Jody who?

Here’s a thing... If you find yourself feeling a little listless of an evening; if your creative juices are in need of a bit of a shake-up, take yourself for a long run in a storm! I’ve just returned from a circuit of Highgate village in lashing rain and thrashing wind. Far from being unpleasant, the experience was exhilarating. I was accompanied by dramatic music on my iPod and for much of the time I felt like an actor in an epic film. It was incredible. It didn’t matter that I was getting soaking wet; the elements were blasting the tension out of my bones!

I walked into Muswell Hill with Fiona this afternoon. We were both feeling a little gloomy after hearing the news that a good friend of our’s has lost a baby in the eighth month of its pregnancy. It’s almost impossible to know what to say to her. She must be utterly devastated. Fiona went with the baby's father to Islington Town Hall to simultaneously register the birth and the death. It just seems so unbelievably unfair; a horrifying way to start a year which should have been filled with absolute joy.

I’m glad to see that they’ve finally put some of the hideous creatures behind bars who killed Stephen Lawrence. The newspapers are filled with the aggressive, twisted faces of the two lads, and we’ve already started blithely describing them as monsters; whipped up, once again, by the media. But here's my issue; the killing of Stephen Lawrence wasn't unusual. Hate crimes happen. People regularly murder transpeople because they’re transpeople. A young Asian bride is murdered by her family because she's taken the wrong lover. We don’t waste pages and pages of column inches demonising these killers. Half the time the police simply wash their hands of the crime, or behave so shambolically that vital evidence gets sullied or lost. Yes, the killers of Stephen Lawrence should be behind bars - they're odious little toads -  but we need to get a handle on hate crime, particularly when it's legitimised by religion. Stephen Lawrence has become a buzzword. It's safe to say we hate his killers, because we know it's bad to be a racist, but hands up if you know who Jody Dobrowski is? Or Kellie Telesford? Does anyone remember the faces of their killers smeared across the tabloid press?

350 years ago, Pepys spent the morning hanging the new pictures by William Faithhorne he’d brought the previous day, and fitting a pair of pewter sconces to the bottom of his new staircase. He went to Westminster by water and met a man called Mr Chetwind, one of the clerks with whom he regularly went drinking. Chetwind had a dog, who became the centre of a scandal when another man appeared and claimed the beast was actually his. The dispute was settled when the dog was placed equidistantly between the two men, and ran to Chetwind when called. I seem to remember something similar happening to Bouncer the dog in Neighbours! Mrs Mangle won.

Requiometer

I worked very hard today. I had a huge amount to do; hundreds of pies that I needed to start sticking my fat little fingers into. Amongst much else, I made a tentative start on the process of orchestrating the Hattersley music. Nathan and I sat up late last night going over the songs, making sure the lyrics were scanning properly. We worked our way through two  of the songs, so I suspect we’re on for another late night tonight to sort out the next two.
 

I can’t take my eye of the ball this year – not for a second. I’m juggling so many projects that I'll need to start compartmentalising my days so that I can dedicate enough time to all of them. I simutaneously need to remember to continue pitching projects for later in the year and find the time to start the process of getting funding together to record the Requiem. I feel another Blue Peter-style totaliser coming on; A Requiometer... But we’re going to need to collect a very large number of milk bottle tops to get this one flashing. £20,000 of milk bottle tops, to be precise. I emailed the record company who are interested in releasing the piece today to get some useful figures from them; how much money we should expect to make from every unit sold, and how many copies we’d need to shift before going into profit. It's all bewildering. I’m bewildered.

I celebrated my bewilderment by battling through a hellish storm to visit the gym this afternoon. I ran for 6km and then cycled for 6km, and now my legs feel like pieces of plastercine. I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the changing room and mistook myself for a flump. Just call me Pootle until you begin to see the effects of the diet I started today.

On that note, I'm very much looking forward to watching The Biggest Loser on ITV tonight. There's nothing better than watching a group of fatties hauling themselves around a football pitch before bursting into tears to make you want to lose weight. I very much enjoyed the show last year. It will, no doubt, remind me of being in Newcastle this time last year. It was an incredibly happy and relaxed period of my life. I’d rush back to my Travelodge room to watch the show whilst eating an apple, an orange and a malteesers bunny.

Anyway, with no structure to today’s blog, I think it’s time for me to bow out gracefully before anyone reading falls asleep. I am sad to read today of the whale who met his end on the beach at Hunstanton. Frankly, there are better places to die...

Friday 3^rd January 1662, and Pepys went to William Faithorne’s studio to buy some of his pictures. They were obviously quite expensive, because he spent the rest of the day panicking about his accounts – and the sheer amount of money that he was allowing to drip, like water, through his usually thrifty fingers.  

Inertia

2012 seems to be rather slowly cranking its tired self into existence and today’s bank holiday has added to a sense of inertia. I couldn’t work out whether I needed to be working or not, so had a lie-in and then did a few lazy hours' composing before heading to the gym, which I didn’t realise was due to shut at 4pm. It would appear that LA Fitness will close these at the drop of a hat. Gone are the blissful days when you could tip up at 6 in the morning or 10 at night. One day I'm sure I'll get there and discover it's only open at lunchtimes.

After running for my allotted twenty minutes, I drove across North London to Columbia Road to see Philippa, Dylan and Deia, who was in a proper strop when I arrived. She hid under a little trampoline, and then threw the present I’d given her at a mug of tea which spilt all over my iPod. Fortunately, she very speedily cheered up, and was a delightful companion for the second half of my visit. We ate mince pies, drank tea and did jigsaw puzzles. Philippa was off to the new Westfield shopping centre, which I thought was a fairly optimistic prospect for a bank Holiday evening.

I picked Nathan up from work, but got there early and had about an hour to wander around Soho in the freezing cold. Fortunately, Foyles bookshop came to my rescue, and I had a lovely time browsing the music department there.

We’re watching telly tonight over a plate of pasta. We sat through the new show with David Jason; the one where he plays a Royal body guard, and both of us were horrified. It’s awful. Really cheap. The incidental music sounds like The Rugrats, and as Nathan pointed out, Jason has started doing physical theatre in the style of Hyacinth Bouquet! I find it hard to believe that a self-styled national treasure would opt to act in such a shoddy turkey. Surely he could tell from the scripts that this one was a dud - and without his name attached to the project, the license fee money would never have been wasted so shockingly.

350 years ago, and Pepys went to a posh lunch at the Wardrobe with Lady Sandwich, which was attended (amongst other fancy types) by Sir William Montagu and his wife Mary, who was meant to be a great beauty, but Pepys wasn’t impressed... "She seemed so far from the beauty that I had expected her from my Lady's talk to be, that it put me into an ill humour all day, to find my expectation so lost." (What a ridiculous notion!) Obvious in some kind of a grump, Pepys returned home and sat in his bedroom playing his lute until midnight.

To finish the blog, here are two pictures from my weekend in Lewes.

Brighton Beach

The hills above Kingston

A perfect year

Last night became a fairly magical evening. We had a beautiful meal with Hilary, Rupert, Meriel and Roy, played some games, announced our New Year's resolutions and then went out into the garden to watch people lighting fireworks across Lewes. We could hear people in the distance shouting greetings at one another and we shouted our own in return into the darkness...

Brother Edward 'phoned just as we'd gathered into a huddle to listen to ABBA's Happy New Year on Nathan's iPhone. Edward sang along on the other end of the phone whilst standing on a roof top somewhere in Canary Wharf, watching the fireworks bursting across London.

Meanwhile, my other brother, Tim, texted to say that he'd proposed to his partner, John, and been given an affirmative answer. Happy days!

We left a very tired Hilary to do Jago's night feed and decided to drive to Brighton beach. We were astonished to discover that the big Ferris wheel was still running, so at 1am were hovering in a four-seater pod, high above the town, looking down at the huge winter waves crashing onto the pebble beach below. 

At about 2 am, we were lighting fireworks on the beach and jumping for joy like silly children every time a rocket burst in the sky. Perfect.

We were in bed by 3. Any later than that and I'd have turned into a pumpkin. 

This morning we went for a walk with Meriel and Roy in the hills above Kingston, which is the little village outside Lewes in which they live. It was raining pretty heavily, but the tops of the hills were shrouded in beautiful cotton-like mist. We were accompanied on our journey by a puppy called Berry; a little cocker-poo, or spoodle. She's grown a great deal. When I last saw her, she  was a tiny little ball of wool sitting  like a merkin in Meriel's lap. She's become a really charming little creature; less dog, more teddy bear/weasel cross! 

The first day of 1662, and Pepys woke his wife up by smacking her in the chops in his sleep. It was an accident, and the incident made him feel rather guilty. 

Despite his new year's resolution to try and avoid trips to the theatre, Pepys spent the afternoon doing just that with the Penns, who subsequently invited him to their house for a mirth-filled game of cards, which became even more hilarious when it was discovered that Sir William had left his sword in the cab that had brought them home. Pepys' boy, Wayneman, was sent rushing after the coach, which he finally found somewhere on the Strand. 

Once a Puritan

We're somewhere on the m11, heading from Huntington to Lewes. The car stereo is blaring out dance floor classics, I have a bag of wine gums and life is good. Bring on 2012. 

I'm looking forward to seeing the back of 2011 for so many reasons, and having just had lunch with Lisa,  Mark and Poppy, who lost George this year, I know I'm not the only one. It might be my take on things, but it feels like 2011 has been a very violent and unfair sort of year; a year where bad things have happened to many good people. My birthday was marred by the worst rioting seen in this country for a hundred years. People are poor, people are put upon, people are stressed and people have been ill. It feels like it's been a year for wicked people to rub their hands together in glee.

I guess it's been something of a year of consolidation for me. Matt Lucas always says that you alternate between years spent taking steps forward and years where you take stock of your achievements and polish your armour for the next defensive. I've won awards this year, written a Requiem, had a concert to celebrate fifteen years of writing, lined up jobs for 2012, and floated to the surface when I was expected to drown. Many people in my life have shown themselves to be extraordinarily loyal friends. I feel loved. I am healthy. Those around me are healthy. Maybe it's not been as bad a year as at times it's seemed! 

On the last day of 1661, Pepys and Elizabeth went back to Mr Savill, the painter, who put a few final touches to Elizabeth's portrait at Pepys' request. When they were done, Elizabeth's little black dog was plonked in her lap, and drawn, much to the merriment of everyone present. 

Pepys then went to his office to finish totting up the Navy's debts on behalf of the Duke of York. They came to a staggering 374,000l. 

After being trimmed by the barber, Pepys wrote up his journal, summing up the year, estimating he was worth 500l, moaning about the business of his Uncle's will, listing his servants, claiming to be in good health but for a slight cold, and so on... He vowed to spend 1662 searching for a wife for his brother, Tom, and vowed to be less of a spend thrift. His final resolution was to drink less and pay fewer visits to the theatre. Quite why the theatre was considered so morally reprehensible, I've no idea. Pepys loved plays. They made him happy... But once a Puritan, always a  puritan...

Drenching

We're at Julie's house, watching the film version of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. It's beautifully shot, but it's as dull as dishwater. In fact, it's duller than dishwater. We've actually just given up on it!

On the way here I did a terrible thing. It's been pissing it down all day. The roads are shining like glass, reflecting headlamps and neon lights and creating something of a blaze. As I drove along a road somewhere near Bermondsey, with misty, smeary windows and not a great sense of what was going on around me, I found myself hitting an enormous puddle. A massive wall of water surged from underneath the car and burst onto the pavement next to the road, just as someone was passing. Unfortunately that person was a) an old man b) a very old man c) a disabled, very old man d) a disabled, very old man, struggling his way down the street with the aid of two enormous sticks. According to Nathan, he got a drenching, and I am going straight to hell!

350 years ago, Pepys hosted a dinner at the Mitre Pub, to which twelve friends from his previous job at the department of the Exchequer had been invited. He shelled out for a good chine of beef, three barrels of oysters, three pullets and "plenty of wine." At the end of the mirth-filled dinner, Pepys made a "foolish promise" to do the same thing in twelve months' time. By the end of the day, however, he'd decided that it was definitely a promise he wasn't prepared to keep!

Man 'flu

At 2pm this afternoon, whilst Miss Marple was on the telly, I heard the sickening crack of my iPhone hitting our tiled kitchen floor. I’m now the proud owner of one of those rubbish iPods with a smashed screen that looks like it’s been dragged through a spider’s web at dawn. I've had to stick tape everywhere to prevent shards of glass cutting my ears to shreds every time I make a phone call. Frankly, I’m astonished it still works, but this iPhone has survived all sorts of falls, Frisbee incidents and immersions and doesn’t seem to want to give up the ghost at any cost. I immediately took the poor thing to the Orange shop in Crouch End and was told I'm just 11 days away from a free upgrade which means I can progress to a sparkling iPhone 4s, or something...

It would apparently cost me £50 to make what’s called an early upgrade, or, for the same amount, I could set the balls rolling on an insurance claim. I am (as I am with all the technology I possess) insured up to the hilt. The man in the shop, and the guy on the phone both agreed it was better for me to claim for insurance rather than opt for an early upgrade, because - and I was astonished to hear them both saying it - "you can flog it on the Internet when you get your free upgrade in 11 days time." Wow!

Anyway, here I am, trying to back up all my contacts, which is surprisingly difficult if your laptop is not made by Apple. Nathan is currently on the phone to Orange (what is this? A fruit salad?) stranded in the mother of all automated systems which apparently costs 5 pence per minute. For every extra second that he spends listening to a silly woman's voice, I feel less guilty about my plans to flog the iPhone as soon as they deliver it tomorrow!

350 years ago, Pepys found himself drafted in to sing with the choir at Westminster Abbey! It seems an almost impossible thing to imagine. He was musical – and had regular singing lessons – but I can’t imagine a passing singer being offered the same opportunity these days, however talented he was (and however many of the boys had gone down with man 'flu)