Glorious Mud

Greetings from Manchester, which is presently sitting underneath about an inch of snow.
 

Today started a little too early for my liking. It was still dark and I couldn’t wake myself up. I was due to catch the 8.20am train from Euston, but some kind of derailment near Bletchley yesterday meant it had been cancelled. I went to speak to the bloke at the information desk, who helpfully told me that I’d need to catch the 8.40 instead. “If you’d arrived with enough time, you could have caught the 8am.” “But I was booked onto the 8.20 train, why would I have turned up to the station with enough time to catch the 8 o’clock?” “I’m just saying for the next time.” “But I didn’t know the train was cancelled. I hope there won’t be a next time.” “But if you'd turned up early you'd have had a choice!” “Perhaps you might refrain from saying that to the next person" I said "It’s really not helpful, and it's actually quite irritating.” His lips went to lemon and his eyes went to half. A homosexual will usually out himself if crossed...

The train steamed north through frost-bitten countryside. Lonely horses in fields seemed to be wondering why the grass had suddenly gone all cold and crispy. Somewhere in the Midlands the train ran parallel with a canal for some time. For mile after mile it was frozen solid. It was such a romantic English view; barges with smoking chimneys, ducks and moorhens skating on the ice. I was instantly taken back to my childhood.

The bloke opposite me smelt of aftershave and stale beer. He told his mate he’d been out on a bender the night before, and was terribly hung-over. I think the motion of the train was making matters worse, because at about 9.30am, he cracked open three cans of beer and polished them off in half an hour. As he opened the third, he said “last one... until six tonight” rather proudly. And I wondered what his life expectancy was...

The woman opposite was screaming at her embarrassed children, who eventually had to tell her to be quiet. Her response was somewhat draconian; “don’t tell me to shut up, Caitlin unless you want pepper in your mouth.” I don't know why I found the threat quite so shocking - probably because it's a punishment that actually happens. Whatever next? Vinegar in the eyes?

We spent the late morning and early afternoon on the Hattersley estate with June and her son Charlie. I was very proud of June who’d obviously worked really hard on her song. Charlie took us on a tour of Hattersley as the snow began to swirl. We visited underpasses covered in graffiti, strange demolished buildings nestling under enormous pylons and Baptist churches in prefabricated buildings. Hattersley never ceases to amaze me, not least because for much of our journey we were accompanied by the sound of a ice cream van! Only the Mancunians would buy ice cream in a blizzard! Charlie also brought our attention to a weird box in the eaves of the local Co-op which emits a crazy irritating sound at a frequency that apparently only younger ears can hear. It’s designed to prevent groups of young people gathering en masse. Charlie said the sound used to really irritate him, but now, at the age of 20, he can only just hear it. I could hear it incredibly faintly, but it was the kind of sound that would probably really get under the skin. It’s probably also the reason why all the dogs I’ve seen tied up outside the shop do nothing but bark!

At one stage we visited a building site, and I stood on a raised pile of earth to take a photograph. It immediately gave way, and my feet sank knee deep into a pile of incredibly soggy mud which left my shoes looking like they’d been shat on by an elephant. We went back to June’s house, and I sat on the step with a dish cloth and a bowl of water trying to clean them up. June gave me a couple of freezer bags to put over my socks and I left looking a little eccentric, but feeling dry!

350 years ago, Pepys went to his friend Lord Crew’s house, where he met a Northamptonshire vicar called Benjamin Templar, who he described as an ingenious man and a person of honour. Templar was a man of the world, and talked about dim and distant lands (probably Italy) where fiddlers were hired by farm hands during the harvest season to play for those with the, probably mythical disease, Tarantism, where those who had been bitten by the wolf spider were said to need to dance frenetically to avoid death by the spider’s venom. Hence the tarantella.

And so the cold weather continues...

It's been one of those rather endless days. I was up fairly early and working in the cafe by 10. I'm trying to whip the Fleet Singer’s memories into some kind of coherent narrative. As always, the problem with real stories and memories is that they’re rarely blessed with a through-line. Life is just a little bit too random. This is the predominant reason why biopics tend to underwhelm. Nevertheless, I've put all the texts I’ve been sent into a massive time line – starting with the earliest and ending with the most recent, and am slowly whittling them down. It feels a little like I'm carving something without really knowing what. It's a heartbreaking process. Sometimes I find myself having to cut a really brave piece of writing or something which really speaks to me. But, as Sir Arnold Wesker used to say, sometimes you have to kill your darlings. The bigger picture is more important than the constituent parts, however beautifully written they are. So I've killed many  darlings and am painfully aware that at least another 50% will have to go before I’m done.

Today is Philippa's birthday so I ambled over to the Hackney Hood to give her a little devil's glass vase which I'm convinced she needs to hang in a window. We had a little green devil’s glass hanging in the sitting room window for most of my childhood. My mother was very superstitious about it. I once managed to pull it down from its green woollen holder. If there’s something to be fiddled with, I'll usually fiddle with it until it's broken. I broke a wall chart at Philippa’s today, and then managed to pull the back off a little hair grip, which I didn’t own up to. Anyway, when the devil’s glass fell into my hand as a ten-year old child, I didn’t want my Mum to think I’d been fiddling again, so told her it simply fell from the string unaided. She freaked out, worrying, no doubt that the angel of doom was descending on the family. Seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, I felt obliged to tell the truth.  

All was well with the Goslett-Emerys. Goddaughter Deia was suitably chirpy and eccentric, greeting me with a lion's roar, which she told me wasn’t a lion, or a tiger, or a bear, or a koala or a funny little elephant. “So what are you, Deia?” I said. “Daddy says I’m a nut.” She replied. We ate a blackberry crumble birthday cake from Marks and Spencer's, played a game involving cards which looked like plates of food, and chatted merrily. Philippa had just had her hair cut and looked stunning; like a glamorous actress from the 1970s.

350 years ago marked the 3^rd anniversary of Sir William Penn’s marriage and there was much mirth in the Navy office. To tell you the truth, Pepys’ account of the day is so charming, that I’m going to let the words come from him:

Among other froliques, it being their third year, they had three pyes, whereof the middlemost was made of an ovall form, in an ovall hole within the other two, which made much mirth, and was called the middle piece; and above all the rest, we had great striving to steal a spooneful out of it; and I remember Mrs. Mills, the minister’s wife, did steal one for me and did give it me; and to end all, Mrs. Shipmann did fill the pye full of white wine, it holding at least a pint and a half, and did drink it off for a health to Sir William and my Lady, it being the greatest draft that ever I did see a woman drink in my life.

Feeding ducks

My fingers ache. It is so unbelievably cold in North London. I’m told that most of Europe is sitting underneath the second highest high pressure system ever recorded, which, in winter time means stupidly cold, bone dry weather, which is exactly how I’d describe what’s been going on today. Not a cloud in the sky; throw in a bitter Easterly wind and you have a bad case of chilblains. It's so dry, I'm told, that we won't experience any frost tonight, except on the grass, which is weird but kind of wonderful. I love these temperatures. My internal thermostat is horribly broken, so it's rare for me to feel anything other than uncomfortable heat. It’s the curse of being an hairy man, I'm afraid, so being cold is actually fun; although I'm sure I won't be saying that when I'm old and have nothing but faded photographs.

Speaking of the elderly, there are two gorgons who live around the corner from us who give old people a bad name. They're suspicious. They peer out from behind net curtains, and they stand in darkened rooms watching the street, peering like perverts.

Their biggest crime, however, is to think they have the right to put a traffic cone on the parking space outside their house to prevent anyone but their visitors (of which they seem to have very few) parking there.

The thing about parking on the street in London is that residents pay a certain amount each year to park in any bay within a designated set of streets. The streets in Highgate can get quite busy and often the space outside this couple’s house (which is somewhat tucked away) is the only one without a car in it.  

We often find ourselves having to move the cone whilst the couple ruffle their curtains and look out at us as though we were hideous ruffians. Sometimes the woman gestures at us frantically to put the cone back and move our car. We pretend not to notice.

We left our car there for a week once and returned to find a note on the windscreen, which said "please make sure you don't leave your car in this space for such a long period of time again." Part of the deal of having a permit to park in our neighbourhood is that we can choose to leave our car in any space for as long as we like.

I should point out that the parking space nearest to our house is on a much busier road, and that if we tried to reserve it for ourselves in the manner described above, we'd have our knuckles very quickly and very firmly rapped by Harringey Council.

One day the woman came beetling out of her house to talk to us. "This space needs to be kept clear” she barked. “Ummm... Why?” we asked. “Because I have a disabled sister." "I’m sorry to hear that. Does she live here?" "No, but she visits very regularly." "Is this a designated disabled bay?" I asked, pretending to give a shit. "No, but we're the only house on the street which doesn't have its own private parking bay, which is not fair." (ah... now, I get it) “Well, I'm sure the lack of private parking was reflected in the price you paid for the house. Lovely to meet you." She sneered at me like a miserable crone. I swear she swallowed one of her teeth.

As it happens, of course, their putting the traffic cone on the space and having no friends means we get a space reserved just for us, being the only people who seem to know about these horrible people's game. Others simply assume it’s been reserved by the council. But if we're scratching their backs by not reporting them or setting fire to their blessed traffic cones they could at least ditch the "we're tragic elderly people who struggle to look after our disabled sister" act. You're rich. You're loathsome. You're not used to being told no. So get over yourselves, or buy a house with its own parking bay!
A short, sharp diary entry from Mr Pepys 350 years ago, which simply informed us that an Oxford man had delivered an “impertinent” sermon in church. “Cast your bread upon the waters.” Surely only when you’re feeding ducks?

Spluttering

I feel washed-out. I’ve been staving off this cold for too many days. The regular adrenaline rushes in the recording studio kept it at bay, but now that I’ve started to relax, the dreadful thing has started to engulf me.

It’s been a day of admin; a day spent drinking tea, sitting at the kitchen table and staring at my computer screen. A day of regular trips to the post office to buy envelopes and then stamps for investor packs for the Requiem. A day of constantly blowing my nose and coughing and spluttering and wishing I could get warm. I don't really have a great deal more to report...

I went running and it nearly killed me. As I got into the house, I was gasping for air, wondering if I was going to suffocate; a thought which was more embarrassing than scary. My legs now feel like lead. The run did, however, offer one rather beautiful moment as I staggered across the top of Waterlow Park. London was basking in a sort of golden light that I’m not sure I’ve seen before. It was so clear and crisp and I could see for miles and miles, across to my brother’s house in Canary Wharf and all the way due south to Crystal Palace. The sun was so low that the trees were half in shade.

A woman was sitting on a bench reading a book. The sun was lighting her face through a gap in the trees. She looked like a sepia photograph. I ran passed her, and then returned, compelled to tell her how extraordinary she looked, glowing magically on her bench. I hope she didn’t think I was out of my mind.  

We went out in the freezing air tonight to buy curry which we’re eating whilst watching Masterchef. I'm obsessed with cookery programmes, which is probably a weird admission for a vegetarian.

Saturday February 1^st, 1662, and Pepys spent the morning walking in the garden of the Navy office with Sir William Penn, who was thinking of transferring his son from Oxford to Cambridge University. Pepys went with Peter Pett the master shipwright to  visit Mr Savill, the painter. Pett admired the portraits Savill had painted of the Pepyses, and Pepys was thrilled. Perhaps Savill could finally breathe a sigh of relief...

Abercrombie

I did a number of errands in town this afternoon, one of which involved a trip to Jermyn Street Theatre. I didn't quite get there as I bumped into the person I wanted to see at at Piccadilly Circus. In an attempt to avoid the crowds on my way home, I found myself in the part of town west of Regent’s Street, where all the fancy clothing shops are found. I wandered aimlessly, peering into well-lit boutiquey windows, alternately wishing I had enough money to buy nice clothes before thinking "dear God, if I DID have money, I'd go nowhere near that place!"

I found myself walking past Abercrombie and Fitch; a cultural phenomenon I've been aware of for some time, but not yet explored. Something about the thrusting music they were playing dragged me inside but I knew from the moment I stepped into the foyer that I’d made an enormous mistake. The same terrible impulse that makes me stare at road crashes and facial deformities pulled me into the actual shop...

"Hey there. Come in. How’s it going?" said the grotesquely chirpy trio of models who are simply paid to welcome people in a kind of "we’re having an amazing party and the coke's on us" kind of way. I should have told them I was having a nervous breakdown when they asked how it was going, just to check whether they were programmed to listen to a response...

The shop is, of course, shiny and immaculate and it smells of an expensive aftershave that I recognised from the street outside. All the clothes are spot lit. Pouting models stand limply in every corner with seemingly nothing to do but sway their bony hips in time to the music. It reminded me a little of the old ladies they used to stick in every corner of art galleries and museums in communist Russia, except these Babooshka dolls weren't fat and gipping, they were malnourished, pale and covered in foundation (particularly the boys.)

There was nothing for me; not a single item I could ever have imagined wearing; the campy, chirpy models knew it, and yet every time I entered another room, in my desperate attempt to escape, another voice would ask "how you doing?" in that hideous “we’re buzzing like bees” kind of tone. Frankly, if I had wanted anything in the shop, these go-go girls would have sent me running for cover. The entire experience was soulless and grotesque and I realised, probably for the first time in my life, that I was too old to shop in a shop. I peered into one of the many mirrors lining the walls, and saw how my hair was thinning. I walked away with my tail very firmly planted between my legs and the words "have a great night" echoing in my careworn brain.

Pepys went to the theatre 350 years ago and saw Argalus and Parthenia, a new play by Henry Glapthorne. He was impressed, but added that it had been “wronged” by his “over great expectations, as all things else are.” I know the feeling, although I knew Abercrombie and Fitch was going to be shit!

The requi-o-meter

I was amused this morning by the behaviour of one of those slightly nutty people who often seem to gravitate towards crowded tubes. Every time the train stopped, in those few seconds of silence you get before it pulls out of the station again, an angry voice would pipe up, ranting about bankers and our "right-wing" government. The strong smell of ammonia accompanied his journey through the carriage and he handed Metro newspapers to everyone who would take one. Each paper had been carefully ripped in half."It's a Tory paper," he yelled, "Happy new year!"

Tube carnage! Ripped Metros

I spent the day in Clapham at Sonica studios recording backing tracks for the Hattersley songs. It all went past in something of a blur. I hadn't slept a great deal, I didn't eat very much, and I drank too many cups of tea, which, coupled with regular surges of adrenaline made me very jittery.

To save money, I played the piano; a decision I instantly regretted because I wasn't able to sit back and hear the music objectively. I also think that people weren't as tough on me as they might have been because they assumed that, as the composer, the music I was playing was meant to sound the way it did; slightly out of time...

By the afternoon, things had calmed down considerably and I was able to sit back and enjoy the session with the string quartet. Everyone played beautifully and I think the music I've written is good, although for some reason, I left with very little sense of the bigger picture.

I think the musicians very much enjoyed themselves, which is always a good sign. Adrian the violinist was highly complimentary. I guess, after playing my music for the best part of 20 years, he's in a good place to be able to judge one work against another. He made me laugh a lot with talk of the "Till 9th" referring to my tendency to add a lot of 9th notes to the chords I write - usually unresolved, just hanging there like tiny sad clouds...

The studio owner is a massive ABBA fan and owns a few gadgets from the old Polar studios in Stockholm. He got very excited to hear that my favourite song was "Summer Night City," which is also his favourite ABBA song. A man with impeccable taste.

Good news: we had our first investment in the Requiem today, so we're now £1000 towards our target of £25,000. A long way to go, of course, but an amazing start. It is therefore time to unveil the Requi-o-meter! Drum roll, please...

More more drums...

And more...

Thank you...

Ta dah! (And if you know of any wealthy lovers of death, music, me, graveyards, or Barbara Windsor, please ask them to get in touch for one of my lovely investment packs!)

Ikea

We spent most of today with our friends Ian and Jem. They’re the couple who made London their home because draconian homophobic laws in their own countries (the USA and Australia respectively) made it impossible for them to live together legally anywhere else. There are many things that frustrate me about this country, but we lead the English-speaking world when it comes to basic human rights. Thank God Ian’s mother is British...

They were buying furniture for their lovely new flat in Friern Barnet, so we took them to an Ikea, somewhere East of London on the North Circular. It’s very important, when heading to an Ikea on a Sunday, to do lots of deep breathing exercises before you leave the house. The experience can be a bit like being thrown into a sheep dip. You get herded through the building into ever-decreasing spaces. Periodically a flock of lambs trips you over and a grumpy shepherd prods you in the back because you’re not moving quickly enough. There were an astonishing number of lambs running, unchaperoned, around the building. Two particularly fluffy ones were having a terrible fight with two soft toys, which was quite amusing until it turned into a major turf war and hair started flying...

I don’t really like Ikea. You have to pay quite good money to find anything decent in there, and there’s a hell of a lot of cheap crap knocking about; lamps made out of strands of paper, uncomfortable-looking sofas hanging off dangerous metal frames, storage solutions which fall apart as soon as you put something inside. Everything in the place has been stuck down with glue, or screwed into the floor to stop potential thieves. The whole place smells of Swedish meatballs and the staff members don’t seem to give a damn about anyone.

350 years ago, and Pepys went with Elizabeth to the painter’s studio to have her portrait altered – for about the 400^th time. They stayed there until late, and Pepys was pleased with the results (as he usually was until he showed the work to a more discerning eye.) He decided that the painter, Mr Savill, was an honest man but “silly” to the point of distraction when it came to the concept of shadows... which begs the question, why commission a painter based on his previous work, if you think he’s not very good? Maybe he was cheap...