling in. It retrospect it was probably more exciting than what was happening in the official competition on the television at the same time!


We ended up choosing France as our winning song. It certainly wasn’t my first choice, but as soon as it started, someone in the room began to dance and before you could say; “oi, this song’s crap”, about 8 people were on their feet, jumping exctiedly in the middle of the sitting room. I think the large majority of people at the party decided that if a song had the power to make 8 people spontaneously dance, it had to win! Denmark, which was my choice, came a close second.

Bizarrely, the winner of the proper competition was Germany, which came a miserable 16th in our vote, and barely made an impression on any of us. The good news is that the Germans love Eurovision, so they’ll host the mother of all contests next year. Brother Edward, no doubt, has already booked his ticket.

The UK actually came last, which made me incredibly happy. Having predicted we’d get between 20 and 30 points, we actually got fewer than 10, which is almost a record. I’d love to have seen Pete Waterman’s arrogant, crabby face afterwards! If you don’t respect the contest, Pete, it certainly won’t respect you!

The scoreboard committee make preparations

The start of the night. Is it just me, or does my god-daughter look like Resusci-annie on this picture?

Spontaneous dancing to France

End of the evening; note the spotlight illuminating the winning column of votes

May 30th 1660 was an uncomfortable day for Pepys. He was besieged by all manner of aches and pains and was terrified, but decided it was simply a cold and got on with eating a lovely breakfast of freshly caught mackerel instead.

A day of accounting followed, which also saw him calculating his personal fortune, finding himself to be worth 80L; “at which my heart was glad and blessed God”. Pepys’ gratitude to The Almighty in the realm of finances seemed to know no bounds, and as he became wealthier and wealthier the thank yous seemed to become more and more elaborate!

Eurostorm

I’m posting today's blog in a moment of calm before the Eurovision storm arrives in town. Brother Edward is due any time now and we need to go shopping as I’ve foolishly agreed to cook vegetarian lasagne for the 25 guests who are coming over for our annual party. The scoreboard committee will arrive at 4pm. Their task is to build a scoreboard the size of an entire wall, so that our guests can post their votes in a mini-competition all of our own. It’s deeply exciting.


We’ve just been into Kentish Town to buy sheets of paper and thick marker pens. I got hungry and ratty so we had a Subway sandwich for lunch whilst the rain poured down outside.

We witnessed a rather upsetting event on the High Street. A dog had been tied by its lead to one of those signs outside a shop that flaps around in the wind. Obviously something had scared the poor creature, because he bolted across the road, causing cars and busses to screech to a halt, with the heavy sign dragging along in his wake. I assume he thought the sign was chasing him as he was obviously in a great deal of distress. At one stage he tripped over, and the sign, still moving with the momentum, careered into him and rolled onto his back. Nathan and I rushed after the dog and eventually found him in a side street, cowering and terrified under a parked car; the sign still attached to him and lodged between the pavement and a back wheel.

A man appeared and was trying to pull the dog out from under the car. “Are you the owner?” I asked. He ignored the question. I asked again. No answer. We helped him to untie the lead from the sign whilst trying to talk about what had happened but still the man still said nothing. Eventually the dog, who was looking incredibly sorry for himself, was dragged back across the road and out of sight. I can only assume that the silent man was the dog’s owner, and if he was, a little thank you wouldn’t have gone amiss. Perhaps he was in shock, or felt embarrassed. Perhaps this is something the dog does regularly. Or perhaps he’s a rude bastard, who doesn’t deserve to own such a lovely creature.

May 29th 1660 was the King’s 30th birthday and rumours abounded that he’d chosen the occasion to triumphantly enter London. Much as I’m sure Pepys would have given his right arm to be able to witness the spectacle, his Navy work wasn’t done, and The Charles remained anchored off the coast of Kent. Montagu, however, decided that the auspicious date deserved to be marked by a day off, so took Pepys to the shore, found some horses and the pair went riding for the day.

He showed Pepys a house, which had recently been built at a great cost, which was on such inaccessible and barren land that it had been nicknamed The Fool’s House. Later in the day they rode underneath a tall cliff, which Pepys wagered was as tall, if not taller than St Paul’s Cathedral. Montagu pulled out a couple of measuring sticks (where did these people store such things!?) and convincingly calculated that the cliff was only 35 feet high, which suddenly seemed very small indeed. St Paul’s was said to be over 90 feet.

On the way back to the mother ship, they rode through Deal, where the citizens were celebrating the King’s birthday in style by building bonfires in the street. It was a fine day, and stopping for breath on some high ground, they could see the coastline of France, right the way across the English Channel.

Kitsch blandness

I’ve never known the cafe busier and noisier than it was this morning. It didn’t help that I was holding my eyes open with matchsticks, but the world and his wife, or more specifically the wives of the world seemed to rush through the doors at about 9.30 and literally shout at each other for about half an hour. And then the place fell silent again...


The Eurovision Song Contest season is upon us, which means gay men across the world are dusting off their giant scoreboards and rifling through their wardrobes for something sparkly to represent their favourite European Country. The event has been described as the gay men’s world cup and it does seem to generate hysteria amongst us, although it’s difficult to say exactly why. The ABBA thing obviously helps, and the fact that it's glitzy and tragic in equal measure, which seem to be two of the main ingredients of camp. It’s theatrical, musical and dependable and reminds many of us of the safety of our childhoods, which in this fast-paced world is a place we all occasionally need to visit.

So last night, I was with brother Edward, watching the second of the semi-finals. Most of the songs were of an incredibly high standard and it makes me furious and somewhat embarrassed to think that the UK is content to enter such a genuinely pointless song with such a talentless singer when the rest of Europe, baring France, is throwing absolutely everything at the competition. Watch out for Norway, Denmark, Turkey, Iceland and Azerbaijan this year. Spain deserves to do better than it will, but my prediction for the UK remains the same; fourth from last, with a score of about 27 points.

And if you want to hear a great Eurovision Song, take a listen to last year’s entry from Iceland, which came second. It literally ticks every box; a great vocal, a pretty girl, a key change, a lovely melody, a big show-off note, a 'cello... You can see it here. The video seems to have been filmed in the middle of volcanic ash cloud. How very prescient.

And the backing vocalist in this song, who was obviously considered too fat to appear in the video, is actually singing this year’s Icelandic entry.

Compare what you’ve (hopefully) just watched to the kitsch blandness of the UK’s entry and feel a deep sense of shame prickling through your veins – and to think we didn’t even get to choose it. Here it is...

It was a fairly dull day on board The Charles 350 years ago. Pepys was given his share of 60 ducats from the King’s recent gift. He was expecting 30L, but I’m reliably informed that European exchange rates meant he actually received the equivalent of just 27L. It didn’t seem to affect his mood, however, and he celebrated by being thrashed at 9 pins. The final statement in the diary is worth quoting as, not only as an example of incredibly candid writing, but also because it says much about Pepys’ rather fragile state of mind...

This night I had a strange dream of bepissing myself, which I really did, and having kicked the clothes off, I got cold and found myself all muck-wet in the morning, and had a great deal of pain in making water which made me very melancholy

Whenever Pepys had problems with his waterworks, he suspected the bladder stones, that had nearly killed him a few years earlier, were returning. To have something like that hanging over your head for an entire lifetime must be a fairly depressing state of affairs.