Autocue

I woke up at 5.30am to get my train back from Newcastle this morning. Imagine that? I didn't even know such times existed! I was out of the hotel before they'd started serving breakfast, and had to eat a bag of hash browns from a pasty stall at the station because nothing else was cooked. 

I don't remember much about the journey back to London. I slept uncomfortably most of the way, periodically waking up as my head lolled about. 

I woke up properly at Peterborough to the distressing news that we were running 36 minutes behind schedule. I staggered to the buffet car for a bottle of water and in the process passed a group of lads who were drinking heavily. At 9am. Do these people have no pride? 

They were grotesque creatures. One of them actually managed to burp the word "hola" as I passed... He did the same on my way back. I can only hope he was Spanish - and recovering from major throat surgery!

From King's Cross, I took the Thameslink to Elstree and Borhamwood. I'm doing the autocue on a second series of The Matt Lucas Awards, which has moved from  television centre to the BBC studios up here. Elstree is the home of Holby City and Eastenders, but the buildings resemble a 1950s holiday camp. 

I keep walking past patients in robes and nurses in uniform, so I guess Holby is filming today. 

Matt's show aside, which is absolutely fabulous, this is a highly depressing place, which has served up, twice, the worst food I've ever had the misfortune to eat. Under-cooked peas with the consistency of little stones shivered on a polystyrene plate with watery tinned carrots and potatoes like old shoes! My stomach hurts. I might as well have been eating corrugated cardboard!

Walking through the corridors here, one encounters nothing but deeply miserable-looking people. There's a sadness which seems to hang over this place like a dusty lilac shroud. I don't know why I've had such a bad reaction to, what is essentially, a flag ship BBC studio. Maybe it's psychological.  Maybe it's because I loved the iconic  Television Centre so dearly. Maybe it's because this place feels like the back end of beyond. 

I got an email today telling me that Canada's foremost radio station will be playing the Kyrie from the Requiem on their classical music show this Saturday. This is a very exciting prospect and I'm hoping it might trigger a few sales on the other side of the pond. 

I went to see a medium, I think in Blackpool, about 20 years ago. She said (and I was having none of it at the time) that success would come late in life for me ... And that it would  come first in Canada. That'll teach me for trying to pay her with a moose hyde! 

Jittery joy

What a relief! It turns out that the English Philharmonic Orchestra are an excellent ensemble, who played my music brilliantly. I am a happy man, and the 100 Faces project is one step closer to being brilliant! 

I've plainly had too much caffeine and too many sweeties because the adrenaline of the last 3 hour session has made me all jittery. 

I also got almost no sleep on account of the blooming air conditioning unit in my bedroom which sounded like a crematorium furnace burning a coffin with fireworks in it! I was forced to go down to reception at 4am and change rooms. Or maybe that was a dream?

I am Conor Maynard

...So there I was, chilling out in my Newcastle hotel room, and suddenly I'm aware that people are shouting a bit in the street outside. The shouting becomes screaming. I look out the window - and there beneath me in the street are about 1000 teenaged girls, all of whom see me and start screaming like I'm Elvis.

I run from the window. I close the curtains. I peek out again... they start screaming and waving. Suddemly they're all taking my photograph.

I phone reception:

"Um... why are there 1000 screaming teenaged girls in the street waving at me?"

"Ah, yes," says the receptionist, rather sheepishly, "Conor Maynard has just finished his concert, and they're waiting to see him. If it starts to upset you, we can see about changing your room?"

I was relieved, of course. But imagine if I actually were Conor Maynard? How stifling and horrible would it be to have 1000 girls outside your hotel room every night screaming like banshees and waving pairs of knickers around their heads?

Thing is. I don't actually know who Conor Maynard is...

Sheffield Folkers

Travelling from London to Sheffield by train is always a thought-provoking experience. The first part of the journey finds the train hurtling through a host of towns and landscapes associated with my childhood. It passes the enormous aircraft hangers at Cardington which are impressive enough against the flat Bedfordshire landscape, but as a child I found them almost mystical. I don’t think I’d ever seen buildings so large. I think a huge white zeppelin-shaped balloon used to fly above them which always seemed rather exciting. I always wanted to see it up close, but am not sure we ever did. My mother once told me that there was a haunted wood nearby, which had a dark, peculiar atmosphere.  I imagined that the hangers were filled with witches, and that the air balloon flying in the sky above it was some kind of UFO.

From Bedford, the train heads into Northamptonshire, and my memories move from the 1970s into the 80s. There’s a glimpse of the spire of Rushden church as the train passes above the badly-flooded meadows surrounding the river Nene at Wellingborough. And then for a five-minute period, every factory, every road, every field and every railway bridge holds a different distant memory. Even the colours of the bricks on the Victorian buildings seem somehow unique. This could only be east Northamptonshire. These are the colours and shapes of my teenage years. The train passes the Weetabix factory at Barton Seagrave, before charging through Kettering, and on up to Corby, and then, just like that, the landscape is unfamiliar again. The fields are simply fields; the buildings are just buildings. I peer along a country lane and have no idea where it’s heading.  I no longer know the names of the villages I see nestling between the folds in the land, and barely recognise the words I see written on the road signs which flicker past.

There’s a station called East Midlands Parkway, which seems to be bang, slap in the middle of a power station, which is a curious concept. The grey concrete cooling towers hang above the platforms menacingly. I think I would not enjoy living there.

I’ve spent the day in a lonely cottage in the hills above Sheffield with a lovely lad called Andy, who is recording the 100 Faces project. Andy is a central figure in the British folk music scene, which seems to be entirely centred on Sheffield. We’d periodically find ourselves staring out across the rugged moors, and he’d point at a little cottage clinging to another hillside, and say “the violinist from Bellowhead lives there”, “that’s the pub where they perform the Sheffield carols,” “Kate Rusby lives in the village just over that ridge of hills...” It’s a pretty major scene, and they all seem to support one another, and share their expertise. They’re all pro musicians, but their attitude towards music-making is not money-centred, which is deeply refreshing. Sometimes I wish I were surrounded by people who could afford to make music for the sake of making music.   

Andy has a very delightful dog, whom he rescued, and suspects was badly treated by its former owners. The dog had a terrible case of kennel cough last year, which nearly killed him, and now, every time he hears a person coughing, he rushes over and raises his paw; genuinely looking like he wants to help – or at least sympathise. Dogs are such curious and wonderful creatures.

I’m heading now to Newcastle for the next part of my adventure. Tomorrow evening, we’re recording the English Philharmonic Orchestra in a church in Jesmond. I have formed many ensembles from scratch, and built up many orchestras by layering individual players or groups of players, but it’s not often I get an opportunity to have a full orchestra, in front of me, playing one of my compositions. It’s the sort of thing I realise I should have asked my Dad to come and watch. I think he might have enjoyed the experience.

A coke float

For the past few days it's seemed that everything which could go wrong has gone wrong. Last night, for example, we sat down to watch the second part of Derren Brown's extraordinary Apocalypse on iPlayer and immediately realised that the old problem with our broadband connection had returned. Just as something exciting happened, we'd find ourselves looking at the spinning wheel of doom. To polish things off, Cas the rat suddenly decided to chew through the Internet cable, and that was that for our evening's entertainment.

This morning, whilst in Crouch End trying to replace the chewed-through Internet cable, I treated myself to a lovely cup of tea which I managed to drop on my lap as the car pulled away, causing not just a mess, but a nasty burn.

I returned home and, to make myself feel better, sat down to eat a plate of leftovers from Saturday's dinner party.... Which I managed to drop on my shoe. There was ketchup on my laces and quinoa all over the carpet. My carefully prepared lunch looked like road kill. I scraped it back onto my plate and ate it, feeling very sorry for myself, picking bits of carpet fluff from my teeth.

Still, the day improved significantly from then on in. I heard on the grapevine that Bryn Terfel enjoyed listening to The London Requiem, and had a little nibble about the recording from a radio station in Canada. It's also Fiona's birthday and we've been at the Woodman pub all evening. Monday night is quiz night, and we romped to victory with the ultimate team. We also won the "craft" round. As we arrived, we were handed a blob of play dough and told to create a sculpture of something both topical and comical. I don't think the quiz master was prepared for our scale model of a flooded Manhattan complete with miniature Chrysler, Empire State and Rockerfella buildings, three bridges, Central Park, Wall Street, a Statue of Liberty and the High Line. We flooded the model with coke. The quiz master said it was the best play dough model he'd seen in the two years he'd been running quizzes. We felt proud. Fiona got hammered. All is good.

And Manhattan...

I'm less proud of our pumpkins, which have gone mouldy and started to drip juices all over the fire place. I enclose a photo for your amusement. I tried to pick one up to throw it away, but immediately entered it with my thumb. I'll leave it to Nathan to somehow scrape them into a dustbin!

Mr Pancake

We've been in the Midlands all day, having Sunday lunch in Spaldwick with Lisa, Mark and their lovely daughter, Poppy. 

Spaldwick village is somewhere between Huntingdon and the Northamptonshire town where I was bought up. Everything in that part of the world feels incredibly familiar; the colour of the fields, the way the landscape undulates gently, the sandstone houses... Even the smells.

Lisa is about four months pregnant with a rather large boy-shaped belly, who we're all very excited to meet.

It was a wonderfully lazy day in front of an open fire. Lots of tangerines, cups of tea and a stunning plum and apple crumble made from the fruits of their garden. 

Poppy was delightful. She spent about an hour putting hundreds of pretty clips into Nathan's hair before giving him a make-over which involved mascara, foundation and, for some reason, an enormous star which was drawn onto his forehead with a red eyeliner. He looked a picture. 

Poppy's favourite toy is Mr Pancake. She's had him for years, and they're the best of friends. Mr Pancake is a terrifying-looking rubber zombie with a face contorted in twisted agony. Lisa and Mark used him for a Hallowe'en party once and Poppy, for some reason, instantly fell in love with him. Mr Pancake scares all Poppy's friends, but Poppy doesn't care. She loves him. Today Mr Pancake appeared wearing a party frock, an orange wig, and a very beautiful necklace. 

We're heading back now along the A1, which remains as eccentric a road as it was in 2008 when I made a musical film about it. The A1 is the only trunk road I know with its own sex shop, a biker cafe and a designated club for swingers! It's also the road on which I live. I'm constantly amused by the idea that, if I chose to, I could come out of my flat, turn left, and walk all the way to Edinburgh on the same road. I have neighbours who live in a different country! 

Courgettes

I fell asleep last night before managing to write a blog. I went out like a light watching something on iPlayer and slept through til 10am.

We had my first partner, Daniel, and his current partner, Matthew over to dinner last night, so the day was spent turning our pig sty of a house into a beautiful palace. 

The ABBA playlist went on at ten in the morning and we cleaned, dusted, washed and wiped-down every corner. We'd heard 60 songs by the time we'd finished!

We cooked some beautiful food. A courgette soup, asparagus spears, a warm pesto and potato salad, quinoa stuffed peppers and an apple pie. Every mouthful was a masterpiece and Daniel and Matthew made all the right noises. We've vowed to do more dinner parties. We must owe about twenty people!