I have had some postcards printed which advertise the London Requiem CD. We've made them specifically to appeal to Highgate residents, mentioning that the work includes settings of inscriptions written on gravestones in Highgate Cemetery and that the CD would make an ideal present for a lover of the area.
The postcards look rather lovely. They cost about £50 to print, so if I sell at least ten copies of the CD as a result of having them done, the exercise will have been worth doing.
It's a lottery of course, and the experience of walking door-to-door, sticking them all through letter boxes is painfully embarrassing. Fifteen years ago, instead of signing on, I took a job delivering leaflets for an Indian take away. The restaurant was in Tufnell Park, but its owner made me deliver the leaflets 2 miles away in Highgate. I was paid £25 to deliver something like 5,000 of the blooming things, but in the hills and huge houses of Highgate, it took 20 hours to drop them all off.
When I returned to the restaurant to collect my money, the owner accused me of not delivering the leaflets, based on the fact that he hadn't had a call from anyone in the streets where I'd been asked to go. Of course he hadn't. There were hundreds of takeaways closer to Highgate than his. Why would anyone want to run the risk of their food getting cold in transit?
My brother, who was with me at the time, went ballistic when the bloke refused to pay up, and made an announcement to the people waiting in the queue to be served, which started with the phrase, "do you realise what kind of an establishment this is? It's a place where staff aren't paid properly..." At the same time, I could hear another member of staff taking a telephone order for someone living in one of the streets I'd delivered to, and when this was pointed out, the man begrudgingly paid me my £25, but there was no way I was ever going back to work for him again.
I'd found the entire experience genuinely upsetting. I was dating an MP at the time, and someone who I knew from that rather glitzy political world emerged from one of the houses and asked me what I was up to. I felt rather ashamed. I shouldn't have. But I did.
Anyway, all these feelings came tumbling back with a vengeance today. Every time I reached a letter box, another little piece of me died. It's particularly galling when you make your way down a long Highgate Garden path only to find a neat little sign on the door which says "no junk mail." Every fibre of the body screams "but this isn't junk mail!" but you know deep within your heart that your beloved postcard is very likely to be simply swept up with all the pizza fliers, and chucked in the bin by some wealthy housewife who feels violated by its appearance. It's amazing what a "non person" you become when doing these things. One particularly obnoxious older woman caught my eye through the window and wagged her finger patronisingly as though to say "whatever you're delivering is of no interest to me, you scruffy little Eastern European." I pretended not to know what she meant, smiled sweetly and delivered the postcard anyway. If she's only gonna throw it away, the snooty cow can get on her knees and pick it up first!
I tell you something, houses in Highgate have a heck of a lot of steps going up to them - I counted 34 on one house, just to get to the front door alone! It's great for the fitness levels, I'll tell you.
I note with interest an incredibly mean-spirited comment in response to my blog yesterday, which comes from an anonymous New Yorker who apparently went to university with me. Whoever wrote it plainly misconstrued my reminiscences about Christian Mackay as some sort of insult, which is about as far from the case as it's possible to journey. I'm incredibly proud of Christian's success, and the thrust of what I was writing was that we should never pigeon-hole anyone.
It never ceases to amaze me how people can hold grudges for so long, or quite what they expect to achieve from writing such vitriolic things, unprovoked and in a public forum, particularly anonymously. People often pick me up on things I say in this blog which they don't agree with. I don't claim to be the oracle and am always interested to hear another side to the argument, but frankly, if you don't like someone, or if you think their life's work has been a failure, why on earth bother to read their blog? I don't like soul music. I don't sit and listen to it of an evening simply to punish myself.
Anyway, anonymous New Yorker, if you're reading today's entry and fancy a chat, and I genuinely have offended you in some way, I'd love to find out why you left the post and if there's anything I can do to make you feel less animosity towards me!
Just send me an email on ben@benjamintill.com
And if there's anyone reading this who thinks they'd like a copy of the Requiem (it's a great stocking filler...) you can go to amazon, or my website to order a copy.
Www.benjamintill.com
Friday, 29 November 2013
Thursday, 28 November 2013
Old university mates
I’ve been doing very little today. In fact, I’m sort of
surprised that the day is nearly over and I’m feeling so tired. I’m watching a
TV spy drama set in the 1970s. It feels like they’ve made no attempt whatsoever
to make the fashions and hairstyles look realistic, particularly the young male
lead, who looks like he’s just stepped out some kind of CID drama set in the
present day.
I am also rather surprise to find my old university friend,
Christian McKay in it. Christian acted in the first play I ever directed, in
fact, he ended up in quite a number of the plays I directed as a student. We
were in the same year, studying the same course. He was an astonishing pianist,
but he used to talk in a cod Polish accent, and none of us understood why. I
think he felt he was channelling some Eastern European pianist whom he admired.
He was a decent actor in a rather “old-school”
sort of way, but was always a little eclipsed by Richard Coyle, whom everyone
assumed would be the one that went on to do great things, which he has.
Besides, Christian was the pianist; it was beyond our comprehension at the time
that someone could be world class in two fields. When he went on to RADA, we
all assumed that if he ever turned up on screen, he’d be playing a pianist in
some way. You could have blown me down with a feather when he turned up, many
years later, staring alongside Zak Efron, playing the title role in Me and Orson
Welles. He was even nominated for a BAFTA for the role – and not many people
can say that!
So, today has been about relaxing, really. I slept til 10
and fell asleep again until 11. My little jaunt to Hove and Worthing had been
incredibly tiring. The second day of editing with Paul went very well, although
the sopranos were a little more complicated than we’d assumed they’d be, but
that was more a product of our thinking they’d be a stroll in the park, so we’d
rather let our guards down. We ended up working til 9pm, and I got one of the
last trains back to London, feeling like my ears had been gorged out with a
rusty spoon. I’ve never needed a day off so badly, so a day off I took, which I
spent doing things for me; hobby things, editing photographs for my albums, and
making digital versions for Facebook. I think it’s always nice to take a step
back at this sort of time of year to think about what sort of a year we’ve had.
Looking back at photographs can be a really good way of working this out. I’d
forgotten, for example, how nice the weather was in May, and that we had more
than our fair share of decent summer days. Oh, for those summer days...
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
It's just not cricket!
I read this morning that England bowler, Stuart Broad, whilst attempting to justify the early disappearance of Jonathan Trott from the Ashes series, has claimed that cricketers are subjected to "gruelling schedules" where they can "sometimes be expected to spend as much as 270 nights a year in hotel rooms." How terrible!
Now look, I know nothing about cricket. It strikes me as an odd game, which attracts people who seem to be rather less fit than other athletes. In fact, the only thing I know about cricket is that it used to be quite rare to compete for The Ashes, but now that the English cricket team is good, we seem to want to fight for them as often as I eat spaghetti on toast for lunch.
What I feel obliged to point out, however, is that 270 nights a year in a hotel doesn't seem too bad a deal, especially if it's what your (very well paid) job expects of you. After all, 270 nights in a hotel, means 95 nights a year not working at all. And I dare say they're not gonna be sticking England players in the nearest Travelodge!
I find myself contemplating Nathan, who, like many actors this year, is regularly performing three pantomimes a day. I think about traveling salesmen and long distance lorry drivers, who miss their children and partners bitterly when they go off on jaunts around the UK, sleeping in terrible hotels, and the claustrophobic cabs of their vehicles. I think about nurses working night shifts and on Christmas Day, and my brother, who moved to Poland for the best part of ten years as part of his job. Ordinary people do these things because it's expected of them, and, because, in this climate, they're relieved they even have a job. No one's going to give them an OBE for services to lorry driving or nursing. They won't retire at the age of 37 with a knee injury, and spend the rest of their lives earning huge sums of money learning how to ballroom dance or survive in a jungle.
One of the issues I have with British team sports athletes is that they can come across as a whinging, molly-coddled, lazy lot. I've never read an account of Murray complaining about the gruelling nature of the professional tennis circuit. He knows that if he wants to maintain his position at the top, he needs to play matches, which requires staying mentally and physically fit. If he loses a match, he knows he only has himself to blame. If he wins, he earns a fortune.
The trouble with team sports is that it's easy for a individual player to hide behind ten other men. I regularly watch England football matches and see players who can't seem to maintain the strength needed to stay alert for 90 minutes on the pitch. It's 90 minutes, for Christ's sake! You don't see Marathon runners flagging after 40! I don't hang up my baton mid session and say "tired now!" And we wonder why we haven't won a major championship for 40 years! A general lack of professional conduct and a tendency for Brits to support mediocrity means only one thing: excuses. We're told how difficult it can be when a footballer's trophy girlfriend isn't invited to hang from his coat tails at a championship, that it's really difficult to live a life under the media spotlight, that sportsmen should be allowed to get drunk, take drugs and have affairs just like the rest of us...
The bottom line is that there are aspects to our jobs that we all hate. My job is wonderful, unique and thrilling, but the pay's rubbish, and one or two of the BBC staff I work with are institutionalised and over-unionised "yes women!" You take the rough with the smooth. If you don't like a job, you move on...
If some of these national football and cricket players are too emotionally fragile or family-orientated to do the job properly, then that's their choice. A million and one people would happily replace them. But if you're a millionaire, you're adored by millions, and you have a task which involves travelling the world, let's not get into complaining about working conditions. I'm sure there's many in this country who would happily slap you and tell you you don't know you're born!
Now look, I know nothing about cricket. It strikes me as an odd game, which attracts people who seem to be rather less fit than other athletes. In fact, the only thing I know about cricket is that it used to be quite rare to compete for The Ashes, but now that the English cricket team is good, we seem to want to fight for them as often as I eat spaghetti on toast for lunch.
What I feel obliged to point out, however, is that 270 nights a year in a hotel doesn't seem too bad a deal, especially if it's what your (very well paid) job expects of you. After all, 270 nights in a hotel, means 95 nights a year not working at all. And I dare say they're not gonna be sticking England players in the nearest Travelodge!
I find myself contemplating Nathan, who, like many actors this year, is regularly performing three pantomimes a day. I think about traveling salesmen and long distance lorry drivers, who miss their children and partners bitterly when they go off on jaunts around the UK, sleeping in terrible hotels, and the claustrophobic cabs of their vehicles. I think about nurses working night shifts and on Christmas Day, and my brother, who moved to Poland for the best part of ten years as part of his job. Ordinary people do these things because it's expected of them, and, because, in this climate, they're relieved they even have a job. No one's going to give them an OBE for services to lorry driving or nursing. They won't retire at the age of 37 with a knee injury, and spend the rest of their lives earning huge sums of money learning how to ballroom dance or survive in a jungle.
One of the issues I have with British team sports athletes is that they can come across as a whinging, molly-coddled, lazy lot. I've never read an account of Murray complaining about the gruelling nature of the professional tennis circuit. He knows that if he wants to maintain his position at the top, he needs to play matches, which requires staying mentally and physically fit. If he loses a match, he knows he only has himself to blame. If he wins, he earns a fortune.
The trouble with team sports is that it's easy for a individual player to hide behind ten other men. I regularly watch England football matches and see players who can't seem to maintain the strength needed to stay alert for 90 minutes on the pitch. It's 90 minutes, for Christ's sake! You don't see Marathon runners flagging after 40! I don't hang up my baton mid session and say "tired now!" And we wonder why we haven't won a major championship for 40 years! A general lack of professional conduct and a tendency for Brits to support mediocrity means only one thing: excuses. We're told how difficult it can be when a footballer's trophy girlfriend isn't invited to hang from his coat tails at a championship, that it's really difficult to live a life under the media spotlight, that sportsmen should be allowed to get drunk, take drugs and have affairs just like the rest of us...
The bottom line is that there are aspects to our jobs that we all hate. My job is wonderful, unique and thrilling, but the pay's rubbish, and one or two of the BBC staff I work with are institutionalised and over-unionised "yes women!" You take the rough with the smooth. If you don't like a job, you move on...
If some of these national football and cricket players are too emotionally fragile or family-orientated to do the job properly, then that's their choice. A million and one people would happily replace them. But if you're a millionaire, you're adored by millions, and you have a task which involves travelling the world, let's not get into complaining about working conditions. I'm sure there's many in this country who would happily slap you and tell you you don't know you're born!
Tuesday, 26 November 2013
Movement One
I am standing at West Worthing station in the freezing cold. I neglected to bring a coat or scarf with me to East Sussex because I had no idea it could be this cold!
I've been with PK all day today, editing together the first movement of the Pepys Motet, which is very much sponsored by Melodyne (the software which can correct the odd rogue note!) It would be impossible to do something this intricate, fragile, complicated and a'capella without the aid of some kind of tuning device. It very much suits the style of the work, which sits in the bizarre space between classical, pop and electronica, and needs to have a clean, precise sound, which can be manipulated at will.
I'm very pleased with the way things are going. The first movement is the mystical one; filled with the sounds of snow and hollow wind. It sets up the world of Pepys' Diary, which was very much a product of the excitement and panic which followed the interregnum. Would Charles II return to England and accept the throne? Was Oliver Cromwell's son a lunatic?! And what of the year of the devil, 1666? Surely nothing untoward would happen to London during this, most anticipated, date?
We're very much on schedule. My target today was to get half way through the editing process for the first movement. I'd like to have gone slightly faster, if for no other reason than to give PK an evening off, but we're being thorough and that's important.
Heavens! The train's been delayed, and my fingers have turned into blocks of ice. I can barely type into my phone!
Whilst waiting for the West Worthing train at Hove this morning, a train pulled into the West-born platform, heading East to Brighton. I rushed over to the guard to ask whether I'd got confused and was standing on the wrong platform without realising. "No, sir," he said (very politely), "Hove Station is completely reversible." I found this quite an interesting fact and a rather peculiar concept, but instead of nodding my head and saying "how interesting," I pulled a ridiculously camp face and said, "ooh, get You!" He plainly had no idea what to say to that. I had no idea how to continue the conversation, so wondered off, mortified.
Interesting though, that a station can be reversible. I can't imagine how that works.
The train has now arrived, but it's a slow train to Hove. That said, it could well take that long simply to warm up! I am not used to being this cold. What is wrong with me, please?
I've been with PK all day today, editing together the first movement of the Pepys Motet, which is very much sponsored by Melodyne (the software which can correct the odd rogue note!) It would be impossible to do something this intricate, fragile, complicated and a'capella without the aid of some kind of tuning device. It very much suits the style of the work, which sits in the bizarre space between classical, pop and electronica, and needs to have a clean, precise sound, which can be manipulated at will.
I'm very pleased with the way things are going. The first movement is the mystical one; filled with the sounds of snow and hollow wind. It sets up the world of Pepys' Diary, which was very much a product of the excitement and panic which followed the interregnum. Would Charles II return to England and accept the throne? Was Oliver Cromwell's son a lunatic?! And what of the year of the devil, 1666? Surely nothing untoward would happen to London during this, most anticipated, date?
We're very much on schedule. My target today was to get half way through the editing process for the first movement. I'd like to have gone slightly faster, if for no other reason than to give PK an evening off, but we're being thorough and that's important.
Heavens! The train's been delayed, and my fingers have turned into blocks of ice. I can barely type into my phone!
Whilst waiting for the West Worthing train at Hove this morning, a train pulled into the West-born platform, heading East to Brighton. I rushed over to the guard to ask whether I'd got confused and was standing on the wrong platform without realising. "No, sir," he said (very politely), "Hove Station is completely reversible." I found this quite an interesting fact and a rather peculiar concept, but instead of nodding my head and saying "how interesting," I pulled a ridiculously camp face and said, "ooh, get You!" He plainly had no idea what to say to that. I had no idea how to continue the conversation, so wondered off, mortified.
Interesting though, that a station can be reversible. I can't imagine how that works.
The train has now arrived, but it's a slow train to Hove. That said, it could well take that long simply to warm up! I am not used to being this cold. What is wrong with me, please?
Monday, 25 November 2013
Skating
This cold weather is definitely making me a little ratty. I'm finding myself with little tolerance for people faffing about in tube stations and making illogical choices when walking along the pavements.
The day started ludicrously early. The slight issue with shifting to a more nocturnal existence is that, from time to time, there's an unavoidable early start. This morning it was to go to the osteopath, who pummelled my lower back whilst complimenting me on having the highest pain threshold of anyone he'd ever met. Interesting, I thought.
I went to meet Michelle of the Turkie for lunch at Somerset House, and we treated ourselves to a 40-minute skate in the open air. Perhaps not the most sensible thing to do after a trip to the osteopath - I'm sure I'll wake up in the morning completely unable to move - but we managed to choose the one part of the day when the sun was shining brightly, and we had enormous fun drifting around in circles to the sounds of popular classics!
It's such an odd thing, skating. I haven't done it for years, and was instantly struck by how hard the ice actually is! I subsequently ended up looking like Todd Carty. Michelle, on the other hand, can even skate backwards, which impressed me greatly.
I'm currently in Hove, staying a few nights at Fiona's flat whilst working on the Pepys Motet with PK. Fiona is, of course, somewhere impossibly glamorous with Placebo. Except she's not. She's in Essen, which is, according to her, greyer than Corby! That's some claim! Corby is a proper shit hole. It's also the fastest growing town in the UK. Fact!
I arrived here and immediately took myself for a run. If this cold won't leave me any other way, I'll sweat the bastard out!
I ran from Fiona's all the way to Brighton Pier, forgetting how wondrously easy it is to run on a flat surface with no gradient. Highgate is hill after hill, whichever direction you run in. It was also an absolute treat to jog along the sea front. The sun a distant memory in the Western Sky, the moon reflected on the velvety water, the illuminations flashing. The old pier looked particularly eerie as I ran past, silhouetted against the night sky. I passed the Brighton Conference Centre and doffed an imaginary cap at the place where ABBA won Eurovision. One day I'll stand on that stage!
I've been at Fiona's flat all night, under a lovely blanket, waiting for the storage heaters to get their act together. How long do these things take? What is a storage heater anyway?
The day started ludicrously early. The slight issue with shifting to a more nocturnal existence is that, from time to time, there's an unavoidable early start. This morning it was to go to the osteopath, who pummelled my lower back whilst complimenting me on having the highest pain threshold of anyone he'd ever met. Interesting, I thought.
I went to meet Michelle of the Turkie for lunch at Somerset House, and we treated ourselves to a 40-minute skate in the open air. Perhaps not the most sensible thing to do after a trip to the osteopath - I'm sure I'll wake up in the morning completely unable to move - but we managed to choose the one part of the day when the sun was shining brightly, and we had enormous fun drifting around in circles to the sounds of popular classics!
It's such an odd thing, skating. I haven't done it for years, and was instantly struck by how hard the ice actually is! I subsequently ended up looking like Todd Carty. Michelle, on the other hand, can even skate backwards, which impressed me greatly.
I'm currently in Hove, staying a few nights at Fiona's flat whilst working on the Pepys Motet with PK. Fiona is, of course, somewhere impossibly glamorous with Placebo. Except she's not. She's in Essen, which is, according to her, greyer than Corby! That's some claim! Corby is a proper shit hole. It's also the fastest growing town in the UK. Fact!
I arrived here and immediately took myself for a run. If this cold won't leave me any other way, I'll sweat the bastard out!
I ran from Fiona's all the way to Brighton Pier, forgetting how wondrously easy it is to run on a flat surface with no gradient. Highgate is hill after hill, whichever direction you run in. It was also an absolute treat to jog along the sea front. The sun a distant memory in the Western Sky, the moon reflected on the velvety water, the illuminations flashing. The old pier looked particularly eerie as I ran past, silhouetted against the night sky. I passed the Brighton Conference Centre and doffed an imaginary cap at the place where ABBA won Eurovision. One day I'll stand on that stage!
I've been at Fiona's flat all night, under a lovely blanket, waiting for the storage heaters to get their act together. How long do these things take? What is a storage heater anyway?
Sunday, 24 November 2013
Conkers
Ian and Jem came over this afternoon, which gave me a rather lovely focus for an otherwise entirely uneventful day. When they arrived, I suddenly became hugely aware of how freakishly cold the house was, and had to rush around trying to switch heaters on and things.
I'm not sure I understand quite how to change the settings on the boiler, so, for example, I'm almost permanently without hot water at the moment. It's slightly tragic to have to acknowledge that there's at least one thing that your partner always deals with!
Still it was fabulous to see the boys, who are off to the States to get married just before Christmas. I feel envious when I hear of anyone going to New York, but the concept of someone else going to the city at that time of year is almost too much to bare.
Nathan and I have friends who have a wonderful Christmas party in Queens, which we've been lucky enough to attend a number of occasions. Yuletide in the city subsequently feels like OUR New York time, yet I'm desperately trying to imagine when we next might be able to afford to visit. There are people there I miss hugely... And a baby I need to meet for the first time.
New York and London are such similar cities. I do wish immigration laws meant that residents from both cities could simply up sticks and visit and work in the other place as often as they liked. Nathan and I would love to live in New York for a while.
The rest of the day was spent pottering. I wrote some music. I watched the X Factor and Strictly on catch up. I tried to have a second bath, but the water was cold...
Really, I'm dull as dishwater.
Talking of metaphors, I often use the phrase "as thick as conkers" to describe someone who's maybe not that intelligent. I think it's a family expression, but Nathan always takes the Micky out of me for using it. Does anyone else reading this know of the expression? Is it a Midlands thing?
I'm not sure I understand quite how to change the settings on the boiler, so, for example, I'm almost permanently without hot water at the moment. It's slightly tragic to have to acknowledge that there's at least one thing that your partner always deals with!
Still it was fabulous to see the boys, who are off to the States to get married just before Christmas. I feel envious when I hear of anyone going to New York, but the concept of someone else going to the city at that time of year is almost too much to bare.
Nathan and I have friends who have a wonderful Christmas party in Queens, which we've been lucky enough to attend a number of occasions. Yuletide in the city subsequently feels like OUR New York time, yet I'm desperately trying to imagine when we next might be able to afford to visit. There are people there I miss hugely... And a baby I need to meet for the first time.
New York and London are such similar cities. I do wish immigration laws meant that residents from both cities could simply up sticks and visit and work in the other place as often as they liked. Nathan and I would love to live in New York for a while.
The rest of the day was spent pottering. I wrote some music. I watched the X Factor and Strictly on catch up. I tried to have a second bath, but the water was cold...
Really, I'm dull as dishwater.
Talking of metaphors, I often use the phrase "as thick as conkers" to describe someone who's maybe not that intelligent. I think it's a family expression, but Nathan always takes the Micky out of me for using it. Does anyone else reading this know of the expression? Is it a Midlands thing?
Saturday, 23 November 2013
Second Cherry
We're somewhere in Clerkenwell, in a chi-chi bar, absolutely surrounded by gay men who seem to know more about Eurovision than I do! (I know, impossible, right?)
I'm here with Brother Edward, Sascha, a lady called Sylvia and Michelle (who henceforth shall be known as "Little Michelle" to differentiate her from "Michelle of the Turkie" who I've been meeting for lunches at Somerset House of late. Little Michelle is actually rather tall!)
We're all at an event called "Second Cherry," a celebration of all the songs which finished runner up in their own countries' national finals. Sadly, there's no UK song to vote for, because, as we all know, the public in this country don't get to select their own Eurovision entry these days. Someone at the BBC merely dedicates an afternoon in her busy schedule towards thinking of a few has-beens who might want to subject an incredibly dull song on the rest of Europe.
The aim of Second Cherry is to give us our own mini-Eurovision competition, where we get to judge the songs and create our own juries. We're representing Finland today, which is good because the Finnish song is streaks ahead of the rest. Sadly, it's a ballad, the subtleties of which will no doubt be lost on a room full of poofs who basically want to dance and cheer whenever someone takes an item of clothing off, or a pretty boy winks at the camera! I can say that because I'm gay. And because, much as it pains us to acknowledge the fact, minority stereotypes do exist!
I'm here with Brother Edward, Sascha, a lady called Sylvia and Michelle (who henceforth shall be known as "Little Michelle" to differentiate her from "Michelle of the Turkie" who I've been meeting for lunches at Somerset House of late. Little Michelle is actually rather tall!)
We're all at an event called "Second Cherry," a celebration of all the songs which finished runner up in their own countries' national finals. Sadly, there's no UK song to vote for, because, as we all know, the public in this country don't get to select their own Eurovision entry these days. Someone at the BBC merely dedicates an afternoon in her busy schedule towards thinking of a few has-beens who might want to subject an incredibly dull song on the rest of Europe.
The aim of Second Cherry is to give us our own mini-Eurovision competition, where we get to judge the songs and create our own juries. We're representing Finland today, which is good because the Finnish song is streaks ahead of the rest. Sadly, it's a ballad, the subtleties of which will no doubt be lost on a room full of poofs who basically want to dance and cheer whenever someone takes an item of clothing off, or a pretty boy winks at the camera! I can say that because I'm gay. And because, much as it pains us to acknowledge the fact, minority stereotypes do exist!
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